by Inger Wolf
For a long time, the family heard nothing from him. Trokic saw him only once, when Milan was home visiting his cousins. He'd brought along a bag filled with goodies—God only knew where he came up with them. Trokic had heard the soldiers did a lot of bartering, though. His friend had risen in the ranks and was an officer with many men under him. Complaints about conditions in the Army seemed to occupy much of his time.
Even then, Trokic hadn't noticed anything unusual about him. Trokic's childhood in Denmark among people with little respect for the law hadn't prepared him. The war had been over for a year, and Trokic had lost his father and brother; he'd needed someone to share his pain with, someone who'd known them. During his first visit after the war, Trokic asked his male cousin what had happened to Milan, but the answers he received were evasive. When he asked his female cousin, she spoke cryptically about werewolves being human beings who acted normal most of the time. Finally, Trokic approached a long-time family friend who ran a popular bar, an old wooden barracks at the outskirts of town where he and Milan had often drank.
They called him the Werewolf of Medvednica. The evidence was clear. As an officer, Milan's position of power had brought out another side of him. Video evidence and witness statements from those close to him in the Army supposedly confirmed that Milan had single-handedly executed at least sixty people.
It was one of the few times in Trokic's life that he'd been emotionally numb. Not because of Milan, but because he'd lost faith in humanity.
Someone knocked on the door. Thinking it was the neighbor, annoyed at him for not trimming his hedge, he grudgingly got to his feet. Lisa stood in the doorway wearing a thin, flowered chiffon blouse, her arms folded around her in the cool evening air.
"Hi…?" Unsure of herself, she smiled wryly and handed him a sheath of papers. "Hope I'm not disturbing you? I know it's late."
"No problem. Come in."
She stepped into the hallway and took her shoes off. "Isn't she sweet!"
He followed her eyes; the cat was playing with a bite of sausage on the floor. So much for the rest of his meal. It wasn't the first time it had happened.
"That's Pjuske."
"Just thought I'd drop these papers off on the way home. We've been so busy…I didn't have time until now."
"Okay. Would you like a cup of coffee or a beer?"
"No, thanks, I had a beer with Jasper, and I've got to get home. But I just wanted to say…" She took a deep breath and squeezed her wrist. "At first, I felt out of the loop, working on the computer, with no partner."
He pulled his hair while choosing his words. "It's my job to make sure everyone's being utilized the best way possible. Especially because we're under so much pressure. We can't—"
"I know, I know. I just wanted to tell you, I appreciate the opportunity to get out, do something more interesting, with more substance. The interviews, for example."
He thought for a few moments. "I could put you with Jacob; he's been working alone up to now…MCI couldn't spare any more officers…and it's my job to get the most out of him. And you can also learn from him."
"That sounds good. Thanks."
She seemed satisfied. She glanced around a few moments, then she pointed at a photo of a street that took up most of the side of a kitchen cupboard. "Is that where you're from?"
"I come from here, Århus." Trokic ran a hand through his hair. "But that's the town where my father lived."
Lisa tilted her head and took a closer look. "Nice-looking place. Beautiful flowers…I love oleanders."
She looked away. "Better get home. That's a report, the attachment specifies what I got out of the computer today. Thanks for the chat."
He sank down on the sofa, pleased with his decision to pair up the two detectives. Jacob was going to get along fine with Lisa. Same age. Same sense of humor. He was happy to have Jacob on the team.
At first, he wasn't sure where he was. Light surrounded him. Way too much light. Sunlight streamed through the filter of the forest's branches and leaves, down onto the snow-covered ground. He could just make out the pond to the left, covered with ice and surrounded by frosty cattails.
Someone was behind him, he heard a quiet rustling, and the faint odor of excrement was in the air. Scraping sounds. He hunched over. His clothes clung to his skin. Then the snow, the first of the year, began moving, twisting around in clumps in every direction. But it wasn't snow; long rows of gray rabbits ran down to the pond, thousands of them. He gasped for breath, and the small furry animals turned to him, showing their small, sharp teeth. Not rodent teeth, not at all—they were ice picks behind the peeled-back lips. He stumbled over the first rabbit and felt the back of another one break as his foot came down. Their eyes glowed from inside caves, and they began hissing loudly.
Pink and gray clouds dotted the sky, and he tried running through the rabbits, fell down into their cold ashen fur in the white forest, and their screams rose as the darkness fell. Chimes weaved around him in the air.
He woke up with a start. Papers lay over the blanket covering him, case reports were scattered everywhere. Instinctively, he looked at his watch; it was just past eleven, he'd slept forty-five minutes. A stack of papers fell as he sat up, and he grabbed them midair just above the floor. A half-empty bottle of red wine stood on the coffee table. His temples were hammering, a cold sweat covered his back. Something had woken him. A sound. Trokic shook his head. He could still see the gray animals on the floor, in the corners, under the table. He rubbed his eyes and reached for his cigarettes. Slowly, the images of the rabbits vanished, and the floor became the floor again. His phone rang.
