Daybreak

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  silence reigns: ashimmer here

  scenes of beauty, sharp and clear.”

  “What the fuck is that?” Gunnar whispered. Ignoring the question, Birkir continued:

  “Steepling fell-sides, stony gray

  Stories tell of times long over—

  heaviest on my heart lie yet

  hurt, remorse, a deep regret.”

  “Where did you hear that bullshit?” Gunnar said.

  “On the radio,” Birkir replied.

  “Is it a poem?”

  “Yes, or, actually, more like the lyrics of a song.”

  “Right.”

  “It suddenly seemed to fit in with this morning.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes, but there’s a strange thing.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t remember the third and fourth verses.”

  “Right,” said Gunnar, and he peered over the edge of the ditch.

  “I’m sure I heard the other verses as well, but now I can’t remember even one line. Odd.”

  Gunnar looked at Birkir and shook his head.

  Daybreak is different in bright moonlight than when the skies are overcast. There is no slow build to dawn; just before sunrise, the light from the moon pales a little and morning simply arrives without any sudden explosion of light. Gunnar and Birkir noticed its arrival nonetheless. They watched as the compact shadows of the decoys, which had been cast to the east by the moonlight, were replaced by elongated shadows to the west as the first rays of the sun hit. Then they heard the geese. Gunnar picked up his shotgun and loaded it with three number two magnums.

  “I’ll watch the geese. You stay on lookout,” he whispered.

  The first gaggle they heard flew past, and silence descended again.

  “Just keep calm. There’ll be others,” Gunnar said.

  “I’m completely calm, and I’ll stay calm even if we see no more geese,” Birkir said, checking his watch.

  Ten minutes later, they again heard the honking of geese, and this time the flock came closer. There were between ten and twenty birds, and they circled the site at a height of two hundred meters. Then they headed into the wind toward the gap between the groups of decoys. Gunnar fired the first shot when the birds were at a range of twenty meters. One goose fell to the ground, and he fired twice more, bringing down two more birds; the remainder of the flock dispersed to the north, honking their alarm. Gunnar was about to jump up to the rim of the ditch, but suddenly changed his mind.

  “Are we alone?” he asked Birkir.

  “Yes,” his partner replied. He had been watching the other direction.

  Gunnar clambered up and gathered the dead geese. He put them down next to one of the decoy groups, arranging them with their heads under their wings. Then he returned to Birkir in the ditch and reloaded his gun.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he said.

  “Mine?”

  “Yeah. Have you ever shot geese?”

  “No.”

  “But you know how to use a shotgun, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I took a training course.”

  “In that case you have to give it a try. I’ll keep watch.”

  Birkir took the gun and held it at the ready. They could hear geese, but they knew it would be a wait before another flock decided to settle on the patch. Gunnar surveyed their surroundings through his binoculars, but Birkir had the feeling he was looking for geese rather than people. His suspicion was confirmed when Gunnar whispered, “The geese that come here have probably spent the night on the sand flats over by Hvítá River. They eat the sand to help with their digestion and then make for the hay fields in the morning to eat the grass.”

  “Are they here all year round?”

  “No. They’ll be migrating soon to the British Isles, when the high-altitude winds begin to blow from the north. They come back at the end of March. It’s only the geese in downtown Reykjavik that stay here all winter, but I wouldn’t want to eat them.”

  Half an hour later, things finally began to happen. A large flock of geese appeared and headed straight for them, flying into the wind. When the birds were directly overhead Birkir stood up and fired a single shot, and the leading goose fell to the earth like a stone. The other geese fled, turning sharply north after a moment’s disarray, and disappeared, honking, into the mist that was now forming over the marsh.

  “Why didn’t you shoot again?” Gunnar asked, surprised. “You could have gotten two more.”

  Birkir was silent. “What for?” he asked finally.

  “To fully experience the thrill of the hunt, of course.”

  Birkir looked at his partner. “I only need to shoot one goose to know what it feels like to shoot a goose.”

  Gunnar looked at him in disbelief. “And what does it feel like?” he finally asked.

  Birkir thought for a moment. “I felt a kind of primitive pleasure when the bird dropped to the ground. Some sort of hunting instinct is probably intrinsic to the human animal, even though generations have passed since it was necessary for survival.”

  “So you didn’t enjoy it?”

  “It was, in some way, similar to the pleasure I experience when a criminal confesses to guilt after a long interrogation. That pleasure also has its roots in rather primitive urges that I’m not particularly proud of. So I don’t think I’ll be pursuing the ‘thrill of the hunt’ any further.”

  Gunnar looked at his partner and shook his head. “You are a bit peculiar, but I think I’ve told you that several times before. Let’s call it a day. Let’s go home.”

  Dividing the load between them, they walked back to the car. The sun had risen now and it was broad daylight; it wasn’t likely anyone would try to ambush them now, but they nevertheless kept their wits about them. When they had stowed the weapons and their bag in the back of the car, they got in, and Birkir turned on his cell phone.

  “Eight unanswered calls,” he said. A beep indicated there was voice mail. He called the mailbox number and listened.

