Dark September

by Inger Wolf

  "How did she get home?"

  "Her mom stopped by around that time. She was almost always the one who picked her up. Her dad did it once in a while."

  Angie thought about the two cars parked in the Vad's driveway. Nothing had seemed unusual. They hadn't yet established whose winter clothes were hanging in the hall, which was why they didn't know if Marie had left the house dead or alive, wearing her coat. "Do you know which coat she had on when she left here?"

  "Yeah, she had on her thick down coat. Light purple. I don't remember the brand. She loved it; it was fairly new and she wore it all the time."

  "What about the rest of her clothes?"

  "A light-colored pair of jeans and a sweater. I think maybe it was a purple fleece. Purple was her favorite color. I can hardly stand thinking about it. I mean, God, what if she's being tortured?" She sniffed and dried more tears off her cheek.

  Angie swallowed the lump in her throat. "What's she like?"

  Joanne thought that over for a moment. "She's wonderful, I just love that kid. Some people might think she's a bit introverted and odd, but that's only until you get to know her. Really, she's great. Fun to be with. Even though we've had a few ups and downs."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Sometimes she tells so many stories that I don't know if she's lying or not. Nothing serious, but it's enough that I've had to straighten her out when she's tried to lead me on. It can be a bad habit."

  Angie frowned. "What about other people? Does she talk about her school, her girlfriends, her teachers?"

  "Some. She really likes the school. Sometimes there's some girlfriend stuff that goes on, catty stuff, but that's normal for her age. She gets along with her teachers, too. Even though she thinks her English teacher is a little bit too rough on her."

  Angie looked over at several Take That stickers on the desk. Wasn't Joanne a little bit too young to be a fan? Maybe it was someone else's desk? "Has she mentioned anything lately about any new people in her life? Someone bothering her or trying to make friends with her?"

  "You're thinking about a pedophile or something like that?"

  "I'm just trying to cover every possibility."

  Joanne shook her head. "Nothing like that. I think maybe she would've told me, she's always talking to me when I pick her up. It's like she has to tell me everything that happens to her that day. So, no, I don't think she met anybody on the street that tried something with her."

  "What about here?"

  "Here?"

  "Yes, have any of the other students talked to her or shown any interest in her?"

  "No, not at all."

  "Okay. I'd like for you to make a list of everyone she's talked about, in any way, bad or good, so I can get a picture of who she's been around. We're going to have to talk with all of them."

  Joanne raised an eyebrow. "It won't be a very long list. It's mostly her classmates, like that."

  "Just write them all down. Anyone you can think of. Is there anything else you can tell me about her?"

  Joanne began crying again, and Angie paused for a moment before finding a Kleenex in her bag and handing it to her. She repeated her question.

  "She likes animals. She has Zenna, you know, their dog, and she talks a lot about it. And she says she wants more dogs and a cat as soon as she moves away from home."

  She smiled shortly. "As if she's about to do that. We've also walked a lot of trails around here, she's always wanting to spot squirrels. Even though she's lived here all her life, it's like her fascination with nature is new somehow. It's all animals, animals, animals."

  Joanne frowned and looked down at her hands. Her nails were short and badly manicured.

  "Those stories she tells," Angie said. "Could you count on her telling the truth about things that happened to her during the day? Were there times when she'd say something, just to make her life sound interesting?"

  Joanne ran a hand through her dark hair and picked at a small scratch on her cheek. She looked uncomfortable. Finally, she said, "I admit I've had my doubts once in a while. I don't mean that in a bad way. I don't mean she was all the time lying to get out of something. It's more like…like her imagination runs away with her."

  "You mean, she's not a compulsive liar?"

  "No. That's an ugly label, and it doesn't fit her at all."

  "Did you know her parents well, Asger and Mette?"

  Joanne hugged herself tightly. "Yeah, because sometimes I babysat both of the kids at their place, and they let me borrow their computer equipment for my schoolwork. They have a color printer and a scanner. And if I was around at dinner time, I ate with them. They were really nice that way."

  "What did you think of them?"

  "I never really thought that much about them. They were friendly. The dad was a little formal. But he was polite. I liked the mom. Mette. She was pretty cool."

  "Cool, what do you mean?"

  "Like she was helpful, intelligent. She taught the kids a lot about Alaska and nature. How the native tribes lived, how people survived under tough conditions. I know because Marie talked a lot about it. Mette was really interested in the country around here. I liked that."

  "What about her relationship to her children?"

  Joanne shrugged. "I never saw anything to criticize her for. They were always well-dressed and had warm clothes. She didn't just buy clothes that looked good, she bought stuff that could stand the cold. Like Marie's light purple coat. Asger was more like he was living in his own world. But it seemed to me he treated the kids good."

  "What about their relationship. Did they seem to get along?"

  "The parents?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't know. Sometimes it was like there was something in the air. You know, you're sitting there at the dinner table and they only speak really shortly to each other. Like, one syllable words. One time Marie said they'd argued about money her mom had spent, and she was scared they were going to split up. But it was just that one time."

