The Butterfly House

by Katrine Engberg

  “How did she kill herself, Pernille?”

  Rita’s lined face seemed to contract around the cigarette in a hungry hiss.

  “She stole a knife while she was on kitchen duty and lay down in the bathtub at night. Cut her own wrists. We didn’t find her until the next morning. In the water.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The one policeman was in uniform and tall, like a catalog model, the other somewhat shorter, an older guy in civilian clothes with brightly colored suspenders. They introduced themselves as Officer Truelsen and Detective Falck respectively. Although their demeanor was subdued and discreet, they stood out on the ward, gleaming like a lighthouse in the sea, making the patients nervous. Simon Hartvig shook their hands with sweaty palms. Uniforms had no place in a psychiatric ward. The body found in the hospital’s fountain that morning had already created plenty of alarm as it was. Simon fumbled to unlock the U8 staff room and hurriedly shepherded the policemen inside. The room smelled slightly from the lunch plates, still stacked in the sink, that he had promised to wash but not yet gotten around to. Now, in the company of these two pillars of authority, the scent of cured meats and liverwurst made him feel strangely awkward. The ward was used to police presence because officers would often bring new patients in. But this was different.

  “We assume you’re aware that a body was discovered on the hospital grounds this morning?” the catalog model asked.

  Simon nodded.

  “We’re talking to staff members in all the wards of the hospital to find out if any of you saw anything. Could we have a seat?”

  “Of course, I’m sorry.” He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  The policemen followed suit. It grew quiet, and it occurred to him that they were waiting for him to say something.

  “Of course,” he said again. “I heard about the body earlier, but unfortunately I don’t know anything about it at all and haven’t seen or heard anything relevant.”

  “When did your shift start?”

  “Ten last night. I’m on the night shift most of this week.”

  “Long shift, huh?” the catalog model said, looking at his watch.

  Simon’s pulse accelerated. What was it with the police that made it seem like they could read your mind?

  “Actually I’ve been off since noon, but I had a meeting with one of my colleagues about a garden project. I was just on my way home.…”

  “And you haven’t seen anything suspicious, here on the ward or outside?”

  “Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “It’s been really quiet. A coworker and I chatted and played cards most of the night.”

  “Have you by any chance seen a cargo bike on hospital grounds…?”

  “Uh, no…?” Simon shook his head.

  The two policemen exchanged a glance and then slowly stood. The older one tutted cryptically and looked at Simon. “Where can we find the charge nurse?”

  “She’s in her office,” Simon said, quickly getting to his feet. “I’ll get her for you.”

  He strode down the hall and found his colleague at her desk. She stood up smiling nervously.

  “My turn?” she asked.

  “Yes, they’d like to see you. I’m going home—just have to grab my coat.”

  “That’s right, you’re on duty again tonight.”

  They walked back to the staff room and the charge nurse greeted the two policemen. Simon took his coat and backpack from the row of hooks but didn’t get any further before he heard her voice behind him.

  “Simon, did you tell the police about Isak?”

  “About Isak?” He turned around, trying to sound casual. “What do you mean?”

  She hesitated and then said, “Well, how he must know both of the victims from his time at Butterfly House.”

  Simon froze with his raincoat halfway on and his backpack in his hand. The older of the two policemen eyed him suspiciously with a vertical wrinkle between his eyebrows.

  “You wouldn’t have time to stick around for a minute, would you?” the detective asked.

  His expression strongly suggested that answering no was not an option. Simon took off his coat again and sat down. His shoulders felt heavy, like kettlebells.

  Detective Falck cleared his throat and said, “Do I understand this correctly that you have a patient in this ward who used to live at Butterfly House?”

  The charge nurse cast a sidelong glance at him, but he avoided her gaze. Then she nodded.

  “Yes, we do. Isak Brügger, age seventeen. He’ll be eighteen soon. He was admitted this spring after having lived in a treatment home in Næstved, where he moved when Butterfly House closed. Simon is his case manager.” She turned to him. “I suppose you’re the one who knows him best.…”

  Simon nodded reluctantly. The policemen seemed to be studying him but with no indication of what they were thinking.

  “If you would be so kind as to tell us a little about Isak.…”

  “I’ve only been assigned to him for about six months,” he said with a shrug.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  The charge nurse interrupted. “We can’t go into details about the individual patients. But most of our teenagers have schizophrenia combined with other diagnoses, personality disorders, for example.”

  “Is Isak dangerous?”

  Simon looked down at the table, anger suddenly churning in his stomach. Every person can be pushed into violence if the circumstances are right, diagnosis or not. He had felt that on his own body.

  “Isak sometimes displays externalizing behaviors when he’s feeling stressed,” the nurse said, her voice revealing that the question had bothered her as well. “But he’s in treatment and we staff members are always here with him.”

  “Displays externalizing behaviors… is that a nice way of saying he’s dangerous?” the older detective asked, looking around at the impersonal staff room as if hoping to find better answers lurking in the corners.

  The charge nurse looked over at Simon, seeking support. When he didn’t respond, she sighed.

