Where Monsters Dwell

by Jorgen Brekke

“I understand,” said Singsaker, surprised at the security man’s academic mode of speaking. There was also something about his slouching, washed-out appearance that indicated Vatten had more education than security training.

  “Let’s say that she was lying in here from Saturday morning until early Monday morning. Don’t you think it’s odd that no one reported her missing? Didn’t she have any family?” he asked, playing dumb.

  “A husband and children. But they were apparently at their cabin all weekend.”

  “In that case they should have reacted when they came home Sunday evening,” said Singsaker.

  “Well, that’s something you’ll have to ask them about.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Her husband is an archaeologist. He works at the Science Museum in the building next door. His name’s Jens Dahle,” said Vatten, stepping out of the book vault.

  Maybe it was being in the same room with a stinking and decomposing corpse for so long that did it, but Vatten seemed shaken.

  Singsaker thanked Vatten for his cooperation. He didn’t regret detaining the man in the same room as the body, even though it was beyond the limit of responsible police work. So he let Vatten return to the others.

  Then he was alone. He was never enthusiastic about murder scenes. Although he had taught himself to switch off his emotions and not think about the fact that a human life had ended in this very spot, he never managed to escape the sense that there was something insistent about every murder. Murder was a form of human expression that humanity could do without. It was always messy, foul smelling, and disgusting. When he saw a dead body, he always thought about the murderer and asked: Jesus Christ, you motherfucker, couldn’t you have told us this some other way?

  Only the gods knew what the killer was trying to tell them with the murder of Gunn Brita Dahle. This murder didn’t resemble any he had seen before. He thought about TV crime shows and psychotic murderers, serial killers, people who killed for the hell of it, people who didn’t think that death itself was enough but who somehow had to make a drama out of the act of murder. This looked like a murder in which the act was the actual motive. But above all it made him think of hunting.

  His colleague Thorvald Jensen usually enticed him to go hunting with him in the fall. Singsaker was no hunting enthusiast, but Jensen was good at convincing him, and aquavit tasted especially good in the autumn woods. That’s why he went along. He had seen carcasses of deer and moose hanging from thick branches, skinned and ready to be butchered. What surprised him was how much a human body resembled an animal once the head was removed and the skin flayed off. Gunn Brita Dahle looked like a hunting kill lying there, except that she hadn’t been hung up and there was no moss or heather for the blood to seep into. She lay in a pool of blood that covered every square inch of the floor inside the book vault except right where Singsaker was standing.

  His phone rang. He was too lost in his own thoughts to look and see who it was before answering. He assumed it was one of his colleagues at the station.

  “It’s Lars,” said a voice that should have been more familiar.

  “Lars?” he repeated blankly.

  “Yes, Lars, your son.” An indignant silence followed.

  “Oh! I was out of it. First day back on the job.”

  “Is everything all right?” Lars asked, trying to sound cheerful.

  “If you’re asking about the tumor, then yes. If you mean the rest of my life, I’m not so sure.”

  He sensed that Lars wanted to say that his life would have been much better if Odd had managed to have a minimum of contact with his immediate family. But he was too cautious to say that. That was how he’d always been: plenty to complain about, but few complaints actually voiced. Many times Odd thought that Lars let him get away with things too easily. If his son had demanded more, he would have received more. But Odd knew that it was wrong to put the blame on him.

  He turned away from the body and peered into the waiting room outside the book vault. An image of Lars as a little boy appeared in his mind. He was lying in bed, asleep. Singsaker had come home too late to tell him a good-night story; he’d always made up these stories as he went along, but they both enjoyed them tremendously. He knew that Lars lay awake as long as he could the nights he was gone, because their good-night stories were the best times they had together. Whenever he pictured Lars as a little boy, he was always sleeping, but with his face turned toward the door, as if he had fallen asleep while staring at it. As the years passed, the worst thing about this image was that this was the way he still thought of his son. As a little boy who had fallen asleep waiting for his father to come home. He had grown up. He had studied to be an engineer, got married, had kids. But none of that had really sunk in for Singsaker. Lars’s life was something he heard about on the phone. In his mind his son was still a little boy who had missed his good-night story.

  “I’m calling because we’re planning the christening.” It dawned on him that Lars and his wife had had another boy, at just about the same time Singsaker had gone under the knife.

  “I see,” he said.

  “We really want you to come this time,” said Lars.

  “When is it?” he asked, turning back toward the corpse. He had no idea if this case would allow him to get away for a whole weekend to go to Oslo, where Lars and his family lived.

  “That’s why I’m calling. Before we decide, we wanted to check with you. You’re usually the one with the tightest schedule.”

  “No, you shouldn’t worry about that. Schedule the christening whenever it suits you.”

  “All right, but we really hope you can come,” said Lars faintly and without much hope.

  “I’ll come,” he said. Then they hung up.

  * * *

  Singsaker went to look for Mona Gran, who had left the immediate crime scene. As he walked, he took out his phone and called Brattberg. He got her voice mail. That must mean she was on the toilet, which might take a while. Some things he did remember from before. Thorvald Jensen, on the other hand, picked up after the first ring.

