Sohlberg and the Missing Schoolboy: an Inspector Sohlberg mystery (Inspector Sohlberg Mysteries)

by Amundsen, Jens

  “To take Karl Haugen.”

  Sohlberg paused for a long time before he spoke. “That’s the obvious purpose . . . but could the kidnaping be for some other hidden purpose that we can’t see or fathom or understand?”

  “Oh . . . I see what you mean.”

  “If we find out what is the sole purpose of all of the events on that June fourth then we will find out who is the kidnaper and what was the kidnaper’s motivation.”

  “I agree . . . that is the key to solving the case Chief Inspector.”

  “The purpose of the abduction . . . the goal of the kidnaping . . . reveals the who and the why since we already know the how.”

  Four miles northeast of the town of Halden a clearing in the forest revealed the prison. It left Sohlberg speechless.

  The taupe-colored prison walls rose out of the forest. A psychologist had picked the calming and warm gray-brown tint of the concrete walls. Interior decorators had picked elegant modern art to fill all of the walls and all of hallways of the prison. The outer prison walls were covered with large murals of inmates wearing prison stripes in humorous situations such as playing volleyball. Ten years and $ 260 million had gone into building Norway’s super-modern and second largest prison. In Sohlberg’s eyes the maximum security facility for 252 inmates looked more like a modern spa in Los Angeles or Palm Springs.

  “I’m sorry Constable Wangelin . . . but this is rather luxurious for people who don’t deserve luxury accommodations as punishment for rape or murder. I can’t believe the government spent ten million dollars per prisoner to build this luxury retreat.”

  “Well . . . you know the Norwegian way,” she said alluding to the low 20% re-offending rate of Norwegian prisoners in comparison to the 50% to 60% rate in Britain and the USA. “Don’t forget Chief Inspector . . . we have less than five thousand men and women in Norway’s prisons . . . that’s less than seventy convicts per one hundred thousand people versus the American rate that’s one thousand percent greater.”

  “True . . . and yet. . . . You can murder or rape in Norway as many times as you want and you nevertheless get a maximum sentence of twenty-one years. Think about it . . . you can kill fifty or sixty or more people and yet you only get twenty-one years in Norway.”

  “Well that’s changed Chief Inspector . . . since a few years ago . . . when was it? Two thousand eight? . . . Since then criminals can get charged with the new law of crimes against humanity.”

  “What’s the penalty?”

  “A maximum penalty of thirty years. And there’s an anti-terrorism law that allows for the indefinite prolongation of sentences . . . in blocks of five years at a time . . . each renewed by a judge if the convict is deemed dangerous to public security.”

  “How many times has that law been applied? . . . How about zero times? How about never?”

  Wangelin nodded slowly in reluctant agreement.

  Sohlberg waved at the 75-acre facility where inmates enjoy a music studio and a rock climbing wall and hobby rooms and recreational areas and jogging trails and a superb library and two-bedroom cabins where inmate families can stay during overnight visits. “I wish you could see some of those miserable French or Russian prisons . . . or the truly horrible ones in Peru or Brazil.”

  Constable Wangelin nodded. “I know about those hellholes . . . but we have a low enough crime rate and more than enough oil money to pay for this.”

  “I . . . I don’t know . . . is this fair? Is this justice? . . . I mean this prison here is a country club for millionaires compared to San Quentin in California or other American horrors like SuperMax in Colorado.”

  “I’ve heard they’re absolutely awful.”

  “Of course they’re all topped off by the ultimate nightmare of Louisiana’s Angola State Penitentiary.”

  “Bad?”

  “I went to pick up a prisoner for extradition . . . hope to never be back there again . . . ever.”

  “But don’t you think Chief Inspector that we are a little more civilized than the Americans?”

  Sohlberg said nothing. But his hand gesture left no doubt as to his contempt for any prison that provided a soft life for a felony convict.

  The inspector and constable checked in and wended their way through security checkpoints. A deputy warden joined them as an escort. He showed them how the prisoners’ cells were arranged in units of 10 to 12 rooms “just like college dorms”.

  “I don’t think so,” said Sohlberg. “The cells in this prison are far better than most college dorms.”

  “Why do you say that?” said the clueless deputy warden.

  “Because each cell has a private bathroom and a flat-screen TV and a mini-fridge and lovely views of the forest. The windows don't even have bars on them . . . and each group of cells shares a living room and kitchen. That’s far better than any college dorm.”

  “That is true Chief Inspector,” said the deputy warden with pride.

  Sohlberg shrugged. Over and over he kept repeating: “What the heck is this place . . . a luxury hotel?” Sohlberg pointed to the stainless-steel counter-tops and wraparound sofas and birch-colored coffee tables that seemed straight out of an Ikea catalogue. “What the heck is this place . . . a luxury hotel for felons?”

