The Dinosaur Feather

by S. J. Gazan

  “Where are you?” Jens was sounding genuinely shocked now.

  “On a train between Odense and Copenhagen,” Anna sighed. Silence followed.

  “Where’s Lily?”

  “I abandoned her in an orphanage and made a break for it. What do you take me for? She’s asleep next to me.”

  “What were you doing in Odense?” The fear in Jens’s voice was so obvious that Anna mellowed a little.

  “Silly Daddy,” she said. “We went to Odense to visit Ulla Bodelsen. My health visitor. Who helped you all the times Mom was in hospital. You want to know why I’m angry? I can’t explain because I don’t know, either. But you do.” She exhaled.

  “My birth certificate,” she suddenly remembered. “The date I was named is almost eleven months after the day I was born. It’s not true you named me as late as you’ve always maintained, is it? You changed my name. Why?” The latter came out as a not very quiet roar. Lily jerked, and a man wearing earphones turned and gave Anna a look.

  There was total silence down the other end.

  “Anna,” Jens pleaded. “We need to talk. I can explain.”

  Anna held out her cell and scowled at it. Then she remembered that the World’s Most Irritating Detective had told her to control herself. She put the phone back to her ear.

  “Anna,” Jens called out. “Anna?”

  “I’m here,” she said tonelessly.

  “Cecilie can’t know about this,” he whispered. “Promise me you won’t mention this. I can explain. It would destroy her completely.”

  “Dad,” she said patiently, “if the truth will destroy her, she’ll have to be destroyed. It’s over.” She hung up. Her cell phone rang immediately. Jens’s name came up on the display. She switched the phone to silent and stared at it. He called eight times before he gave up. He left no messages. Anna leaned back and tried to look out into the dark night, but all she saw was her own reflection. She looked tired, but not angry. Not in the least. She closed her eyes. She began to fit together the pieces of what had happened almost thirty years ago, when she was born. But only the pieces. A girl who started off as Sara, then became Anna. A lie.

  Slowly she calmed down. She went to the restroom, and when she returned she covered Lily with her jacket. Then she called Karen.

  “I was just about to give up on you,” Karen said happily. Anna had spent the day being cross with Karen for calling Troels the night before, but she was no longer angry. Instead she said: “It took longer than I had expected. I went to Odense. It’s a long story. We’re on the train. We get in at 10:08.”

  “I’ll meet you at the station,” Karen said.

  “There’s really no need,” Anna said.

  “I know. But I’ll be there anyway.”

  Chapter 12

  On Friday October 12, Søren rose at six o’clock and showered. Two hours later, he arrived at Bellahøj police station, in plenty of time for the morning meeting at nine. He stood in his office, staring out the window at the running track, while he reviewed the case. Two days after a murder, four days after a suspicious death, which was very likely also a murder, and what did he have? Not even the beginning of a theory. He should be rushing around, getting the investigation moving, pumping suspects for information and chasing every last piece of evidence.

  He thought about Anna. He had never asked anyone for help. He had never been so unprofessional. And he had picked her—of all people. An unbalanced lioness with a threatened cub. A woman with something to hide.

  He watched the sky above the city and was consumed by a deep urge to touch her; to kiss her and make love to her. He imagined it was New Year’s Eve, they had gone somewhere, Anna and he, to a party with lots of people, women in beautiful gowns, men in black tie. Anna stood by the window and Søren watched her from across the room. She was wearing a black dress, her yellow eyes were made up and looked dramatic, and Søren knew every man secretly desired her. Later that night, she danced. Drunk and vulgar, throwing propriety to the wind, her hair in a mess, her thighs bared where her dress had ridden up. He would find her in the darkness and put out her fire with gasoline. It would never go out. Never ever, as long as he lived.

  He froze. Where had she been last Wednesday night when he had called her, twice? What could she have been up to that was so private she refused to tell him? It was odd that Henrik had said something similar. That he had been with someone and he had screwed up? Søren was suddenly convinced Henrik had visited Anna. That he had used the case as a pretext for seeing her and they had…. He checked his watch and stormed off to the morning meeting, itching to pick a fight with someone.

