“Chief Inspector Sohlberg,” said Wangelin, “I suggest we go down the hallway to the Karl Haugen room . . . as we call it.”
“You two go ahead,” said Ivar Thorsen. “I have other chores to look after. Let me make it perfectly clear Sohlberg . . . you are authorized to do whatever it takes to solve the case. Take any and all action. I will sign any requisition form you present me for manpower or equipment or any other resources.”
Sohlberg walked away in a daze and still somewhat incredulous at the unexpected turn of events. He could not quit or resign. He still had ten more years to go before he could collect a full pension. He and Fru Sohlberg had made many sacrifices and plans around that pension.
Constable Wangelin pointed at the combination door lock and whispered, “The code is one-one-seven . . . that was Karl Haugen’s height . . . one point seventeen meters. . . . The code to get in the computer files is ‘kh at twenty-two-point-seven' . . . his initials and weight in kilometers. He is a cute little boy. Imagine him so slight . . . just fifty pounds and three-feet eight-inches tall.”
“I notice that you said ‘He is a cute little boy’.”
“I’m sorry . . . am I being too optimistic?”
“I don’t know. One also has to be realistic no?”
She walked him through four rows of tall metal shelves that held 68 binders filled with 4500 leads among thousands and thousands of pages of police reports. Each binder was at least four inches thick.
“Hhhmmm . . . interesting,” said Sohlberg. “But we’ll never be able to read this ourselves. It would take twenty or thirty investigators many weeks to go through this stuff.”
“That’s not going to happen anytime soon . . . Commissioner Thorsen dismantled the Karl Haugen Task Force . . . fifty-two investigators at one point. I think that’s why he brought you in.”
“To do the work that fifty-two people couldn’t do right the first time?”
“We worked hard Chief Inspector. The problem was that no one coordinated our work. We had no direction or leadership. It was more like . . . ‘Just go out there and do something.’”
“Ah yes . . . the idiot’s solution of throwing people and money at a problem and hoping it gets magically solved.”
Constable Wangelin smiled and pointed at three secure laptops on a conference table. “These computers connect directly to a mainframe at KRIPOS.”
Sohlberg was not impressed. KRIPOS was supposed to be all about crime scene investigation. That’s how the agency had started out after its humble beginnings as a national crime lab in 1959. Then in 1967 the National Crime Investigation Service morphed into a sophisticated crime scene investigation unit that was meant to help small police districts which faced complicated and expensive cases—murders or organized crime or other major crimes. But ever since the 1990s the new management at KRIPOS liked to squeeze out the local police from investigations while seeking maximum publicity. Even worse from Sohlberg’s point of view was the fact that KRIPOS wasted enormous amounts of time and effort on dumb but politically correct investigations such as those involving “racist remarks on the Internet”.
“KRIPOS isn’t what it used to be,” said Sohlberg. “It used to be much more effective in the old days with Rolf Harry Jahrmann . . . the father of KRIPOS.”
“I’ve heard of him,” added Wangelin.
“I met him . . . quite the character. I think he’s still alive . . . in his eighties. I also met several of the people who worked for him . . . the old E-Group . . . the Homicide Commission. But enough of old memories.”
“This laptop . . . Chief Inspector . . . is dedicated to a special software on the KRIPOS mainframe that has helped us catalog and sort through more than four thousand two hundred fifty-seven tips that investigators have received over the past year.”
“I’m sure that the proverbial needle is in that haystack Constable Wangelin. But how are we going to find it? Let’s not get mesmerized by fancy technology . . . these computers are really toys. I prefer good old fashion questioning . . . as if we just started the case fresh . . . new.”
“A fresh approach will be best.”
“Obviously . . . one year later no one can explain how a seven-year-old boy vanished in the middle of his school in the middle of the morning while he was surrounded by hundreds of adults and children and teachers attending a kiddie science fair.”
She blushed and showed him stacks of maps with various colors that plotted the 155 square miles searched for Karl Haugen.
“Interesting graphics. But those maps won’t help us.”
“I know. But Thorsen wanted me to show them to you. As you can imagine Chief Inspector . . . a big reason for these maps was to show the media and the public that we were working hard.”
“That seems to be the problem here . . . working hard but not smart. Or should I say . . . appearing to work hard.”
“Do you want to see more?”
“No. I’d like you to prepare a one page summary of what is actually known . . . as facts . . . to have happened to the boy on the day that he disappeared. Just stick to the facts and do not include any theories. Write up a second summary on the boy’s circle of family and friends that he hanged around with.”
“That’s it Chief Inspector?”
