Right there before his very eyes was his life story. He turned off his phone. He looked forward to a future of planning every day and every minute on how to punish her as severely as she deserved and then how to get rid of her once and for all so that he could at least finish his life on earth in peace without her.
Scream . . . that’s what I want to do. Can I scream?
His mind pulled images from old memories of his childhood and he remembered taking field trips during his high school years to the many excellent art museums in Oslo. One image in pArcticular had stuck to his mind and the image terrified him for the deep truth contained in the image and he could not get the image or painting out of his mind.
The Scream by Edvard Munch.
How well he remembered the details of the swirling reddish orange sky and swirling purple blue waters and the skeletal and distorted agonizing face of the lonely and sick and terrorized person that he saw at the Munch-museet or Munch Museum.
He made his mind up at the gym to make sure that his scream would be the last thing that she ever heard while he killed her.
Ja.
His face and his scream would provide just the perfect ending for her. From the long window in the locker room he saw dozens of Sankthans bonfires blazing away. In the pagan days the bonfires supposedly kept away witches or evil spirits from roaming the land during the endless daylight of midsummer. He remembered how his mother like many other old-fashioned and superstitious Norwegians used to throw straw dummies that looked like witches into the bonfires.
Should I burn her body in a Midsummer bonfire? Maybe even while she is still alive?
He had an evil witch to kill.
Ja.
The next June 23rd a year from today would be the day of her death. That would give him more than enough time to plan and execute. And execute he would.
~ ~ ~
One hour before midnight. The Otterstads and their guests sit by the beach in groups listening to jokes and music and playing games and it all seems so festive and normal and happy to Sohlberg and yet the unnatural daylight fills him with dread. The pale midnattsol hangs in the sky like an unwelcome guest of ill omen.
“Are you okay?”
Fru Sohlberg has noticed his depression. He must be careful. “I’m just not used to it anymore I guess.”
“I know. It’s so odd to be back and see sun and daylight in the middle of the night.”
“Maybe I should’ve taken a nap like you suggested. I feel a little lightheaded.”
Nora Otterstad immediately intervenes and takes both Sohlbergs to the main house. She lodges them in a small study near the main living room so that Sohlberg can take a nap on a very comfortable sofa while Fru Sohlberg watches over him.
A restless sleep brings little relief to Sohlberg. He dreams that time itself is frozen and that the future is forever postponed. In other words he only has the past and the present while he’s trapped in the present. He is literally a man without a future.
At 11:45 PM Fru Sohlberg wakes him up and says:
“The Otterstads are going to take us home as soon as they light the Sankthans bål . . . the Midsummer’s Eve bonfire by the beach. Okay?”
“No. Let’s stay. I’m okay.”
“No you’re not on the longest day of the year . . . a day with no night. Imagine what that does to a man in your condition.”
“What condition?”
“You know . . . you know what I mean. . . .”
“What do you mean by my condition? . . . Are you saying I’m depressed . . . in clinical depression?”
“Oh please . . . don’t you see? . . . We never recovered from jet-lag since arriving in Denmark. It’s too much. You need to rest. And you’ve had so many memories to deal with after coming back to your parents’ home and. . . . Look . . . I don’t feel too good myself. We’re just not used to these day-filled nights.”
The Sohlbergs apologize and say their goodbyes to their hosts and everyone else about a half hour after midnight. Leif Otterstad pilots them quickly back home through the placid waters.
Sohlberg turns one last time to watch the giant 30-foot bonfire on the Otterstad property. Bonfires dot all of the beaches around the Oslofjord and the fires lend a wild and savage air reminiscent of the pagan Viking era and no one can escape the primal and visceral feeling that something imminent and far bigger than themselves is unfolding.
Chapter 5/Fem
1 YEAR AND 22 DAYS AFTER
THE DAY, FRIDAY, JUNE 4
“A new form of Number Four heroin is about to hit the streets . . . it’s cheap and extremely dangerous . . . with purity rates of ninety-eight percent and higher. . . . This deadly heroin is named Osama-H . . . because it was developed and manufactured by Russian and Bulgarian scientists hired by Osama bin Laden.”
With that introduction Sohlberg had the undivided attention of the department heads in charge of vice and drugs in all 27 of Norway’s police districts. They had gathered in downtown Oslo to hear Sohlberg’s 40-minute talk on international heroin smuggling. They met in a small auditorium at 12 Hammersborggata where the sleek and modern 7-floor building of the Politidirektoratet or National Police Directorate occupied most of the city block on the southeast corner of Hammersborggata and Torggata.
After his talk Solhlberg took the elevator to Ivar Thorsen’s office on the top floor.
They shook hands and sat down. Sohlberg observed the two fancy glasses and the two elegant bottles of Voss artesian water that sat ostentatiously on the desk. Of course Ivar Thorsen no longer drank Farris mineral water out of the bottle. He was now a big man in the police. Sohlberg smiled at the pretensions which included elegant Swedish furniture and modern art paintings.
How the Oslo district police commissioner’s office had changed!
Who would have thought that Ivar Thorsen would ever sit in a lavish corner office?
In his wildest imaginations Sohlberg would never have dreamed of the dumb and plodding and unimaginative Ivar Thorsen ever sitting in a commissioner’s office decorated by an interior decorator and probably a Swedish one at that. Back when Sohlberg was a rookie police constable the most a district commissioner could hope for was Ikea furniture that was allotted on a very tight budget to only the most senior of commissioners. Now the police budgets were lavish if not extravagant.