  Angie stuck her notepad and pen back in her pocket, brought out a card, and handed it to the young woman. "If you think of something else, call me. And one last thing. Yesterday, when you picked her up, what kind of mood was she in?"

  "Really good. Happier than usual." Joanne frowned. "In fact, I commented on it when she left. I said she was in a really good mood."

  "And what did she say?"

  "She said she was getting a new pair of boots."

  Chapter Five

  Homicide was an open-space office environment, each officer with their own territory. A long table marked a conference area. The wall behind the table was covered by a large whiteboard and short shelf with a stack of files, a small American flag, and a green plastic crocodile that no one claimed to know anything about. Angie nodded at her fellow officers and sat down with a cup of coffee. The warm, comfortable room had come to feel like a second home to her.

  The interview with Joanne was swirling in her head. Marie's family seemed to be normal. If the killer had taken her, why? Why her? Were they looking for a pedophile the family had walked in on as he was kidnapping her? She hoped not; it didn't feel right, either.

  Today, Smith wore a gray suit with a green tie; he stood by the table in front of the whiteboard, scratching his thick salt-and-pepper hair and looking soberly at the many faces as they settled in their chairs. The unusual silence was awkward. Also, he looked at her a bit oddly, as if he had something up his sleeve.

  It had been business as usual the day before. Everyone was paired up and had their job to do. One team had been on a case involving a drunk criminal who had died accidentally during an arrest. Another had been investigating a man who had called and turned himself in after shooting his wife. And she had been finishing up a case involving the shooting of a pusher. Killers were identified quickly in practically every case, and their percentage of solved cases was very high. For the most part, Smith's close-knit unit worked well together. Everyone had their strengths, and Angie couldn't imagine a
better place in the world to work.

  "All right," Smith said. "We're all here, I believe."

  Everyone focused on him. Cases such as this were rare in Alaska, and the state was already in an uproar. The phone had been ringing all morning, and she'd heard that Smith had been at his desk, trying his best to reassure the press and several people who had known the family. He began by summarizing what they'd found that morning.

  "Angie is leading the investigation," he continued. "I'll get to who will be assisting her in a moment."

  He stared at her and she narrowed her eyes and stared back, suspicious now. She'd known him for several years, and she could always see when he was about to pull something on her.

  He moved on. "There are a lot of aspects to this case we need to deal with; we're going to have to find the resources. Asger and Mette Vad's life and circle of friends, the murder weapon, the ashes, the dollhouse, their daughter Marie who is missing."

  He rubbed his eyes, tried to blink away their weariness. "The latter is our first priority, Marie might still be alive. Several troopers are searching around Anchorage, Matsu Valley, and down towards Seward and the Kenai Peninsula. They've been told to look everywhere. Empty buildings, abandoned houses, anywhere at all she could have been taken, and to talk to any witnesses who could have seen her with someone. If we find her, we'll probably find our killer."

  "We're almost sure she was home," Angie added. "But we can't be absolutely sure she was there when the killer broke in."

  "And," Smith said, "according to the babysitter Angie spoke with, Marie was wearing a light purple down coat. The techs say it's not on the premises."

  "So, she might actually be sleeping over at some girlfriend's house," a young officer said, his voice hopeful.

  Smith looked skeptical. "That's unrealistic. By now the whole town knows she's missing; the news has spread fast. The media has been on the story for two hours now, and already some students have printed up posters with her face and stuck them up over half the town. She would have gotten ahold of us somehow if she could or wanted to. She's vanished into thin air."

  "Maybe she got scared and ran away when the guy broke in," suggested Danny, a stocky officer in his late 30s. "She might be hiding somewhere."

  "But there are four people inside the dollhouse," Angie said. "Four of them were supposed to die. Why isn't she dead too? It doesn't add up, not at all."

  The sergeant paced a few moments with his hand in his gray pants pocket. "Exactly. And that brings us to the dollhouse. Somebody built it. The techs have looked at it and they say it's made of small pieces of varnished oak. Looks like professional work. It could be a cabinet maker or some other sort of craftsman. Maybe the killer made it, maybe not. I don't want any information about the dollhouse getting out; the public would be scared out of their wits. But a few of you are going to have to check this out. Maybe this type of dollhouse is sold somewhere. With or without the dolls."

  Smith pointed to the next line on the board. "We don't know much about the weapon yet. We might not be able to pin it down. No bullets or casings have been found at the crime scene; the killer knew what he was doing and he covered his tracks. But Danny, maybe you can check reports of stolen weapons. We can only hope it'll show up in some bushes or something."

  He knew it was a very long shot. He took a sip of coffee; his cup had "Hero" printed on it. "As most of you have seen, we're already bringing in all the neighbors for questioning. That's going to take most of the day."

  "But then there are the ashes," Angie said.

  Smith nodded. "That must be in connection with Asger Vad. It could be a co-worker he humiliated or some volcano-obsessed lunatic. There's no doubt it has some sort of significance. We're looking into it. Angie, we'll need to talk to the people he worked with at the university and observatory, and other people who knew him."

  "So, who's going to be with Angie?" said Linda, an investigator. She sounded hopeful.