  He briefed his team, distributed that day’s tasks, and answered a few questions. He didn’t look at Henrik directly, but watched, out of the corner of his eye, how Henrik doodled on a pad, paying absolutely no attention. It wasn’t until Søren announced he intended to visit Johannes Trøjborg’s mother, Janna Kampe, that Henrik reacted and wanted to know why. Had Søren come across something? After all, they had already spoken to Mrs. Kampe.

  “I want to know whether Johannes was gay or—” Søren began.

  “Of course he was.” Henrik interrupted. “If Johannes was straight, I’ll watch the next season of The Bachelor with you.”

  Søren glared at Henrik. “What do you mean?”

  “They like that kind of thing. They fuck each other up the ass and watch cheesy shows.” A few people tittered.

  “Just like you’re some fascist pig who sits in his patrol car all day, stuffing his face with doughnuts?”

  Søren expected his comeback to trigger howls of laughter, but it didn’t. Suddenly he became aware of how angry he had sounded.

  Anna showed up at ten o’clock, exactly as they had agreed. He could clearly forget all about a truce. She stared daggers at him during the entire interview but never looked at Henrik once, not even when he addressed her directly, or when she replied to his barrage of questions. She was clearly making a point.

  “Jesus, she’s hard work,” Henrik said, as he looked down the corridor where Anna was disappearing. Søren followed his eyes.

  “What’s your problem?” Søren snapped, went into his office and slammed the door shut behind him. Henrik opened the door, wanting to know why the hell Søren was so uptight. At that moment the telephone rang, and Søren gestured for Henrik to come in.

  It was Bøje.

  “Yes?” Søren snarled.

  “Someone been raining on your parade?” Bøje asked.

  “Just get to the point,” Søren said.

  “There wasn’t a single parasite in Johannes Trøjborg’s tissue.”

  Søren didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Now he was looking for two killers.

  “What else?” he demanded, impatiently.

  “I’ve found several semen traces on Johannes’s body,” Bøje continued and Søren heard him flick through his report. “Crime scene officers have isolated samples on the floor and at the bottom of two table legs in a radius of about 20 inches from the spot in the living room where he was killed. I don’t need to tell you the semen didn’t come from Johannes, do I?”

  Søren held his breath.

  “What’s your conclusion?” He could hear the rustling of paper, then Bøje took a breath.

  “Johannes Trøjborg died as a result of six injuries to the back of his head, of which four would have been severe enough to kill him on their own. Judging from the forensic report, which I have in front of me, and the injuries sustained by the victim, he was thrown up against the far right corner of the sofa, which penetrated the back of his head. Two of the injuries were inflicted prior to the victim’s death and probably rendered him unconscious but didn’t kill him, then he suffered another four which…” Bøje hesitated. “Well, it’s the equivalent of someone stabbing him with an ice pick. Johannes Trøjborg undoubtedly died from the first blow, and it begs the question, why did the killer carry on? The victim was of medium build, which suggests the killer was eithe
r very strong or very angry or both. By the way, what an extraordinary piece of furniture,” he added, and Søren assumed he was looking at a photograph of Johannes Trøjborg’s sofa.

  “It looks like Count Dracula’s sofa,” he commented. “Everything indicates someone went berserk and we’re not dealing with a calculating killer, but rather some dude who went nuts. You have to be good and angry to attack an unconscious man and continue assaulting him after he’s dead, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “What does the semen tell us?” Søren asked.

  “Well, that’s something of a mystery. Semen traces were found on the body. On the body but not inside. So they didn’t have sex, and it wasn’t rape.” Bøje paused and waited for the penny to drop.

  “And?” Søren prompted him after a long, ominous pause.

  “What bothers me is that we’re talking about very little semen.”

  Søren was perplexed.

  “I don’t follow.”

  Bøje hesitated.