  The oblivious deputy warden continued his lecture about the strong and positive relationship between the prison staff and the inmates and how the guards do not carry weapons. The man pointed out how the prison was not depressing to the inmates thanks to more than $ 1,000,000 worth of original artwork that graced every location that inmate eyes might happen to fall upon.

  Sohlberg was about to make a rude comment when they were ushered into the elegant office of the Prison Warden Henrik Birkeland.

  “Harald Sohlberg! . . . I’m glad you’re in this part of the world. How long has it been since we last met? . . . I think you had just been promoted to Inspector when I last saw you.”

  “I don’t remember . . . but I’d say it’s been at least fifteen years since we’ve seen each other no?”

  The two men briefly spoke of a few cases that they had worked on when they had started out in the police force as rookie constables in Oslo.

  “Why Henrik did you ever join the kriminalomsorgens correctional services?”

  “Rehabilitating criminals is much less stressful than catching them. The K.S.F. lets me spend lots of time with my wife and kids. I’m a grandfather now! . . . What about you . . . are you—”

  Sohlberg evaded the personal question especially with Wangelin at his side. “I’m here just for a short visit. This is a temporary assignment. I’ll be back to Interpol soon.”

  “I see,” said Warden Birkeland. “Is that why you’re visiting the Smiley Face Killer? . . . Your temporary assignment? The one that’s so hush-hush? . . . When they told me you were coming out here I asked and no one in Oslo wanted to tell me exactly what your visit is all about.”

  “I’m sorry . . . but we have to keep the investigation under wraps.”

  “Alright. So be it. Are you ready to see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “With those boxes?” said Warden Birkeland. He pointed at two boxes that Constable Wangelin cradled in her arms.

  Sohlberg nodded and said, “Those boxes are for Rønning.”

  “You know the guards will have to see what’s inside them.”

  “Of course,” said Sohlberg. “As you know Anton Rønning has helped me before in other cases . . . in exchange for big and small perks.”

  “It’s always been a mystery to me how and why you got him out of prison in Spain where he was . . . correct me if I’m wrong . . . serving the equivalent of a life sentence—”

  “For raping and murdering three boys in Mallorca.”

  “So tell me Sohlberg . . . how did you and your friends at Interpol manage to convince the Spaniards to let Rønning out of that very well-deserved hellish pit of a prison he was in? Why did you coddle that sick pervert?”

  Sohlberg’s face and neck darke
ned. “What? What did you say?”

  “I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have said it that way . . . but why did you bring Rønning up here to this country club when he was living in hell in that Spanish prison and getting daily beatings and worse. I understand he stopped taking showers after he was gang-raped.

  “Now he’s here in Norway enjoying our prison’s nature trails and pottery classes. Sooner or later he will get his twenty-one year sentence cut down by at least a third . . . like everyone else.

  “Everyone says you got him a sweet deal . . . a pretty good life up here . . . quite cozy.”

  “Don’t ever accuse me of that! I’m no friend of perverts . . . and that’s not why I arranged for his transfer up here.”

  “Really Sohlberg?”

  “Matter of fact . . . after Rønning ran away to Spain the Spaniards caught him . . . they gladly traded Rønning for Mohammed Kumar . . . one of our lovely Norwegian Muslim immigrants from Pakistan.”

  “Oh yes,” said the warden. “I remember him . . . an extremist Islamic terrorist we were holding up here in our prison system after we caught him funding and planning the murders of two hundred killed in the Madrid bombings.”

  “Well then . . . I hope you see the insanity of accusing me of coddling criminals.”

  “Please Harald . . . I didn’t mean it that way.”

  A minute passed while the men gathered their composure. Sohlberg’s volcanic anger almost got the better of him because he had to keep an ugly secret. No one could ever find out that his mentor Lars Eliassen had called him out of the blue and asked him:

  “What do you think of a man who rapes and kills dozens and dozens of children?”

  Sohlberg’s memories transported him to the distant past which felt as real as if it was taking place in the present.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What do you think of a man who rapes and kills dozens and dozens of children?”

  “He’s a monster,” said Sohlberg who was surprised that Inspector Lars Eliassen had called him out of the blue with such a question.

  Eliassen paused. “In the old Viking days he’d be cut to pieces.”

  “Naturally.”

  “What do you think of such a man when he’s . . . released on bail and runs away to another country?”

  “A coward.”

  “I need a favor then . . . I remember that you know how to speak Spanish.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “Listen . . . I have a hunch,” said Eliassen, “that Anton Rønning is hiding down in Spain after jumping bail.”

  “Why?”

  “Because a long time ago . . . at the start of the investigation . . . I interviewed a distant Rønning relative . . . who mentioned that she sometimes lent Rønning her condominium in Mallorca and that he even had a key to the place.”

  Sohlberg could hardly talk with excitement and let alone cooly say, “So what is the favor?”