  Smith frowned and glanced over at Angie. "It's a little complicated," he said through clenched teeth. "The thing is, the Danish police are sending one of their investigators over, and since we'll be talking to several Danes who knew the family, he'll be assisting us."

  Angie gasped. "What? That's lousy."

  "Angie!"

  "Why do I get stuck with him? Why can't he just hang around, be an observer? I don't have to haul him around in the car with me, do I?"

  Smith narrowed his blue eyes. "Look. There's nothing we can do; the decision was made higher up."

  "So what? Since when did we start sucking up to them? Surely the decision can be unmade."

  "They assured us he's extremely competent. Presumably, he's an experienced detective lieutenant."

  "Really?" Angie said. "Like that's a big deal. He's probably some snob Viking asshole who's not going to do us any good at all."

  "We're going to make him welcome. That's who we are. As I said, he could be very useful to us because the victims were Danish. He'll be arriving tomorrow around noon, and you can pick him up at the hotel later. I don't want to hear any crap about this."

  "Yeah," Linda said. She swiped a lock of her hair behind her ear. "He'll probably be so jet-lagged that he'll just snooze in the car. Or else he'll stare at all the magnificent scenery and babble about whales and bears. If you're lucky, he'll go skiing and you'll never see him again."

  Angie scowled. She was used to driving alone, taking care of herself; she didn't like having anyone else in the car. Especially some Danish stranger who knew nothing about their town or criminal justice system.

  Smith smiled. "Make sure he's issued a weapon and that you both make the best of the situation."

  Angie held back a sigh and mumbled something ugly under her breath. It seldom paid to discuss things with her boss.

  "And while you're waiting ..." He held a dramatic pause, "you can watch the autopsies. All the victims were brought in this morning, and Jane Lohan, the forensic pathologist, has already started on them."

  He glanced at his watch. "Good thing it's close by."

  Chapter Six

  From the plane, Trokic looked down on the mountainous landscape below and wondered if some of them were volcanoes. He shuddered at the thought of a sudden eruption, ashes being spewed out into the atmosphere. Ashes with tiny rock particles that would fly into jet engines, melt, and shut the engines down.

  The plane was filled up, partly by an entire national hockey team planning to spend the winter in Anchorage, the passenger next to him had explained. Shortly after takeoff from Seattle, the pilot had announced it was snowing in Anchorage, with temperatures in the lower 20s. Half the passengers had applauded this news, which Trokic thought was bizarre. What had they been expecting? And was snow really something to clap for?

  He wondered how his American colleagues would receive him. Presumably, they'd told Captain Andersen that a Danish investigator was more than welcome. But really, was he? Would he enjoy having a foreign detective following him around? He hoped they'd be able to work together without any problems. Otherwise, the next several days were going to be awfully long.

  He had slept quite a bit on the way over, but now it was time to do some reading in Asger Vad's books, research articles, and interviews, which the captain had been kind enough to loan him. He tried to ignore the stewardesses banging around in the galley. Could the key to the family's murder lay in any of this? Was Asger the intended victim? Had he stepped on someone's toes? The volcanologist had written three books, all in English. One, "On the Edge of Hell," described the inner processes of a volcano. Dry reading about cracks in the earth, continental plates, magma, lava, and ashes. The various types of volcano were covered, and the book was full of illustrations, graphs, and boring black-and-white photos. Trokic emptied another glass of red wine from Alaska Airlines' dubious selection, skimmed through the book, and stuck it back in his carry-on. The second book, "The World's Volcanoes," was a reference work about the largest and most significant volcanoes, active and in
active. Hekla on Iceland, Etna in Italy, Colima in Mexico, Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, Mauna Loa in Hawaii, and a number of others Trokic had never heard of. Apparently, Asger had been to all of them; he'd written a short travel story to accompany each volcano. The writing was easily understandable and enthusiastic, and at least the photos were in color.

  The last book was dedicated to Mount Redoubt, an active stratovolcano southwest of Anchorage that Trokic had never heard of. Asger apparently had a thorough and unique knowledge of it. The book had several photos of the snowy, slightly asymmetrical, cone-shaped volcano. Its latest activity had taken place in 2009, the book said. Not all that long ago. It had erupted several times during a two-week period before finally calming down.

  Three hundred miles later, Trokic had reached the interviews. Captain Andersen had known Asger Vad well, and he'd had only good things to say about him. And because they were good friends, he had cut out newspaper articles about the volcanologist. One feature article in a Danish daily, Jyllands Posten, dealt with his leaving Denmark and devoting his life to a rare branch of science. Asger Vad was both witty and thoughtful, it seemed. He liked Alaska, one of the most beautiful places on Earth, and he and his family had adjusted well to American life. Americans were open and warmhearted, though there were also people who at times were limited in their world-view, and also a bit too religious, in his opinion. But for the most part he enjoyed his life there; he was an advisor for students writing their theses, he wrote books and studied Alaska's volcanoes, and along with his colleagues he kept an eye out for volcanic activity.

  Simply put, he came off as a serious and likable man with respect for nature, and none of the reading material gave the slightest hint as to why he was lying in the town's morgue, his throat stuffed with ashes, the victim of a mass murderer.

  Chapter Seven