The Scarred Woman

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Bjørn waved his arms. “No, he’s not getting involved in this, Carl. Get him out of here!”

  But Patrick walked right over to the notice board and pointed at the girl in the school photo. “This is Denise,” he said.

  Bjørn squinted his eyes, trying to focus on the photo.

  “It’s true, Lars. That girl is Denise Frank Zimmermann, and standing behind her is Stephanie Gundersen, who was murdered in 2004. All the cases on the notice board are connected somehow.”

  It took them ten minutes to collectively explain all the connections to their boss. And when they were finally finished, he stood paralyzed like a pillar of salt outside Sodom. He might be a stickler, but there was nothing wrong with his inner detective. In that moment he felt exactly like them. He couldn’t understand it and yet he saw the facts before him.

  “Sit down and have a cup of coffee so we can talk about how to move forward, Lars,” said Carl. He nodded to Assad, who left to make the coffee.

  “The cases are completely intertwined,” Bjørn said. He let his eyes wander from case to case. “What about Rose? Why is she up there?”

  “Rose is off sick at the moment, and it now transpires that Rigmor Zimmermann was her neighbor. We’ll drive out to her apartment after we’ve talked and ask her about their relationship.”

  “Is Rose involved in this, Carl?”

  Carl frowned. “No, there’s nothing to indicate that. It’s just a coincidence that they lived next door to each other. So why not get an opinion about the victim from a skilled investigator when the opportunity presents itself?”

  “Have you already called her about this?”

  “Er, no. Her cell phone just gives an automated answer, so it might be that her battery is dead.”

  Bjørn shook his head. This was all too much for him.

  “Does Marcus know anything about all this?”

  “Not the latest, no.”

  Then Patrick Pettersson tapped Carl on the shoulder. They had completely forgotten him.

  “Can I go now? I’ve been here all day already. My boss will begin to ask questions tomorrow morning if I haven’t fixed the cars I’m meant to be working on.”

  “You don’t have any plans to leave Copenhagen now, do you?” asked Bjørn.

  Patrick shook his head. “First you tell me I can’t leave Denmark and now you’re saying I can’t leave Copenhagen. What’s next? That I can’t leave my apartment?”

  Bjørn attempted a smile and waved him away.

  When he had gone, Bjørn took his phone out of his pocket.

  “Lis!” he said. “Get everyone together who’s in the building and send them down here. Yes, now, I said! Yes, yes, I know it’s late. Yes, down to Carl!”

  Then he turned toward Carl. “Two questions. Do you have any idea who the hit-and-run driver might be?”

  Carl shook his head.

  “That’s a damn shame. But do you know then where the woman in question, Denise Zimmermann, is?”

  “No, we don’t know that either. We haven’t had time to focus very much on that yet. But according to her mother, she’s not staying at her address. She said she believes Denise is staying with a lover in Slagelse.”

  Bjørn sighed heavily. “I don’t damn well know how I should deal with you and your team. I’m going to the bathroom and will consider the situation while I’m gone.”

  Carl scratched his stubble and nodded to Assad as he came in with Bjørn’s coffee. “We’ll have to wait an hour before we drive over to Rose’s place. We need to brief all the fools from the second floor first. They’re on their way down here now.”

  “Okay. And then what, Carl? Is Bjørn getting ready to come down on us?”

  “You never know what the vicious sod might come up with.”

  Assad laughed and managed to make Gordon laugh too. “He might be vicious, but at least he’s fair.”

  “How do you mean, Assad?”

  “He’s equally vicious toward everyone.”

  43

  Monday, May 30th, 2016

  “I’m starving, Carl. Can’t you find somewhere I can get something to eat on the way to Stenløse?”

  Carl nodded. He wasn’t hungry at all. As long as the situation with Rose was occupying his mind, he had no appetite whatsoever.

  He started the car, and the radio news came on.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. They’re certainly making sure everyone knows we’re looking for Denise,” said Carl. Never before had the search for a witness been so extensive. All the TV and radio news channels were broadcasting the call for information, so Lars Bjørn and Janus Staal really wanted to get ahold of her. But what the heck: If they could succeed in solving three cases at once, it wouldn’t be all bad.

  Assad’s cell was ringing faintly.

  “It’s for you,” he said and put it on speakerphone.

  “Yes, this is Carl Mørck,” he said to someone coughing loudly on the other end.

  “Yes, sorry, Carl,” said the voice. “But since I quit smoking, I’ve been coughing constantly.”

  It was Marcus Jacobsen.

  “As agreed, I’ve now looked into the circumstances surrounding Birgit Zimmermann’s husband and found some information about him that I think you’ll find interesting. Should I tell you now?”

  Can’t it wait until tomorrow? thought Carl. It was already late and he was exhausted.

  “We’re on our way out of town just now, so fire away,” he said anyway.

  Marcus cleared his throat. “James Lester Frank was born in 1958 in Duluth, Minnesota, and married Birgit Zimmermann in 1987, the year before Denise Frank Zimmermann was born. The couple was separated in autumn 1995 and divorced a few months later. The mother won custody of Denise Zimmermann, and the father moved back to the US in the same year.”

