The Dinosaur Feather

by S. J. Gazan

  “And Dr. Tybjerg isn’t one of those?”

  “No,” Fjeldberg asserted with a forceful smile. “He isn’t.”

  “Do you know Anna Bella Nor from Helland’s department?”

  “Yes. Well, that’s to say, I know she’s his postgraduate student.”

  Søren nodded. “And Tybjerg’s. According to Anna Bella, he’s her external supervisor, so he must have some teaching skills?”

  Fjeldberg looked genuinely surprised. “Tybjerg? That sounds like a rather suspect arrangement between Helland and Tybjerg. According to university rules you cannot supervise a postgraduate student unless you have tenure. But you know…” he suddenly looked reflective. “There has been a lot of belt-tightening here these last few years. The government has cut our grants to the point where it’s beyond a joke. At times we are forced to bend the rules to keep the wheels turning. Don’t quote me on that,” he added quickly.

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t know how things are done here,” Fjeldberg sighed. “And I don’t want to make waves. In three years I’ll become an emeritus professor, and I’ve got my retirement all planned. A cottage, some grandchildren, a happy old age.”

  “Okay,” Søren said. “Off the record. You have my word.”

  Fjeldberg looked relieved. “I think Helland helped Tybjerg on the quiet. He probably had his reasons, but that’s none of my business. Personally, I would never have picked someone like Tybjerg for my successor; I would have chosen a candidate likely to have a future with the university. Dr. Tybjerg will never get tenure here,” Fjeldberg said again, and then he laughed. “He might be an expert, but he’s also a misfit and since our system barely tolerates experts, it certainly won’t accommodate experts who are misfits. Impossible.”

  He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I’ll have to end our meeting. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Søren shook his head.

  “I’ll call you if there is. Thanks for your help so far.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Professor Fjeldberg rose and unlocked the door to the museum with a key attached to a snap hook in his trousers. Søren remembered something.

  “Excuse me, Professor Fjeldberg!”

  The old man turned around.

  “What did you think he said to you, back then?” Søren asked.

  Fjeldberg looked momentarily thrown.

  “Dr. Tybjerg,” Søren explained. “What was it you thought you heard him say when you bumped into him that Christmas?”

  Fjeldberg’s face lit up. “Ah… well, I’m almost certain that he said, ‘This is my home.’” Fjeldberg looked wistful and shrugged. Then he was gone.

  When Søren parked his car under Bellahøj police station twenty minutes later than his usual arrival time, the sun had risen fully and the sky retained only a faint hint of pink. Linda was already there, and he could smell coffee.

  “There are pastries, if you want some,” she said, pointing to a plate on her desk.

  “Any news regarding Johannes Trøjborg?” Søren asked, prodding one of the pastries.

  “No,” Linda replied. “I called him several times, yesterday and this morning.” She showed him a list. “But it goes straight to voice mail.”

  Søren pursed his lips and said: “Please would you get Henrik for me? If he’s not busy, we’ll go to Johannes Trøjborg’s home in half an hour. I’ve got to speak to him.”

  Linda nodded.

  “And Dr. Tybjerg?” Søren asked, feeling weary now.

  “No luck there either,” Linda said. “Answering machine at the university, no reply to e-mails, and when I tried his cell I got a recorded message telling me the number was no longer in service.”

  “Oh,” Søren said, raising his eyebrows. “Didn’t it go to voice mail when you called it the other day?”

  “Yes, it did,” Linda confirmed, “and when I called the telephone company, they informed me that Dr. Tybjerg’s cell had been disconnected because he hadn’t paid his bills. They had sent three reminders.”

  Søren nodded and turned to enter his office.

  “I nearly had an argument with them,” Linda added. “Imagine, they cut off his cell because he owed them 209 kroner. Petty, don’t you think?”

  “Rules are rules,” Søren said.

  “Yes, but even so. Such a tiny amount. I think that’s mean.”

  “Just as well you work for the police and not for the telephone company, then. Your generosity would soon bankrupt them.” He had an idea and looked at Linda. “Tell me, did we ever check his address with the National Register of Persons?”

  “You mean: did I ever check it?” She sent him a teasing look. “I did. It’s twenty-six Mågevej, second floor apartment in northwest Copenhagen.”

  “Thank you,” Søren said and went into his office. A moment later he stuck his head around the door.

  “I think I’ll take a rain check on the pastries,” he said. He was starting to see parasites everywhere.

  Less than thirty minutes later there was a knock on his door and Sten appeared.

  “Am I interrupting you?”

  “No, come in.”

  Sten closed the door behind him. “I’ve finally ploughed through Johannes Trøjborg’s e-mails. There was a lot of them.” Sten took a seat opposite Søren’s desk.

  “We already knew he was fighting with Helland from Helland’s computer, but…” Sten flicked through a pile of papers. “Yeah, here it is. It would appear that Lars Helland wasn’t the only person at the Department of Cell Biology and Comparative Zoology to receive mysterious e-mails.”

  Søren leaned forward, intrigued now.

