Dark September

by Inger Wolf

  He adjusted his glasses and caught Trokic's eye. "From here on it gets more interesting. There are fractures of his right leg and three ribs. Also his right jawbone, and I found shards of glass in some of the remaining tissue around one ear. I'll send it to the lab in Copenhagen later."

  "What caused the fractures?"

  Bach hesitated. "Hard to say, but I think he was in a car accident. The glass is splintered in a special way, it could be from a side window."

  "Are you sure?" Agersund said.

  "It looks like the type of injuries inflicted by a vehicle ramming into the side of someone. But it's probably not the cause of death, at least not entirely."

  He pointed to an open section of the skull. "Here, there's a sizable oblong, jagged fracture. It extends five centimeters into the brain. Unlike the other traumas, it's on the left side, and I've also found traces of red coloring."

  "But why—"

  "Let me finish." He smiled and leaned in closer to the corpse. Carefully, he touched the area with his gloved hand. Several of those watching looked as if they were about to throw up.

  "I've also found some particles of lacquer. Of course, I can't be one hundred percent sure, but if somebody took a small ax and hit somebody else over the head, hard as they could, this is how it would look."

  Trokic returned to his office where he continued the painstaking work of going through the latest reports.

  It was unusually hectic at the station for a Thursday morning. More episodes involving the newest designer drug had taken place. A fourteen-year-old was still in a coma after taking the drug last weekend, and a seventeen-year-old had tried to strangle his mother two days after being stoned on Kamikaze. A team of officers had arrested four "new Danes" in connection with a knifing. Trokic had met one of them on the way in, a tall, skinny kid fifteen-years-old or so, wearing a red sweatband and an Outlandish down coat. He held a bloody rag to his arm. His right eye was swollen, his face streaked with blood from a cut on his eyebrow. Even though he must have been in considerable pain, his face was expressionless. Occasionally, one of them tried to break loose, and they yelled obscenities both in Danish and Arabic at the police, as well as the others who had been arrested. Further away, a filthy drunk they'd just brought out of detention sat on a chair, grinning as he watched the scene in front of him.

  Trokic concentrated on the witness statements concerning Christoffer Holm trickling in from officers querying practically the whole city about the researcher. Was it possible the neurochemist was the primary target, that Anna Kiehl possibly found out about something and had to be eliminated? Or did it have to do with jealousy? Regardless, they had to concentrate on everyone connected to the researcher. Motive was of vital importance. And Christoffer Holm had been much in demand in many ways.

  He grabbed his phone and called Bach. He had to know the killer's physique. Most of the officers at the morning briefing had agreed that the killer was very strong.

  "The biggest giant can be taken down by anyone clever enough, you know that," Bach said. "But it requires a certain element of surprise."

  "Anna was in good shape and probably fast too; she was no sacrificial lamb."

  "That may be, but someone was faster than her. And anger is also a major factor."

  "But the researcher couldn't have been easy to take down."

  "I don't think you're looking for a ninety-pound weakling. Just don't rule anything out; there may be angles you're not seeing yet."

  Trokic sighed and hung up. That's why Bach was so good, though; he refused to eliminate any possible line of inquiry, no matter how much Trokic pressed him.

  He grabbed his jacket from a chair. It was time to pay a visit to Christoffer Holm's workplace.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  "This used to be one of the four psychiatric hospitals in Denmark," Lisa said. "Some of the buildings are gorgeous, but a lot has happened here, too. Over the years, these walls have seen the history of psychiatry. Since back when they used instruments of physical restraint. Several people in there did groundbreaking work, internationally recognized. I read about it in a book at the doctor's office once. It's actually pretty cool."

  Trokic opened the door for her. "Maybe we ought to just hang around. Seems nice and calm in here."

  "Yeah, it does now. There are also rumors that when psychopharmaceuticals were first used, in the middle of the twentieth century, property values in the area shot up. There weren't nearly as many crazies running around in the streets."

  "Incredible what women remember."

  She stared at him. His rooster tail was sticking up in the air again. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Just what I said. Let's find that head doctor, okay?"

  Christoffer Holm's former boss, Jan Albrecht, was a white-haired, bearded man in his late fifties. He had a friendly smile, and his oval eyes were relatively big and wide-set, which for some reason made him look easy-going, Lisa thought. His gray-green V-neck sweater was a bit too large as if he'd recently lost weight, and behind his friendly façade, she sensed sadness.

  "I'm not sure I can be of much help to your investigation," he said, after showing them into his long, narrow office and offering them a cup of coffee.

  "We're interested in any information that could be important," Trokic said. "Why did he resign? Who did he work with? Things like that."

  "It might be more useful to talk with our Ph.D. candidate, Søren Mikkelsen. He's probably the one person who can explain Christoffer's research in detail. Their work overlaps each other’s in certain ways. Christoffer left us a few months ago. He didn't give us a reason as such, but we thought he needed a break."

  "Why?" Lisa said.