  Carl squinted. When would he get to the interesting part?

  “I also know that he then rejoined the military and did several tours of Iraq and later Afghanistan. In 2002, he disappeared during a mission where two of his soldiers lost their lives. They thought he was dead, but then he was recognized by a liaison officer in Istanbul, triggering a search for him as a deserter.”

  Sounds like a sensible man, thought Carl. Who wouldn’t rather be on the run than dead?

  And then he came to the point.

  “About a month ago, a certain Mark Johnson collapsed on the street and was brought to Herlev Hospital with a completely explosive liver count. They also found out that a number of his organs had more or less stopped functioning. The doctors were very direct in telling him that the effects of his alcohol intake had reached a level from which few people survived.”

  “Mark Johnson? Was he the man who recognized Frank in Turkey?” asked Carl.

  “No. But I’ll get to that. Mark Johnson was of course asked to identify himself, and when he couldn’t the police were called.”

  “A bit harsh given the man was so ill,” interjected Assad.

  “Yes, you could say that. But the fact is they need to know who they are writing about for their medical records, Assad.”

  “Of course. And then what happened?” asked Carl.

  “They found a number of tattoos on the guy and most importantly a meat tag tattooed under one arm, which they used to identify him.”

  “What’s a meat tag?” asked Carl.

  “It’s a dog tag tattooed directly on the skin, Carl,” said Assad.

  “Correct,” said Marcus. “It states the soldier’s surname and first name, as well as a middle initial if they have one. And in this case because the man was part of the US Army, also his Department of Defense ID number, blood type, and religion. Many soldiers had tattoos like that done back then before being stationed on the front line. Nowadays, I believe the US Army has a different tattoo policy, so I’m not sure they’re still allowed. But fo
r those soldiers who got them, it meant they could be identified if they died in service and had lost their dog tags.”

  “And this meat tag showed that he was James Lester Frank?” asked Carl.

  “Exactly. ‘Frank L. James,’ which means that Birgit Zimmermann’s ex-husband is alive—albeit it would seem not for long. He’s been discharged from the hospital and of all places is living in the apartment above the shop that used to be Fritzl Zimmermann’s shoe shop in Rødovre. And, wait for it, the apartment is still listed as belonging to none other than Rigmor Zimmermann.”

  “So, he’s in Denmark now?”

  Assad looked totally confused. “Marcus, I don’t get it. I’ve been through every possible register and couldn’t find him. The man isn’t registered in the country.”

  “No, because he’s been living here illegally since 2003 under the false name Mark Johnson. I would’ve liked to know this back when we investigated the Stephanie Gundersen murder.”

  “Why wasn’t he arrested at the hospital, Marcus?” asked Carl.

  “Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe because the man is terminally ill and won’t run anywhere. Of course immigration is looking into the case because the police handed over the case when they were done questioning him. Current protocol means that you don’t immediately deport a person who is in such bad health. And immigration cases take a long time under normal circumstances, but they are also dealing with a backlog—just try for yourself to get ahold of someone.”

  “Do you know what he’s been living off all these years?”

  “No, and I don’t think anyone does except him. He’s probably lived hand to mouth like a hobo. I think he’s a real pity case. But if you ask me, I don’t think he’s been involved in any criminal activity, because the last thing he’d want is to be arrested and deported to a country where he’s wanted for desertion.”

  “Yes, we do have an extradition agreement with the US, don’t we?” asked Carl.

  “Yes, and unfortunately for Frank, the agreement was already in place in 2003. They have a similar agreement in Sweden, but unlike us, they don’t extradite people under suspicion for military or political crimes. If we had extradited him, he would simply have ended up in the darkest dungeon the US could find. Deserters have never been popular in God’s own country. Basically, there’s nothing glamorous about being a war vet, wherever you come from.”

  Assad nodded. He apparently knew better than most.

  Carl thanked Marcus for all his work. Imagine that, James Frank was in Denmark.

  Following the call, he slowed down for a while. “Can you wait a little longer before we eat, Assad?” he asked without waiting for an answer. “Now that we have this new information, I’d like to pay this James Lester Frank a visit. I’m thinking that we might find Denise Zimmermann with her father. That would be one hell of a bonus.”

  —

  Fritzl Zimmermann’s old shoe shop in Rødovre was a shadow of its former self. A run-down building with empty, dirty shop windows and a lot of junk inside. The shop sign painted on the wall could still be made out despite the amateurish attempt at covering it. As far as Carl could count, at least five different types of businesses had been forced to close their doors since Zimmermann’s day.

  Assad pointed at the apartment above the shop. With a single bay window out to the street, it was probably just a studio—but then again, shop assistants and servants couldn’t expect more back in those days.

  The name “Mark Johnson” was typed with a black handheld printer directly on the flaking paint of the door. They knocked and waited.

  “Just come in,” said a voice in a strong American accent.

  They had expected the place to be a total mess, but they were mistaken. The smell of the type of fabric softener used to wash baby clothes permeated the entire apartment. They walked past a couple of painted beer crates in the hallway and on into the sitting room, where there was a sofa bed, TV, chest of drawers, and not much else.

