Dark September

by Inger Wolf

  He was the product of an impossible relationship, a passionate interlude between his Croatian father and Danish mother during a vacation. His mother had told him about her longing and the intense meetings, followed by frustration and misunderstandings. In the end, the relationship had foundered, and he was born in a cold Nordic country to a mother filled with bitterness and lost illusions. And yet, his mother had shown no qualms about giving him his father's last name. "So you remember there's a part of you somewhere else," she'd said.

  He grew up in the slums, a gray labyrinth and colorless landscape that still existed inside him. He wondered when it had begun. While out on the balcony, a lonely child mostly on his own, watching the drunks sitting on benches and the addicts in hallways?

  At ten years of age, he knew every detail of the concrete hell he lived in with his mother. He knew everyone's name, who bought what from whom, how the price of a gram of heroin fluctuated.

  When he was fifteen, he decided to visit a small village in the cornfields at the foot of the Medvednica Mountains near Zagreb to meet the rest of his family—his father, a younger half-brother, and cousins. He was without exception met with open arms; it was as if he'd lived his entire life among them. When his mother died of cancer five years later, his Croatian family became more important to him, and he spent longer periods of time down there. Much later, his family's pain became his own when the country was torn apart and his father and little brother were killed in the war.

  At times, he'd considered moving permanently to Croatia, to family dinners with spicy, heavy food, a sun that drew out strong unfamiliar odors, a less stressful everyday life. But his connection to his homeland was too strong.

  Eventually, his childhood's extraordinary feel for and insight into the criminal world became one of the two reasons he applied for police school. The other was Milan.

  He sighed and walked out into the kitchen, where the cat was sitting in the sink, drinking from the leaky faucet. He finished off his wine and tossed the woman's letter into the trash.

  It took him a long time to fall asleep as the plants with the reddish splotches danced on the inside of his eyelids. They were trying to tell him something, but he couldn't make out what it was.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday, September 22

  Lisa was still yawning when she arrived at work at nine. She sat down and tried to concentrate on Anna Kiehl's computer.

  No object in a home reveals more about someone's personality than their computer. During her career, she'd found incredible stuff on hard drives and discs. Occasionally, suspects tried to erase their tracks by deleting files or hiding them, but that was child's play for her to find. The more hard-core types knew that nothing vanished until the hard drive had been erased as many as seven times. Usually, she found something no matter what, thanks to methods she'd developed and existing data recovery software.

  She'd also found out that psychopaths believed they were invincible, a character trait that had put many people behind bars throughout the years. She took a deep breath and reached for a cigarette, and a moment later her disappointment at having to go through the computer dissolved. Her contribution was vital to a murder investigation; she held one of the keys to the victim, and therefore to the murderer. She was on a mission. An exploration. And Trokic hadn't cut her out of anything. Whatever lack of faith he had in her, he wasn't letting it show, she had to give him that much.

  At first glance, Anna Kiehl's computer was a perfect example of meticulousness. After copying the hard drive, in case of any problems during her search, she began securing all significant data on the machine while taking notes on paper. The hard drive had only a few folders, including one with a spreadsheet dealing with her private finances and what looked like invoices from her freelance work, one with letters, and one containing her anthropology thesis and various related material. One separate folder held photos of her and her son, Peter. Every time she opened one of the photos, in her mind's eyes she saw Anna Kiehl on the autopsy table, followed by a mental sigh of relief at the sight of the woman on the screen, alive. Surely, there was something in her email. As she was about to open the program, Trokic walked in. He wore a thin, light blue sweater with creases that showed it was fresh from the store. Lisa felt sure he was the type who walked into Jack and Jones twice a year, grabbed a bunch of clothes off the shelves, and never worried about how they looked.

  "Jasper went out to that gas station," he said.

  "Yeah?"

