Sohlberg and the Gift

by Jens Amundsen

  She laughs. Yeah Baby. Show me what you got with these girls. Show me you got what it takes. Then I’ll be yours. All yours. We’ll go over to my place when you’re finished here. All four of us. All night long.

  The two women push me down on a pile of slimy wood slats and rats scurry about.

  The rank gutter smells.

  The ruins of my life. The ruin of my mind.

  Chapter 1/Én

  MORNING OF THE DAY, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 2

  Sohlberg replayed the conversation with his morning visitor over and over in his mind. He was to do that many more times throughout his life.

  “Hei . . . can I help you?”

  “I’m Astrid Isaksen. Are you Sohlberg?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want justice.”

  A stunned Sohlberg was left momentarily speechless by his young ash-blonde visitor. The vernal beauty smiled. His eyes locked into the enormous gray-blue eyes which glittered unnaturally.

  “I said I want justice.”

  “That’s not for me to give.”

  “You won’t know until you try. Will you? . . . That’s what my grandmother always tells me.”

  “Justice . . . I can’t give you justice . . . no more than I can give you liberty . . . or truth . . . or integrity. . . . Those things I have no control over.”

  “But—”

  “Look here young lady . . . I can’t give you those things . . . you . . . you have to get them for yourself . . . earn them for yourself. I have no power in those areas. None. I only work on homicides and major crimes.”

  “Homicide? Major crimes? That’s all you do?”

  ”Yes.”

  “Then tell me this . . . why was Chief Inspector Nygård kicked off the Janne Eide case? That’s a mighty peculiar turn of events.”

  After a long silence she again said:

  “Then tell me this . . . why was Chief Inspector Nygård kicked off the Janne Eide case?”

  Sohlberg surprised himself when he abruptly replied:

  “I don’t know. . . . I’ll look into it.”

  And that was the end of their conversation. She smiled her brilliant perfect teeth at him and left his office as suddenly as she had appeared. The apparition of her youth and beauty beguiled him. In hindsight he should have followed her. But he didn’t because her taunting questions had left him in a daze—as mentally incapacitated as if she had used a stun gun on him with a 3 million volt discharge.

  Chief Inspector Harald Sohlberg vaguely remembered the gruesome murder of Janne Eide. The case had been a media sensation three years ago. But the public had felt a sharp letdown with the quick capture of her murderer and his equally speedy plea of insanity. All this had come as a disappointing anticlimax to every tabloid’s promise of an insider’s look at the tawdry lifestyles of the rich and famous. The expected scandal among the wealthy elites never materialized.

  The case was closed. As dead and gone as the unfortunate Janne Eide. Nothing more remained to be said or done with the case or at least not until the hark of the visitor’s bewitching herald song:

  Then tell me this . . . why was Chief Inspector Nygård kicked off the Janne Eide case?

  ~ ~ ~

  All homicides are the same: a life is cut short.

  The clerk disagreed:

  “No Chief Inspector. We don’t store all the homicide case files here. I don’t think we have the case file you’re looking for. . . . When did you say the case closed?”

  Sohlberg shut his eyes in exasperation. He had to get the case file on the Janne Eide murder. But he was trapped. He could not use his computer account and password to quickly look up any official records or other computerized information on the Eide case.

  Except for the morning’s telephone calls to clerks in charge of homicide records Sohlberg knew better than to use his official police-issued cell phone—or his desk phone and computer at work.

  Two realities confronted the Police Chief Inspector.

  The first reality of his situation was that he would inevitably face questions and then problems from his superiors and colleagues if anyone found out from his official computer or telephone records that he was looking at the Eide homicide. Official policy and procedures clearly dictated that a politiinspektør does not investigate a case without the knowledge or authorization of his superiors.

  The second reality was that Sohlberg would have to investigate the case in time-consuming and roundabout ways because of his decision to avoid the computerized information systems of the Norwegian Police Service.

  The twin realities forced the Chief Inspector into making an endless round of telephone calls to thirteen administrative clerks that morning. That’s when he discovered to his dismay that all homicide case files are not the same. Nor are homicide case files kept in the same place at the Oslo politidistrikt. These facts bedeviled Sohlberg.

  Lousy files . . . they’re impossible to find just when you need them.

  With mounting anger he realized that he had absolutely no idea what happens to old case files. Perhaps he had learned about the ultimate destiny of old case files when he was training or maybe just maybe he had heard about their ultimate whereabouts during his first year in the police. But that was long ago. Sohlberg doubted if most detectives knew exactly where their paper and computer records wind up after their cases are considered “officially closed”.

  Sohlberg sighed and told the clerk:

  “The case closed three years ago.”

  “Did it include rape?” said the clerk on the phone. “Our department only keeps files on homicides that involve rape . . . and other sex crimes.”

  “No rape. Do you have any idea where I could find a simple homicide?”

