“Oh . . . did you think Fru Haugen that I was referring to your red Audi sports car? . . . No. I was referring to your husband’s white pickup . . . which you drove to Grindbakken Skole . . . Pilot Hill elementary school . . . with Karl the day that he disappeared.”
“I rarely drive that car.”
“The neighbors at the farm saw you . . . a redhead with long hair . . . driving your husband’s white pickup truck.”
“My husband must have taken another woman up there with him.”
“I doubt it.”
“He’s no saint.”
“Are you Fru Haugen?”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m letting you know the facts . . . the evidence . . . you drove the white pickup truck to the farm.”
“Have you considered my husband?”
“Ja . . . but he was traveling with another Nokia executive in rather distant locations. Now I’d like you to tell me why someone other than you would take your cell phone up to a farm owned by your husband’s grandfather?”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“Did you know Fru Haugen that several neighbors also remember seeing your red Audi sports car up there several times in the months of April and May of last year?”
“I lend my car out quite a lot.”
“Who got your loaner car on May third of last year?”
“I don’t remember. . . like I said . . . I lend my car a lot.”
Constable Wangelin threw Sohlberg a look that said, “You see! I told you that the Haugens make the unnatural seem normal.”
“Fru Haugen . . . why would someone take your car up to a farm owned by your husband’s grandfather?”
“I don’t know. . . .”
Sohlberg leaned forward as if he was actually throwing her such a difficult curve ball that she would not be able to return his volley. He said:
“How did your stepson’s lunch box wind up buried in the farm that once belonged to your husband’s grandfather?”
Sohlberg would later write down in his final report to the prosecutor that a smile briefly crossed Agnes Haugen’s face when he told her about the lunch box. During the interview however Sohlberg was not sure if she had indeed smiled.
After a long pause Agnes Haugen said:
“That’s a good question.”
Agnes Haugen’s brilliant response left Sohlberg dumbfounded. He had rarely met a suspect who could make such unresponsive and evasive answers to his questions while at the same time leading him on to other suspects. Sohlberg fell back on his time-tested question of ‘Why?’
“Fru Haugen . . . why is it a good question?”
Another long pause. “Because the farm is where my husband and his brother were raped by their grandfather.”
Sohlberg let out a short and silent sigh. She had finally opened and walked through the door to incriminate her husband. “So you think that is linked to your stepson’s disappearance?”
“You could say so.”
He admired her sly response . He offered her another door to further implicate her husband. “Actually . . . Fru Haugen . . . he was not their real grandfather . . . right?”
“Ja.”
“Your husband and his brother were adopted . . . were they not . . . after being abandoned by their birth parents?”
“Ja.”
“Abandoned . . . thrown away like garbage by the birth parents . . . and then abandoned a second time by their adoptive parents . . . who left them in the hands of the predator grandfather. Abandonment . . . that’s life for the adopted.”
“Ja . . . I know it first-hand because I too was adopted.”
“So . . . Fru Haugen . . . do you think that your husband or his brother or both of them took and killed your stepson Karl because your husband or his brother were abandoned and molested?”
“You could say that. I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I . . . I’m not qualified . . . am I? . . . I’m not a detective. I’m not a shrink. I studied to be a teacher . . . not a psychologist or a psychiatrist . . . or a detective like you.”
Sohlberg’s had never felt as frustrated by a suspect’s answers. It was time to throw her another curve ball to keep her off balance. He shrugged and said:
“Ja . . . Fru Haugen . . . you are not trained as a psychologist . . . psychiatrist . . . or detective. But you are trained as a teacher. Is that why you taught Karl Haugen sign language?”
For the second time Sohlberg saw a dark and sharp look of worry or anger cross the soft almost chubby peaches-and-cream complected face of Agnes Haugen.
Her silence triggered another Sohlberg inquiry. “Fru Haugen . . . why did you teach sign language to a boy who was not deaf or hearing impaired?”
“My husband and I thought it would be a good learning experience that would prepare Karl for school . . . and increase his learning capacity. Some parents have their children learn music at an early age for the same reasons. We just happened to pick sign language.”
Sohlberg had finally caught her in a lie. Gunnar Haugen and everyone else had e-mails and other documents showing that Agnes Haugen was the only person who had decided to teach sign language to Karl. The lie would be useful in a prosecution. Therefore Sohlberg did not ask the follow-up question that he desperately wanted to ask Agnes Haugen as to whether she had in fact taught sign language to her stepson so that they could communicate in secret without anyone else knowing what she was telling the boy.