  “Someone calling himself YourGuy sent three e-mails to Johannes in the last four weeks.” Sten read aloud from a sheet:

  “I want to see you again. Don’t you get it? Call me! And the next one: I’m crazy about you. I’m beside myself with desire because of what you let me do to you. Call me!” Søren and Sten exchanged knowing glances. Sten read on:

  “Hi, Jo. I crossed a line the other day. Sorry. I lost the plot because you’re so gorgeous. I’ve tried getting hold of you all week, but you won’t come to the door or take my calls. I respect you don’t want to, but can we talk, please?” Sten lowered the sheet.

  Søren drummed his fingers on the table and looked out of the window.

  “What can I say,” he said eventually. “Some kind of gay fling?”

  “Take a look at this,” Sten said as if he hadn’t heard Søren and handed him a printout of a photograph. It showed an androgynous person, which Søren took to be a man due to the flatness of the chest underneath the corset. The hair was scraped back in oily furrows, the clothes were tight-fitting black leather, and he wore fishnet stockings. The lips were painted scarlet and the lipstick was smeared on one side, as if the lips were bleeding or had just been kissed. The eye makeup was theatrical. Thick lines of kohl and a decorative spider’s web spread its silvery threads toward the left temple.

  “Who’s that?” Søren asked.

  “I’m convinced it’s Johannes,” Sten replied. And now Søren could see it too. In a flash, Johannes’s features grew visible behind the make-up. Søren gasped.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said.

  “Johannes is a goth,” Sten explained.

  “A goth?” Søren frowned.

  “It’s a subculture. I read about it on the Internet. Men and women worshiping the darkness and dressing up as everything from Count Dracula to dominatrixes in leather corsets. They love black-and-white makeup, and they have tons of piercings. The photo is from the Red Mask, which appears to be the most active goth club in Copenhagen. The club is open the first Friday of every month, and as far as I can see, its fame extends beyond Denmark. Photos are always published on the club’s website. The caption below the photo simply says ‘3rd September 2007.’ That’s why I thought it had to be him.” Sten smiled wryly before he continued: “Elsewhere on the website he calls himself Orlando, but his alias doesn
’t appear to be an attempt to disguise his identity, more like a part of the game that goths appear to be playing. Seriously!” he added, when he saw the skeptical expression on Søren’s face. “They act out Count Dracula parties. It seems rather appealing. A club that practices tolerance, acceptance, and community. The goth scene, as far as I’ve been able to establish, appears to be a reaction to 1980s punk. Punks must have a particular look and share the same views. The goths have no time for that. No code, no core, no truth. That’s their slogan. The unique, personal expression is everything.”

  “Is it a gay club?” Søren asked.

  “No. Like I said: no code, no rules,” Sten said. “Gays are welcome as are straight people. Many people show up in normal clothes and never reveal which team they play for.”

  “No sex?” Søren asked.

  “No, no sex. That’s probably why nobody bothers to disguise their identity. Johannes isn’t the only one whose name is published. All that’s kept secret is where events take place. If you want to take part, you sign up to a text message list. You get a text informing you when the next event is taking place, a few hours before doors open. The venue changes every time. Probably to avoid interfering neo-Nazis and other troublemakers.” Sten shrugged.

  “I don’t get the impression that anything shady happens there,” he went on. “We’re talking about a group of adults with a penchant for horror, thrills, and darkness; who like to dress up. However, there are many overlappers on the goth scene.”

  “Overlappers?”

  “People who are part of the goth culture and also active on the fetish scene, and let me tell you something. The goth scene may be open, but the fetish scene is hermetically sealed, like a frightened oyster. That club is called Inkognito. The same people are behind the monthly club events, but strict rules govern fetish arrangements. There’s a total ban on pictures. Fetishists are usually older than people from the goth scene and typically more established with families and senior executive jobs, so consequently they’re more protective of their privacy. The fundamental difference between the goth and fetish scenes is obviously sex. Fetish events take place in dark rooms where people can enjoy themselves anonymously. The sexual activities are fairly hard-core. You can be spanked, have clamps attached to your nipples, be suspended from the wall by pulleys and weights, there’s Japanese bondage and things I had—obviously—never heard of until I read about it on the net late last night.” Sten grinned at Søren. “But anyway, everyone’s anonymous, even when they’re having sex. You find a partner and do your thing. Johannes received several e-mails announcing fetish events, so I believe there’s a good chance he was active on both scenes. I imagine Orlando met YourGuy at an event in one of the two clubs and has now gone missing because he’s hiding from YourGuy. He sounds creepy to me,” Sten added, snapping his fingers against the printouts.

  Søren pondered this. “And you don’t think YourGuy is just suffering from a regular crush and his tone is a bit rough because people on that scene talk to each other like that?”