  "He found the girl working the Saturday evening shift and showed her a photo of Tony Hansen. She recognized him; he'd been drunk. She couldn't remember what he bought, but it's a hundred percent certain they weren't out of cream. So, we checked their surveillance camera, and there he was."

  "I knew it," Lisa said.

  "We'll put the screws to him, but we can't focus on him too much. I just can't see how he had time to kill her. We can't ignore the rest of the evidence. I sent a few men out to bring him in."

  He took a deep breath. "Jasper and I are going out to make some inquiries about Anna's friends. The people she ran with, that woman with the book in the postbox. She and Anna were writing their thesis together. And another student said that for some reason they weren't getting along so well."

  He left, and Lisa turned back to the computer. She opened Outlook and stared at the screen in bewilderment. This couldn't be right!

  Chapter Fourteen

  For the past two years, Jasper Taurup had been Trokic's favorite colleague. He had a dry, subtle sense of humor, and though Trokic didn't laugh a lot, he still appreciated it. Taurup was also rational and logical, with a startling ability to instantly analyze things. Rumor had it that as a child, his hobby was counting tomatoes in his parents' greenhouse with a pocket calculator. Trokic knew exactly when to tap into the man's intellect, such as during interrogations. He knew every single witness statement by heart, and he could connect them every which way.

  Interrogations weren't Trokic's strong suit. A few months earlier, Agersund had casually commented that a robot would do better than him, unfortunately. Trokic had never developed a talent for extracting vital information from people brought in for questioning. Some of the others developed a rapport by talking about the weather, hobbies, family, work, etc., to get the person to relax before the tough questions came up. Trokic simply couldn't do that sort of small talk. He asked; they answered. Which was why it mattered to him that his colleagues knew what they were doing in the interrogation room. The day before, he'd noted with satisfaction that Tony had sought eye contact with Lisa and spoken to her, even though she had been blunt and persistent in her questioning.

  Four of the five men in the running group were easily eliminated as suspects. One had moved to Gibraltar to work for a Danish company. Another had a broken leg and was in a district hospital. Another had been to a bachelor party in Lystrup with seven other people all evening. Another had been on a weekend trip with his family in Søhøjlandet. That left only one.

  "Are you Mik Sørensen?"

  The man in the doorway had black hair and blue-green eyes. He was in his late twenties. They stood on the third floor of an older apartment building in the northern part of the city, and for once, the morning sun broke through the clouds and shot columns of light through the hallway's small windows. He was one of Anna Kiehl's former classmates. His pink shirt needed ironing, and his light-colored jeans were torn. Normally, someone relevant to a case was taken to the station, but Trokic felt he needed context, needed to see people in their surroundings. To begin with, anyway. He wanted to see their reaction when he showed up unexpectedly, see what was on their kitchen tables, how their pets acted. Their social status. And he wanted to smell the places—were they clean? Did someone smoke? And if so, what did they smoke? Later, it could be more effective to bring them into a more formal setting. The station.

  "Yes?"

  "Police, Criminal Division. We have some questions about the killing of a young woman Satur
day evening."

  Sørensen looked back and forth between Trokic and Jasper before speaking. "Who? Not my sister, right?"

  "No, not your sister. This is about one of the people you used to run with, a classmate of yours."

  "Oh, no! Who is it?"

  "Anna Kiehl."

  He shuddered for a second, then he opened the door wide for them. "Come in."

  He led them into a small green living room with a high ceiling and dark varnished wood floors. Nice place, Trokic thought. A bit messy though, with textbooks, coffee cups, a bag of candy, and the remains of a pizza on the table. The young man plopped down into the easy chair and buried his freckled face in his hands. A moment passed before Trokic realized he was crying. They stood quietly until finally he straightened up and dried his tears on his sleeve.

  "How…?"

  "She was found in the forest here yesterday morning," Trokic said, avoiding Sørensen's question. "Did you get along with her?"

  Again, Sørensen trembled briefly before answering. "I was totally in love with her when we were in school. But she didn't feel that way about me, so that was that."

