Death on Pilot Hill (An Inspector Harald Sohlberg Mystery)

by Jens Amundsen

  “Ja Chief Inspector. I’ll look at altasoft dot no and see what they carry. Then I’ll call them to find out if their software can help us.”

  “Good,” said Sohlberg. He started to frown. “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I’m really bothered by Karl’s mother . . . so this Maya Engen woman gave birth to two sons and then she abandons the two boys to her two husbands? . . . Maybe she wanted back what she had so carelessly given away.”

  “That’s a thought . . . we never considered that angle Chief Inspector. Everyone saw her more as a pitiful victim.”

  “Could be she’s a pitiful victim . . . as you call her. It could also be that she arranged for Karl’s kidnaping.”

  “Ja . . . could be.”

  “Alright then . . . after you get the phone and computer records I want you to give me a list of every single one of the friends and family of Karl’s mother . . . of Karl’s father . . . and of Karl’s stepmother . . . who had frequent phone or computer contact with these three people.”

  “The three people closest to Karl Haugen.”

  “Exactly Constable Wangelin.”

  “Chief Inspector . . . I think we’re getting closer to solving this.”

  “Actually we’ll be much closer after the Smiley Face Killer tells us who is his Number One suspect.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Why did they take me? . . . Where’s my Daddy?”

  No answer. He looked but could not see his father at all.

  “Mom!”

  He was hurt and bewildered beyond measure as to why his mother and father had not come for him. Maybe just maybe he was going to have to live without his parents. He remembered the woman who had recently come to visit him. She said:

  “Sometimes we have to do things on our own. Like when we go to school alone without Mommy and Daddy. That’s kind of what you’re doing here right now. . . .”

  No. He would keep waiting for his mother and father. Surely they would come for him.

  Chapter 9/Ni

  HALDEN PRISON, AFTERNOON OF 1 YEAR AND

  24 DAYS AFTER THE DAY, FRIDAY, JUNE 4

  “I think we’re almost at the exit,” said Constable Wangelin excitedly. “Is that it?”

  “Ja!”

  “I can’t believe we’re about to visit the Smiley Face Killer.”

  Sohlberg checked his map one more time and read aloud the instructions on how to get to the maximum security prison. A few minutes later they got off the E-6 at the exit for Highway 21 east to Halden. Less than a mile later they turned left and went north until they reached Road 104 and headed east on Torpumveienen.

  “Are we on the right road?”

  “Ja . . . this is it,” said Sohlberg who felt a stressful tension he had not felt in a long time.

  They turned left to the ironically named Justice Road.

  Despite his growing tension Sohlberg looked forward to visiting Halden Fengsel. He wanted confirmation that his investigation was on the right track.

  Who better than a serial killer and a child predator to let Sohlberg know if he had narrowed down the list of suspects to the most likely culprit?

  Sohlberg desperately wanted to solve the Karl Haugen case and not make any mistakes. His investigation had to be flawless or close to flawless or he would probably never be able to leave Norway and get back to Interpol. But the main motivation in solving the Karl Haugen case was the little boy himself. Innocent. Defenseless. Taken and gone. Whoever took Karl Haugen had so far made no mistakes or at least no discernable mistakes. That meant that Sohlberg could make no mistakes.

  He thought aloud and almost started shouting as a result of his excitement over the true nature of the case:

  “You know Constable Wangelin . . . everything . . . and I mean everything . . . that took place on that Friday was essential . . . critical . . . to the kidnaping of Karl Haugen. It was all so intricate . . . like a Swiss watch filled with dozens of tiny springs and screws and sprockets that all have to work together in perfect harmony and timing.

  “Karl Haugen would never have vanished so easily if any one single event had gone wrong. It’s hard to believe . . . but we’re dealing with a master criminal in a boring suburb of Oslo . . . a criminal genius who put as much work and thought into the kidnaping of Karl Haugen as a Swiss watchmaker does into the best time mechanism.”

  “Ja . . . that’s the word for the abduction . . . intricate.”

  “Now think about this . . . a Swiss watch is intricate . . . but it’s intricate for only one single solitary purpose . . . to accurately tell time . . . the same goes for this kidnaping . . . it was . . . it is so intricate . . . executed with the greatest care and precision . . . and planned months or maybe even years in advance . . . and yet despite its intricacy the entire kidnaping was only for one purpose. . . .”

  “To take Karl Haugen.”

  Sohlberg paused for a long time before he spoke. “Yes 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.”

  “Ja . . . 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 by large murals of inmates wearing prison stripes in humorous situations such as playing volleyball. Ten years and $ 1.5 billion kroner ($ 252 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.”

  “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.”

  “Ja . . . but still. You can murder or rape and then you get to come out here for 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.”

  “Ja,” said Constable Wangelin, “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 shrugged and merely kept saying “What the heck is this place . . . a luxury hotel?” several times after they checked in and wended their way through security checkpoints.

  A deputy warden joined them and 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 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.

  “What the heck is this place . . . a luxury hotel?” said Sohlberg again while he pointed to the stainless-steel counter-tops and wraparound sofas and birch-colored coffee tables that seemed straight out of an Ikea catalogue.

  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 you know? 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?”

  “Ja.”

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

  “Ja,” said Sohlberg. “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 darkened. “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 Lars Eiassen had called him out of the blue with such a question.

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

  “Ja.”

  “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.”

  “Ja. 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.”