by S. J. Gazan
Søren looked at Dr. Bjerregaard for a long time, before he said, “And if it’s none of the above?”
Bjerregaard stood up.
“The deceased lived in excruciating pain and died as a result of this infection. The idea that he was infected accidentally is unpleasant enough in itself. The suggestion that someone infected him deliberately, well, that’s not a thought I would like to pursue. Besides, to my ears it sounds highly implausible. It requires biological competence to extract a proglottid from infected feces, and it would be difficult for a layperson to clean that kind of organic material without destroying it. And even if you were successful, the rest of the plan seems rather far-fetched. It’s regrettable and horrifying that the deceased died under such dramatic circumstances, but I find it hard to see how a crime could have been committed. Very hard.” Bjerregaard’s face made it clear their meeting was over.
“How do you store your material?” Søren persisted. Dr. Bjerregaard flashed an irritated look at Søren before she relented.
“It’s impossible to gain access to material here at the Serum Institute, if that’s what you’re insinuating. That’s self-evident. We store far more dangerous material than tapeworms. HIV, hepatitis C, Ebola, avian flu. And it’s obviously impossible,” she shot Søren a sharp look, “to force entry and steal such material. And if anyone were to succeed, only an expert would know how to treat the material to keep it alive. If someone broke into our basement and nicked a test tube, the contents would die and, consequently, cease to be infectious before the thief was halfway down the street.”
“Are you the only facility that stores live organic material?” Søren wanted to know.
“We store the majority. But, as you may know, there’s the parasitologist, Hanne Moritzen, at the University of Copenhagen. And Professor Moritzen has a substantial supply, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to do her work. But she’s Denmark’s biggest expert, and I can promise you she treats her material with the utmost care. She’ll be awarded a Nobel Prize for her brilliant work in the Third World one day. She would never take safety lightly. Never.”
This declaration concluded the meeting, and Søren and Henrik left the Serum Institute in silence. When they were back in the car, Henrik was about to say something, but Søren stopped him.
“No,” he said. “Just no.”
They drove through the city without speaking. Søren leaned back in his seat and looked out of the window, where trees and houses rushed past. He felt he was on very thin ice.
Back at the station, Søren went to his office and drank three cups of tea. Professor Helland had died from 2,600 parasites in his nerve and muscular tissue, and he had sustained multiple fractures and other injuries. What the hell did it all mean? Before he had time to think it through, he called Mrs. Helland to ask if she was at home. Ten minutes later he was on his way to Herlev. If Professor Helland had been murdered, and this was now a possibility, Søren could no longer ignore the fact that there was a 98 percent probability the killer would be found among family or close friends. Birgit Helland had just gone straight to the top of his list of suspects.
Mrs. Helland offered him a seat in a large, airy room and called down her daughter from the first floor. Both women were red-eyed. Without revealing any details, Søren explained that Helland appeared to have suffered from a tropical infection, and the police were looking for a possible link between the infection and his death. Mrs. Helland’s reaction was a cross between denial and shock. A tropical infection? That’s impossible, she said, over and over. Her husband had never visited the tropics. He had a fear of flying. It had been a source of endless frustration, as the vast majority of bird symposia and conferences were held abroad, and every time he had had to send his young colleague, Erik Tybjerg. He only traveled to places he could reach by train or by car. Nanna sat beside her mother, crying. Mrs. Helland obviously wanted to know more about the tropical infection, but Søren said that at this stage in the investigation, he was unable to provide her with further details. Investigation? Mrs. Helland’s jaw dropped, and Søren explained that while a heart attack was regarded as “natural causes,” they had now learned something that meant yesterday’s conclusion no longer applied. Helland’s death was now being treated as “suspicious,” and this forced him to withhold certain information due to the ongoing investigation.
Mrs. Helland was outraged. “Are you suspecting me? Because if you are, just go on and say so.”
“I’ll do everything I can to find out how and why your husband died,” he said, avoiding her question. “Until then I’m asking you to trust me. Will you do that, please?”