  “Isak can be violent,” she said, “but only when he is under a lot of pressure.”

  The two policemen sat for half a minute, looking at them. Then the catalog model leaned forward on his elbows and squinted his eyes.

  “Does he think he’s two different people?”

  “Schizophrenia is an overall designation for mental illnesses that interfere with thoughts and feelings, not with personality.” The charge nurse could not keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Isak is a sweet, gifted boy. He just has some challenges.”

  “Can he go out? Is he allowed to leave the hospital when he wants to?” asked the older detective, his eyes on Simon.

  “Isak has been committed,” Simon answered, addressing the colorful suspenders instead of his face. “Certainly he’s allowed to leave the ward, but only for a home visit and only by agreement.”

  “Is he on red or yellow papers?”

  When patients are committed in Denmark, a yellow form means the admission is for the patient’s own possibility of recovery, a red form that the patient is a danger to himself and others.

  “I don’t understand why you’re asking so many questions about Isak. He hasn’t left the hospital in weeks. Everyone can confirm that. How could his connections to an old treatment center be important to the murder?” Simon heard the irritation build in his own voice, even though he was trying to quash it.

  “Two former employees of the treatment center have been murdered. One of them was found a few hundred yards from here. That makes it important for us to find out as much about Isak as we can. So, red or yellow?” The older detective’s voice sounded a little sharp around the edges.

  “Red. And, of course, that means he’s crazy, right?” Simon straightened up. “Being schizophrenic doesn’t automatically make you a murderer.”

  The police officers exchanged yet another glance and then stood up.

  “Should we see if Isak is willing to talk to us
?”

  “Yes.” The charge nurse smiled anxiously. “Uh, why don’t we see if he is in the mood to chat? But I have to second what Simon said. Isak has been on short, accompanied trips on the hospital grounds this week, and as we said our patients aren’t allowed to leave the ward without our knowledge.”

  Simon got up, opened the door, and led the way to Isak’s room. He knocked and then peeked in. The charge nurse and the two policemen waited behind him.

  “I’m afraid he’s resting.” Simon turned back around toward them. “Sometimes Isak sleeps fitfully in the night; it’s not unusual for him to be tired during the day.”

  “Can’t we wake him up?” the older detective asked.

  “Oh, there’s no waking Isak up once he finally falls asleep.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to come back,” the detective said, and turned to the nurse. “We would like to review the ward’s security systems with you before we interview the rest of the staff. Could we do that now?”

  “Of course.”

  Both officers gave Simon firm handshakes before the nurse led them back to her office. He watched them disappear around the corner and felt relief spread through his body. When they were gone from view, he carefully opened the door and went into the room. Isak lay heavy and motionless, his back to the world. The skin on his cheeks was diaphanous, taut over his angular bones, and his body quivered with the excess energy that constantly trembled through him, even in his sleep.

  Simon sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at the sleeping boy. Was Isak aware, he wondered, of what he had to do for his sake?

  * * *

  GRIEF PERMEATES ALL living things and drains out their color. Grief is a nothingness that runs through blood vessels, stalks, and bricks, until only the shell of what has been remains. Jeppe regarded the Ramsgaard family’s house with a tingling sense of unease. The terraced house showed no clear signs of neglect. And yet a sadness hung so heavily over the place that it was palpable, even from out in the car. Maybe it was the swing set, swaying in the wind, green with moss and outgrown by the family’s kids, maybe the name sign, where Pernille Ramsgaard was still listed two years after her death.

  Even the doorbell sounded sad, a frail, uncertain tone that could hardly be heard from the front step.

  Jeppe pulled back the hood of his raincoat and pricked up his ears to listen for motion inside. Thomas Larsen came up beside him just as the door was opened a crack. A small face at belly button height peeked timidly out at them without saying anything.

  “Hi, is your mom or dad home?”

  The child vanished into the house but left the door ajar. Jeppe cautiously pushed it open and stepped into a dark hallway. There were stacks of flattened moving boxes along the wall, and the bulb in the overhead light had burned out. They hesitantly followed her, passing the boxes and ending up in a living room, where newspapers and little piles of clothes were strewn on the furniture and a gray membrane of dust lay over every horizontal surface. On a shelf stood a family portrait with a young girl, who must be Pernille, smiling a close-lipped smile between her mother, father, and two other children. It looked to have been taken many years ago. On the faded sofa next to the shelf a man wearing earbuds was lying with his eyes closed. His hair was tinged with gray and hung in thin curls over his forehead, an unruly beard on his chin. He had to be nearing sixty and looked like someone who had given up on his appearance a long time ago.

  “Dad’s napping,” whispered the child, who on closer inspection turned out to be a girl. She looked like she was ten or eleven, but small for her age and skinny. “Mom’s not home.”

  She didn’t provide any more details, just looked at them anxiously with her big eyes.

  “We need to talk to your dad.” Jeppe tried a reassuring smile. “Would you wake him up?”

  The girl responded by running out of the room.

  Jeppe stepped over the piles on the floor and gently put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Bo Ramsgaard opened his eyes and looked at him, disoriented. He removed his earbuds, sat up, and pushed the curls off his forehead.

