Sohlberg and the Gift

by Jens Amundsen

  Just checking. Anyway. I go inside the Sears and beeline it to the toy section. It had video games. And an Atari Tele-games System video arcade. The video arcade is near the door. I see two black boys there all alone. Oh I knew I’d make Henry and Ottis so happy with one black boy for each of them. I mean they taught me real good what bait to use to hook women and girls and boys. But those two black kids wouldn’t listen to me. They only wanted to play the Atari video game that this little six-year-old was using. I figured that with a little extra work I could take all three boys with me after the black boys played the video game and that Adam would be mine. I was so sure that I would talk the three boys into coming outside with me that I even left a little wood falcon right there where I saw them three boys. I left it on the top shelf on the next row near a shelf that had those bug zapping lamps.

  Now why would you go in and take a boy for yourself.

  I wanted Adam real bad. A little brother. I’d teach him so much. Make a little man out of him. Just the same way that I was made a little man when I worked the streets. Maybe we’d get married later on. But those two black boys started fighting with Adam to get him off the game. Someone called security. This dumb teenage girl of a security guard not much older than eighteen shows up and she kicks the two blacks out one door and sends us two blond boys packing the other way. She thought Adam and I was together and she believed me when I told her that just like the black kids did that our parents weren’t in the store. She told us to go home. What a dummie. Can you believe that. She kicked Adam out of the store and away from his Mama and into my arms. I carried him off in my angel wings.

  You make it sound real. You got some sick imagination.

  Look here you fool. You see this here key chain. I made it from a piece of Adam’s skin after Ottis cut the boy’s head off. I’ll never forget the real nasty things that Ottis did to the boy’s head. You would start crying and hollering and screaming and try to kill me if I told you ten percent of what Ottis did to that boy’s head.

  Don’t even go there because I’d surely would kill you if you told me. You’re a freak and a monster.

  You call me that after what you did to your wife. Pishposh. Come now. Call the kettle black.

  You shut up. You don’t know nothing about me. Would you like to see my shank stuck in your eye ball. Would you.

  No sir. Probably not. Okay. I’ll spare ye the details of what Ottis did to Adam Walsh. But I will tell you that we took the body and when we was eating him Ottis gave me some skin to make a belt and this little piece is all I have left. Just this little key chain strap.

  You’re the biggest liar. You should run for office.

  I ain’t qualified. I only killed a lousy fifty and three here in Europe and many more in America. But I ain’t never sent hundreds of thousands of boys and men to die in wars. I ain’t sent millions of souls to concentration camps like in China or Russia or North Korea. Now those are serial killers. Them boys Stalin and Mao. They was Henry and Ottis. Only difference was they called it governing. Me and Ottis and Henry Lee called it fun.

  You lie and lie.

  You can doubt. But you can’t run. By the way. Your letter ain’t doing jack for you.

  Like I said. I’ll take my chances.

  Are you kidding me. That’s what a man says when he’s been dealt a losing hand.

  ~ ~ ~

  An overnight storm draped Oslo in snow. The exquisite white blanket disappeared when the city’s traffic stained the pristine snow. Sohlberg regretted how quickly the city corrupted the pure white snow. He arrived at the Zoo and promptly ignored Thorsen. After a few discrete inquiries that morning Sohlberg discovered that Thorsen had informed no one else about yesterday’s fake witness list. The harassing telephone calls to Fru Sohlberg had only come from Ivar Thorsen—acting alone and on his own—without the boss’s okay.

  At 10:01 A.M. a call came in about another Grønland stabbing fatality. A Christmas vacation shortage of politiinspektors forced Sohlberg to call on Constable Hanna Høiness for assistance as his lead detective. They rushed to the crime scene less than a mile from the Zoo. A bill collector had discovered the young woman’s body on the top floor of a 4-floor tenement building on Tøyengata. The crime scene was less than two blocks from the building where Astrid Isaksen lived with her aunt.

  A blood-soaked shroud covered all of the body except for the face. Her fine black hair and veil and dark skin spelled Pakistan. The young victim’s lovely white and straight teeth stood exposed from deep knife wounds that cut into and across the delicate cheeks. Little remained of her shredded tongue. A final throat slash from ear to ear had finished her off. Sohlberg felt sick as he imagined the last horrific ten minutes of this teenager’s life on earth. He frowned and said:

  “How old do you think she is?”

  Constable Høiness shook her head. “Not more than fifteen.”

  “I know that type of veil. I’ve seen it before. It’s Sindh. Probably from the Ghotki area. It’s what rural tribal Sindhi people wear in southeast Pakistan.”

  “Chief Inspector . . . I had no idea you were so well versed in international culture.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then how do you know so much?”

  “A year ago I had a similar case with a similar victim. She was sixteen and secretly dating a Norwegian boy. Family found out. Then it was Karo Kari time.”

  “What?”

