by Inger Wolf
“Why not?”
“It’s a touchy situation. We have an SM club out here in Egå. He was there the evening she was killed, from seven to midnight. He was with a girl, Ingeborg.”
Trokic tried not to visualize Egebjerg whipping a woman in leather. Or seeing him being whipped.
“Normally, I’d never pass on this kind of information, but he could go to prison. I’d rather not tell you my name; is that okay?”
“We’ll have to see. I can’t promise anything. Can you give me the address?”
“If I have to.”
“You have to.”
Trokic jotted down the address. “We’ll look into this. Thank you for this information.”
Christiane sat on the edge of the table and pulled a sheet of paper out of her leather bag. Trokic followed her every movement; he sensed how she seemed to fill the room. She was dressed in black, except for her striped shawl in a rainbow of colors and a braided leather bracelet with a green stone. A hint of hippie. And sort of interesting. The sun was low, it bathed one side of her face in a soft light. A butterfly had fluttered through the window and clung with folded wings to a ring binder on a shelf. He was relieved that his hives were gone.
“This is a report I pieced together with Henriette, whom you’ve met.”
“Orange hair.”
“Yes. It was quite a hunt, but we tracked it down with the help of a Swedish colleague from the University of Lund. I don’t know so much about it, really, but it’s been incredible being a part of this. I did most of the work on the paper, so they felt I should come in and present it to all of you.”
Trokic stood leaning against the wall. “We appreciate that. Would you like coffee, tea, a cola?”
“Do you have a cola? It’s a bit early, but…”
“We do if Jasper hasn’t drunk them all. Let me check.”
A moment later, he was back with two colas and a small bowl of chocolate chip cookies. The butterfly had spread its wings. A peacock butterfly.
He opened the two colas. “Okay, so tell me about it.”
She handed him two stapled bundles of paper and set her bag on the floor. “Here’s a copy for you. But I’d like to tell you myself what we found. It’s very interesting, by the way. We believe she was poisoned incrementally, that someone gave her small amounts of burundanga—devil’s breath, it’s called. It’s a drug common in South America, especially Colombia. It could also be devil’s trumpets, it has the same active ingredients, but we’re leaning more towards the South American devil because of the concentration of the poison.”
So. Somebody knew about exotic poisons. South America. A piece fell into place: Federico Carlos. Trokic shuddered. He hated drugs, and the thought of a strange chemical seizing control of someone’s body and enslaving them was frightening, to say the least.
“I haven’t heard of it,” he said. “And we’ve seen a lot. Why don’t we know about this?”
Her grayish-green eyes smiled. “I’ll get to that. Devil’s breath is extracted from the borrachero tree, it has these big white cone-shaped flowers and fruits that resemble small coconuts. It’s manufactured by brewing tea from the roots or flowers, or by crushing the big seeds of the fruit. The tree is extremely common, it grows everywhere, even in the cities, which actually can be dangerous. People warn children about falling asleep under these trees. In other words, practically everyone there knows about this.”
“So, it’s extremely poisonous?” Trokic said.
Christiane stared straight into his eyes; he had the feeling she’d spent time and effort preparing for this meeting. She nodded gravely. “It is extremely poisonous, yes. Possibly one of the world’s most dangerous drugs, especially when treated chemically, like with cocaine.”
“They know what they’re doing over there when it comes to that kind of manufacturing.”
“Exactly. And the result is a white powder. A gram of it can kill ten to fifteen men, it’s that potent, and you really have to know what you’re doing to find the proper dosage to affect someone without killing them. You have to be an expert.”
Suddenly, Trokic needed a cigarette. Badly. “So, what’s the point here? I mean…Maja wasn’t killed by the powder.”
“It’s said that the powder in small doses takes away all your willpower; you’re unable to see that something’s wrong. It can cause hallucinations, you can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality. It wipes out parts of your memory, and not only while under the influence of the drug, either. It can pop up again much later. A little like LSD.”