Sohlberg stared at Agnes Haugen. He switched his line of questioning back to the timeline to keep her off balance. “Fru Haugen . . . let’s go back to the timeline for your whereabouts on June fourth. . . . Exactly where did you go from twelve-twenty when you left the gym to two o’clock when your husband saw you in the house after he came back from buying his lunch?”
“From twelve-twenty to two o’clock? . . . I’m sure that I was driving around . . . trying to get my baby to sleep.”
The clever evasion irked Sohlberg. “You’re sure you were driving around? . . . I need you to be more than sure.”
“That’s the best I can do.”
The double meaning was not lost on Sohlberg who frowned and said:
“Fru Haugen . . . where did you drive around?”
“I don’t remember. It was all a blur that day. I just drove around to calm down my baby daughter.”
“Your husband says that he’s never ever seen you driving around to calm the baby or get the baby to sleep.”
“He doesn’t know much . . . he’s too busy . . . too wrapped up in his work to notice these things at home. He manages a large department at Nokia. . . . By the way . . . have you asked my husband where he was at that time?”
“We have . . . it turns out that several closed circuit cameras caught him not just buying his lunch that day but also driving to and from the store.”
“I’m sure Detective that you will find plenty of video evidence that will show exactly where I was during those one-and-a-half hours if you work hard at it . . . and treat me just like my husband.”
“Rest assured I will . . . but first you must tell me where you went around driving . . . did you go to downtown Oslo? . . . Or downtown Lillehammer? . . . Did you drive in the city or a small town . . . or into a rural area . . . maybe Lake Bogstad?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Maybe you drove north to Trondheim?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or down south towards Copenhagen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or did you drive out to Stockholm?”
“I don’t know.”
“Alright. But don’t say that I didn’t try to help you Fru Haugen.”
“How? . . . How would you help me?”
“I gave you a chance . . . to give me the information that would send your husband to prison. But you decided to play coy with me. You thought I’d come running after your lies and half-truths if you dangled some sma
ll piece of information in front of me. Big mistake.”
“Big nothing. . . . I saw that you Mister Big Detective had already made up your mind. There was nothing I could say. I know your type. You’re the kind of man that makes people lie . . . you ask questions that you know will get lies for answers.”
“You should’ve tried telling the truth for once Fru Haugen.”
“I know men like you . . . you manipulate women with your questions . . . your innuendos.”
“You have anything else to say?”
“No. Not to you. Ever.”
“Fine. Stand up Fru Haugen. You are under arrest. Constable Wangelin . . . please handcuff her.”
Three hours later at 12 Hammersborggata Chief Inspector Sohlberg and Constable Wangelin sat down in an interview room with a much more subdued Agnes Haugen.
Like most middle class suspects Agnes Haugen had been humbled if not humiliated by the fingerprinting and the mug shots and the obligatory strip search and the regulation jumpsuit. At Sohlberg’s instructions the guards kept him informed of all of the abuse and insults and taunts and threats of hardened ex-con female prisoners who wanted a piece of the woman arrested for kidnaping the little boy Karl Haugen.
Sohlberg studied Agnes Haugen as gently and carefully as a man inspects a rattlesnake at close range.
“What do you want?” said Agnes Haugen with contempt. “I told you Mister Detective that I would never tell you anything about the case. Never. I want my lawyer.”
“Fru Haugen . . . I’m not here to ask you questions or listen to you. You are here to listen and listen good to what I’m going to say.”
“I want my lawyer.”
“He’s on his way. But first you will hear me out.”
Agnes Haugen crossed her arms and hummed a ditty.
“Fru Haugen . . . you made several mistakes . . . mistakes that will defeat your ultimate plan of framing your husband for your criminal acts . . . which include the kidnaping and murder of Karl Haugen.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Maybe. But you brilliantly planned the kidnaping and murder of that innocent little boy months if not years in advance. Your problem was choosing the wrong accomplice.”
Chapter 15/Femten
INTERROGATION OF OLAV TVIET AND
INTERROGATION OF DANICA KNUTSEN,
AFTERNOON OF 1 YEAR AND 28 DAYS
AFTER THE DAY, FRIDAY, JUNE 4
Everyone on the top floor of 12 Hammersborggata felt the frenzied activity that was typical of a major case drawing to a close. Sohlberg sent out five teams of two detectives each to gather evidence at the Haugen residence and the school and the condominium of Danica Knutsen. A harried and exhausted Wangelin coordinated the incoming and outgoing telephone calls and text messages. A secretary ordered sandwiches and beer.
“Ah . . . perfect,” said Sohlberg as he picked up four egg salad sandwiches from a tray of gargantuan open-faced sandwiches that older Norwegians favor. “I miss these sandwiches. I can’t think of many other countries where they make open-faced sandwiches. Aren’t you having any?”