  Sten nodded. “You may be right, but what really got me thinking is that YourGuy’s address is anonymous, or fictitious. He lists it as ‘Donald Duck, 2200 Ducktown.’ You can do that with free e-mail accounts. You can create an anonymous address, just like the person who e-mailed threats to Helland, and you can call yourself anything, Donald Duck or Bill Clinton, and if you also use an Internet café, well, then you’re completely untraceable. The account was created on the eighth of September this year, and only three e-mails were ever sent from it: on the twelfth and the sixteenth of September, and four days ago, on the seventh of October. Of course I’ve spoken to the owner of the Internet café, whose server I’ve traced the e-mails to, but he just laughed when he heard my request. The café has twenty computers spread across three small rooms and has approximately two hundred users per day. They’ve no idea who comes and goes, so anyone could have written those e-mails. All we can be sure about is that he definitely didn’t want to be identified, but why be secretive if it’s just a regular crush?”

  Søren nodded slowly.

  “Why do you think that Johannes is gay? You’ve suggested this a couple of times.” Sten wanted to know.

  “It hasn’t been confirmed yet. I think he might be, but Anna Bella Nor says he isn’t. Why?”

  Sten looked pensive. “I googled Orlando. It’s the name of the central character in a novel by Virginia Woolf, written in 1928. Orlando is a young man who lives for four hundred years and is transformed into a woman along the way…”

  “And?” Søren looked at Sten.

  “I don’t think Johannes is gay at all,” Sten replied. “Members post comments after parties on the homepage of the Red Mask. Johannes is clearly a big hit among the women, and he flirts so much the temperature rises in cyberspace. I think he’s experimenting with his feminine sides, and we’re sufficiently ignorant to confuse it with homosexuality.”

  There was a knock on the door. Sten rose and Henrik entered.

  “I think we’re done, anyway,” Sten said and nodded to Henrik. He stopped on his way out.

  “Good luck with your shiny new clue,” he said, shaking his head as he left.

  Søren banged his forehead against the desk.

  “Er, what’s going on?” Henrik asked him. He stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking like a tough guy.

  “I’ve lost my touch,” Søren groaned into his blotting pad.

  They left the station and Søren drove down Frederikssundvej.

  “Why didn’t you take Borups Allé? I thought we were going to Vesterbro?”

  “There’s something we need to check out first,” Søren replied. “Johannes Trøjborg isn’t our only missing person. Dr. Tybjerg hasn’t responded to telephone calls, to e-mails, or even the friendly note I left on his desk. He lives on Mågevej, so I thought we might drop in on the way.” They drove on in silence.

  Søren and Henrik had been buddies since the police academy. During the short drive from Bellahøj to Mågevej, it struck Søren that they might have drifted apart. Henrik usually sat in the passenger seat, ranting about his family. He would tell anecdotes about his motorbike and trips he had taken on it. Or he would moan about women or football, or how he was thinking of taking English lessons because his kids were so good at English now they took the piss out of his pronunciation. When Søren turned into Mågevej and found an empty parking space in front of number twenty-six, he was acutely aware of how long it was since Henrik’s tirades had stopped.

  Søren let the key dangle in the ignition. He had never told Henrik about Maja. What if Henrik wanted to know more? Søren couldn’t bear to talk about it, so he hadn’t said anything. He had not told a living soul. He was alone with his grief, and now it had become encapsulated like a glass splinter.

  “Fuck, my head hurts,” Henrik exclaimed. He flexed one foot impatiently.

  “Did you go out last night?” Søren asked.

  “Yes, I met someone…” he began, but then he stopped, as if he had already said too much. “We had a few beers, you know.”

  “What, you and Lau?” Søren asked. Lau Madsen was a mutual friend and colleague.

  Henrik grinned sheepishly.

  “No, it… oh, fuck it. I’ve screwed up. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

  Søren stayed put, his hands on the steering wheel.

  “So how about it?” Henrik snapped. “I thought we were looking for that Tybjerg guy, or what?”

  Søren wasn’t listening. “I know why you’ve become so secretive,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”

  “What are you talking about?” Henrik asked.

  Søren’s voice thickened and he stared at his hands. “I’m apologizing to you. I know you can’t be friends with someone who never gives you anything back.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  Henrik watched him. Søren could feel his eyes boring into him.

  “Why don’t we do this some other time?” Henrik said. “
I’ve had enough. And that’s putting it mildly. Let’s go.”

  Henrik got out of the car and went to the front door to read the names of the residents. Søren observed him through the windscreen. An uncomfortable feeling of anxiety fluttered inside his chest.

  “His name’s not here,” Henrik stated when Søren joined him. “There’s no Erik Tybjerg on the list. Are you sure it’s number twenty-six?”

  Søren stood next to Henrik and they noticed it at the same time. Someone had stuck a white label on top of the original name for the second floor apartment. It read K. Lindberg. Søren peeled away a corner and, as expected, the name underneath read: Tybjerg.

  Before Søren had time to think, Henrik had rung the doorbell. They both straightened up and waited for someone to answer.

  “He’s bound to be at work,” Henrik said, checking his watch. At that moment, a man came walking down the street with two heavy shopping bags. Henrik and Søren were both thinking the same thing—that this must be the tenant—when the man stopped and faced them.