Agersund. "There's something strange about that pond," he said. "We got the analysis on the hemlock. You're right. It's almost certain that little dry bouquet on Anna Kiehl's chest is from the plants close to the water."
"You think our murder weapon might be in there?"
"It's possible. The killer's familiar with the area; those plants were picked earlier this year. This summer, maybe even spring. We're sending divers in, I want to know what's in there."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wednesday, September 24
The weatherman had promised a last gasp of summer, a final desperate attempt to hold off autumn. Wrong again, he thought, as he looked out the office window at the thick, low-lying fog.
"The forest manager isn't all that wild about us," Agersund said, as he and Trokic drank their morning coffee. It was nine-thirty.
"He's not happy with the mess we're making in his pond," he continued. "You wouldn't believe the names he came up with, all the absolutely vital creepy little insects and breeding grounds for all these mysterious birds. So, I had to apologize. But I just talked to Falck, their divers are out there now. Let's keep our fingers crossed they find our murder weapon and hopefully a few other interesting things, so at least we get something out of all our destruction."
"How long will it take?"
"Good question. They're not sure they can finish today."
He stared at Trokic's small CD player spouting out Rammstein. "That music's from hell, you need to see a shrink. Which reminds me, how are we doing on the nutcase angle?"
"We found a few," Trokic said. "But they could account for their whereabouts, so right now it looks like their alibis check out."
"And Tony Hansen has flown the coop and we can't find him. So, we're not getting anywhere, is that it?"
"We have a connection between Anna Kiehl and the missing researcher, Christoffer Holm. We're looking into that."
He'd called Christoffer Holm's phone again, in hopes that it suddenly had been turned on. Unrealistic hopes, as it turned out. He was convinced the hair he'd found was significant. That the neurochemist had been near the crime scene recently. And he wanted to know why.
Agersund tousled his gray hair. "Jacob says the symbol drawn in the victim's calendar is used by a local sect. The Golden Order, they call themselves."
"Really," Trokic said.
"W
e'll have to check them out. Anything else?"
He slurped his coffee; some of it spilled onto the table. Trokic frowned at him. "A few wives have called in and ratted on their husbands because they weren't home Saturday night."
Agersund shook his head. Whenever someone was killed, women accused husbands and fathers, while psychotics, convinced of their guilt, gave full confessions. Many man-hours were wasted on these dead ends. "Check them out," he sighed. "I got a joke, by the way."
Trokic wrote a note to himself on the day's newspaper in front of him. "Out with it."
"Nah, you don't want to hear it," his boss said. He sounded wounded.
"I have no sense of humor."
"That's the truth," Jasper said, as he passed by outside the door.
"But everyone has some sense of humor," Agersund said.
"Not Daniel."
"I'll check that sect out," Trokic said. He spent more and more of his time on desk work, and it felt like a straitjacket. He needed to be alone.
"Watch your back out there," Agersund said. "Those types can make a loony bin look like the sanity hall of fame."
Chapter Twenty-Three
The house was on one of the side streets bordering the edge of the forest. A two-story house, built in the seventies. It stuck out in the midst of all the Danish orderliness with its shameful lawn of long, dead grass and tangled, overgrown bushes. The gable was painted a dour light-brown, touched up in places with a different color. The windows were almost too dirty to see through. The place had no charm whatsoever. He shivered.
A bald man in his late forties opened the door. He wore dark flared jeans, an orange knitted sweater, and wooden shoes. His fingernails needed clipping, and around his neck, he wore a metal chain with the symbol they'd found in Anna Kiehl's apartment.
"Hi," the man said, as he looked Trokic up and down.
"Detective Trokic." He flashed his ID. Through the hallway, he glimpsed the living room, where women and men with shaved heads moved silently around, lost in their own worlds.
"Hanishka," the man said. He stared at the ID. "Daniel? That's a good name."
"I have a few questions in connection with a homicide last weekend."
"What does that have to do with us?"
"I need some information."
Hanishka opened the door and Trokic followed him into the tiny square entryway with chessboard linoleum.
"Please, remove your shoes." That sounded like an order to Trokic.
Trokic took off his black shoes and walked gingerly on the cold floor into the kitchen, which many people obviously used. Hordes of teacups stood around the sink, and the odd smell in the room reminded him of rabbit food. He thought of the nightmares last night and he shivered again. A dark-skinned, barefooted woman chopped carrots at the kitchen counter. She didn't even look up when they walked in. Trokic wondered what the neighbors thought about this blot on their tidy residential landscape; was the sect's mailbox skipped when invitations were delivered for the annual street party, with its meatballs and songfest?
The sect was based on an interpretation of the Bible, and Hanishka was the local leader. Jacob had explained that many of the larger sects started this way, with a charismatic person who studied the Bible and gradually attracted students. Did Anna Kiehl have something to do with these people? An independent-minded woman, strong political convictions, anthropologist? That was hard for him to believe. She must have been studying them or crossed paths with them some way.
