The Butterfly House

by Katrine Engberg

  She took a deep puff and held on to the smoke before exhaling.

  “Oh, that tastes damn good!”

  Jeppe laughed against his will and pulled out a chair for her.

  “Anette Werner, you are a pain in the butt. Tell me what you know! How did you find her?”

  “It started when I recognized Bettina Holte from the maternity ward at Herlev Hospital. I got curious. So I drove out to Butterfly House, after you mentioned it to me. Marie’s name was still on the door to her room. And then at Vesterport I met a… no, it’s too complicated to explain. But anyway I found Marie Birch out in that place they call Fredens Havn.”

  “I know of it.” Jeppe nodded. “It’s that mini settlement on the water, where all the freaks live.”

  “They don’t seem so freaky, actually. Marie lives in a camper, which belongs to someone who calls himself the Count. But she says she won’t talk to the police. Believe me, if you go out there, you’re just going to scare her away. If she hasn’t already hightailed it out of there.”

  “So then, how did you get her to talk?” Jeppe walked over to the fridge and peeked in. He could go for a beer.

  “I brought her a folder that I got from one of her underground friends at the Colony.”

  “A folder? Underground?” Jeppe wasn’t following.

  “Never mind. She was happy to get her folder and served me an avocado as thanks. Hey, are you going to give me a beer, or are you just letting out the cold for fun?”

  Jeppe, who felt pretty sure that alcohol was not okay when nursing, closed the fridge.

  “There’s only milk left. Sorry.”

  Anette took a greedy puff on her cigarette, got up, and doused the cigarette butt under running water in the sink.

  “She claimed that Butterfly House had used heavy-handed methods to control the residents, upped their medication doses and left them restrained and unattended. Illegal methods. According to her, Rita and a psychiatrist by the name of Peter Demant were responsible for the strict treatment. Can I throw the cigarette in the trash? Is that okay?”

  Jeppe nodded.

  “I heard about it from the other side. Demant describes it differently, of course.”

  “Alibi?”

  “Claims he was at home the last three evenings and nights. Had a video consultation yesterday evening for an hour and a half with a patient who lives abroad. It was hard to get the patient’s name out of Demant, but we did and the patient confirmed it. The consultation went until eleven thirty p.m., which would make it hard for him to meet Rita at the crime scene and have time to murder her within the midnight to three a.m. time slot, which is the established window for the time of death.”

  “But not impossible?” Anette sat back down at the table.

  “No.”

  “Marie mentioned a social worker by the name of Kim, who had died in an accident. She more than insinuated that he was murdered.”

  “By whom?” Jeppe sat down across from his partner. She looked tired. “You look like shit, by the way.”

  “You try not sleeping at night.”

  “Me? I haven’t slept for a year. All I do, actually, is to not sleep at night.”

  They smiled at each other. Anette’s smile ended in a stifled yawn.

  “If Kim was murdered, and if the motive was to shut him up about what was going on, then that would point to Rita Wilkins and Peter Demant.”

  “Of whom only one is still alive. Ironically enough, Demant himself voiced a theory that one of the kids is killing the staff. In other words, Isak or Marie. Everyone is pointing fingers at each other.” Jeppe cocked his head to the side and cracked his neck. “I’m meeting Demant again tomorrow morning, so I’ll try to coax some more out of him.”

  “Damn exciting. I wish I could go.” Anette winked. “But I could look into Demant a little online if that could be of use…?”

  “Anette Werner, what am I going to do with you?” Jeppe rolled his eyes. “Hey, did Marie Birch mention a girl named Pernille?”

  “No.”

  “She was one of the other kids living at Butterfly House, committed suicide two years ago, the year after Kim’s death. According to Demant, because of Kim’s death. Her father sued Rita and Robert Wilkins, and they were ultimately forced to shut Butterfly House. He’s still grieving. And he’s mad.”

  “Sounds like a slam dunk.”

  “Unfortunately he seems to have an alibi for last night.”

  “Yet another alibi. This is straight out of Sherlock Holmes.” She smiled wide, her crooked canines showing. Jeppe hadn’t seen those in a long time.