  “Another hunter’s been shot,” he said.

  “Shit,” Gunnar said. “Where?”

  “To the west of us—the Mýrar area—this morning.”

  “Goddammit, he took the same route as we did. Our plan almost worked.”

  Birkir continued listening to the voice mail messages. Then he said, “The victim wasn’t alone. His companion got away and was able to call for help. They’re setting up roadblocks. Now we have a chance of catching him.”

  10:15

  This time it took Gunnar and Birkir a while to locate the area where the shooting had taken place. They turned off the Snæfellsnes road at the wrong intersection and had to call the police in Borgarnes for guidance. But when they finally reached their destination, the crime scene looked similar to the others. And yet the details weren’t exactly the same—not quite. This killing seemed to have happened faster, and the victim had not been alone. He was an older man, probably about seventy, and had been shot once in the center of the back at very close range. There was a fist-size hole between his shoulder blades, and the force from the shot had thrown the man forward onto his face. His hands were down by his sides—he hadn’t even had time to try to break his fall. A newish shotgun lay by his side, and he had an ammunition belt around his waist. A large bag of decoys lay overturned at his feet.

  The victim’s companion sat in the backseat of a police car that was parked nearby with its engine running. His head was buried in his hands, and he was so shocked and shaken that he was scarcely able to speak. A patrolman from Borgarnes who was at the wheel of the car was trying to calm the man down, with little visible result.

  “The Gander is getting more efficient,” Gunnar said to Birkir. “One shot that kills his adversary immediately. No gunfight and no chase.”

  Birkir glanced over his shoulder at the patrol car. “Do you want to talk to the witness?”

  “Yeah, leave that to me,” Gunnar replied.

  “Right now?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, it’s for the best,” Gunnar replied. “It will be interesting to hear what he has to say about this. Maybe now we’ll find out more about what we’re dealing with.”

  Gunnar went over to the car and got into the backseat.

  “Good morning,” Gunnar said, nodding to the driver.

  “Morning,” the cop answered. The distraught man merely nodded.

  Gunnar studied him carefully. He was bald and had a small, delicate build, a trim mustache, and round glasses. He looked about forty. Gunnar was a bit surprised. The man hardly looked like the type to go hunting at all, let alone when there was a dangerous murderer on the loose who specialized in pursuing goose hunters. He was wearing a standard hunting outfit that hung loosely on his compact frame.

  Gunnar offered his hand. “Gunnar Maríuson, detective.”

  With a limp handshake, the man replied, “Ragnar Jónsson.”

  As if saying his own name burst a dam, the man’s words came out in a torrent. “I told my father-in-law we shouldn’t do this trip. It wasn’t worth the risk. But he was adamant, so I had no option but to go with him. Then suddenly, this happens. There was nothing I could do. Nothing at all.” The man spoke so fast he couldn’t catch his breath between words and was red in the face by the time he stopped for air.

  Gunnar took out his notebook and a pen. “The deceased was your father-in-law?”

  “Yes. Bára and I. We’re married. Bára is his daughter, and my wife.”

  “What was his name?”

  “His name is, I mean, was—” the man gulped and had to pause momentarily before being able to continue. “Vilhjálmur Arason. He is—I mean was—retired. He once owned a small fishing company.”

  Gunnar tried to soothe him. “Keep calm, my friend. I need you to tell me what happened right from the start, clearly and distinctly. Try to breathe deeply. When did you decide to go on this hunting trip?”

  The man took some deep breaths before replying, this time a little more calmly. “We’ve gone hunting on this particular weekend every year since 1992. In 2002 we put the trip off due to the weather—you couldn’t stand up, the wind was so strong—but apart from that it’s always been the same Sunday.”

  “So everything was going along normally this time?”

  “Yes. Everything was completely normal. Two weeks ago, my father-in-law started talking about the trip and making preparations. He wouldn’t hear of putting it off, despite these killings. He arranged the hunting license with the farmer who owns the land. They are old friends—were friends, I mean.”

  “Do you go hunting often?”

  “No. I just take this one trip each fall. My father-in-law goes much more often, but then, he’s retired.”

  “Where do you both live?”

  “In Reykjavik.”

  “When did you leave this morning?”

  “I think it was just after four o’clock.”

  “Did you buy gas on the way?”

  “No. The tank was full.”

  “Who did the driving?”

  “I did, but it’s my father-in-law’s car.”

  “Did anybody follow you?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Do you think that somebody followed us? Is that possible?”

  Gunnar ignored the question and continued. “Did the police stop you on the way?”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t drive particularly fast.”

  “When did you arrive here?”

  “Sometime before six.”

  “What happened then?”

  “We had gotten our things ready, and my father-in-law moved off ahead of me. I got caught up putting on my ammunition belt, and he’d gone on about a hundred meters when I heard a shot.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I was standing by the car, I was about to lock it.”

  “Where was the car?”

  “More or less where it is now.” Ragnar pointed through the window at an SUV.

  “What happened then?”