Trokic nodded. Maja’s behavior suddenly began to make more sense. He shuddered; her inner life must have been pure hell. And all those small notes. She’d been trying to keep track of time and events. What sort of monster would send another person so far into a black hell, an endless nightmare?
“And you could seem to be mentally ill to anyone who didn’t know you were under its influence,” he said.
“Exactly. I’ve done some research on it; there are millions of stories about professional criminals and prostitutes who give the drug to someone and take control of them. The powder is tasteless, it can be mixed into a drink or sprinkled on food. Even someone wiping their nose with a handkerchief could pick up enough to have an effect.”
“Something like a rape drug?”
“Much more advanced. The victim doesn’t lose consciousness, but they can be ordered around, made to do things.”
“Scary.”
“It’s worse than anthrax, and the particles can even hover in the air. Conscious victims have been ordered to empty their houses of all valuables, or to withdraw money from an ATM machine. It’s like a type of chemical hypnosis. It turns people into the living dead, almost.”
“Can this really be true, though?” Trokic said. “Could it be some sort of urban myth?”
“A hell of a lot of stories would have to be lies. I checked on the net. The great thing about it from a criminal’s point of view is that the victim remembers nothing later on. And as I said, the victim can experience flashbacks, like bad trips. Dreams can become nightmares.”
Trokic nodded and drank the rest of his cola. All this made sense. “But she’d been given small doses, you say?”
“That’s what we’re guessing. We only found a little of it, and when I say a little, I mean a little. We were lucky to even find it, it breaks down so fast in the blood. And, of course, we weren’t supposed to find it.”
“So, in other words, this is the newest thing in the drug world. I hope it doesn’t spread.”
“But it’s not new, not at all!” Christiane said. “It’s been used in South America for thousands of years, according to some people. Like by South American tribes when a chief died. All the wives and mistresses were supposed to be buried with him, and of course they might not have been wild about that. So, they were given burundanga, and they voluntarily followed him into the grave, literally. They were buried alive.”
Trokic felt nauseous. “That is so, so sick.”
“And there’s more. It’s said that Mengele imported the drug to Europe during World War II, and he used it in some of his experiments. The CIA has also had its eye on it as a truth serum.”
“That doesn’t surprise me all that much.”
“The problem there was how the drug affects people’s sense of reality. Which naturally makes it useless, no matter how willing a prisoner is to talk.”
“But how did you and your colleagues find out about it?” Trokic said.
Christiane set her cola down, crossed her legs, and leaned a bit forward over the table. “The active ingredient in the tree is called scopolamine, and it’s used in the pharmaceutical industry. Like so many other poisons, it can be used for many things in very small doses. It’s simply a matter of how much.”
“It was imported from South America?”
“That’s my best guess, even though there are home growers around the globe, of course. They import the seeds and grow the trees.
There’s always some idiot who’ll try anything for fun. But there’s absolutely nothing fun about this drug. It is simply so horrifyingly dangerous.”
She held the papers up and waved them around. “Unfortunately, we can’t say for certain where it comes from. But South America is definitely the easiest place to get ahold of this shit. Especially if you have connections.”
Trokic laid his copy aside on the table. “Great work, and a great presentation too.”
She blushed.
“So, you want to make a career out of forensic medicine, or maybe you’re more interested in forensic chemistry?” He sounded very curious. “You have one of Denmark’s best mentors right here, by the way.”
She stared at him again, as if his question had some deeper meaning to be deciphered. She fingered her leather bracelet. “I have to finish medical school first, then we’ll see. It’s possible I’ll go for a Ph.D. there. But my biggest ambition is to live a year in India, do something in that part of the world. Then we’ll see what happens when I get home.”
“Why India?”
She shrugged. “Life is so much more open there.”
“But it’s so much poorer too.”
“We feel sorry for the poor, but maybe we’re the poor ones. Anyway, that’s how it feels being there.”