“Trust me . . . it’s hard work. Summarizing all pertinent facts into two pages will take a lot of thought. I suggest you take the rest of the afternoon today . . . and all day tomorrow to write the summaries. Please make sure that you write or talk to every single investigator involved in the case. Get their input on what needs to be in the summary. All of the information that you get from all of the investigators will now be stored in your brain . . . far better than any computer.”
“Chief Inspector . . . will you be here if I have questions?”
“No. But feel free to call me any time on my cell phone. I’m going home. I have a lot to explain to my wife about this unexpected assignment. She thought we’d be leaving for Bergen to visit her parents.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“So am I. But isn’t it interesting . . . when my wife saw the news on television about the one year anniversary of Karl Haugen’s disappearance . . . she said she hoped that somehow I’d be able to help the investigation.”
“I’m glad you’re here Chief Inspector. It was about time. You see . . . some of us do take the case very seriously . . . we feel bad for the boy. We’re worried about him.”
“Everyone should think like that. I certainly do.”
Sohlberg left the building. His mind worked better in the fresh air and under sunny skies. A thought hit him. He immediately called Ivar Thorsen on his cell phone and said:
“Do not tell the press that I’m working on the Haugen case. Make sure that no one leaks anything to the media about me working on the case!”
“Alright. Alright. Calm down Sohlberg.”
“I’m serious about this. The person or persons who took the boy must not be warned that we’re reactivating the investigation. We must have the element of surprise. Understand?”
“Well—”
“No! The most you can tell anyone on the outside is that you have assigned the case for review. Understand? You say anything more to your buddies in the press and I will tell everyone that you sabotaged the investigation from the start.”
“Alright!”
“Also . . . I’m not going to wear a uniform at all . . . nor will Constable Wangelin. And we’re not coming to work at the office from eight to four like everyone else. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“Also . . . I need an unmarked car that doesn’t yell police to everyone who looks at the car. Yes?”
“Sohlberg! . . . Here we go again with your demands and conditions.”
“Just like the good old days that you seem to remember so fondly.”
Feeling calmer Sohlberg decided to walk all the way to the Oslo Central Station to take advantage of the pleasant sunny weather. He had more than enough
time to get to his tram. The walk also gave him time to think about how he would break the news to Fru Sohlberg.
Would she be pleased or angry?
Just how disruptive and difficult would this new assignment become?
~ ~ ~
Fru Sohlberg was already waiting for him in his parent’s Volvo at the Kastellet station of the Oslotrikken tram line Number 18. His parents had begged them to use their car to prevent the battery from dying.
“How did the conference go?”
He explained and included all the details.
“Unbelievable!” she exclaimed. “What a turn of events.”
“Are you angry? . . . I doubt if I’ll be able to go with you to Bergen to see your parents.”
“That’s alright. Maybe they’ll come and stay with us for a week.”
“That’s a great idea . . . it would be very good. We have more than enough room.”
“I’ll call them tonight and see if and when they can come.”
“So you’re not angry or disappointed?”
“Not at all. Why should I be? I knew this would be our life with you in the police.”
“Thank you Emma.”
“No need to thank me.”
“But I do.”
“Actually . . . I’m glad you took the assignment. I’ve thought a lot about that little boy.”
“It doesn’t look good . . . he’s been missing for more than a year and there’s no sign of him. I have to warn you so you don’t get your hopes crushed . . . he’s probably dead.”
Fru Sohlberg shook her head. Her eyes welled up. “How sad . . . if that turns out to be the case then at least he’s in a far better place . . . that little eternal soul of his.”
Sohlberg’s throat hardened.
Did Ivar Thorsen know that they had lost their two-year-old son to leukemia shortly after moving to Lyon in France?
Was that another reason for putting him on the Karl Haugen case?
Did Ivar Thorsen or the higher-ups know that a child abduction was likely to bring back painful memories of the death of their own son?
Harald Junior’s death almost destroyed Sohlberg and his wife. He could not help wondering whether Thorsen had dragged him into the case as the result of a diabolical plan to cause him and his wife severe if not permanent emotional distress.
Was the Karl Haugen assignment another form of payback for Sohlberg exposing corruption by the Supreme Court justices?
Chapter 6/Seks
1 YEAR AND 23 DAYS AFTER
THE DAY, FRIDAY, JUNE 4
Sohlberg reached into the shelf and took out Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde—the doomed lovers.
“Well . . . well.”
He’s amazed that his parents still have all of the compact discs that he bought them over the decades for their birthdays and for Christmas and for Mother’s Day and for Father’s Day. He opened the case and studied the libretto for the divine and unsurpassed 1953 classic EMI recording with Kirsten Flagstad (Soprano) and Blanche Thebom (Mezzo Soprano) and Ludwig Suthaus (Tenor) and Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau (Baritone) and the Royal Opera House Covent Garden Orchestra directed by Wilhelm Furtwängler.
