Requiem

by Geir Tangen

  “The fourth and final point is the emails, and I think you have the best overview of them, Knut. Isn’t that right?”

  Knut Veldetun stood up and went over to the projector. He put a flash drive in the corresponding machine and then opened a PDF copy of the two emails.

  “As you see, both emails have the same sender. The address steinamli@gmail.com is fictional. Or more precisely, the person behind the email address is fictional. It is registered in the name of Stein Åmli, and he set up the email account three weeks ago. No activity at the address before Monday morning, when the first email was sent.”

  Knut cleared his throat and took a sip of water before he continued.

  “Everyone here knows how easy it is to set up an email account, so we won’t dwell on that. Hope it’s okay with you, Lotte, that we assume this person is using a false name?”

  Lotte nodded in response at the same time as she heard a heavy sigh from her right side. Scheldrup Hansen’s patience was evidently at the breaking point. Knut Veldetun indefatigably kept talking.

  “What is more interesting, however, is what Google’s experts have helped us with. They’ve shared their information with us, which has given us some interesting results. For one thing, we know where both emails were sent from.”

  Several on the team looked up now with interest.

  “The first email that Gudmundsson received was sent from the recreational club the Old Slaughterhouse here in Haugesund on Monday at 08:05 hours. The other from Rica Maritim Hotel on Tuesday at 16:02 hours. We have obviously checked out both places, and we’ve questioned the staff. So far without any results, but I got the obvious answer from one of our IT people here in the building. He asked me to check whether these places have open wireless networks. ‘Guest networks.’”

  Lotte interrupted him. “So that means that the man who sent the emails wasn’t using computers that are at those two places, but brought his own?”

  “Yes, either that or a smartphone or tablet. Probably he hasn’t even been inside the building. It’s very easy to connect to Wi-Fi networks from nearby, for example in a car. Neither of these places has video surveillance, unfortunately; otherwise, we could have looked for parked cars in the relevant time frame.”

  Lotte took the floor again. “We’ll choose to let the email lead rest for the time being. Pick it up again if more emails arrive. What else do you have?”

  “Well … Not much, I’m afraid.”

  Knut turned off the projector and went to sit down. Lars Stople had the floor again.

  “The codes at the bottom of the email, have you found anything out there?”

  “No. I’m working on it, but for now these are just meaningless numbers and letters. At least we can rule out any of the usual coding tools. We’ve checked that.”

  Lars Stople wrote a fifth and final point on the flip chart.

  “There is one thing I’ve personally had some thoughts about, which seems like a natural place to start to poke around.” He made a dramatic pause, breathed in, and continued.

  “I think we’re talking about a man who has an occupation where he has greater access to information than ordinary citizens. I’ve tried myself, and it’s just impossible to work your way to the acquittal of Lothe and Fredriksen on the internet or by searches in old newspaper articles. The killer must have direct knowledge someway or other of both cases, and perhaps also has access to old court decisions.”

  Lars stopped a moment before setting out his hypothesis for the others.

  “I think—and I underscore that these are only speculations—that the man we are searching for works in the police, in the legal system, in the media, or at a law firm. It’s in such places that you can find the information he’s made use of.”

  Olav Scheldrup Hansen had not said a word during the session.

  Now was the first time they heard his voice.

  “Listen, what a great team. An eternity of truisms, and not a single time was the name Viljar Ravn Gudmundsson mentioned. Oh well … I can agree that perhaps he’s not a killer, but in that case, someone out there is having a strangely good time pasting his name on everything that happens. What enemies does he really have? Eliassen, for example? I’ve checked him out, and I’ve just had it confirmed that he’s still in prison, but can there be others with a connection to that scandal? Or is Eliassen so powerful that he can pull strings from behind bars?”

  Olav Scheldrup Hansen threw out his hands.

  “With Stople’s method of elimination, we are thus down to about a thousand potential killers in this district, I would think. But the elephant in the room is named Gudmundsson, and no one seems to want to see him. Can someone please order white canes for us from the equipment warehouse? God knows we need them.”

  Media House Haugesund News

  Thursday late morning, October 16, 2014

  When the third death sentence landed in Viljar’s in-box, he was deep into the news articles about the double murders. It was unpleasant to write about a case in which he himself was involved. A complete breach of good journalistic practice, which the editor completely ignored. In addition, Johan Øveraas had asked him to write about it in a personal reportage form. “A journey into the darkest corners of the murder case,” he’d said. Viljar was on the verge of strangling the editor, but this was not the day to pick a fight.

  Drawing yourself into the case in this manner, where you would lead the reader through the events as a kind of guide, was not only morbid and disrespectful, but also like placing your head on the block for serious criticism. Viljar could not protest, however. He had to go along with it.

  He looked through what he’d written. There was a fact box that summarized the course of events, structured by time. Two other fact boxes presented the murder victims. Facsimiles of the two emails that he himself had received. A personal running text of over two thousand words, where he described his experiences. Obviously written in the first person to increase the drama. There were big photos from both crime scenes, and the headline was the type that figuratively speaking compelled the reader to read the story itself: MY MEETING WITH A MURDERER.