  “No. But why do you want to find—”

  Sohlberg yelled “Gotta go!” and hanged up on the clerk. He wondered why he had spoken that morning to thirteen clerks who had not helped him at all and yet they had all taken the time to question him. Two audacious clerks had even demanded to know exactly who had authorized him to look at the Janne Eide case file.

  “Why?” he asked himself in a low whisper. “Why did I get into this mess?”

  Doubts began gnawing at Sohlberg’s conscience.

  Should I get mixed up with the Janne Eide case?

  Why did I tell her that I’d look into it?

  His female visitor that morning had sent him off into uncharted territories. Perhaps even perilous terrain. Maybe even a career-ending journey. But he was a man of his word. He had to keep his promise to the visitor—Astrid Isaksen.

  Sohlberg stood up from his desk chair. He looked around while he pretended to stretch. Homicide was strangely quiet. Every single detective was out of the Homicide and Major Crimes Department that frosty morning on calls or on vacation. Sohlberg grew increasingly nervous. The silence made him restless while he tried not to think about his morning visitor. He nevertheless kept a calm if not bored outward appearance thanks to the fact that he could work on the Janne Eide murder in the office without anyone snooping on him.

  One lonely temporary secretary shared the floor with him. She was too busy chewing gum and leafing through a tabloid magazine to notice anything or anyone including Sohlberg’s visitor. The pretty young temp was filling in for the vacationing Petra Sivertsen.

  This temp may be nice eye candy but she’s no Petra Sivertsen.

  Sohlberg wished that Petra Sivertsen had not taken such long Christmas vacations. The widowed blue-haired 40-year veteran ruled the Homicide roost from her perch as the Executive Assistant to the head of the Homicide Department. Fru Sivertsen had a photographic memory. She remembered almost every detail about every homicide case that the Oslo Police had investigated during the past three decades. She also knew everything about everyone who worked in the department.

  Fru Sivertsen . . . wish you were here with your beehive hairdo and prune-wrinkled face.

  Fru Sivertsen kept an eagle-eye on everything and everyone in Homicide. But not the temp. She
didn’t even bother to look up when the somber Magnus Tjomsland walked past her.

  The lugubrious inspector nodded in Sohlberg’s direction. Tjomsland or Gloomy Gus was an excellent homicide detective. But he was infamous for his extreme pessimism. Prosecutors hesitated putting him on the stand for fear that his testimony would alienate judges. He was known for including unsolicited comments in his testimony such as:

  “The victim was shot in the head . . . yes . . . she was dead . . . the same way that all of us will die . . . sooner or later.”

  Sohlberg could not risk Magnus Tjomsland overhearing his phone calls for the Janne Eide case file. While Tjomsland removed his winter coat Sohlberg left Homicide. He walked down a hallway and looked around to ensure that no one was heading towards the men’s bathroom. Unlike most other bathrooms in the building this one in the north corner of the building had a lock on the door. Sohlberg sighed with relief when he realized that he was going to be left completely alone in the bathroom because all other departments of the Oslo police district were just as depopulated as his was on that sunny but sub-freezing December morning.

  Good! No prying eyes or ears. No gossipy lips.

  The hallway merged into a balcony that overlooked the light-filled interior hall of the enormous Oslo police station—the politihuset—at 44 Grønlandsleiret. The enormous space felt like an abandoned cavern. Eight floors of balconies lined the massive interior space. An ethereal sculpture hanged down from the ceiling. The multi-piece sculpture reminded Sohlberg of the gold gossamer wings of an angel. Quite fitting for the Christmas season although it stayed on display all year long.

  After locking the door and making absolutely sure that no one was inside the three-stall bathroom Sohlberg stood by the stall furthest from the door. He surfed the web with his personal cell phone. Nothing unusual or interesting showed up in the newspaper articles that reported the murder of Janne Eide. Sohlberg then placed a call to the cell phone of an old friend and mentor who lived in the port town of Molde which is south of Trondheim and a seven hour drive north of Oslo.

  “Hei.”

  “Sohlberg?”

  “Yep.”

  Sohlberg was surprised. His mentor Lars Eliassen sounded much much older. Retirement did not agree with the former Chief Inspector of the lovely Møre og Romsdal district of western Norway. About 250 miles northwest of Oslo the district sprawls over exquisite fjords and the mountain-and-valley paradise that hikers and climbers worship. Cruise ship tourists also make the pilgrimage to Nature’s Nirvana southwest of Trondheim.

  “Good to hear from you Sohlberg.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “For now. I’m visiting my daughter in Ålesund.”

  Sohlberg heard no enthusiasm or joy in Eliassen’s voice. The wayward Ålesund daughter and her drug addictions and disastrous boyfriends had been a source of heartache and embarrassment for Lars and Helene Eliassen. Sohlberg left the emotional minefield of the daughter alone. Instead he proceeded on to business:

  “Have you heard of the Janne Eide case? She was murdered six years ago.”