She told him about old palm trees, red dust, distant cicadas, barking dogs, the growl of buses. The smell of elephants, cows, all the trash in the streets. About Easter celebrations and painted faces, an Indian who shouted “Bad karma” at a tourist who had swung at a thin, yellowish cow.
And suddenly, he realized she was good company. That she told a good story, had so much energy, life inside her. Continents of life. And maybe, just maybe, it would have been really fun to see her dancing on the tables. Maybe.
After a few moments, Christiane said, “We could go out and get something to eat later on.”
Trokic stared at her in astonishment. There was no way that was going to happen. Not only did he suddenly see the hideous images from the past of a hysterically love-struck young teenager sending him stacks of letters; Torben Bach would skin him alive on the spot if he so much as sent a lecherous glance in his daughter’s direction. Not to mention that she wasn’t even thirty yet; he could hear his colleagues cackling in the cafeteria if they knew he’d spent a single moment with her in anything other than a professional capacity. It was impossible, absolutely the most insane proposition he’d heard in ages.
“What did you have in mind?” Instantly, he regretted saying that. Panic shot through his body.
“Just something light.” She looked completely neutral.
“I’ll pick you up at eight this evening if you’ll give me your number.” He hoped she didn’t think this meant anything. “I have a meeting with my colleagues first.”
“Of course.” She scribbled down her phone number and was out the door before he could change his mind.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The sun at its zenith glared down over the city’s buildings. The open window let a slight breeze through; the office’s only plant, a peace lily, fluttered. Jasper sat beside Trokic, fishing out “hot chicks”—licorice—from a bag of Matador Mix. Lisa clicked her pen and stared at Trokic expectantly.
He’d spent the first part of the day on paperwork, which made him think again about whether or not he really wanted Agersund’s job. It would be a step up in salary, of course, but what did he need the extra money for?
Jasper munched enthusiastically; for a moment he looked as if the homicide investigation was a low priority, as long as the bag wasn’t empty.
Trokic handed them each a copy of Christiane Bach’s report. He leaned up against the wall and gave them a few minutes to look the material over.
Finally, he said, “This looks like a dangerous drug. Very dangerous. It makes you think. I doubt it was meant to kill her, at least not directly. Just to set her up for it.”
“Yeah, so it would look like she committed suicide,” Jasper said. “Strange behavior, and so on.”
“It does sound plausible,” Trokic said. “So, let’s hang onto that a minute.”
Lisa turned to Taurup. “Would you please, please stop that racket, crinkling that sack? It sounds like World War III. Or at least share some of it.”
She wound her longish, blonde-violet hair around her hand and stuck a headband on it, all the while staring at her colleague. Jasper twirled the sack around a few times and held it out to her.
“Here you go.”
She swiped it out of his hand. “But how did he get ahold of this…” She looked down at the report. “Burundanga. I’ve never heard of it, must not be something the dealers here are selling. They’re not selling much of anything right now, actually. You have to look far and wide for anything other than the good old reliables.”
Trokic nodded. “Somebody snuck it in somehow. Maybe just for this, for Maja. But it doesn’t look like something hard to smuggle; the dogs aren’t trained to sniff it out.”
“But who?”
“Federico Carlos, the guy we met at the bar,” Jasper suggested. “One bad hombre.”
“I’m thinking the same thing,” Trokic said.
“Who then sold it to the killer,” Lisa said, her mouth full of licorice. “Let’s bring him in and get it out of him.”
“Or keep an eye on him and see who he’s hanging out with,” Jasper said.
“But most likely Maja had somehow been close to whoever gave her the drug,” Trokic said. “It couldn’t have been that easy to get it inside her. Even though it’s tasteless.”
“Somebody at Transit,” Lisa said. “At her work. Or Martin. Or maybe she was meeting secretly with her ex. Her jealous ex.”