  “The favor is you driving down to Stockholm Sweden . . . buy a calling card . . . then use the card on an anonymous public pay phone to call the Spanish guardia civil .”

  “I see. What do I tell them?”

  “That you have an anonymous tip.”

  “What tip?”

  “That El Maton Loco . . . The Crazy Killer of children in Madrid and Mallorca is a Norwegian citizen . . . Anton Rønning . . . he’s staying at a certain posh condo unit in Los Caballos . . . a gated community in Mallorca . . . and that they might want to catch him before he decides to take a flight to Oslo Norway were he would . . . at most . . . serve a light prison sentence in a comfortable if not luxurious Nordic prison.”

  “I understand.”

  “Sohlberg . . . I hope you do. Spain doesn’t have life sentences or the death penalty. But it has a couple of horrific prisons more in tune with the Turkish model than the Norwegian model. In other words . . . Anton Rønning will rot in a Spanish prison straight out of the medieval Inquisition or Dante’s Inferno.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The overwhelming reality of Halden Fengsel pulled Sohlberg out of his reverie. He walked to a credenza and served himself a glass of water from an elegant decanter made by the Swedish glassmaker Kosta Boda. He drank most of the glass and then said:

  “Henrik . . . you need to consider the facts before you ever again accuse me of coddling criminals like Anton Rønning.”

  “Such as? . . . ”

  “We had a five-year investigation at Interpol that was going nowhere fast into an international pedophile ring . . . members of the ring bought and sold and traded children including infants all over the world . . . and they of course bought and sold and traded videos and pictures of their criminal acts with children.

  “Many of the victims were their own biological or adopted children. We couldn’t solve the case . . . then I remembered a comment that Rønning once made to me . . . I visited him in Spain and he gave me a tip that eventually lead to a webmaster in Amsterdam who secretly posted and hid the videos inside legitimate websites.”

  “I didn’t know that. I doubt if anyone knows . . . right?”

  “That’s right . . . thanks to Anton Rønning we exposed dozens of businessmen and women . . . accountants . . . bankers . . . lawyers . . . judges . . . senior police officers . . . NATO generals . . . you name it. . . . A Norwegian Supreme Court justice who likes to watch the raping of young girls . . . a top Chinese diplomat at the United Nations . . . a deputy director at the F.B.I. and at the B.A.T.F. in the United States.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “We even caught a former Deputy Assistant Secretary of the United States Navy who was good friends of Senator Kerry the presidential candidate. . . . And of course we had plenty of top level people at UNICEF and the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund. The cream of society . . . caught red-handed in the sewer. We saved sixty-three children . . . took them into protective custody.”

  “I don’t remember any arrests of the perverts.”

  “Of course not. Only two got arrested. None got convicted.”

  “Why?”

  “The ususal . . . the perverts got their friends in government to drop any charges. Only one got charged . . . that former U.S. Navy official. The rest? . . . They resigned or retired. You know the usual phony corporate doubletalk . . . they left to pursue other interests . . . to spend time with family.”

  “But the perverts—”

  “The perverts got off because they knew too much about the people in power . . . the affairs . . . the financial frauds . . . the perversions . . . you name it.”

  “I know whose club you’re talking about . . . the lifestyles of the rich and powerful club. These high-placed perverts have their protectors and friends who gladly turn a blind eye as long as these perverts are of use to them.”

  “Yes,” said Sohlberg. “You know . . . the Too Big To Fail crowd. . . .”

  “That’s the reality,” said Warden Birkeland sadly. “I know very well how that works. Remember the case of the mayor and his teenage boyfriend?”

  “Exactly. See what I mean?”

  “All too well. Anyway . . . I hope you didn’t put dynamite in the boxes for Rønning to blast a hole in the wall and escape.”

  “No. They’re Freia chocolates. Our Smiley Face Killer is crazy for any Freia chocolate confection. The melkesjokolade milk chocolate bars are his favorite . . . as are the Kvikk Lunsj Quick Lunch chocolate wafers.”

  “How charming . . . chocolates for a killer . . . like visiting a relative . . . like me visiting Grandpa Birkeland this weekend.”

  “Rønning is now what . . . seventy-eight?”

  “Eighty. This visit should be interesting. . . . Just don’t get too near him. He attacked a guard two months ago and broke her wrist.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Anton Rønning had a good tan. The portly 80-year-old seemed rather hale and quite serene on the patio where he was taking the sun on a lounge chair. The monster listened to music piped into his earphones by an MP3 player. He smiled and
looked the epitome of an old retiree enjoying a comfortable government pension. The serial killer reminded Sohlberg more of a retired accountant or a genial grandfather.

  “Hello Sohlberg. I’d get up but I hurt my back two months ago . . . I had to show this disrespectful guard how to respect me . . . so I gave her the proverbial slap on the wrist. . . . I’m sure some tattle-tale already told you the gossip about the guard’s broken wrist.”