  “Well, I’d better go home to my family,” she said. “Otherwise my breasts will explode.”

  “We can’t have that,” Jeppe said, standing up.

  In the doorway Anette stopped and looked at him shyly.

  Jeppe slapped her on the shoulder and said, “Say hi to everyone back home. I’ll come by and see the baby just as soon as I’ve caught this violent psychopath who is eradicating Copenhagen’s therapy community.”

  “Or after you’ve been fired for not catching him.” Anette started down the stairs. Just before she disappeared from view, she yelled so that it echoed through the entire stairwell, “Night night, Snuggles!”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Hi, Gorm. Everything okay?”

  He walked by his colleague, to the line of coat hooks on the wall. Gorm was sitting in the staff room with a cup of coffee and a crumpled newspaper. He looked tired.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Gorm said. “But it’ll be good to get home and relax a little. It’s been a long day.”

  “Did something happen?” Simon Hartvig asked, removing his wet rain gear while trying to keep too much water from getting on the floor.

  “Well, they’re all still worked up about the dead body in the fountain yesterday. They’ve definitely noticed that the police came by. But things are relatively peaceful. They just ate dinner.” Gorm got up and put his cup in the dishwasher. “I’ll do my rounds and say good night before I head home. Do you want to come with me and say hello?”

  “Sure, I’ll just change my shoes.”

  He pulled a pair of sneakers out of his bag, put them on, and started tying the laces.

  Behind him Gorm cleared his throat.

  “Hey, I need to ask you something. Yesterday, when I checked the medicine room, there were drugs missing compared to the inventory. Three boxes of ten-milligram Ritalin, the thirty-count boxes. Do you know anything about that?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

  “Chill out, man. I mean, maybe you just forgot to enter them?”

  “Of course not!” Simon tried to force his voice to sound calm. “I don’t know where they are, but there’s probably a logical explanation for it, right? Maybe one of the other wards borrowed some?”

  “I’ve checked,” Gorm said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid someone took them.”

  “Who would do that?” Simon said, looking at the floor. “Me?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” Gorm made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. “But I do need to ask. You know, stealing drugs is a serious matter!”

  “Fine, but I don’t know anything about it.” Simon produced a yawn to mask his anxious breathing, then gestured to the door. “Should we go make the rounds?”

  He escaped Gorm’s scrutinizing gaze, moving on into the common room, where TV voices buzzed and laughter sounded from the foosball table. One of the girls ran over and hugged him, her vibrant enthusiasm soothing his jumpy nerves.

  “Well, what a nice greeting, sweetie!” He scanned the sofas. “Where’s Isak?”

  “In his room. He wasn’t hungry today and wanted to be by himself.” The last part was said with teenagery sarcasm, as if it were something the girl had heard many times before.

  “I’ll just pop in and check on him.”

  Simon went down to Isak’s room, knocked, and opened the door. The room was empty.

  “Was
n’t Isak supposed to be in his room?”

  Gorm was walking over, busy buckling his bike helmet.

  “Isak’s not there,” Simon persisted. “Where can he be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Simon walked off with Gorm on his heels, searching the quiet room, bathrooms, shower rooms, the crafts room, the kitchen, the admin hallway. With every room they checked, Simon’s footsteps felt heavier and heavier. There was no sign of Isak. Finally they returned to his room. It was still empty. Gorm even opened the cupboard, which they knew was too small for him to hide in, and looked under the bed, which was too low to the ground for him to fit under. Isak wasn’t there.

  “Where is he?” Gorm asked, the panic in his voice palpable. “Where the hell can he be? What are we going to do?”

  Simon walked over to the window facing the yard and the copper beech tree. The windows all locked with the same key that fit the doors and the cabinets where they kept spare cables so the patients couldn’t hang themselves with them. All the employees on the ward had a key. Simon patted the pocket where he kept his. Then he gave the window a push and saw it slide open effortlessly.

  In that moment, just as the alarm sounded, he understood, without quite daring to think the thought all the way to the end.