She looked skeptical, but Nanna nodded. Eventually Birgit Helland agreed.
Nanna left to go to the lavatory, and Søren started asking about Professor Helland’s health.
“Lars was in great shape,” his widow protested.
“So, in your view, he was well?”
“Of course, I’ve just said so. Nearly nine years ago Lars had surgery for a brain tumor. It was discovered early, the tumor was removed, and there’s been nothing since. He went for regular checkups. He was in great shape,” she repeated.
“So no signs of illness?”
“No!”
Søren thanked her, got up and left, unable to decide whether Mrs. Helland simply knew nothing about parasites or fractures, or whether she was devious enough to hide it.
When Søren got back to the police station, he called the Natural History Museum and asked to be put through to Erik Tybjerg. The telephone rang for a long time before the switchboard operator informed him Dr. Tybjerg wasn’t in his office, but she would send him an e-mail asking him to call back. Søren sighed.
There was a knock on the door and Sten appeared. Sten was the crime squad’s computer analyst, and since yesterday he had been busy examining Helland’s computer. Søren had barely given the computer a second thought; he had been convinced he wouldn’t have to devote much time to this case. Overcome by sudden guilt, he asked Sten for his verdict.
“Professor Helland’s e-mail account was opened in February 2001,” Sten began. “Approximately 1,500 e-mails are stored on the server, and I’ve been through them all.” He looked drained.
“The vast majority are work-related, apart from those he sent to his wife, Birgit Helland, who works at the Humanities College of the University of Copenhagen, and to his daughter, Nanna. The only interesting thing I discovered was that for the last four years Lars Helland exchanged twenty-two e-mails with a professor of ornithology at the University of British Columbia—a guy named Clive Freeman. Mean anything to you?”
Søren shook his head.
“They disagree about something,” Sten went on, “and they refer repeatedly to each other’s papers in various scientific journals, such as Scientific Today, which I’ve heard of, but also a range of other journals that I haven’t. To begin with, their correspondence is relatively balanced, but it changes in early summer. The tone of their e-mails shows they’re trying to maintain the illusion that they’re fine, honorable scientists engaged in a duel, but it becomes obvious on numerous occasions that Freeman is increasingly cornered and Helland is enjoying it big time. Twice, Freeman actually threatens Helland.” Sten handed Søren a printout with highlighted sentences.
“At the end of June, there is unexplained silence. Nothing in their correspondence up until then indicates why, and even though I did some searching on the Internet, I haven’t been able to find a plausible cause for their sudden ceasefire. However, shortly afterward, on the ninth of July, to be exact, Helland starts receiving anonymous e-mails.” Sten pulled out a new file and extracted a small pile of printouts. “And now the tone is brutal and blunt. Someone is threatening Helland.”
“Did Clive Freeman send them?” Søren asked.
Sten shook his head. “I’m fairly sure he didn’t. The tone is completely different. The person making the threats has only one aim: to scare Helland. The threats consist of one sentence only.”
>
Søren waited.
“‘You will suffer for what you have done.’”
Søren frowned. “Did Helland reply to them?”
Sten nodded. “And he seems to find the threats highly amusing. Perhaps he thinks they’re coming from Professor Freeman and are merely empty threats, or maybe… well, he just doesn’t take them seriously.”
“Sender unknown, you said?”
Sten nodded again. “A Hotmail address. Whoever created it registered themselves as ‘Justicia Sweet.’ Neat, eh? The person who threatened Helland could be anyone.”
Søren buried his face in his hands and groaned.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“There is. I don’t know how important this is, but Helland seems to have unfinished business with another colleague.” Sten narrowed his eyes. “In the ten days leading up to his death, there was a fierce exchange of opinions between the deceased and Johannes Trøjborg.” He paused to let the sentence take effect.