  “Karo Kari . . . an honor killing . . . it’s justified homicide under Islamic tradition . . . it allows the murder of any family member . . . usually women . . . who bring dishonor to the family . . . usually because the woman has or might have pre-marital sex or an adulterous relationship. A male family member must kill the offender to save the family honor.”

  “That’s nasty. I can’t believe that stuff goes on.”

  “Why not?” shouted Guttorm Nordø. “Honor killings and other Stone Age lifestyles were brought here to Norway courtesy of our genius liberal politicians.”

  The 56-year-old crime scene investigator had just walked up the dank stairwell. He was—as usual—wheezy and red-faced and cranky. As far as Sohlberg was concerned Nordø was the best investigator at processing a homicide. Nordø’s experience and meticulous attention to the smallest detail had proven critical in securing at least ten homicide convictions that had started off as spontaneous confessions to Sohlberg.

  Constable Høiness said with a sneer:

  “Nordø . . . you’re a racist religious bigot.”

  “And you . . . young lady . . . are a sexist.”

  “Shush!” ordered Sohlberg.

  The two combatants glared at each other.

  “I think I heard crying,” said Sohlberg in the softest of whispers. “Yes . . . someone’s crying.”

  The faintest of whimpers echoed up the stairwell.

  Constable Høiness got on her walkie-talkie and ordered everyone inside and outside the building to keep five minutes of silence.

  Sohlberg and Høiness slowly and quietly walked down the stairs. They stopped at the third floor and followed the soft wailing to rear apartment 3-B. Sohlberg pointed at a pearl-sized drop of fresh blood by the door.

  Sohlberg gently knocked on the door that had a little tag for A.M. Mahar.

  The wailing stopped.

  Sohlberg motioned Constable Høiness to get closer to him. He whispered into her ear:

  “I’m going to knock on the door . . . if it’s a man I will talk. If it’s a woman you nicely tell her in a friendly normal voice that you’re with the politi and need to talk with her.”

  Høiness nodded.

  A long minute passed after Sohlberg knocked gently on the door. A woman called out a meek “Yes?” from deep inside the apartment.

  “Hei . . . I’m Constable Høiness with the Oslo politi. I need to talk with you please.”

  Silence.

  “Ma’am . . . I need to get some information from you.”

  A long silence.

  Sohlberg agai
n whispered into Constable Høiness’s ear. “Make sure that you don’t rush . . . thoroughly interview all of the women in the house . . . even children who can identify and talk about relatives. Get the names and addresses and whereabouts of every male in the family who’s twelve and older.”

  The door cracked open. Høiness moved closer to the doorway and started talking to the female occupant. A minute later the door opened wide. Sohlberg and two constables searched the apartment for adult men while Høiness buttonholed a middle-aged Pakistani woman under gentle but persistent questioning. She had obviously been weeping and looked distraught and she identified herself as:

  “Zulema Mahar. I am the wife of Ali Mohammed Mahar.”

  “Fru Mahar,” said Constable Høiness, “I know this is a difficult time. . . .”

  The house reeked of bleach and ammonia. The toxic fumes sickened Sohlberg. He turned to Høiness. “Open all the windows. I’m going back to the office. I’m feeling sick. Keep me posted.”

  Guttorm Nordø and one of his men moved into the apartment. They took pictures of blood drops that started in the kitchen where neat rows of empty bleach bottles and ammonia bottles and pink rags and sponges pointed to the price of honor restored to the house of A.M. Mahar.

  As soon as Sohlberg left the apartment Fru Mahar resumed her soft wailing.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sohlberg decided that he’d visit Astrid Isaksen and her aunt before heading to the Zoo. He walked a short distance to the building where Astrid Isaksen’s aunt lived on Tøyengata. As he went up the poorly lit stairwell Sohlberg hoped that his surprise visit would land him a productive interview with Astrid Isaksen’s aunt or Astrid herself. He had a lot of questions and needed answers soon—preferably yesterday.

  “Hey!” said a gruff voice from below. “I need to talk to you.”

  Sohlberg froze. He walked up a few more steps but the man called out again:

  “I know who you are. I need to talk to you.”

  Fearing that he’d walk into an ambush by local Muslim hoodlums Sohlberg instead said, “Come up here then.”

  Heavy and ominous footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

  “Oh,” said Sohlberg with relief. “It’s you.”

  “Who did you think I was? . . . It’s just me . . . the building manager.”

  “Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Chief Inspector . . . you never left me your business card . . . I wanted to talk to you about the lady in three-c.”

  “Gjertrud Isaksen? . . . The one whose niece Astrid lives with her?”

  “Yes. She left town yesterday with her niece.”

  “What? . . . Are you sure?”

  “They were all packed up. Said they were going to spend the holidays in Hovden.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I helped the boyfriend bring down their luggage.”

  “The aunt’s boyfriend was with them?”

  “Yes. He was going on the trip with them. They were all very excited about their first time at the ski resort. They got into his car and took off.”