  * * *

  “DID YOU HEAR?”

  Sara greeted him with a question instead of the kiss he had been looking forward to. She had texted as soon as the kids were asleep.

  “Yeah, they called me from headquarters to tell me he was gone. They have canine units all over the whole northwest sector. No sign of him yet.” Jeppe pulled her in close and kissed her. Enjoyed the feel of her soft breasts against his body and breathed in the scent of her hair and her skin. “Hello, you. I’ve missed you.”

  “But that’s totally nuts!” She pulled free from his arms. “I mean, Falck was at the hospital just yesterday trying to get to talk to him.”

  Jeppe unzipped his raincoat and asked, “Where should I hang this? It’s pretty wet.”

  “Just in the hall… But, seriously, think about it: A mentally ill teenager escapes from a locked ward and kills off his old counselors one by one? It’s like a movie!”

  Sara gathered up the laundry that she had been carrying in her arms when he rang the bell. With those long legs sticking out under a well-worn sweatshirt and her curls pulled up into a ponytail, she was the one who looked like something out of a movie. She had no idea how beautiful she was.

  “Just because he has had the opportunity to escape doesn’t mean he murdered anyone.”

  “Of course not. But why wouldn’t he hate those people who kept him locked up and drove his friend to suicide?” She went to the bathroom and started loading the dirty laundry into the washing machine. “He’s schizophrenic. I don’t mean to be prejudiced, but there’s definitely a possibility that he could be violent.”

  “But that is prejudiced.” Jeppe followed her into the bathroom and kissed her to take the edge off his words. He was exhausted, right down to his soul. So exhausted, he could lie down on the hallway floor and sleep for a hundred years.

  “Are you okay?” She snapped her fingers. “Did you just fall asleep standing up?”

  “I’m just…” He shook himself awake. “Do you have a beer? That might help.”

  “You already reek, as if you came straight from a bar.” She sniffed him and then made a face. “Hello, ashtray! You want a glass?”

  “In the can is fine.” While she went to the kitchen Jeppe collapsed onto the sofa. There was something comforting about her teasing. Ashtray! That was the kind of mocking you would expect from a girlfriend.

  Sara returned to the living room with beers for both of them, sat down next to him and put her feet in his lap.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  Jeppe opened his beer and drank. Ease spread through his body and made him even sleepier.

  “Frustrating,” he admitted. “Endless. How about yours?”

  “Pretty good. I’m actually surprised at how competent a detective Larsen is turning out to be. He’s sharp.”

  “Really? You didn’t use to think that.”

  “Maybe I was wrong about him,” she said, pondering while she drank from her beer. “He’s really good with the financial stuff, too. Maybe he’s a little slick, and things move a bit fast sometimes, but he actually is both thorough and surprisingly fun. We kind of jibe.”

  Jeppe couldn’t think of a response that wasn’t either childish or inappropriate, so he said nothing. They drank in silence.

  If he had ever been good at being in love, then he couldn’t remember. For him, the early stage of a relationship before some form of mutual declaration of love—the period romantics in Denmark describe with terms like butterfly dust or shooting stars—had always been a rocky road full of unexpected potholes. It bugged him, not knowing if he and Sara were a couple. He didn’t want to feel jealous when she complimented other men. He wasn’t that kind of guy.

  Jeppe emptied his beer can and leaned his head back against the sofa cushion with a heartfelt sigh. If he just closed his eyes for a second, he would know what to say.

  “Jeppe, Jeppe! You can’t sleep here.”

  He woke up disoriented to see Sara leaning over him. She smiled indulgently.

  “You’re too tired to do anything but sleep. Go home and go to bed, would you?”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m not tired.”

  “You’ve been snoring for twenty minutes, my dear,” she pointed out, and then kissed him on the cheek. “Come on. Let’s get you onto your bike. We all have to get up early.”

  Jeppe let her lead him to the front hall like a zombie. Raincoat on, a quick goodbye kiss, and then he was standing on the street, in the rain, with a nagging sense that he had just been kicked out by his girlfriend, or whatever she was. She hadn’t even asked about that pretty museum lady who was so clearly interested in him.