  "When was the last time you saw her?" Jasper asked.

  "I've only seen her once since the group stopped running together, except I still run with Martin, but he just broke his nose. Anyway, it was sometime this summer. Maybe three months ago. I ran into her while I was running. Met her, I mean."

  He stood up and dried his eyes again on a napkin smeared with pizza sauce.

  "And otherwise you haven't seen her? She ran three times a week."

  "No. We must have run at different times."

  "What else can you tell us about her?"

  He looked uncomfortable as he sat down again. After a few moments, he sighed. "Anna was super. The most decent person I've ever known. She fascinated me, but I also liked her as a friend, as a person. I just can't understand this."

  "We have to ask, what were you doing Saturday evening?" Jasper said.

  Sørensen stared, wide-eyed. "Jesus, you don't think I—"

  "No, not at all," Trokic said. "It's just routine. We have to ask, to eliminate all potential suspects."

  "I was just hanging around home here, didn't do anything. I read some, ate dinner, watched some TV, then I went to bed early."

  "Are there any friends or neighbors who can confirm you were home?"

  "No…not really."

  "Okay. Do you know if she had a boyfriend?"

  He hesitated. "I think she was seeing someone this summer."

  "How do you know that?" Trokic said.

  "My sister talked to her a few months ago. She ran into her walking on a street in town. She told me Anna looked really happy, and she'd asked her if she had a boyfriend. And she said, yeah, she did. My sister wasn't sure how serious it was. And yeah, it hurt a little bit, but I was happy for her, too."

  "She didn't happen to mention his name to your sister, did she?"

  He shook his head and picked at a glob of red candle wax that had dripped down on the table.

  "Do you know if she had any enemies?"

  "Not really enemies. But some of our classmates didn't particularly like her. I think they were jealous. Anna looked really good, and even though she was sort of a quiet type, people listened to her when she spoke."

  "Who were the ones who didn't like her?"

  "Just some bitches. Then there was this Irene we ran with. They were writing their thesis together, but I think something happened. It was like one day they suddenly weren't friends anymore, is how I sensed it."

  "You have any idea what the problem was?"

  "No, I didn't ask."

  Trokic stood up. They'd gotten all they were going to get from him for the time being.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The redheaded girl in front of them hadn't cried when they'd begun questioning her. And though Trokic didn't think it was something she necessarily should do, it seemed cold to not show sorrow at a friend's death, despite whatever differences they'd had. Dark makeup circled her eyes, making them look small.

  Her small apartment was filled with the type of African masks and figures popular several years earlier but quickly going out of style. Some of them had small bones in their hair, others stared emptily at him. They had found her through Anna Kiehl's mother. Irene had explained that she'd dropped a book, The Chemical Zone, into Anna's mailbox Saturday evening at eight when she saw Anna wasn't home.

  "Did you know she was pregnant?" Trokic asked.

  The girl hesitated, which he interpreted as surprise. Expressionless, she turned to him and answered, "No, I didn't know. Who was the father?"

  "We were hoping you could tell us. She was ten weeks along."

  "Anna didn't go out much, and I didn't know she was involved with anyone. She said she couldn't go out evenings. Peter's father lives in Helsingør, and he hasn't seen the boy since he was a few weeks old. So, if she needed a babysitter, she had to take him to her parents in Horsens. I offered to look after him several times, but she never took me up on it. Really, I think she preferred it that way."

  "How well did you know Anna? Were you close?"

  Irene's lips flinched slightly as if she were about to smile. She was thin, though she looked strong and wiry. "We studied together for five years. One year when we lived in a dorm, our rooms were next to each other. We knew each other very well."

  "Don't you think it's odd that she didn't tell you she was pregnant?"

  "I do. But ten weeks isn't all that long, is it? A lot of women don't say anything the first three months; things can go wrong, you know. And Anna kept things to herself anyway."