The prelude overwhelmed Sohlberg with its intensity.
He pressed the STOP button and slipped Wagner’s masterpiece off the CD player because Wagner’s music hits too close to home. The music reminded Sohlberg of the overpowering nature of love and death and how those two mixed together can easily lead to insanity itself.
The music evoked remembrances of the past. Memories crashed into Sohlberg’s mind like the winter storms that hurl overwhelming waves into Norway’s fjords.
Sohlberg remembered the details of the death of loved ones.
He remembered the sickening shisssh of the rope going through the carabiner on Karoline’s harness. He remembered her eyes wide open and filled with love and acceptance of her fate.
He remembered the last soft breath of Harald Junior before the leukemia killed him.
He remembered the boy’s dreamy eyes slowly dimming away until the light was extinguished and gone.
Grief.
Insanity.
He remembers how—a month after Karoline’s death—he took a trip to a country house at Åsgårdstrand. A partner at Sohlberg’s law firm offered him indefinite use of the house for Sohlberg to have all the time and space to decompress. Sohlberg had always wanted to visit the popular summer vacation spot and pretty fishing village in Vestfold County about 65 miles south of Oslo. He spent days just watching the sailboats and the fishing boats from the lovely southwest side of the mouth of the Oslofjord. At night he watched panoramic lightning from immense thunderstorms that roll in from the North Sea over the Strait of Skagerrak.
His grief worsened. A guilty conscience consumed him for not having asked Karoline to check her ropes and knots. On the third night he grabbed his uncle’s double-barrel shotgun out of the car trunk and loaded the shells.
His plan: walk down to the dock with the loaded shotgun when no one is around and end his pain and reunite with Karoline.
Unfortunately a knock on the door at midnight. Then more loud pounding.
“Hello,” yelled Matthias Otterstad. “Wake up Sohlberg . . . I know you’re in there. I’m here to keep you company. Open up will you! . . . I brought a ton of food with me.”
Sohlberg’s plans remained inactive until his son died.
A guilty conscience hounded him again. This time for not having spent enough time with his son or for that matter with his wife. Again a loaded gun and again plans interrupted by an unexpected visitor—Chief Homicide Detective Alec Mikesell of the combined Salt Lake City Police and Salt Lake County Sheriff Task Force in Utah.
Sohlberg’s memories fled when he heard Fru Sohlberg call him out of his painful reverie:
“Sohlberg where are you?”
Sohlberg bounded up the stairs to his wife and said, “Just checking out stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Oh . . . just looking at some of the operas that I bought my parents many years ago.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Actually yes. Wagner. Tristan and Isolde.”
“Why that one?”
“I don’t know . . . I picked it at random but it seems appropriate.”
“How so?”
“How love sometimes leads to insanity.”
“Are you thinking of the missing boy . . . Karl Haugen?”
“Of course . . . what else?”
“You need to rest for this investigation. Please come to sleep.”
“I can’t with this midnight sun. I have a lot to think about.”
~ ~ ~
Nothing. Absolutely nothing surprised him any more. After eight years she had exhausted any surprise left in him. He knew that he certainly wouldn’t be surprised if she did not break down in a torture session and tell him what he wants and needs to hear. The only surprise will be how she reacts to the torture and how she reacts when she realizes that he will exterminate her.
Will she scream?
Will she cry?
Will she beg for mercy?
If she begs for mercy he will remind her that she gave him none. Therefore all that she can expect is justice.
Yes. That’s all she can expect. And that’s all she deserves.
“She deserves a long and horrible death,” he said softly to himself as he mowed the lawn with a manual grass mower that she forced him to use because she’s very worried about climate change and carbon emissions.
The grass clippings flew off the sharp blades just like the many illusions that he had had about her and their love and their marriage. Together eight years and married half that time. And the mystery of her true nature only kept getting stronger.
She is unfathomable.
She is unknowable.
He almost laughed when he thought of how much he will enjoy shoving her lifeless body into a special barrel that he brought from his workplace a few months ago. The barr
el was specially designed to hold acids and it is marked ‘CORROSIVE” and he shivered with ecstasy at the thought of how greatly he will enjoy pouring acid on her lifeless body and how after 6 hours in an acid bath she will become nothing but a pink fluid to be taken to a chemical recycling plant. He giggled when he thought of her tombstone—a barrel marked CORROSIVE.
Sohlberg and the Missing Schoolboy: an Inspector Sohlberg mystery (Inspector Sohlberg Mysteries) Page 7