  "Christoffer was an exceptionally talented human being. Too talented, it seemed at times. He spent most of his life within the walls of academia. And he'd been pushed by teachers who recognized his potential. I was worried. I felt he'd lost his spirit this past year, his faith in what he was doing. His research results were excellent, even on an international level, but he was also an energetic man who needed to see some of the outside world."

  He smiled to himself. "He wasn't what you would call suave. Some of the older ones here—no, not me—didn't approve of his worn jeans, loose shirts, and long messy hair. But he was extremely likable once you got to know him. And then when, all of a sudden, no warning, he resigned, somehow it didn't seem all that surprising. Even though many of us were sad to see him go."

  Lisa nodded. That fit in with the positive impression Holm's book had made on her. "So, he was very well-liked?"

  "Definitely. He was a very decent man. And he made time for other people. That's not a given in our profession.”

  The doctor looked away. His voice broke as he said, "I can't believe he's gone. Who could want him to suffer such a horrible death? It's a great loss."

  "What exactly did he focus on in his research? Was it only antidepressants?"

  The psychiatrist corrected her automatically. "SSRI's. Actually, even narrower than that. Lately, he did research on nitric oxide. Søren Mikkelsen can explain that to you more precisely."

  He smiled. "Mostly, I attend to patients out here, by choice. So, I don't really follow along with the research like I used to. I'm more interested in the human contact—"

  "The results of his research…is it possible to get a copy?" Trokic said. "We have his book and several articles we found on the net, but we'd like to have everything."

  Albrecht handed him a large stack of papers. "I thought you might ask that. Here's everything he had published, several copies of articles and so on. It includes all the published research he participated in. It should give you some insight into his work."

  "Thanks," Lisa said. "What about his computer, any stored data?"

  "I'm afraid I have to disappoint you on that. He deleted everything on his computer before he left. And the computer wasn't modern enough to save, according to one of our IT people. It's been destroyed."

  "What about lapt
ops, other workstations he might have used, anywhere there might be some information? Professional or personal."

  He shook his head. "No, there's nothing along those lines either. Most people prefer to keep everything in one single place, and Christoffer was that way, too."

  He shrugged in apology. "We had no idea that the computer might be important in some way."

  "No, of course not."

  Lisa sipped at her coffee. It tasted horrible, like reused coffee filters. Institutional coffee. But sometimes caffeine desperation set in. "We'd appreciate a list of everyone you know who had a close working relationship with him. And a short note about how he knew them."

  She handed him her email on a slip of paper. "Is that possible?"

  "I'll send you a list later today."

  "Could we speak with Søren Mikkelsen?" Trokic asked.

  "He's in the basement. I'll take you to him."

  He led them down a long hallway and several stairways. "There's been a lot of water under the bridge since people believed insanity was an imbalance in body fluids."

  "Who believed that?" Trokic asked.

  "The ancient Greeks did. People were treated with warm baths, herbs, that sort of thing. Which was much more reasonable than in the Middle Ages, the exorcisms and witch burnings, locking people up in madhouses."

  "A lot has been done in the name of Christianity," Trokic said.

  "That might be a bit harshly put," Albrecht said. "But a long time went by before we returned to a more humane treatment of the mentally ill. We'd like to think we played a role in that."

  The small room was filled with rat cages, each one occupied by a small white rodent whose beady red eyes watched them suspiciously. Lisa could smell them, as well as the wood shavings that filled the cages. The animals along the right wall were disfigured by five-centimeter-long stitches on their backs; it looked as if some long object had been implanted. She felt nauseous, sympathetic toward the small, despised animals.

  Søren Mikkelsen couldn't have been much over thirty—younger than what she had expected. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, his skin sallow, as if he lacked sunlight. He wore a buttoned-up white coat, horn-rimmed glasses, and black wooden shoes. He smiled amiably.

  “I ran the Swim test," he said to the psychiatrist. "It looks promising."

  “Is this where Christoffer worked?" Trokic asked.

  “He had his own animals further down the hall." Mikkelsen nodded his head in that direction. "Sorry, I didn't get any sleep last night. Too much work to do. And I'm still shaken up; I didn't know about Christoffer until several hours ago. You have any suspects?"

  "We're keeping an eye on a few people."

  Mikkelsen led them out into the hall and closed and locked the door behind him. He looked back and forth between them. "Okay then, how can I help?"

  Trokic again explained what information they were interested in, as well as what they'd been told. "Are you doing research in the same area as Christoffer Holm?"

  "No, my thesis deals with tissue damage in the brain related to mental disorders. Christoffer was interested in eliminating the side effects of the new antidepressants."

  He explained in detail about serotonin receptors, animal trials, and nitric oxide.

  "Okay, okay," Trokic said. He hadn't understood a word, and he glanced at Lisa to see if she'd followed him.

  "How far along was he? Had he published any results?"

  "No, not since last summer, when he wrote an article for the Journal of Psychopharmacology." He pointed at the stack of papers Trokic was holding. "You can find them there. There's a lot of competition in his field nowadays."

  "Does Procticon ring a bell?" Lisa was thinking about the note found in Anna Kiehl's apartment.