  Carl looked around. If Denise Zimmermann was hiding somewhere in this sitting room, she must have shrunk.

  He signaled to Assad to check the rest of the apartment.

  “You’re from the police,” said the man on the sofa. His skin was yellow and he was wrapped in quilts, even though the temperature outside was up to almost ninety degrees. “Have you come to arrest me?” he asked.

  A rather surprising introduction.

  “No, we’re not from immigration. We’re detectives from homicide in Copenhagen.”

  Perhaps Carl had imagined that it would make the man feel uncomfortable—that often happened. But instead, he pursed his lips and nodded knowingly.

  “We’ve come because we’re looking for your daughter.”

  Assad returned to the sitting room and gestured that the girl was nowhere to be found.

  “Can you tell me when you last saw Denise, James? Or would you prefer that I call you Mark?”

  He shrugged. Apparently he didn’t care what they called him.

  “Denise? Well, she’s still Dorrit to me. But I haven’t seen her since 2004. And I heard today that you’re looking for her. You can probably imagine that it worried me.” He reached out for a glass on the table. Apparently it contained water.

  “We’re investigating the murder of your ex-mother-in-law, and we have to suspect anyone who she was in contact with immediately before she died. So we need to question your daughter about her movements.”

  The visibly ill man took a drink and rested the glass on his stomach. “You know I risk being extradited, right?”

  Both Carl and Assad nodded.

  “When a deserter like me ends up in the hands of the US military, they are thrilled. When I deserted, I was about to be promoted to major. I had received so many medals that I almost walked lopsided. I’ve lost count of how many missions I’ve been on because there were also a lot back when I was younger. But none of them were glorious, I can tell you that much. That’s why they’re so eager to get people like me back and out of the way. They don’t want us to reveal anything, and especially not high-ranking decorated soldiers.” He shook his head. “And the US military never forgets a deserter. They’ve just demanded an extradition from Sweden, even though the man has lived there for twenty-eight years and has a family. So what would keep Denmark from extraditing me? My illness?”

  Carl nodded. It sounded plausible after all.

  “You think so, do you? Well, you can forget all about that, because the US will swear blind that they’ll offer me the necessary treatment, and before you know it the plane will be ready to take off.”

  “Okay, but what does that have to do with the purpose of our visit?” asked Carl.

  He wasn’t a Catholic priest or spiritual guide.

  “The purpose? I’m about to tell you something that will prevent my extradition, and I feel good about that.”

  “And that is?”

  “That I’ve done something even worse than deserting, which no one seems to really care about in Denmark anyway.”

  Assad moved closer. “Why did you go back to the US in the first place when you had your family here?”

  “I’ll get to that too.”

  “The thing that happened in 1995?”

  He nodded.

  “You know that I’m seriously ill, right?”

  “Yes, but not the details.”

  “You won’t need to save up for my next Christmas present, if you get my drift.” He laughed at his own joke. “And that’s why I don’t want to go back to rot and slowly waste away in an American prison. I’d rather die here in Denmark, where you’re looked after when you’re at death’s door. Even in prison.”

  Carl was unsure what would come next. The guy had really set alarm bells ringing.

  “James, I might as well tell you that only a few days ago I kicked a man out of my office for making a
false murder confession. If that’s your game, I warn you. It’s not going to help your case.”

  He smiled. “What’s your name?”

  “Carl Mørck.”

  “Good. I can sense that you’re not the dumbest policeman I’ve met because that’s exactly what I’m telling you. I can’t be extradited to the US given that I’ve committed a murder here in Denmark. And that’s whether you believe it or not.”

  It had started as a game between James and his father-in-law. Both were former soldiers and had been active in war—with all that entailed. Their background and history were not for the fainthearted, which made Fritzl Zimmermann all the more fond of his son-in-law. Fritzl considered military service to be honorable and a synonym for virility and power. With undisguised bluntness, he questioned James about the military campaigns he had taken part in, from Zaire to Lebanon and Granada, because Fritzl loved all wars in which resolve and cynicism led to confrontation. And the more detail James went into, the more curious Fritzl became. And that was how the game began.

  “If I mention the word ‘bayonet,’ then we both have to say how we’ve used one, and then it’s the other one’s turn to name something,” suggested Fritzl. “Interesting words like ‘ambush,’ for example . . . or ‘fire.’ Actually, ‘fire’ is a good one.”

  In the beginning, James hesitated. No matter what the topic was, Fritzl could match James a hundred times over and relished talking about it. Ruthless abuse became crusades. Hangings became self-defense. He talked about duty of care for his fellow soldiers and the brotherhood of men standing shoulder to shoulder, and much to his surprise James slowly began to recognize himself in Fritzl.

  They usually met up for a couple of hours on late Saturday mornings when James had slept off his hangover from the night before. Birgit looked after the child and Rigmor kept house, while he and Fritzl brought the past to life in Fritzl’s secret office at the far end of the labyrinth of rooms on the ground floor. Here, he had the opportunity to feel the weight of a Parabellum in his hands and see what effective weapons could be made out of all sorts of objects at hand.