“However, in contrast to the exchange between Helland and Freeman, it was easy to figure out what the problem is. They appear to be cowriting a scientific paper and Johannes Trøjborg expresses dissatisfaction with Helland’s lack of effort. Johannes wants Helland to pull out, so Johannes becomes the sole author of the paper, and Helland is refusing.”
Søren nodded, and Sten carried on.
“There’s more. I only started noticing it in the e-mails Helland sent over the last five to six weeks. He became very careless. His e-mails are littered with typos, and those sent in the last three to four weeks are practically illegible. Have a look at this.” Sten handed Søren a printout which read:
I ca’nt elph yu bcase we d’nt argee. Soory, se yo tmorrrow at mu office a 10 a..m as arrrnged. L.
“You wouldn’t call that standard spelling, would you?” Søren remarked, and then he realized the obvious.
“Sten,” he exclaimed and looked utterly revolted. “Helland’s brain was teeming with parasites. No wonder he couldn’t type.”
When Sten had left, Søren called Professor Moritzen again to insist on a meeting. She was still in her cottage, she protested. Søren checked his watch, asked her for the address, and told her he would be there as quickly as the highway traffic would allow him. Reluctantly, she agreed.
Then he called Johannes Trøjborg. Søren’s intuition told him that the account given by the transparent Johannes was genuine. Still, he wanted Johannes to explain why he hadn’t mentioned his disagreement with Helland. The telephone rang repeatedly, but no one answered.
Søren found Professor Moritzen’s cottage, with great difficulty, in a resort at Hald Beach. It was a small, well-maintained cottage on a huge plot, like a building block on a football field. The cottage consisted of a single airy and sparsely furnished room, with a few Japanese-inspired objects placed directly on the floor. Hanne Moritzen served an almost white but surprisingly strong tea in Japanese cups and offered Søren something he thought was chocolate, but it turned out to be a foul-tasting Japanese concoction. She laughed when she saw the look on his face.
She’s not a happy woman, Søren thought instinctively, and felt sad. Anna Bella Nor wasn’t exactly a picture of happiness, either, but she had her rage, and rage, at least, sparked life. Hanne Moritzen had given up, and her defeat had left permanent traces in her dull silver eyes. However, she was articulate, precise, and far more accommodating than Søren had expected after their telephone conversation. She was wearing soft clothes, and her hair was loosely gathered in a ponytail.
Søren tried to explain the situation as best he could. He passed on Dr. Bjerregaard’s best wishes, though she hadn’t asked him to. Hanne Moritzen went pale when Søren summarized the autopsy and mentioned the 2,600 cysticerci, and he noticed how her eyes flickered and her hands trembled slightly before she regained her composure. Søren asked to use the bathroom and when he came back, she had calmed down and gave, without prompting, her opinion on the matter. She was adamant Professor Helland couldn’t have been infected at work accidentally.
“He was a vertebrate morphologist,” she said, as if that explained everything, and then she added: “He hasn’t been in contact with parasites in the course of his work since the obligatory introduction to parasitology at the start of his degree in the 1970s. It’s a highly specialized field, and Lars Helland went completely in the opposite direction. Parasitology and vertebrate morphology are about as far removed from each other as psychiatry and orthopedic surgery.”
In the next half hour Professor Moritzen confirmed all of Dr. Bjerregaard’s hypotheses.
“The last registered case of cysticercosis in Denmark was in 1997,” she informed him. “The patient, a twenty-eight-year-old male, presented with violent skin symptoms after a lengthy stay in Mexico. We soon located nine cysticerci in his subcutaneous tissue and all were surgically removed. And do you know how he was infected? He got caught up between two gangs of boys hurling mud at each other, and the mud hit his mouth. It sounds very unlikely, but it was the only explanation we could come up with. There are plenty of other parasites that are easy for people from Western Europe to pick up, parasites that infect you directly through your skin, through food and drinking water, from unhygienic toilets or sexual transmission. But an actual cysticercus infection is rare, if hygiene levels are generally high. If we’re talking about the tapeworm itself, well, of course, that’s another matter. Raw or undercooked meat is a constant source of infection, and the human penchant for raw meat is, for some inexplicable reason, considerable.”