  He started riding toward Knippelsbro bridge. The wind had picked up and lightning traced hectic heartbeats across the sky. His tired thoughts skipped between a young, schizophrenic man and a beautiful, Tunisian-Danish policewoman. The one escaped at night from the locked ward at Bispebjerg Hospital, the other kept him at arm’s length, alternately loving and tolerating him in an unpredictable current of hot and cold.

  None of it made any sense, and both left him feeling helpless and frustrated.

  Jeppe passed one of the many patrol cars that had been extraordinarily deployed throughout Copenhagen to keep an eye out for mentally deranged young men and cargo bikes. Hopefully they would find him tomorrow, and everything would be clearer.

  It bothered Jeppe that Sara, too, succumbed to the temptation of automatically suspecting the sick. Diagnoses make it easy and comfortable to explain the things we don’t want to be universally human.

  But there were questions Jeppe couldn’t find answers to when he tried to imagine a seventeen-year-old psych patient as the murderer.

  Where did he kill them? How did he get them to meet with him? Where did he store the cargo bike that he used to transport the bodies to the fountains?

  Jeppe pedaled hard, his pulse pounding in his temples. It was easier pointing fingers than it was finding solutions.

  As he crossed the broad street Østervold, it hit him that he was doing exactly the same thing with Sara, pointing fingers. Because it was easier to blame her for their uncertain relationship status than to admit his own doubt. It wasn’t her hesitation as much as it was his own. The thought of throwing himself wholeheartedly into family life with two kids he hardly knew frightened him. He had been burned before. And the world also contained Monica Kirkskovs who flipped their hair and batted their eyelids, women who came without baggage or commitment, who were casual and easy. Easiness, wasn’t that what he longed for, when you got right down to it?

  A gust of wind almost knocked him off his bike, making him wobble dangerously in the thunderstorm. Lightning flashed blue over the Lakes.


  Everything would be clearer tomorrow. He hoped.

  * * *

  AFTER TRINE BREMEN had fed her family, folded the laundry, put the kids to bed, and had a good cry in the bathroom, she excused herself to her husband, saying she had a headache and needed to go for an evening stroll. Klaus was understanding, or maybe he was just relieved to get to watch soccer in peace. Hard to tell. Sometimes he seemed downright indifferent toward her and didn’t understand that his indifference was part of the problem.

  Trine set out into the rain. He hadn’t even asked if she needed an umbrella.

  She walked to the harbor. Their little downtown apartment on Fredericiagade was cramped, but the location, on the other hand, was great. They often talked about moving out of the city, where they could get more for their money—space, apple trees, a yard with a trampoline for the kids—but they had yet to take the plunge.

  Truthfully, Trine was the one who feared what the peace and calm of the countryside would do to her. Even now, here by the water, the quiet was a disagreeable void, leaving plenty of room for the unwanted thoughts that pinballed nonstop through her head. Being alone with her thoughts was tough. She regretted not bringing her headphones so she could have listened to music and drowned out the messages from her brain telling her how unsound she was. The benzodiazepine made her fat and gave her acne, and it didn’t even have the desired effect anymore. Trine felt a manic anxiety closing in.

  She looked out over the water and wiped her eyes—apparently they never ran out of tears—and passed a police car driving slowly through Nyhavn. The officers didn’t look at her, didn’t even glance at this young woman with her long hair and big, blue eyes. Was she really so unattractive?

  Trine crossed the Inner Harbor bike bridge. She had to do something about the situation at work soon. Things were getting so bad she was getting a stomachache every time she walked through the revolving doors into the hospital. The other nurses had pretty much stopped talking to her and they had even gotten a couple of the porters on board with them. It was regular old workplace bullying and it reminded her of her time at Butterfly House: the backstabbing, the distrust, the silence around her. Back then it had been a woman who had started the harassment, too, undermining her reputation and making the work intolerable. Rita. Trine cringed at the thought of Rita.