Wangelin smiled and shook her head. “I’m having a salad.”
Sohlberg felt old and old-fashioned upon realizing that Wangelin and the younger detectives had ordered salad bowls from a nearby health food store. “Ja. I should’ve had a salad like you.”
Sohlberg and Wangelin ate together in silence in his cubicle office. He devoured his four sandwiches in less than 10 minutes but he did not touch the beer.
Wangelin twice started to say something but she immediately stopped herself. Sohlberg felt that she wanted to ask him why he never drank any alcohol which state of affairs was an oddity for a senior detective. Or perhaps she wanted to warn him of the increased risk of heart attack from his four egg salad sandwiches. Either way Sohlberg felt more than ever like the proverbial odd fish out of water in his own country. He looked forward to returning to America with Fru Sohlberg.
A few minutes after two o’clock Sohlberg and Wangelin took the elevator down to the third floor to interview 43-year-old Olav Tveit. The man had called headquarters the day before and insisted on speaking with the detective in charge of the Karl Haugen case.
Unlike other detectives who ignored or turned away potential witnesses Sohlberg was always accessible to talk with anyone who wanted to discuss a case with him. Of course this led to many bizarre interviews with unhinged citizens who claimed to be psychics or that aliens from outer space had committed certain crimes. Sohlberg had nevertheless gleaned many valuable tips and evidence from walk-in interviews.
The modestly dressed man shambled into the room with a defeated and sad air. He reminded Sohlberg of drastically diminished men who retain the smidgen of dignity that is just enough to avoid suicide or a murderous rampage. Wangelin made the obligatory introductions and legal statements after turning on the video and microphones.
“I’m here,” said Olav Tveit, “because I should have told you . . . about some information . . . I had it a year ago when you people were investigating the Karl Haugen case. I don’t know why I withheld it . . . I was unemployed . . . depressed . . . I wasn’t thinking straight . . . I needed time to think about everything that had happened.”
“What information?” said Sohlberg. He tried not to sound too excited about the proffered information.
“I dated Danica Knutsen for three years . . . we met at the gym . . . she used to be full of energy . . . she was mostly vegetarian and ran marathons and used to compete in iron-man contests with fifty miles of swimming and running and bicycling.
“She was smart . . . full of curiosity about the world . . . and very very honest. But about eighteen or maybe nineteen months ago . . . her personality completely changed after she lost her job as a receptionist at a downtown law firm.
“She bragged that she’d get a job in two weeks . . . of course that never happened. I mean . . . who over age forty finds a good job in today’s economy? . . . After three weeks she went on unemployment . . . she grew obsessed over finding ways to get the most welfare benefits . . . she soon refused to leave her apartment . . . or look for a job . . . or keep her diet . . . or do any exercise.”
Although Wangelin appeared bored Sohlberg certainly was not. The information fit perfectly with the background check on Danica Knutsen and the resulting psychological profile that Sohlberg had drawn up for the woman that he felt was the key to solving the case. Sohlberg nodded and said:
“Would it be fair to say that she was depressed?”
“Ja! . . . By all means. She started making poor decisions.”
“Like what?” said Sohlberg who moved closer to the edge of his seat.
“She quit taking classes at a cooking school . . . she was preparing for a new career. I joined the same school after I lost my reporter job in a round of layoffs at Aftenposten about the same time that she lost her job.
“We needed to get new careers that would pay decent salaries. I was stunned when she quit. I reminded her that the school guaranteed placement at a good job . . . I begged her to come back to school but she would not.”
Sohlberg felt sympathy for the man before him. He wondered what he would do if he was unemployed and struggling to find a new career. A chill went down Sohlberg’s spine — he realized that he could never work at anything other than as a police detective.
“Thank you Herr Tveit,” said Sohlberg with genuine gratitude, “for sharing this information. . . . Every detail no matter how seemingly trivial is important. Anything else?”
“Danica seemed obsessed with living in extremes . . . she went from a strict vegetarian to round-the-clock overeating on ice cream and cakes. . . . She used to exercise all day long and spend a lot of time running marathons and then suddenly she does nothing all day long except sit in front of the television for weeks and weeks. . . . Or she’d get involved in projects that only wasted her time and energy . . . projects that would never help her find a new job or get a new career started.
“She then decided she’d become an organic gardener even though she doesn’t own any land and has no funds to rent or buy any land on which to grow organic produce. . . . She refused to get any old job to pay me back my loans . . . instead she took this unpaid internship . . . it required her to work more than forty hours a week at an organic farm . . . the internship was basically unpaid slave labor at the organic farm.”
Death on Pilot Hill (An Inspector Harald Sohlberg Mystery) Page 23