by Willow Rose
Sophia smiled. “We could disguise you. You can borrow one of my mom’s wigs.”
“Those awful red haired ones?” I said.
Sophia’s mom’s hair had become very thin with age, so she insisted on wearing these horrible wigs that didn’t fit her very well. Still, it could work, I thought to myself. Maybe if I added a pair of glasses? I had a pair in my closet. Yes, that might just work. The guy had, after all, only seen me from very far away and in darkness. I wasn’t even certain he had looked at me.
I tapped my fingers on the kitchen table. It was still early in the day. We had plenty of time to go there and come back before the kids returned from school. All I wanted was to get into his house for a little while and take a peek. And maybe talk to the guy. Pretending to interview him wasn’t a bad idea. I was quite surprised by Sophia’s ingenuity.
“I’ll bring my gun, if that makes you feel any better,” Sophia said.
“I can’t just sit here and do nothing, while he’s planning to kill more people. They might have children the next time. I’ve got to at least do something. I’m in,” I said.
Sophia laughed. She got up and looked at me. “Great. I’ll get the wig, and we’ll have you disguised beyond recognition in no time.” She paused. Then, she smiled, satisfied. “Oh, my. How exciting. I feel like Thelma and Louise. Or uh, Miss Marple or something.”
Now it was my turn to laugh.
56
August 2014
WE DIDN’T WANT him to be prepared for us, so we didn’t call ahead to let him know we were coming. Instead, we took a chance and just drove there and knocked on the door.
It was almost noon when we drove up the long driveway towards the old farm. The gravel crunched underneath the wheels of my car. I was nervous, and there were times when I thought about turning around and going back.
I parked the car in front of the main building, looked at myself in the mirror, and made sure the wig was on right.
I didn’t look too bad, I thought. It was believable that this could actually be my hair and glasses. But, most importantly of all, there was no chance he would ever recognize me. Even if he knew who I was or had read my books. I looked very different.
To my surprise, he opened the door himself…wearing nothing but his birthday suit.
I blushed and looked at Sophia. She sounded bewildered as she spoke.
“Mr. Melander?”
He smiled and leaned on the door, like it was the most natural thing in the world, him being naked in front of two female strangers.
Then, he shook his head. “Not anymore,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Sophia asked.
He could tell we were taken aback by his nakedness, and seemed to enjoy it. I tried hard to look anywhere but down there…
“I changed it,” he said. “A couple of months ago. I was sick and tired of it. I needed a change. I’m Steffen Carlsen now. Who are you?”
“I’m Laura Bo and this is Mille Bille, my photographer,” Sophia said.
I held the camera between my hands, so he could see it.
“We’re from the Zeeland Times,” Sophia continued.
Steffen Carlsen looked interested. I wanted to punch that smug look off of his face. It annoyed me already.
“Oh, are you now?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sophia said. “We’re covering the recent killings on the island, and thought of asking for your expert analysis of this killer, your professional opinion as a therapist, and, well…as someone who knows men very well.”
Steffen Carlsen chuckled, while scrutinizing me. It made me highly uncomfortable. “And don’t journalists call in advance anymore?”
“We were in the area,” I took over. “To be honest, we didn’t think of you until we drove by out here and both agreed it could be interesting to hear your opinion on the murders that everyone is talking about.”
I could tell he bought it. I couldn’t tell if it was because he was flattered, or if he liked the fact that everybody was talking about his killings.
Steffen Carlsen smiled widely and opened the door completely. “Alright then. Any publicity is good publicity, I always say. I have plenty to say about this. Come on in.”
My heart was pumping hard in my chest as I walked past him into his house. There was no doubt in my mind anymore. Standing in front of him in person made me certain. This was the guy I had seen that Friday night under the streetlamp. Now, all we had to do was find something to prove it.
As he slammed the door behind us and let us into his living room, I couldn’t tell if we were the clever ones, or if we had just walked willingly into the lion’s den.
I guess I was about to find out.
57
August 2014
“YOU KNOW, I have to say, this is the first time anyone has ever come to me to ask for an expert statement about a killer,” Steffen Carlsen said, and showed us to the couches.
He sat down in a chair in front of us, not making any attempt to cover himself up. I got the feeling he was enjoying seeing our facial expressions.
“Well, you are an expert on the subject,” Sophia said with a smirk.
“That I am. Not only because of my background in therapy, but also because I have spent time in prison with them. And, I’ll tell you, they’re not as bad as you like to make them out in the media. Most often, they suffer from long term hurt and terrible childhoods. It’s not just a cliché. It’s a fact. Many of them are very sensitive creatures who never had anyone love them, but I tell you, love heals everything. That and sex,” he took time to laugh at his own remark before he continued. “It was while I was in prison that I decided to become a therapist. I could tell there was a great need for someone like me. I just didn’t have any idea how great the need actually was.”