“Yeah, and while we’re on the ex-boyfriend, here’s something interesting,” Jasper said, waving a printout in the air. “We finally got the phone records from Maja’s provider.”
“How far back?”
“From the beginning of the year. You can see patterns, they mirror her everyday life, and they change as they go along. Most calls in January were made to Martin Isaksen. She’d just fallen in love, I’m thinking. And there are calls to her parents, some classmates, a few to Clara in the States, a few miscellaneous, like to Transit, information, taxi, her doctor, insurance, that sort of thing. February, it’s different. Fewer calls to her boyfriend, more to her classmates, probably because of a project she was working on. March is more spread out evenly, there’s also a call to her ex-boyfriend.”
“If I remember right, he said he hadn’t had any contact with her,” Trokic said.
“Yeah, he’s lying like a rug, because now we come to the end of March. Still a lot of diversity, the district, an old friend from high school, her grandmother. Nothing really of interest. But then she calls her ex almost every day until the middle of April. Long conversations, sometimes up to a half hour. And she calls her boyfriend less and less.”
“Maybe they were getting back together?” Trokic said.
Jasper shook his head and scratched the stubble on his face. “I had the same thought. But we need to talk to him again.”
“Which we’ll do as soon as possible.”
Jasper turned to the next page. “There’s also a prepaid card number that keeps showing up. Three long conversations. Who that is, we have no way of knowing. She hardly calls anyone the last three weeks of her life. A few calls to her boyfriend and the regulars. One apiece to her ex, her mother, and a classmate. I think we have a good idea about those conversations. Short, rambling. And two short calls to the prepaid number. The last week she doesn’t call anyone, period.”
“And no blocked calls or unpaid phone bill?”
Jasper shook his head. “Her cell phone was actually in her parents’ name. They paid for it, like they paid for a lot of her other expenses. She could call as much as she wanted, no problem.”
Trokic raised his hand. “Okay, before we go too far, let’s get this up on the board to get the big picture. Fr
om the very beginning.”
Jasper smiled and began tapping his pen against his leg. “It’s show and tell time, Daniel.”
Trokic grabbed a magic marker from his drawer and rolled the whiteboard over so they all could see it. A photo of Maja Nielsen had already been put up, along with a number of names underneath. Connections to Maja. Anja Mikkelsen to the left. Trokic began drawing lines connecting them.
“Maybe she was involved in something illegal?” Lisa said. “Dealing?”
“But what the hell would a jazz singer who loved Sarah Vaughn, Lisa Nilsson, and homeless people be doing that was illegal?” Jasper said. Jasper, a man who was completely tone deaf. “I mean, she was just a student who was into her music and never had any problems with the law. Who didn’t need money, either.”
Trokic frowned and studied the whiteboard.
“Let’s get back to the boyfriend,” Lisa said. “He’s our most likely suspect. Could he have financed Maja’s apartment somehow and had problems with that, did she discover something about his business? Shouldn’t we be checking his financial situation?”
“Jasper, you take care of that,” Trokic said.
Jasper looked offended. “That’s about as boring as it gets.”
“Maybe, but you’re the numbers expert here. The rest of us don’t have a clue.”
Jasper grabbed his Matador Mix out of Lisa’s hand. “Better let me have that, Korny. All that candy isn’t good for you; you could go into sugar shock, get diabetes, all sorts of stuff.”
Lisa blushed violently. “What’s it to you?”
“Can we just get on here?” Trokic was getting sick and tired of their verbal sparring.
Lisa stared down at her sneakers in silence.
“Have either of you thought about how perfect it would have looked if Kurt Egebjerg hadn’t moved the body?” Trokic asked. “Maja starts acting strange. Maybe she’s under pressure at school or having problems with the boyfriend. She commits suicide. Several people had already seen the way she was; nobody would be surprised.”
“But we’ve hit a dead end again,” Jasper said. “What about if we all put our thinking caps on and meet here again this evening?”