  “Are you at the station?” Singsaker asked.

  “I just got in. I don’t think there’s much in the rumors about that pastor. How about you? I heard you went to the library. Is it big?”

  “It’s big. We need more people, a whole bunch of techs, everybody who’s on duty.”

  “That big a case, huh?” replied Jensen.

  “We also need people to do interviews.”

  “We’ll be there soon.”

  “Great. One more thing. Find out everything you can about a man named Jon Vatten.”

  There was a pause. Then Jensen said, “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  Singsaker groaned before replying. This was Thorvald. It would be hard to fake his way out of this.

  “I know him, don’t I?” he said.

  “I think they must have dug out more than a tumor from your head,” said Jensen, as brutally honest as only a real friend can be.

  “Sometimes I’m afraid of that, Thorvald,” he said.

  “Don’t take it so hard. Things like this take time. We had Jon Vatten in for an interview about five years ago. Many lengthy interviews. You and I handled it together. He was suspected of killing his wife and young son. But we never found the bodies, and Vatten had a solid alibi. The case is still open, but only as a missing persons case. To this day we still don’t know whether or not a crime was actually committed. But we’ve had our suspicions. Damn, you’re lucky that you can forget such things. By the way, Vatten was a very promising academic before this happened. Afterward he had sort of a breakdown. He was committed in the Østmarka psychiatric hospital for a while before he started as security officer at the library. I thought of him as soon as I heard about this case today.”

  “In other words, he’s a guy who’s not easy to forget.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I wonder if he has something to do with this murder?”

 
; “You tell me. You’re the one who’s there.”

  “All I can say is that whoever is behind this could definitely use a trip to a more secure psychiatric hospital than Østmarka.”

  “I see. We should get over there then,” said Jensen.

  “ASAP,” said Singsaker and hung up.

  * * *

  He found Mona Gran on the sidewalk outside the main entrance.

  “I didn’t think it would be that horrible,” she said. She looked pale but didn’t look like she’d thrown up.

  “No, no one expected that,” he replied. He took out a pack of Fisherman’s Friend lozenges that he happened to have in his pocket and offered her one. She had barely popped it in her mouth when his phone rang again. A name he remembered with a vague sense of dread appeared on the display. Vlado Taneski. A reporter at Adresseavisen. Who the hell had tipped off the press? Singsaker wondered. He remembered that he and Thorvald had both had suspicions about leaks, but he could no longer recall any names. He refused the call by pressing the button so hard that it left a mark on the tip of his thumb.

  Then he and Gran just stood there, sucking on their lozenges in silence.

  * * *

  In 1864, Broder Lysholm Knudtzon died at the age of seventy-six in Trondheim. He was a merchant’s son who hated business and dedicated his life to science, art, and literature, although he himself produced nothing of consequence. It’s uncertain whether he had any literary talent. He burned his papers, including most of his personal letters and notes before he died. The bonfire of documents included a number of letters Knudtzon had received from around Norway and abroad. Among them were several from Lord Byron, a dear friend of Knudtzon’s. But fortunately the childless bookworm did not burn his books. Instead, he left his entire library, including two bas-reliefs and three busts by the great Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen to the Royal Norwegian Scientific Society. A condition of the will was that a special room be established for preservation of the books and artworks “in which, however, with a View to the Preservation of the Items, the Smoking of Tobacco must not be permitted.” This was probably the first smoking ban ever issued in Norway.

  In the Knudtzon Hall, inside what is now the Gunnerus Library, the books are arranged on mahogany shelves with carved palmettes. The bas-reliefs Night and Day by Thorvaldsen, as well as Jacob Munch’s oil painting of the young Knudtzon, hang on the walls. From the ceiling hangs a crystal chandelier. The book collection does not impress with its number of titles, which is around two thousand, but by its quality. The library left by Knudtzon contains a number of first editions of classic works in French, English (especially by Lord Byron), German, Italian, and Danish, as well as travel accounts. Some of the books are great rarities printed on parchment, calfskin, or bound in Moroccan leather. After Knudtzon’s death, many large, whole skins were found that he had purchased to use for bookbindings.

  * * *

  When he entered Knudtzon Hall to speak with the staff, Chief Inspector Singsaker could barely remember the last time he had been inside, or how he had acquired all that useless knowledge about Knudtzon. But that was how things were lately. He could remember the most trivial details he had read long ago, while big, important events from his life were gone. But he knew that he had been in the Knudtzon Hall several times before with his wife, attending various lectures back when they enjoyed sharing cultural experiences together. He also had a vague recollection that this made them feel more connected.

  The entire library staff was seated around a long table on art nouveau chairs when the chief inspector came in. On the floor were hand-knotted Persian rugs. The walls behind the bookshelves were painted with green enamel, and the ceiling was high and white. He had an odd feeling of entering a fictional world and remembered Mona Gran’s comment about Agatha Christie. The Body in the Library might be a suitable title, he thought. And here we have all the suspects gathered in the Knudtzon Hall as the detective steps into the room. He clasped his arms behind his back and moved slowly along the table as he introduced himself. Then his phone rang. Again. It was Brattberg. Singsaker excused himself and went back out into the corridor. His boss had a simple, clear message.