  “Well, it’s as if… as if the killer ejaculated while he manhandled the body. Very confusing and difficult to explain. Even for me.”

  Søren groaned. A parasite freak and a necrophile. What the hell was going on?

  “Are we talking about necrophilia?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Bøje replied. “Do you recall that man from Søborg who killed an armed robber by throwing him against a stove?”

  “No,” Søren said.

  “Well, anyway, we found traces of the man’s DNA on the intruder. In the form of semen. We were speechless, to put it mildly. The man called the police straight after the attack and nothing suggested he had time to satisfy his necrophiliac urges before calling for help, and besides, it made no sense whatsoever. He was a regular guy whose wife was holding an almost newborn baby in her arms, and I didn’t think for one moment he had ejaculated over the body. Besides, there simply wasn’t enough semen, if that was the explanation. We found traces, but nowhere near the amount we find in rape victims, for example, not even half a load. So how on earth had his semen ended up on the intruder? We were all going crazy because we couldn’t figure it out. You were on leave or something and that hopeless idiot, what was his name, Flemming Tørslev or Tønnesen?”

  Søren groaned for the second time.

  “Hans Tønnesen,” he said.

  “Right, thanks. Well, that dimwit was convinced the husband was a pervert and had masturbated over the intruder after hurling him against his stove. What an idiot!” Bøje remarked as if it was Søren’s fault that Hans Tønnesen was a mediocre detective. In a way, it was. As a result of Søren’s sudden absence, his colleagues had to tolerate Tønnesen’s modest talent for three months in 2005. Elvira had died, and Knud was ill. And then there was the breakup with Vibe. And the business with Maja. Søren had burned out and the only way he could hide it was to take time off. Hans Tønnesen had been the only senior officer at Bellahøj police station who could replace him. When Søren returned to work, he had been made to pay for his colleague’s incompetence by buying everyone pastries for an unreasonably long time.

  “Eventually the husband admits, under questioning, that he had been naked on the toilet, masturbating over a porn mag. At the very same second he ejaculates, he hears the intruder climb through a window. He runs into the living room where he attacks the intruder, leaving semen traces on him. As well as in the bathroom, in the hallway, on the door to the living room, and every other surface he touches. Minuscule amounts, obviously, but enough for us to track him from the bathroom to the living room. This case started off as an enigma, but make a note of this, my boy: sometimes the utterly improbable explanation is the right one.”

  Søren felt a headache coming on.

  “And now you’ve found traces,” he said, “but not enough to prove direct sexual contact?”

  “Bingo.”

  “And you still rule out necrophilia?”

  “I can’t rule out anything, but I’ve seen three cases of necrophilia in my time, approximately one every fifteen years and in every one of them, there was either a full amount of semen in or on the body, or no semen at all, because even the most deranged necrophile appears to know DNA makes great evidence. Here, the semen proves neither one thing nor another, just like in the Søborg case. Johannes didn’t have sex with anyone prior to his death. He had some old tears to his rectum, which suggest he may have had anal intercourse in the past, but even that’s difficult to establish. Tears can happen for all sorts of reasons, and in this case, they bear no relation to the cause of death. My opinion is we’re dealing with the same type of coincidence as in the Søborg case. The killer is masturbating, and while he’s doing that an argument starts, he ejaculates, gets angry, and attacks Johannes, and that’s how the traces end up on him.”

  “Have you checked the semen?”

  “Yep.” There was a scrambling noise down the other end. “Negative. He’s not on our database.”

  Søren was silent for a moment, then he asked: “Any connection to Lars Helland, in your opinion?”

  “The parasite-riddled guy from the other day?”

  “Yes,” Søren sighed.

  “Infecting someone with parasites is what I would describe as cold-blooded. You don’t do that in the heat of the moment, do you? It takes planning. I don’t think we’re talking about the same killer. I can see why you would like it to be: the victims were close colleagues and you could kill two birds with one stone, but if you ask me, we’re talking about two different ones. A ruthless bastard, who carried out a carefully planned revenge, and a hothead who gets a bit too rough with his lover during a fight, and who explodes with rage when said lover dares to spill his brains all over the floor.”