  “Do you know where they were going in Hovden?”

  “They said something about Hovdestøylen Hotel and Lodge. Astrid was so happy that she was going to have her own room.”

  “Really? . . . A double room?” said Sohlberg. He was surprised that the boyfriend or Astrid’s aunt could afford the luxury hotel which was 180 miles west of Oslo. He had once stayed at the lodge during a law firm outing right after graduating from law school. Even with his generous starting salary as a new lawyer Sohlberg had thought that the cost of the hotel was exorbitant. He had also been shocked by the price of lift tickets at the ski resorts around Hovden. The prices ranged from very expensive to ridiculous.

  “Imagine that,” said the apartment manager. “They’re poor as church mice . . . but off they go on vacations to Hovden. Said they’d be back by the fifth of January.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “Around noon.”

  Sohlberg frowned.

  “Anything wrong Chief Inspector?”

  A clever plan unfolded instantly in Sohlberg’s mind. “I . . . I wouldn’t want to come back here and have their door kicked down.”

  “What do you mean?” said the apartment manager who winced as if he himself was being kicked down.

  “I came here to do a safety check. I need to make sure that Gjertrud Isaksen and her niece Astrid are okay.”

  “But I saw them. They looked alright.”

  “Yes. But I have to put in my report that I personally saw that they are okay.” Sohlberg turned as if he was about to leave the building. “Too bad. If I could only take a peek at their apartment to make sure the place hasn’t been ransacked or shows signs of any trouble. . . . Well . . . I hate ruining your door . . . but I’ll have to come back with a couple of constables.”

  “Wait! There’s no need to bust the door. The building owner will go nuts. I have a master key. I can open the door and let you in Chief Inspector.”

  “That’s a good idea. You can stay at the door so you can’t be accused by anyone of trespass or invasion of privacy.”

  The manager took the bait and he opened the door and remained in the hallway. Sohlberg took a quick look at the cold apartment. His breath frosted in the air. The austere decor in the living/dining room reminded him of the minimalist lifestyle that he enjoyed while in college and law school. He went straight to the only bathroom and saw a brightly colored comb that probably belonged to Astrid. He plucked four long blonde hairs from the comb and put them in a small plastic sandwich bag that he carried for the impromptu collection of evidence. Two of the hairs came with the root.

  “Everything looking okay?” shouted the nervous apartment manager.

  “So far so good. Almost done.”

  After a careful look to discover anything unusual in the aunt’s small but clean bedroom Sohlberg jaunted over to an even tinier bedroom not much bigger than a closet. He ran his fingers over the pillow and picked up more long blonde hairs—each about 16 inches long. He put them in a separate bag and headed for the front door.

  “Everything seems in order.”

  “Thank God because the owner is a nasty old man . . . an old communist who inherited this and two more buildings from his parents. . . . He talks about class warfare and class injustice and how he loves the working classes but he’d deduct the door from my paycheck in a jiffy if you kicked the door in while the tenants were gone.”

  “I understand. Discretion always pays off. . . .”

  The apartment manager tilted his head in deep thought over Sohlberg’s statement. He screwed his eyes and scratched his scraggly beard. His eyes slowly brightened as Sohlberg’s suggestion sank in. “Yes . . . that’s right. No one need know about this . . . eh . . . Chief Inspector?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Sohlberg walked to a nearby Pakistani store where he bought two manila envelopes. He used his private cell phone to call a courier company that he had often used as a lawyer. He separated the hair samples into six sandwich bags while he waited for the driver. Three of the bags contained hair from the comb in the bathroom. The other three bags had hair from the bedroom pillow. He put a pair of bags with bedroom hair and bathroom hair into one envelope that he addressed to Bio-Synthesis and he put another pair of bags with bedroom and bathroom hair into the other envelope that he addressed to Genelex.

  During his lawyer days Sohlberg had used both American companies to perform DNA analysis. He jotted down brief and identical instructions to each company and slipped the notes into each envelope. He then placed in his inside jacket pocket the other pair of bags with Astrid Isaksen’s hair for future testing in Norway at the crime lab.

  Ten minutes later Sohlberg saw the courier’s bright yellow car pull up in front of the store. He walked out to the street and glanced around to make sure no one watched him. He handed the courier two envelopes for immediate delivery to the DHL international delivery offi
ces located north of Oslo in the town of Skedsmokorset which is halfway to the Oslo International Airport.

  “Are you going straight to the D.H.L. offices near the airport?”

  “Yes,” said the driver.

  “Very good,” said an ecstatic Sohlberg. He grinned over the fact that the hair samples would be in the USA within 24 hours and that he would have a DNA profile for his mystery visitor within 48 hours from the two private American laboratories. The speedy lab work would cost him at least $ 2000 US Dollars. His happiness turned sour as soon as Sohlberg thought about how he would explain the expense to his wife when the credit card statement arrived at the end of December.