I grabbed the camera and started taking some photos while he talked. He seemed to like the fact that I was looking at him through the lens. He smiled at the right time and looked into the camera like he was posing. He even took his penis in his hand and made that pose as well.
“That’s not gonna make it in the paper,” I said.
“I know,” he laughed. “Just messing with you. It amuses me how frightened women are of the male sex organ.”
“Does it now?” I said, trying hard to not get provoked by his remarks. I continued to take photos, and tried to take some of the living room as well, looking through the lens, searching, scanning frantically for anything that could indicate he was actually the killer.
“Yes. It is interesting, don’t you think? Our relationships with our sex organs. I have actually recently written a book about it. What startled me was when I realized that women completely ignore their vaginas. I studied hundreds of women for years, and came to the conclusion that, while men love their penises and often caress them in the shower, women choose to ignore their vaginas. That’s too bad, don’t you think? It’s a shame. To a man, the cock is the most important part of the body and they keep a close connection with it. I always tell my students that my cock is my God! I try to make them feel the same about theirs. I mean, why not? I worship mine. And so does my wife. She adores it. I kid you not. Every morning, I have her say good morning to it, and give it a good morning kiss. Just to acknowledge its importance in our marriage.”
I felt nauseated listening to all this. I couldn’t believe what he was saying. How pompous and self-indulged could a man be allowed to be? Did he say he had studied hundreds of women? Was he just being unfaithful to his wife on a regular basis and proud of it, or what? All of his alibis had been with different women, Morten had told me. He made me sick…just from looking at him, sitting there flashing his penis at us, acting like we should worship it as much as he did.
He stared at me while I walked around in his living room with my camera. I felt his eyes on my body, on my behind when I turned the other way. He was scrutinizing me, observing me.
It made me very uncomfortable.
“So, these killings, huh?” he said. “Terrible story.
But these acts, these killings…those poor families.”
“So, what do you make of the killer? Who are we dealing with here, from what you know?” Sophia asked.
I lifted my head from the camera and looked at his face as he spoke. He didn’t seem at all thrown off by the question. On the contrary. He was enjoying this, wasn’t he? He liked this situation, the bastard. It made him feel on top. Us running to him for expertise. It made him feel strong.
Was that how it felt to kill those people, huh? Was it all just a power trip for you, you bastard?
58
August 2014
“IT’S WHAT’S INSIDE the killer’s head that we must look at, naturally,” Steffen Carlsen said.
“Most killings are about sex or money or revenge. These are not. There might be a sexual aspect to it, the killer might get off by killing these people, but there is more to it than that.”
“And what might that be?” Sophia asked. “What do you think this killer gets out of it?”
Steffen Carlsen threw out his hands. “I would say an act of cleansing. He is taking these people’s lives at the moment they are starting them together…when they’ve just bought the house of their dreams and everything is so pure and new. That’s when he strikes and rips it apart. It’s the beginning of a new life. And, I believe he takes something from them, right?”
The way he spoke sounded like he idolized the killer. I didn’t care for that.
“It might be a sort of artwork in his mind, maybe like a hunting trophy; it seems to be almost ceremonial. The last victim was put on a pole to be displayed. Very ritualistic. It might even be religious.”
It was bullshit. He was just talking, playing us. Had he seen through us, recognized me behind my disguise? Did he know we weren’t really from the Zeeland Times? Or was this just the way he was?
“You seem to know a lot about these killings,” Sophia continued.
“I read the paper, like everyone else,” he answered.
“Do you know anything besides what has been in the papers?” Sophia asked.
Steffen Carlsen took a breath, looking like he was reflecting on the question. “No. I don’t see how I could.”
“Did you know any of the victims?”
He shook his head. I could tell he was wondering about the character of the questions. Sophia had to be careful now.
“I don’t think I do. I don’t socialize with people on this island a lot. They really don’t want me here, and made that clear in several open letters to the local paper, and by protesting outside in the street once I moved here. It’s quieter now, but they still tend to approach my wife and me when we go shopping. We stay away from the town for that same reason. I thought changing my name again might help, but I can’t seem to escape my past, even though I was falsely accused. To most people, I’m still a murderer. I even think I might be in your eyes as well. You think I know this guy or something? That we all know each other and, therefore, I should have some sort of knowledge that no one else has? What? You think we speak over the phone? You think he calls me and brags to me? Is that it? Or is it because you think I did it? Please explain why you would ask these kind of questions.”
That shut Sophia up. She stared at him, and I could tell she was wondering what to do next. That was when I saw it. I had been looking at the many photographs on Steffen Carlsen’s wall behind him. I lifted the camera and zoomed in. Then I took pictures of all of them. They all appeared to be women, but one of them struck me as someone I knew. Someone I had seen before.
I photographed it, then the other young women as well. I turned to face the TV, and walked a little in the other direction, while Sophia figured out the right response. I knew I had to act fast. We were running out of time, and his patience. He seemed angry with us now.