“So, in your opinion, a natural infection is unlikely?”
“No,” Professor Moritzen said. “A natural infection is the only explanation that is even vaguely possible, but it still remains highly improbable. I just don’t buy that Helland had an accident in his lab.”
“Why not?”
“Because he had no contact with parasites,” she said, emphatically. “There is no living material in his department.”
“Might he have become infected during a visit to the department of parasitology?”
“In theory, yes, but it’s unlikely.”
“Why?”
Professor Moritzen looked directly at Søren.
“Because I’m the head of that department, and I know who comes and goes, what leaves the department, who with, and why. It’s a legal requirement.”
“Dr. Bjerregaard estimated that Helland became infected three to four months ago,” Søren stated, and looked back at her.
“That, too, sounds highly improbable,” she said, locking eyes with him.
“Why?”
“Because it seems very unlikely that anyone could live in that state for several months. Have you ever pricked yourself on a cactus?” she asked. Søren shook his head.
“Its spikes are thin and transparent but scalpel-sharp and they dig deep into the palm of your hand. After just a few hours, they cause irritation and in only a few days each cut turns into an infected abscess. Imagine the same thing occurring in vital tissue. It’s unrealistic, don’t you see?”
Søren nodded.
“But maybe Helland’s an exception?” she suggested. At first, Søren thought she must be joking, but her silver eyes looked gravely at him.
“Perhaps the locations of the cysticerci were such that he could still function? We know from brain tumors that it’s a question of where the pressure is. Some people collapse when the tumor’s the size of a raisin, others are fine until it’s the size of an egg.” She shrugged.
“This has really shocked you,” Søren said, scrutinizing her. “You’re trying to hide it, but I can sense it.”
“Death is shocking,” Hanne Moritzen replied in a neutral voice. “And I, more than anyone, can appreciate the hell he must have been living in, if Dr. Bjerregaard’s time line is right. Of course I’m shocked at such an unpleasant death, and of course I want to know how it could have happened. I’m also sorry for his daughter. It’s hard to live without your father.” She flashed S�
�ren a look of defiance.
“So you didn’t know Lars Helland personally?”
“No,” she replied. “He taught ‘Form and Function’ in the second term when I was a student. He was a good teacher. When I started working in the same building as him, we would run into each other from time to time and we would say hello. That’s all.”
“Are you married? Do you have children?” Søren asked.
“Excuse me, how is that relevant?”
He just stared at her and repeated his question.
“No, I’ve never been married, and I have no children,” she then said. “Getting to this level in my profession requires many sacrifices.”
Søren nodded. “Do you know if Professor Helland had any enemies?”
Hanne Moritzen laughed a hollow laugh, but didn’t look even vaguely amused.
“Of course he had enemies. Professor Helland was a brilliantly gifted man who was never afraid to take center stage. If the rumors are to be believed, he drove his closest colleagues to the brink of madness. That’s a recipe for making enemies, some might say. People who court controversy are often hated. Like I said, I barely knew him, but I instinctively liked him. He had drive, and he entered the arena of academic debate with all guns blazing—it made him a real asset to the faculty. For example, for years he has been at the forefront of a completely ridiculous and—allegedly—scientific row about the origin of birds. It provided the faculty with loads of press coverage even though, in my opinion, it’s a total waste of column inches.”
“Why?”
“Because birds are dinosaurs. The end. Kids can read that on the back of cereal boxes. When Anna told me it was the subject of her dissertation and she would be spending a year or more explaining Helland and Tybjerg’s storm in a teacup, I was outraged. That dissertation will do nothing for her career, and I tried telling her that. It’s much ado about nothing, if you ask me. That Canadian, whom Tybjerg and Helland are squandering their grants doing battle with, is a fool, and—”