“Do the taxpayers know how their money is being spent up here?”
“Don’t be obnoxious Sohlberg. Try to be pleasant for a change.”
“I am being pleasant. I didn’t say what was really on my mind.”
“Well . . . I myself will tell you exactly what is on my mind.”
A long and uncomfortable pause followed.
Sohlberg’s mouth almost dropped open when he heard Ivar Thorsen’s next words:
“I need your help Sohlberg. I have a cold case. Perhaps you’ve already heard of it . . . the missing seven-year-old boy who vanished one morning in school and has never been seen again.”
“The Karl Haugen boy?. . . I saw it on the news a few days ago on N.R.K. One and Two.”
Sohlberg also remembered his wife showing him a special anniversary section on the case on the Sunday edition of Aftenposten.
“Ja,” said Thorsen. “You can’t miss the case.”
“Just this morning . . . as I was coming in . . . I saw huge headlines plastered on Verdens Gang when I passed a newsstand.”
“Ja ja. The media is all over us because the one year anniversary came and went without us getting any closer to solving the disappearance.”
“One year . . . that’s almost beyond solving.”
“But—”
“Thorsen . . . you know the rule . . . less than half of all missing cases and homicides are ever solved at all unless they are solved within the first forty-eight hours. And you now have a missing case that’s twelve months old?”
“We did our best. We put tons of people and man-hours into it.”
“That’s why my rule is to work smart no
t hard.”
“Obviously we are not as intelligent as you are. That’s why a few months ago I shut down the investigation . . . it was obvious we were getting nowhere. But now the higher-ups want the investigation reactivated . . . they’re getting a lot of flak over it.”
“Who was in charge?”
“Trygve Nilsen.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“He’s a Chief Inspector . . . just like you.”
“Why am I not surprised that you promoted him?”
“He’s a hard worker. And loyal.”
Sohlberg almost shouted a vulgarity. Instead he shrugged.
“Listen here Sohlberg . . . I’m reassigning him . . . he’ll be investigating recent death threats over the Nobel Peace Prize . . . seems some terrorists published a video in Pakistan saying that they’re going to blow up the storting . . . the parliament because of some recent Nobel Peace Prize awards.”
“How nice. Instead of getting fired Nilsen gets a plum job for a botched investigation into the unsolved disappearance of a little boy. I see nothing has changed here.”
“Actually it has . . . Sohlberg.”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“Effective immediately I am appointing you to lead the investigation into the disappearance of Karl Haugen. Sit down! Don’t even think of walking out of this office to call your pals at Interpol. The Politidirektør . . . the National Police Commissioner already called the General Secretary of Interpol. He gladly released you to solve this apparent kidnaping.”
“What?”
“Interpol is assigning you here indefinitely until you solve the case.”
“What?”
“Check your e-mail. You’ll find official Interpol notification. You will also find the Politidirektør’s written assignment officially naming you as the lead on the Karl Haugen case.”
Sohlberg said nothing but felt lightheaded enough to pass out.
“Ain’t it great Sohlberg? You’re back working for me . . . just like in the good old days. The good news is that you can leave Norway as soon as you solve the case. I suggest you work fast and solve the case soon. I’ve heard through the grapevine how much you and your wife love living in Seattle.”
At first Sohlberg thought that he was the target of a prank. Then he thought that Thorsen was testing him to see if he wanted to come back to Norway. Sohlberg felt like vomiting when the reality sank in that this was no joke.
“Come with me Sohlberg and I’ll show you your cubicle down the hallway. I’ve assigned you a recent graduate from the academy . . . a Grade One Politibetjent . . . Police Constable Wenke Wangelin. She pArcticipated in the investigation from the very beginning.”
Sohlberg expected Wangelin to be nothing less than a dumb mediocrity chosen by the dumb mediocrity of Ivar Thorsen. He was surprised when a muscular and good-looking 30-something blonde walked up to him and introduced herself with a very strong handshake.
“Politiførstebetjent . . . Chief Inspector Sohlberg . . . it’s an honor to meet you. I’ve read a lot about you . . . I wrote a term paper in law school on how you solved the Wassenaar murders through new forensic techniques.”
Sohlberg nodded. He rarely came across good-looking people who had intelligence. He liked the fact that she did not call him by his first name. Having lived abroad for so long he had come to intensely dislike how Norwegians used first names at work and overall went too far at work with a fake equality that bordered on the insolent.
After a few more questions Sohlberg knew that Constable Wangelin was intelligent and dedicated. That meant one thing: Ivar Thorsen and his bosses definitely wanted the case solved. In other words Sohlberg was apparently not being set up to fail nor did it appear that he and Wangelin were being thrown together as window-dressing to trick the media and the public into believing that the government was finally serious about solving the case.
“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 perfectly clear Sohlberg that 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 22.7' . . . 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 4,500 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 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 then showed him three secure laptops on a conference table. The computers connected directly to a mainframe at KRIPOS (National Bureau of Crime Investigation).
“Hhhmmm . . . interesting,” said Sohlberg. “I once met Rolf Harry Jahrmann . . . the father of KRIPOS. I also met several of the people who worked for him . . . ja . . . the old E-Group . . . . the Mordkommisjonen . . . the Homicide or Murder 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.”
“Ja. 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. But they’re not needed now. Maybe later.”
“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 actually 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 family . . . and . . . if relevant . . . include the circle of friends or relatives 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.”
Death on Pilot Hill (An Inspector Harald Sohlberg Mystery) Page 6