“So, tell me, Miss Bo, can you explain to me why people picking fake names always make them sound either too phony or too common?”
I swallowed hard, and then took a couple more photos.
“I guess you know which category you and your little friend with the wig here belong to,” he continued.
My jaw almost dropped. I looked at Sophia. Who had we been kidding? Well, not him, that was for sure. He had been on to us from the beginning. To our luck, at that same moment, the woman from the many articles I had read, his wife, who married him while he was still in prison, walked into the room. She wasn’t very pretty. I remember thinking the same thing when looking at the pictures of her. And Steffen Carlsen was, undeniably, a good-looking guy…if you liked men with long hair and beards. But there was something about him that made me understand why women fell for him. He had a charm, a powerful way of owning the room. I could never fall for a chauvinistic self-indulged pig like him, but I knew lots of women who could.
The woman entering the room seemed bigger, though, than the one I had seen in the papers. She had grown wider, more muscular. She actually came off a little manly to me.
“Louise!” Steffen exclaimed.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you had company. I was just on my way to Cross Fitness.”
Louise looked at us like she wanted her husband to present us. He didn’t bother.
“They were just leaving,” he said.
59
August 2014
SHE WATCHED THE two women get into their car and leave. Then, she pulled the curtain to cover up the window.
“Who were those two women, Bjarke?” she asked, as she walked back into the living room. She still called him by his birth-name. That was the name of the man she had loved and married, and he could change it all he wanted to, but to her, he would always be the same.
Bjarke didn’t answer, so she walked closer. “What did they want?” Louise could hear her voice shiver slightly. She still couldn’t get used to all the women he brought home from time to time. She couldn’t control her jealousy, even though it happened almost every week.
“Tell me, Bjarke. Who were they?” She grabbed his shoulder to make him look at her, but she shouldn’t have done that.
As usual, it happened so fast she didn’t see it coming. He hit her so hard, she flew across the room and landed on a dining room chair. Her face was burning, and she couldn’t get up right away.
“Could you just stop talking for one moment, woman, and let a man think!” he yelled.
He always said things like that. He always told her to stay out of his affairs…to never ask questions. He would tell her she drove him to hit her. It was all her fault. Louise had picked up Cross Fitness, and had gotten stronger over the years, in the hope of being able to defend herself against his anger that she felt from the very first day he came to her apartment when he was released from prison. She had worked on building her muscles for years, but he was still stronger than she was.
“Please…please, don’t…” she said, while watching him walk closer to her.
“Don’t what?” he growled.
“Don’t hurt me again. I won’t ask any more questions. I promise.”
A series of blows rained down on her. Louise screamed. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up. Then he whispered, “You know you can scream all you want. No one will hear you. The farm is empty. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m sorry, Bjarke,” she pleaded. “I won’t say any more. I won’t even scream. Just let go of me. Just…”
Bjarke suddenly laughed. “You’re not fooling me. I know you like it,” he said. “You like the pain just as much as I like to see you in pain.”
He was getting aroused now. His sex organ was getting hard.
“No…no…Bjarke…”
He pulled her by the hair through the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement. She knew what would happen next.
“Please…not today, Bjarke. I promise I’ll be good. I promise.”
He flipped a switch and turned on the light. Louise hated this place more than anywhere in the world. Chains hung from the ceilings, and she remembered the time he had left her
there for three days, only coming down to whip her every now and then and have sex with her while her arms were hurting from the chains. He had placed a sex-swing in there that he placed her in every time he felt like it. There were ropes, shackles, straitjackets, cuffs, and worst of all; the bondage wheel that he was now strapping her onto.
“Please don’t, Bjarke. I’ll be good. I promise.”
“Oh, you’ll be good. I’ll make sure of it,” he said, and slapped her across the face as soon as she was strapped to the steel wheel.
Then, he reached over to the crafting table and grabbed the shoes. He put them on her feet, then grabbed the wheel and spun it. He stopped her as she was turning upside down, then forced his sex organ into her mouth. He pressed himself deep into her throat, till she could hardly breathe, while he looked at the shoes and screamed out into the room, “Oh, Auntie Em! There’s no place like home!”
60
August 2014
“IT IS HIM and I can prove it!”
Sophia had hardly managed to knock on my door before I pulled it open and dragged her inside. It was the day after we visited the farm, and Sophia had been at work at the school for a couple of hours.
“What?” she asked, surprised.
We went to the living room, where my computer was on the coffee table, the camera next to it.
“I’ve been going through the pictures all morning, and you won’t believe what I found,” I said.
We sat down, and I found the pictures. “I knew it was him when I laid my eyes on him, and now we have this to ring him up on.” I opened two pictures and let her look.
“What am I looking at here?” Sophia asked. “She’s a very pretty young woman, but…?”