  Jasper had been looking at a drawing of stick figures, small men behind bars smoking joints. He looked up. "Any man back then? I mean, when you lived in the dorm."

  "I only know about one, other than Peter's father. His name is Tue. I can write his name down for you."

  She stood up and found a paper and pen. "Do you have any suspects?"

  "Not yet," Jasper said. "This Tue guy, was it serious, or maybe just more of a sexual relationship?"

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Yeah, what do I mean by that?" Jasper said.

  She stared at him. "I don't have the slightest idea."

  "Why don't you tell us what your thesis is about?" Trokic asked, taking over now.

  "It's extensive. An incredible amount of work. And now I'm going to have to finish it by myself." She launched into a long discourse about genetic anthropology and a tribal society in Central Africa they had lived with for a short period. The young anthropology student appeared very wrapped up in her project; it was almost as if she'd forgotten why they were there. She broke off in the middle of a long explanation of mutations in genetic material and looked up at the ceiling as if she'd lost the thread. She continued in a quieter but steady voice.

  "I'd like to ask her mother if I could have some of the information on Anna's computer when you're done in her apartment. She had very interesting angles whenever we met, and I know she's written several chapters."

  "We're going through her computer," Jasper said. "It's part of the case, so don't count on having access to it anytime soon."

  "What about enemies?" Trokic asked.

  She paused before answering. "I don't know if she had what you'd call enemies. But she wasn't shy when she spoke up; she said what she meant. Sometimes that offended people. She wasn't scared of anybody, didn't matter who they were, and she had some pretty strong opinions. I heard her get worked up a few times."

  "Did she strike you as being condescending?"

  "No, not really, but of course it can get uncomfortable when people express their opinions bluntly."

  "Maybe she angered you, too?" Jasper said. "We've heard you weren't on the best of terms lately."

  "That's not true," she said. "Who told you that?"

  "Never mind who. Did she have any special causes she was involved in?"

  "She was left-wing, totally. And she
hated cars. She always took the bus or the train. She should have lived with the Amish. She was against everything she felt was unnatural. Pesticides, antidepressants, too much technology. The military in particular. She bought organic and washed her clothes in this horrible detergent that smells like coconuts."

  "So, you're saying you two definitely got along well."

  "Yes, absolutely."

  Jasper glanced at his watch and pointed to his stomach. It was long past lunchtime. Trokic stood up. "If you think of anything else, we'd appreciate you contacting us. Anything you feel might be important."

  Irene nodded. "Of course."

  She stood to follow them out. "When can her parents be allowed into her apartment? They keep calling and asking me to pick up some of her things. They don't really understand that we're not allowed to take them. And they're not like Anna, they like things organized, taken care of as soon as possible."

  Trokic ignored the girl's question and caught Jasper's eye. Slowly he said, "They like things organized, unlike Anna?"

  He stroked the front of his throat. "What would you say if I told you her apartment is squeaky clean, everything picked up and in its place?"

  She smiled wryly. "I would say you have the wrong apartment. Believe me, she was the messiest person I've ever seen."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lisa stared at the computer screen in front of her. The deceased's email program was open. And it was empty. Both the inbox and outbox and the trash too. Nothing. She had contacted the university and now knew that Anna Kiehl had used a TDC account for emails, but there wasn't a single one on the computer. Her stubbornness perked up; this couldn't be right. Possibly the anthropologist had used an online email service—she would look into that. But then why did she have Outlook on her computer? Her emails were probably not far away. Emails weren't permanently deleted from Outlook like most people thought. Instead of generating individual files, they were contained in one large .pst file. And there they stayed, deleted or not until the folders were compressed. If she could find the .pst file, she could open it with a hex editor, corrupt it, and use a repair tool to create a copy. And when she opened this new file in Outlook, the emails would be back in the deleted folder, where they originally came from. Voila! It was like pulling a rabbit out of a hat.