  Calling the emails a “meeting” was stretching the rope to the breaking point, but the editor wanted it that way. The newspaper was sitting on a case where they had every element in play to be the premier source, and they would show the national press that in the Friday edition. They were in possession of considerably more information than the Oslo newspapers VG and Dagbladet could dream of, and now it would be published under the biggest headlines possible.

  Ranveig had been given very unusual orders in the editor’s office the day before, and now she was loaded down with work that went far beyond her actual job description. Viljar could not understand why Øveraas absolutely wanted to use her for this when they had fully ambulatory news reporters available. But that was the editor in a nutshell. When Øveraas didn’t find some object or other on which he could exercise physical violence, forced labor was a good substitute to show who ruled the roost.

  Ranveig was tasked with the more serious bits of the assignment. Talk with the police, check facts, arrange interviews with relatives or acquaintances, plus a short side article where a media-savvy psychiatrist could explain what made people commit such actions.

  Ranveig had more than enough material to fill a whole day’s work, but Viljar knew that she also had a story she had to write about a “love of reading” campaign at the Haugesund Public Library. Øystein had told him that on the phone last evening. Viljar had a suspicion that she would never give that story to Thomsen. He hadn’t written a feel-good story since the North Rogaland Symphony Orchestra performed Haydn’s Creation in the mideighties.

  Viljar’s suspicion was confirmed when Ranveig and Øystein Vindheim waved to him as they passed his workstation a few minutes later.

  The articles on Viljar’s screen were definitely not material for a journalism prize. They were speculative, right on the borderline of being true, and a mishmash
of facts, assumptions, and descriptions that did not resemble anything he had once been known for. To be on the safe side, and in order not to have the police on his neck, Viljar sent a copy of what he had written by email to Lotte Skeisvoll. Not completely according to the guidelines in the newspaper, but she deserved to be updated.

  Viljar had a sickeningly sweet taste in his mouth. He knew he would get massive criticism by media critics for the mishmash he had written. He looked up and caught the eye of Henrik Thomsen. The guy was smiling broadly, and gave him a thumbs-up. Viljar ignored the arts reporter. I still have some distance to go before I reach the bottom of the barrel as a journalist, Viljar consoled himself.

  It was while Viljar was sending the email with all the attachments to Lotte that there was a ping in his in-box. His heart rate quickly shot up, and he noticed the reluctance to open the email come toward him like a monster wave. Nonetheless, he chose to plunge in once again. He had to know.

  Attn.: Viljar Gudmundsson

  So far, my dear Viljar, everything is going according to plan. The state is the law-giving power. I am both judge and executioner. It is most practical that way. Your role is to assume the responsibility you have as the fourth estate. That of reporting … So far you haven’t done that, Viljar. That disappoints me. You force me to make use of stronger means in order to get your attention.

  I am writing to you because I know that you are an honorable man. A man who will condemn what I am in the process of doing, but at the same time is capable of understanding my indignation and frustration over a legal system that no longer functions.

  We have laws that are supposed to protect us against people who take what they want, and not a bad word shall be said about those who admit their guilt and take their just punishment. It is the others I want to put the spotlight on. Those who even in the hour of judgment avoid punishment and get away. They are the hyenas of society. Cowardly, greedy, and evasive. They deserve the punishment I shall give them. I will be punished myself for my actions. This I will take with head held high when the time comes. Until that happens, people will die by my hand. Guilty people who each in their own way avoided their rightful punishment.

  Every year dozens of people in Norway die as a result of being killed by persons who drive a car, motorcycle, or boat in a state of intoxication. Again and again, we see guilty parties set free because it cannot be proved who was sitting behind the steering wheel. Other times, blood tests have been taken too late to be able to prove use of intoxicants. These are people who are not willing to take responsibility for their actions. They get away because society gives them a chance to do so. Not even when innocent people die by their hand are they willing to come forward with the sin. I despise such people.

  One of these persons is a woman. She is hereby convicted of having caused another person’s death after having driven in a state of intoxication. She has no previous record, but that will not be seen as an extenuating circumstance here. The punishment will be announced to her and effectuated tomorrow, Friday, 10/17/2014.

  10/16/2014

  Stein Åmli

  GS8-1

  Viljar felt sick as he read the message. Now he was addressing Viljar even more familiarly. It was clear that he was following what happened, because he had included the fact that Haugesund News had kept silent about the emails so far.

  This man had to be stopped, but he was driving things at such a tempo that Viljar felt like a stenographer, capable only of recording what happened without getting an overview. It was going too fast.

  “Look at that, Gudmundsson.… Are there more emails on the way, or what?”

  A sense of unease crept down the back of his neck. Viljar hurried to close down the window on his laptop. He tried to collect himself before he turned calmly toward the uninvited guest. “What the hell are you doing in here, Hans? Aren’t your offices at the other end? We have more than enough to handle with getting a crowd of salespeople up our asses without you starting to sneak around our legs too.”