  “You must be from the police?” he mumbled.

  “Are you Bo Ramsgaard?”

  The man nodded sluggishly.

  “For good measure, we need to inform you that you may eventually be under investigation in this case, and that you’re therefore not obligated to speak to us.”

  “Yeah, yeah!” He reached back behind the sofa and turned off his sound system. “Lisbeth’s not home.”

  Jeppe looked around for somewhere to sit but quickly gave up the idea. “Are you moving?”

  “Maybe,” he said, and then stretched noisily and leaned back on the sofa.

  “Like my colleague, Detective Larsen here, explained on the phone, we’re here because of the murders that took place in Copenhagen today and yesterday. The two victims both worked at the Butterfly House while your daughter Pernille lived there.…”

  “Hallelujah!” Bo exclaimed, and then waved both hands in the air next to his face.

  “I’m sorry…?” Jeppe said, puzzled.

  “Forget about it. That was inappropriate. You had questions?”

  Jeppe searched for an explanation for the father’s outburst but didn’t find it in his eyes, which were looking calmly back at him from under those gray curls.

  “I am very sorry to learn of your daughter’s death. Can I ask to begin with why she lived at Butterfly House?”

  “Because she was too sick to live at home.”

  “What was wrong with her? Is it okay to ask about that?”

  “I’m only happy to talk about Pernille,” Bo said with a pained smile. “It’s much worse not to talk about her.… Pernille suffered from bulimia. She was an elite gymnast and very focused on being as thin as possible. Got something like a high from throwing up a meal, and then she hated herself afterward. She started cutting herself when she was thirteen.”

  The father picked up a pillow off the floor and put it in his lap. He talked routinely about his daughter’s illness, but Jeppe sensed a deep pain still streaming under his words. The pain unique to parents who can’t help their children.

  “We tried everything. Pernille’s teenage years were one succession of hospital stays, interventions, and treatment. She moved into Butterfly House after a month at Bispebjerg Hospital. The psychiatrist at the hospital, Peter Demant, was the one who advised the move. He was also affiliated with Butterfly House.”

  The father ran his hands through the thin curls and sighed heavily. His lips were tightly pursed, as if they were holding back a well of emotions.

  “Pernille was a delicate girl, a sensitive soul. Gifted and goal-oriented, as I mentioned she was a dedicated gymnast. Her chances of getting onto the national team and participating in the Olympics were good, until… My wife and I supported her. She was in treatment, and even though there were relapses, things were gradually getting better.” He smoothed the pillow in his lap as he spoke, running his hand over the same spot again and again. “At first living at the Butterfly House was okay, but then… she started losing weight again and had a hard time sleeping at night. We didn’t realize how bad it was until it was too late.”

  “What went wrong?”

  Bo didn’t seem to hear the question.

  “We should have moved her,” he said. “We discussed it, but… it wasn’t that easy to just do. Plus we were having some difficulties at home at the time.” He looked up. “It can be hard to decide from a distance whether it’s the situation around your child that is wrong or if she’s just going through a bad phase. Pernille was loyal to that place and its methods, didn’t tell us anything.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “In July 2015 she was home for vacation. She was doing all right then, skinny but eating, and participating in family life. When she went back to that place after summer, it only took a week. Then she couldn’t cope anymore.”

  “She slit her wrists?”

  “Yes.”
/>   A pained look shot through the father’s face. But there was more to the expression than pain. He was angry.

  “What exactly couldn’t she endure anymore?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t leave a goodbye note, and the employees had no explanation for what happened.”

  “I understand from Rita Wilkins that you later sued Butterfly House.…”

  “We felt this tremendous need to talk about Pernille’s death and to understand what had happened, but they refused. They were nice enough in the days immediately following her death, while we were packing up her things and trying to accept the fact that she was gone. But the second we started asking questions, they all referred us to Rita, and Rita refused to talk to us.” A haze clouded over his eyes, making them distant. “You always ask yourself if there was anything you could have done. But we also started asking ourselves if maybe there was something they could have done, something they didn’t do. Why else would they refuse to talk to us like that? What were they trying to hide?”

  Jeppe pushed one of the stacks aside on the dining table and perched on the edge. His legs relaxed, but his brain was teeming with information.

  “What role did Bettina Holte and Nicola Ambrosio play in all of this? Was Pernille closely connected to them?”

  “Not particularly.” Bo shrugged. “Pernille got along well with everyone. She didn’t have high standards for other people, only for herself.”

  “I’m assuming that you and your wife knew them? Could you tell us anything about them? What they were like?”

  Bo raised his eyebrows so far, they disappeared up under his gray curls.

  “What’s there to say? They were friendly enough, just not particularly good at their jobs.”

  Jeppe tried to figure out what was going on inside the man on the sofa. Bo seemed tormented but also oddly reluctant. Was he hiding something?

  “I can certainly understand how it must be difficult to talk about Pernille, but we have two murders to solve, two very nasty murders, and your daughter knew the victims.…”