  “I looked up and saw my father-in-law lying in the grass. There was a guy standing over him holding a shotgun. I realized immediately what had happened and ran back to the car and reversed up the track as fast as I could. When I’d made it a safe distance I called the emergency number. It took me a while to press the right keys, I was so shocked.”

  “Did you see the man again?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see another car?”

  “No.”

  Gunnar turned to the policeman in the front seat. “Do you know this area?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the policeman replied.

  “Any idea how the killer might have fled the scene?”

  “No. I can’t figure it out. The only drivable road in or out of here is this track that we’re on. He must have come on foot and left his car elsewhere. When we got the call and heard what had happened, we immediately closed off the highway this side of Borgarnes. The police in Snæfellsnes also blocked it to the north at the Heydalsvegur intersection. We’ve been tightening the noose over the past hour.”

  Gunnar turned back to the small, bespectacled man sitting next to him. “You say you saw the killer at a distance of a hundred meters. Have you got good eyesight?”

  “It’s not bad. I’m a bit nearsighted, but I had my glasses on.” He pointed to the glasses sitting on his nose.

  “How clearly did you see the guy?”

  “I couldn’t see his face at all, and he was wearing camouflage gear.”

  “What sort of shoes was he wearing?”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Pants?”

  “Camouflage.”

  “What color was most prominent in the pattern—green, yellow, brown, or gray?”

  “Green, I think.”

  “His parka. What was it like?”

  “It was a jacket. Don’t think it had a hood.”

  “How long was the jacket?”

  “It came down well below his waist.”

  “Same color combination as the pants?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Hat?”

  “Yes. He was wearing a baseball cap.”

  “Color?”

  “Green, I think.”

  “Not camouflage?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The gun—was it single- or double-barrel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Height?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe similar to my father-in-law.”

  “How tall is that?”

  “Six foot, maybe more. Even from that distance I could tell he was quite a bit taller than me.”

  “Slim or fat?”

  “In between, I think”

  Gunnar pondered this. “Male or female?”

  This question surprised the man. “Male, I suppose.”

  “Not sure?”

  “He looked like a guy.”

  “Hair color?”

  “I couldn’t see from that distance.”

  “Was he wearing an ammunition belt?”

  “He had some kind of belt around his waist.”

  Gunnar looked at the words he had scribbled hastily in his notebook. Then he asked, “What did you do after calling the emergency number?”

  “I tried to see if the guy was lurking somewhere around here.”

  “But you didn’t see him?”

  “No. He’d gone.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Waited for the police.”

  “You didn’t go to check on your father-in-law?”

  “No. I was too scared.”

  “So you didn’t know if he was dead?”

  “Yes, well, I figured he was.”

  Gunnar jotted this down.

  “Anything else you can think of?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’m just thinking it could well have been me.”

  “Meaning?” Gunnar asked.

  “It could have been me who died,” the man replied. “Maybe he woul
d have shot us both if we’d been walking side by side as usual. Or maybe just me, if I’d been walking ahead.”

  “There’s no point thinking like that,” Gunnar said. “Life is full of risks. You had a lucky escape this time, but you might find yourself in just as much danger the next time you’re in traffic.”

  “Maybe,” the man replied wanly.

  Gunnar glanced at his notebook again. There was not much there to work with, he thought, disappointed. Had he forgotten anything?

  “Look, I’ve got to get home and tell my wife,” the man said.

  “The Reykjavik police will see to that,” the patrolman said. “You shouldn’t worry about it. They’ll make sure she has everything she needs.”

  “She was very fond of her father,” the man said sadly.

  Gunnar said, “I guess that applies to most of us.”

  “I suppose so,” the man replied.

  “Your gun,” Gunnar said. “Is it in the car?”

  “Yes,” the man replied. “I chucked it onto the passenger seat when I drove off.”

  “May I check it?” Gunnar asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Gunnar got out and walked over to the SUV. There was a five-shot pump-action on the front passenger seat. He put on rubber gloves and opened the car door, cautiously picked up the gun, and examined the maker’s name: Mossberg 500. He carefully opened it. In the magazine were two shells and a pin shutting off space for two more. Everything was regulation. In the chamber was a spent shell of Icelandic make: Hlad Original, 42 grams, 70 millimeters. Gunnar emptied the gun and put all three shells in his pocket. Then he examined the action carefully and sniffed it. He detected a faint smell of burned powder and gun oil. This weapon had been well looked after. He replaced it on the seat, shut the door, and returned to the patrol car.

  “You fired your gun recently,” he said to Ragnar.

  The man gave Gunnar a surprised look. “Yes. I shot in the direction of the guy so he wouldn’t follow me.”

  “You didn’t mention that before.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No.”

  “That was clumsy of me. That’s very important, of course, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s important.”

  “Yes, of course. I should’ve known. Now, let me see.” The man thought.

  “Take your time,” Gunnar said.

  “Yes. I remember,” the man said. “I’d loaded the gun. Two shots in the magazine and one in the barrel as usual. I fired one shot when I saw the guy standing over my father-in-law and realized what had happened.”