  The radio journalist smiled sheepishly. “Is saying hi to old friends no longer allowed?” Hans Indbjo put emphasis on the word “friends.”

  “We’re not in agreement on much, Hans, but we can agree that we’re not particularly fond of one another, right?” Viljar fished out a smoke and stood up. He wanted to get Indbjo away from his workstation as quickly as possible.

  “Listen, I’m going out for some air in ten minutes. Most everything is about the double murderer. The way I understand it, he contacts you personally in advance. You couldn’t consider answering a few questions for broadcast?”

  Viljar looked down at the shrimp in front of him. “What idiot has pumped you full of nonsense now, Hans? You mustn’t believe every acidhead who calls your tip line.”

  “I don’t believe anything. I know. My source has never lied to me, and the person in question isn’t doing it this time either. Besides, we’re part of the same media company. It’s actually the point, that we should share news in here. We’ve talked about that several times, and if you disagree with me, I can bring it up directly with Øveraas.”

  Viljar stared hard at Indbjo for a moment, as if with pure mental force he could get the man to dissolve and disappear. “In that case, I have only one comment to Radio 102’s listeners, and you can quote me if you want.…”

  Indbjo eagerly pulled the recorder out of his pocket and turned it on. After that, he took about half a minute for a dramatic intro to the question before he put the microphone up to Viljar’s face.

  “What is your comment to our listeners about this case, reporter at Haugesund News, Viljar Ravn Gudmundsson?”

  “Go to hell!!!”

  Viljar roared into the Dictaphone and saw to his delight that drops of spit had landed on Indbjo’s eyeglasses. He could only wish it were a live broadcast and not recorded.

  Rådhusplassen, Haugesund

  Thursday afternoon, October 16, 2014

  Lotte Skeisvoll looked at Viljar indulgently. Now he wouldn’t have to drag himself to a meeting after the third email showed up. People should stop complaining about police response time, thought Viljar. They were sitting on a bench on the square at Rådhusplassen. Rainwater flowed between the cobblestones in glistening seams.

  “So you mean the whole case is a conspiracy against you personally, is that what you’re trying to say?” Lotte Skeisvoll barely concealed her skepticism.

  “I don’t mean anything, Lotte. I’m just mentioning it. It’s a hypothesis, not the answer key.” The journalist turned his gaze downward and splashed in a little puddle with the sole of his shoe.

  “Great, Viljar … Let’s assume you’re right. Someone is trying to pin you as the perpetrator in this case. Then there are two questions that crystallize here. Who could conceivably do such a thing, and why?”

  Viljar quickly looked up at her. Let his gaze keep wandering to Olav Scheldrup Hansen, who was sitting beside her, but lowered it again at once.

  “I don’t know.…”

  Lotte sighed. This wasn’t the first time Viljar had answered with those three words.

  “You’ve cobbled together a brilliant conspiracy theory, but you don’t know anything when it comes to person and motive. What is wrong with you? Do you have a fucking martyr complex?”

  Viljar stared stiffly ahead of him, wrapped in a cloak of aversion. He could see people hurrying in and out of cars down by the KM building. People know so little, he thought.

  “He wants me to do something.… You see it in the emails. It’s as if he wants to make me an accessory. He’s giving me a stage role that I have to play.”

  “Viljar … Who is doing this, and why is he doing it? Unlike you, I work with things like this on a regular basis. Motive is the central concept in any criminal act. All investigation is about finding or supporting a motive for the deeds. No one would have thought of making you a scapegoat without having a motive for doing that.”

  Viljar shook his head. Picked nervously at the paint on the
wooden bench. He did not answer her.

  “What you are really saying is just as stupid as if you called a soccer fan in the middle of the night to inform him that today two teams, the names of which you don’t know, played a match someplace in the world, but you don’t know what the score was. Do you get what I mean, Viljar? What you’re saying to us has absolutely no value unless you can connect it to a name or a motive.”

  Lotte stood up abruptly, intending to leave, but Viljar stopped her.

  “The codes are different, Lotte.”

  “Huh?”

  “The letters and numbers at the bottom of the emails are different each time.”

  Lotte sat down again, rubbing energetically on a little speck that had settled on her yellow rain jacket. Her mouth was taut.

  She seemed stymied.

  “Haven’t you seen that before now, Viljar? I guess there’s not much left of the investigative journalist you once were. We’ve had our hands in that flower bed since the second email showed up.”

  She was about to stand up again when Scheldrup Hansen suddenly perked up and put his hand on her shoulder.

  “May I ask you a couple of questions, Gudmundsson?”

  He looked at Viljar, who nodded cautiously without looking up from the tips of his shoes.

  “Tell me about the Eliassen case. If we’re going to search for a revenge motive, we ought to start there.”

  The question had an immediate effect. It was as if the stoop-shouldered figure was tightened up by a corset. He looked in panic from side to side before he finally was able to meet the gaze of the policeman in front of him.