"We're only a small part of a larger flock that's growing day by day, all over the world," Hanishka said, as he offered Trokic a glass of some foul-smelling herbal tea. "We study the Bible and try to remain pure. We believe that God's word should be understood in its proper context."
"Something like Jehovah's Witnesses?" Trokic sipped at the drink and wondered if he had offended him. But the middle-aged self-proclaimed apostle simply shook his head.
"Jehovah's Witnesses are a part of this depraved society. We keep out of it."
Trokic thought about what the district authorities would say to that; did these holy people exist on sacred air, or did they perhaps accept alms from society?
"The reward for humility and fearing the Lord is riches and honor and life," he said, answering the unspoken question. "But how can I help you, Daniel?"
"The Golden Order's symbol was found in the calendar of a young woman who was murdered. We'd like to know if you have any connection to her."
"As I explained, we don't take part in society, and therefore there is no connection between us and the beings who still do. Revelation says that only—"
"As long as you people reside in this society, you will cooperate with the police and provide information." Trokic had neither the time nor the inclination for any long explanation.
"But we don't, the borderline between us and society lies just outside the door," Hanishka patiently explained. "In here, you are outside of society. And—"
"Would you please answer my questions? I don't have much time."
"Because your name is Daniel, I will answer what must be troubling your heart. We know of no woman by the name of Anna Kiehl."
"How do you know her name? I didn't mention it."
He stared cunningly at Trokic. "We happen upon a newspaper now and then. The fish we buy at the harbor is wrapped up in them."
"I see." Trokic raised his eyebrows. He reached for his cigarettes but left the pack in his pocket when the man across from him shot him a look of disapproval. He wasn't impressed with their professed righteousness. Many killings had been committed by people brandishing a Bible; a few short years ago a female member of a sect had died during a sadomasochistic exorcism of impurities. No sect looked kindly upon defectors. And to top it all off, the room was cold and impersonal.
"What about your disciples?"
"The members of the Golden Order keep no secrets from each other, and we are always around here."
"Would you please ask them at your next service, or meeting, prayers, whatever you call it—if anyone knows or has heard of her?"
"Of course. But their answers will be the same as mine."
Trokic walked outside and down the small, weedy trail from the house. He stopped to light a cigarette; the hairs on his neck rose and his skin felt cold. When he wheeled around, a pair of eyes was looking down at him from a second-floor window. The figure's head was shaved, his face gray, his eyes empty. The eye contact lasted only a few seconds. Trokic took a hard drag on his cigarette. He could return to the house, but there was an entire army of hairless men inside. He wouldn't be able to tell them apart. The man vanished from the window.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Irene opened the door almost before he rang the doorbell. Had she seen him park his car? Or maybe she'd heard him on the stairs.
"Detective?"
"I have a few questions. Very brief."
"Yes?"
Anna Kiehl's thesis partner leaned against the doorway without inviting him in. He looked her over; she almost seemed embarrassed, and her hair was tangled as if she'd just gotten out of bed. Instinctively, he touched his head, reminding himself that he needed a trim. The longer his hair, the wilder his whorl became.
"I worked late yesterday," she explained, a bit apologetically. “The thesis.”
Trokic tried to hide his intense dislike of her. Experience had taught him that showing animosity made it difficult to ferret out information from people. He explained shortly about the Golden Order. "I'd like to hear what you know about it."
"I've never heard of that sect. It's not the type of thing Anna and I have been working with."
"Could she have been researching it on her own?"
"I doubt that very much. She would have talked about it, definitely. When she was seriously interested in something, she wouldn't shut up. Maybe she knew someone involved with the sect. Or maybe it's just a coincidence that what she drew looks like their symbol?"
"Maybe." He thought about it for a moment.
"Do you know any connection between Anna and a man by the name of Christoffer Holm?"
"No, no, I don't."
"Even if I told you he was her boyfriend?"
"I didn't know she had a boyfriend."
"You didn't? I don't understand, I thought you two were close? Or maybe you really did have some sort of falling out with her?"
Irene shrugged.
"Do you know anything about him?"
"Never heard of him."
"He wrote the book you returned to Anna Saturday evening."
"Oh, that guy." She looked as if she could care less, which disappointed him.
"Hmmm. I guess that's it, sorry to bother you."
"No problem."
He stood his ground until she closed the door. He was sorry he couldn't think of more questions to put to her, to dig deeper underneath her façade. He decided to pay a visit to someone else who knew Anna Kiehl.
He rang the doorbell. Isa Nielsen, the woman he'd met in the forest near the crime scene, looked surprised when she opened the door, but she smiled. "Trokic—isn't that right? Please, come in."
She wore dark jeans and a knitted beige cardigan, a contrast to the sweatsuit he'd seen her in a few days before. Her hair hung free and she was wearing light makeup. He noticed her attractive collarbone, a scoop of revealed skin; he forced himself not to stare. "Thank you. Sorry to barge in on you like this, hope I'm not interrupting anything. I just have a few routine questions."