  Søren pricked up his ears.

  “What do you mean by lover?”

  Bøje was quiet for a while.

  “You’re right, I’m not sure about that,” he said, surprisingly timid all of a sudden. “The victim had a pierced penis, through the urethra and out on the underside of the head, which makes him a bit out of the ordinary, don’t you think? Ordinary men, real men, I mean men like us, don’t sport a Prince Albert, do we? The victim must have been queer.”

  Søren was tempted to agree with him.

  After his conversation with Bøje, Søren dealt with a few things in his office and ate his lunch behind a newspaper in the cafeteria, so no one would be tempted to join him. Just before two o’clock he drove to Charlottenlund to pay Mrs. Kampe a visit.

  The Kampe family home looked like a mansion, and when Søren drove up the poplar-lined avenue he couldn’t help thinking of Johannes’s shabby apartment. Could this really be the place where little Johannes had grown up? It was a three-story house with a broad two-winged staircase that led to the main entrance.

  It was as silent as the grave.

  Søren rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a woman who looked at him with Johannes’s intelligent eyes. She shook his hand and invited him in. There were ornaments and furniture, rugs and stuffed animal heads, and hides from floor to ceiling in the three rooms Søren managed to see before they reached a large drawing room where a fire was burning in the fireplace. Two royal-blue sofas faced each other and Søren noticed a woolen blanket and a hastily folded newspaper on one of them. Janna Kampe gestured toward the other sofa and sat down opposite him. Søren began by telling her that the preliminary autopsy report didn’t suggest there was a link between the murder of her son and the death of Professor Helland three days earlier. Mrs. Kampe looked momentarily skeptical. Then he changed the conversation to the cause of Johannes’s death. His training had taught him to say as little as possible without being downright obstructive. Mrs. Kampe looked away when her eyes welled up.

  “It’s very important for the investigation that we form as clear a picture of Johannes’s social life as possible. His circle. People he spent time with, his friends. That’s why I’m here.”

  Mrs. Kampe looked at him for a long time, before she said, “I w
ish I could help you, but I can’t. I didn’t know Johannes very well. This Christmas, it’ll be two years since we last saw each other. I’ve no idea who his friends are. Or I should say…” She got up and returned with a scrapbook. Søren watched her face. Maintain the façade, it told him, keeping up appearances matters more than anything. She handed him the scrapbook.

  “I know a little. I saved some newspaper clippings.”

  Søren opened the book. The pages were covered with various items featuring Johannes. Søren studied a picture of a beaming Johannes who had just received a distinction for his dissertation. He was holding several bouquets and, as far as Søren could see, the article was from the university’s newsletter. In another piece, Johannes was part of a crowd and Søren read about a seminar in the caption; a third article was about the communication of science and had been published in the journal, Dagens Medicin. Here, Johannes had been photographed with his colleagues from the department of Cell Biology and Comparative Zoology and Søren was startled when he recognized Anna. She looked straight into the camera. Johannes was standing next to her, smiling gently, and behind them was Lars Helland, distracted and looking at something outside the photo. Søren carried on. There were roughly forty articles in the scrapbook, cut out and filed like prized stamps.

  “May I ask why your relationship was so strained?” he said. Mrs. Kampe looked at him for a long time.

  “I married into all of this,” she said, gesturing toward the elegant drawing room. “My late husband, Jørgen, wasn’t the children’s real father. Their father died when they were very young. My daughter wasn’t even a year old and Johannes barely four. We became financially secure for the rest of our lives,” she said, not looking happy at all.

  “My children have never really appreciated their good fortune,” she continued. “Of course, my daughter could be excused, but Johannes… Johannes has always seemed…” She searched for the right word. “Uninterested. As if he were trying to prove something. Jørgen was a strict stepfather, but he also offered Johannes the chance of a very privileged life. Johannes, however, simply rejected it. Johannes could have been more…” She frowned and decided to change tack.