  “Oh yes! I remember. It was a big deal in the newspapers and television. Pissed me off.”

  “Why?”

  “Well . . . you know . . . the media makes such a big deal about a very rich woman getting killed but they don’t bother to report as much on low-income or no-income victims who usually don’t even get a line in the morning paper or evening news.”

  “Anything else unusual?”

  “Yes . . . the wealthy heiress gets murdered when she’s all alone inside a mansion filled with tons and tons of security gadgets and alarms and cameras. And by tons I mean tons. Her father was a shipping tycoon . . . owned a major ocean freight company . . . he also owned huge oil tankers that carried Norwegian oil . . . our own country’s Statoil contracts alone made him very wealthy. He sold out to his competitor John Fredriksen many years ago. Anyway . . . Old Man Eide had the whole place wired up for his daughter with all sorts of sensors and miniature cameras . . . even in the hallways and bathrooms.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “The usual suspect. The husband. Seems he killed her after he disabled the security devices and cameras.”

  “So . . . is it an open-and-shut case?”

  “How would I know? . . . Just you calling me makes me think that maybe it’s not the usual spouse-kills-spouse case.”

  “Anything else about the case you can think of?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Very good . . . thanks for the help.”

  “Sure but first tell me why you’re involved.”

  “I’m not involved.”

  “No?”

  “No. Just curious.”

  “So you say . . . so be it.”

  “I hope things go well for you in Ålesund.”

  “We’ll see. . . . Oh . . . one more thing. I forgot to tell you . . . another unusual thing that I remember about the Eide murder . . . it was a rumor I heard. . . .”

  “What rumor?”

  “That the lead detective . . . Bjørn Nygård . . . got booted off the case thanks to that back-stabbing snake of his junior partner.”

  “Who . . . who was it?”

  “Your friend . . . Ivar Thorsen.”

  Chapter 2/To

  AFTERNOON AND EVENING OF THE DAY,

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 2

  In his mind he replayed the essentials of the conversation with his morning visitor.

  I want justice.

  That was quite a provocative statement. So was the next one:

  Why was Chief Inspector Nygård kicked off the Janne Eide case?

  Sohlberg also wanted to mull over another statement that his visitor had made to him and yet it slipped his mind whenever he tried to remember it. He tried and tried but kept forgetting the statement. His frustrating forgetfulness reminded him of the occasional incident when he could not remember the name of something or someone that was at the tip of his tongue.

  ~ ~ ~

  The drive out to Lillestrøm from Oslo on the Rv159 highway always charmed Chief Inspector Sohlberg. He looked forward to the endless vista of pastoral farm fields and rolling hills among the occasional forest. As soon as he got on the entrance ramp he sensed that a car had pull up right behind him. A glance at his rearview mirror confirmed that a dark BMW was tailing him aggressively. Sohlberg slowed down; so did the driver.

  You moron . . . tailgate me again and I’ll call a squad car to pull you over.

  Within a few seconds the car dropped far behind.

  Sohlberg got off the road three times to make sure that he wasn’t being followed: he got gasoline once and pretended to ask for directions twice. No car seemed to be shadowing him. The dark BMW: gone. He looked carefully for vans and small trucks and other unusual vehicles. But no one else seemed to be tracking him.

  Thirty minutes out of Oslo he was surrounded by peaceful snow-covered fields and forests and soft-shouldered mountains that seduced him into feeling that he should ask for a rural posting.

  Why not?

  He pictured leaving Oslo and its hectic and corrupting city life. He certainly wouldn’t miss his daily commute from and to Ulvøya Island.

  Sohlberg’s morning and evening commute forced him to watch the depressing spectacle of drug addicts and dealers openly buying and selling their toxic garbage in the plaza that’s in front of the central train station in downtown Oslo. Sohlberg always got intensely embarrassed when visiting police officers from other countries would ask him to take them down to the plata or plateau to observe the blatant drug dealing.

  A disgusting national shame!

  Sohlberg never stopped wondering in anger and amazement at why the top echelon at the Ministry of Justice and the Police tolerated such brazen crime in such an open and visible public forum.

  Why?

  Why did the Justice Minister tolerate such human degradation?

  Because the moral rot at the central train station reflects the moral
rot at the very top of Norway’s political elites.

  It would be simple and easy for the Minister or any of her underlings to send police officers to sweep the area out with mass arrests or a few well-publicized arrests.

  A few months ago Sohlberg had watched in horror as the wraith of a drug-addicted mother towed two small children with her on the plata while begging people for money. The woman scampered away into the crowd when she saw his police hat and uniform. By the time Sohlberg decided to question if not arrest her for the sake of the two innocents she was gone. The children’s haggard faces haunted Sohlberg. So did the mother’s twisted death-like mask.