  "It's a British pharmaceutical. A newbie in the industry, with a lot of money behind them."

  He paused for a moment. "They're bragging about becoming the first to produce Pink Viagra. And they're also one of the new competitors to the heavy hitters like Lundbeck in antidepressants."

  "Do you have any idea if Christoffer was in any way working with Procticon?"

  The researcher laughed. "They wouldn't be the first to try to hire him. He made jokes about the price on his head among the pharmaceuticals."

  "Could that be why he quit?" Trokic asked. "Maybe he got an offer he couldn't refuse."

  Mikkelsen shook his head. "I really don't think so. Christoffer liked being where he could do whatever research he wanted. He didn't care about money. At all. And he liked this town, the down-to-earth atmosphere. But, of course, I can't rule it out completely. He could've had his reasons."

  Lisa wasn't convinced; a slip of paper that shows up with the name of a pharmaceutical company in his dead girlfriend's apartment was no coincidence, when the two murders were added to the equation. Someone had a connection to the industry. She caught Trokic's inquisitive eye.

  "We might have more questions for you after we look through all this material," she said.

  "What was your personal relationship to Christoffer?" Trokic asked.

  "We got along fine."

  "Friends?"

  "Colleagues who enjoyed each other's company."

  "You didn't get together after work?"

  "Once in a while. But it was mostly to discuss work or an article."

  "Were you two in competition?"

  "Not at all. On the contrary, I looked up to him. Why? Am I a suspect?" He sounded a bit guarded.

  "Right now, everybody is a potential suspect," Trokic said. "Do you know anything about his private life? Who his friends were? Girlfriends?"

  "Yeah, but it wasn't something we talked about a lot. He didn't keep things a secret. Actually, it wasn't easy to keep up on all his women."

  Lisa thought she heard a hint of disapproval in his voice. "Was Anna Kiehl one of them?"

  "Yeah, I remember her. She stopped by once in a while early in the summer."

  "You have any impression of what the relationship was like?"

  "I have no idea. I didn't pry into his private life."

  "Any others you remember?" Trokic asked.

  "There were a lot of them, but I don't remember the details." He looked thoughtful for a few moments. "I think they had problems understanding his dedication to his work, also all the traveling. It was sort of a revolving door with his women. But usually they were blondes, that much I can tell you. And there was one right before Anna. I never saw her, but she called all the time. Never introduced herself, just said, 'Can I talk to Christoffer?' Rude. The way I understood it, they were together a lot. He got more and more annoyed with her, and then finally it ended. I remember one day him saying, 'You are so sick, really sick,' like, he couldn't understand something, or she disgusted him. And then he hung up.”

  It could be Irene, Lisa thought. They still hadn't ruled out her having something to do with it all. "Could you tell us what you were doing Saturday evening?"

  "I was watching TV with my brother."

  "Do you remember what you watched?"

  "No, I can't. I watch TV every evening. Give me a TV Guide and I'll tell you what I watched. Have you talked to the sister?"

  "We've spoken with Elise Holm," Lisa said. "Any special reason why we should?"

  "I was just thinking…she must be a rich woman. Parents killed in a car accident, the inheritance. The insurance must have been a lot of money. Now she probably gets his half, too. Plus all the other stuff.”

  Søren Mikkelsen stared at them. "A rich woman."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Back at the police station, they headed directly to the third floor for lunch. The new cafeteria manager there had become very popular in a short time. Good food made everyone happy.

  "The coffee out there was horrible," Lisa mumbled. "Let's have a decent cup."

  Trokic nodded. "Not so strange that people want out of there as fast as possible. That coffee could cure even the worst psychosis. Speaking of which, those damn antidepressants are quite an in
dustry nowadays." He poured for them both. "We're running around in a country full of doped-up zombies if you believe the statistics."

  "There must be a need for it. Something about the times. Our way of living."

  She felt offended on her sister's account. Anita had been taking antidepressants the past year after a breakdown. Whatever else Lisa thought about them, Anita was definitely a hundred percent better, which in turn was a great help to the family.

  Trokic shrugged and stuck his hand in the back pocket of his pre-washed jeans. "It's living in an artificial condition. Like fighting a fever with aspirin. It doesn't solve anything. It's incredible that—"

  "So, cure society," Lisa snapped.

  "That's taking the easy way out," he said, a bit annoyed with her now. "We all have to take responsibility for our lives. It's stupid to lay all the blame on environment. Or say it's just the times. People have always lived under pressure. If there wasn't a war going on, there was a plague or an economic crisis. More likely, the problem is that people don't have much else to do than chase their own tails. Or money, I should say."

  Lisa narrowed her eyes. "But the fact is, many people aren't okay. You can call it whatever you damn well please. People wouldn't be killing themselves if they were having a great life."

  "I'm not saying they are." Trokic ran a hand through his black hair. "I just think that people have the wrong attitude. And then we're back to this business about taking responsibility for your own life. Everyone's free to sell their house and car and take a less stressful job, or move to India, for that matter."

  "So, basically, you're saying that people have only themselves to blame?"

  "Do you have to put it so black-and-white?"