  “Bring Jon Vatten to the station when Jensen shows up.”

  “Okay,” he said, and glanced up. “As a matter of fact, Jensen is here now.” He ended the call. Thorvald Jensen had a round face with friendly but sharp eyes. He had just walked into the corridor, along with three crime scene techs dressed in white.

  “The whole bunch is sitting inside,” said Singsaker to Jensen, pointing at the door to the Knudtzon Hall. “They’re all yours. It would probably be easiest to call them for interviews one at a time in another room and then send them home. Wait on Vatten. I’ll come and get him after I show the boys in white where they have to work.” He gestured toward the techs and discovered too late that two of them were women. They gave him a resigned stare, pegging him for the old fool he was. The third tech was Grongstad. A proper old bloodhound. He smiled wryly.

  “Long time no see,” he said in English.

  “Good to see you again,” replied Singsaker, and he meant it. Grongstad was a Trondheimer in the best sense of the word—jovial, laid-back, exacting, and the best in his field in all of Norway.

  “So the boss wants Vatten downtown?” Jensen asked. “He’s certainly been there before.”

  “Not a bad idea to refresh his memory. Mine too,” said Singsaker.

  * * *

  After getting the evidence team started in the book vault and greeting the medical examiner, who had come straight from a lecture at the university hospital, Singsaker went back to Knudtzon Hall. The employees were still sitting nervously on either side of the long table. Only Hornemann was standing when Singsaker came back in. Singsaker asked whether Jensen had begun taking people away for interviews, and learned that he had. Then he assured everyone that this wouldn’t take all day. The police just wanted to get a general idea of what had happened in the library over the weekend and during the morning hours. Then they could all go home. He knew that this was very stressful for them, but if the police were going to find out who was responsible for this murder, it was important that everyone cooperate. His brief speech was met with muttered agreement from the group, and he realized that Jensen had already told them much the same thing. Then he turned to Jon Vatten, who was sitting in the chair closest to the door.

  “Do you have time to accompany me to the station? We’d like to speak with you in more detail.”

  As soon as he said this, he realized that he should have been more discreet. Everyone in the room looked at Vatten. Naturally they all knew about his past. Most of them might have pushed it aside in their daily work or archived it somewhere in the back of their memory. In the years since then, Vatten had slowly but surely become a reserved but reliable security man, with nothing but a tragic story in his background. The suspicions that had clung to him back then had apparently been laid to rest through hours of peaceful cooperation at work. Even so, a small, nagging doubt had survived. And now this. Most of the people in the room probably knew that Vatten might have been the last person to see Gunn Brita Dahle alive. There were not many people who could have unlocked the book vault and gone inside with her. Suddenly the group around the table resembled a jury that had just agreed on a guilty verdict. All except for a young woman with blond hair and a faint sprinkling of freckles over her nose. She sat at the far end of the table and looked at Vatten with something that seemed to be a mixture of affection and concern.

  She’ll be the next one I’ll talk to, Singsaker thought, putting a hand on Vatten’s shoulder and walking out of the room with him. The memory of their previous meeting gradually began to return.

  14

  Trondheim, September 2010

  Vatten was thinking about the video surveillance system. From experience he knew that the police would examine everything in minute detail. It wouldn’t be long before they found out he’d changed the DVD on Saturday. Then he t
hought about that afternoon and his vague recollections that he had had some sort of intimate contact with Gunn Brita. The conclusion to be drawn from all this, he thought, was unequivocal. If Gunn Brita had actually been killed that Saturday after he got drunk and his brain switched off, then he was going to have a lot of explaining to do. He had gone along voluntarily to the police station, but right now he felt like a prisoner, just as he’d felt the last time he was questioned there.

  The interview back then had taken place in the old police headquarters on Kalvskinnet, not far from where he now worked, and the rooms had seemed closer and clammier. Still, memories were stirred up as he sat on a hard chair in an equally sterile room.

  Trondheim, May 2005

  Severin Blom was a professor at the Department of History and Classical Studies at NTNU in Dragvoll. He was one of very few, if there were indeed any others, professors in the department who had read almost all of the books in his office. It was a spacious and bright corner office, with a view of the athletics building, and it was close to the library. He was also one of the few, if not the only, lecturer who still dared to have a clandestine cigarette in his office. He might even offer one to people he knew well. Always with the windows wide open, of course, because of the smoke alarm.

  The young, up-and-coming Jon Vatten thus took it as a compliment when the professor opened a pack of Marlboros and offered him a cigarette. They had smoked together outside the main doors, as everyone else did by then, but never inside the office in conspiratorial peace and quiet. Vatten took this as a good sign, said thank you, and offered to open the windows to the mild spring air outside. Then he told an anecdote he’d heard about two Japanese researchers who had visited the university some years before. When asked what they thought of the facilities, they had replied that they thought everything was fine, except for all the prostitutes hanging around out front.

  Severin Blom, who had apparently heard this old story before, laughed loudly, and said that it was much better to take his cigarette break here in his office. Then he lit his cigarette, inhaled like a walrus before it dives, and gave Vatten a friendly look.