by Geir Tangen
“Sorry, I see that,” she admitted. “But I just get so incredibly angry at that guy. I’m not able to cooperate with him.”
“You have to!”
“Excuse me, but what did you just say?”
“You have to, I said. From now on, I want the two of you to cooperate. What I’ve seen of you as an investigation leader so far is downright poor. Far from what I expect of my middle managers. For two days, Scheldrup Hansen has asked you to get ahold of the legal documents to find a connection to Gudmundsson’s cases as a journalist. I can’t see from your reports that you’ve actually done this. I expect you to start doing capable police work. You have a day or two to prove that you’re able to not take things personally and to collaborate with Kripos in the way we intend it. Hansen is an idiot, but he is a resource. Start using him for what he’s good at.”
Lotte nodded curtly to her boss, turned on her heels, and left the office. First on the agenda was a sincere apology to Lars Stople. Then a meeting with Olav Scheldrup Hansen.
Media House Haugesund News
Friday afternoon, October 17, 2014
Viljar sat in the media house conference room without noticing his surroundings or colleagues. Stared out into space, but his pupils did not fasten on anything other than bare walls. Gathering at work this way only hours after Ranveig had been taken from them seemed meaningless. The others didn’t think so. For them it was good to gather, light candles, and hug each other. Viljar just wanted to be alone. Taking part in this mourning choir was not on the agenda. Going around hugging people he otherwise hardly greeted in the hall was stepping far inside his intimacy zone.
When Øveraas had talked and wiped away tears in what seemed like the Hungarian entry in a film festival, Viljar stood up. Went over to the picture on the table, looked at the burning wax candle for a few seconds before he turned on his heels and strode out of the room.
At the exit, he was met by Henrik Thomsen, who stopped him. Viljar tried to clear a path forward, but Thomsen was no racing buoy.
“Viljar … Sorry! I know you were close to each other. It must suck to be you right now.”
Viljar stared at Thomsen in disbelief. “Suck?… Excuse me, but did you say ‘suck’? How brain-dead are you really? Ranveig was perhaps the finest person in the whole city. Have you asked her little girl, Victoria, if she thinks this ‘sucks’ a little? What about her husband, have you asked him whether it sucks?”
“No … I…”
“You sound like you care, while deep down you don’t feel anything other than a little discomfort that something like that could happen to us in this little media house. You have never ever shown empathy to other people, Henrik. Not in your columns, not at work, not privately.”
“Damn it, Gudmundsson. Do you even hear yourself talking? I was just trying to say to you that I’m sorry about what happened. I wish I could have been there when he took her. Taking the life of innocent, defenseless girls in that way … Fucking cowardly!”
“So where were you?” Viljar looked into Thomsen’s guppy eyes with aggression in his gaze. The question had been milling in his head after Øveraas shared that Thomsen couldn’t be used on the story, because he was in Stavanger at the concert house. Which he hadn’t been.
“What do you mean?” Henrik Thomsen’s eyes wandered. Clearly uncomfortable.
“Where were you last evening?”
“I was in Stavanger. Covered the concert with—”
“No!”
“What do you mean by no? I was there.”
“No, you weren’t in Stavanger yesterday. I saw you in Haugesund.”
Henrik Thomsen’s whole body squirmed; he looked around in panic and cleared his throat nervously several times. “You must have seen someone else. Read my review, damn it. You’ll see that I was there.”
“I’ll be happy to read that concert review, Henrik, but it doesn’t change the fact that you and Hans Indbjo were out on a joy ride all afternoon, and that you were getting cozy with chips, beer, and the last season of Desperate Housewives when I passed your apartment a few hours later.”
With a resolute hand movement, Henrik Thomsen shoved Viljar away and went into the building.
For a moment, Viljar considered following Thomsen to force an answer out of him, but changed his mind. It was unimportant. Here and now, actually everything was unimportant. He fished out the pouch of tobacco. Observed his weeping colleagues, who were wandering around the room aimlessly.
This is a good image of the whole case, thought Viljar. The perpetrator has created a universe where everyone passes each other without knowing what they’re doing or where they’re going. A decision was suddenly growing in him. He had to get out. Not to satisfy the growing need for a smoke. Not to be alone. He had to get out of this building for good. What had once been his lifeblood no longer existed here.
He moved through the empty office landscape. Looked the other way as he passed Ranveig’s desk, but stopped after a step or two, turned, and went over to the desk. He could barely detect a slight hint of her perfume from a forgotten blouse that was hanging over the chair, and the melancholy seized him with powerful claws. He struggled against the lump that sat in his throat, and had to steel himself yet again so as not to fall apart. The workplace still bore marks of the living Ranveig. The family picture smiled at him from the desk. Small Post-it notes where she’d written down tasks she had to remember. Her handwriting, the white wool slippers she bought at the winter Christmas market, the pencil with bite marks, IFA lozenges on the desk. Objects and traces of anything other than what had happened last night.
The computer screen was not turned off as it should be when you left work for the day. It was in sleep mode and showed a little ball that jumped from side to side on the screen, leaving a pattern of colors behind it.
Viljar knew instinctively that he did not have permission to touch anything in here, barely even to be here. Nonetheless, curiosity overtook common sense. He pressed the mouse alongside the keyboard. The ball stopped its restless journey immediately, and in a flash the last document Ranveig had been working on appeared on the screen. The library article. He had skimmed it in the newspaper’s print edition before the morning meeting. A smiling Øystein alongside a stack of books.
Viljar was torn out of his speculations when he heard someone clear his throat behind him. Well aware that he had no business at this workstation, he turned around quickly. Behind him stood editor Johan Øveraas along with Lotte Skeisvoll.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Lotte Skeisvoll took a step forward to grab him by the arm. Viljar twisted away. Pushed his way between the two and then ignored all attempts to call him back. Down in reception, he picked up an envelope, put the ring of work keys in it, sealed it, and wrote the editor’s name on the outside. He was through with this job. For good.
Haugesund Police Station
Friday afternoon, October 17, 2014
The aroma of Kripos director Ove Fiskaa’s sweet aftershave lingered in the tiny temporary office that Olav Scheldrup Hansen had been assigned. The same applied to the smell of sweat. It felt stuffy, and Olav studied his own hands. His fingers still trembled slightly from the adrenaline that had pumped while he got the boss’s rebuke served in plain terms. Scheldrup Hansen had chosen to crawl. He ate humble pie to be on good terms with the police chief, but also in a brief conversation with Lotte Skeisvoll a few minutes later. She didn’t seem as embarrassed as he, but gave him her hand and asked him to engage in what was his special competence. Profiling.
He sat down and opened the tool on the computer. Plotted in everything they had in the way of facts so far. Changed a few parameters, considering that Lotte was of the clear understanding that the traces were planted at the crime scenes, not left behind carelessly. He entered the victims’ data, the murder weapons, time parameters, an endless series of witness descriptions and degree of violence used in the homicides. Spent time entering his own observations and the investigat
ion group’s thoughts and theories. The two preliminary autopsy reports and the three crime scene reports followed into the FBI-developed software for use in homicide investigation.
Scheldrup Hansen knew from experience that the profile he would get out of this was in itself not even close to being reliable. Software reads only what is plotted in, and gives answers based on a preprogrammed system. It doesn’t think logically. It doesn’t take feelings, argumentation, and coincidences into account. He had caught killers who were as far from the perpetrator profile as you could possibly get, but it had also taught him to use the program for what it was meant to be. It was supposed to give the investigator new angles and ideas, hopefully also pick up details that had been overlooked in the huge quantity of data that was always collected in such cases.
It took a couple of hours to get everything into place. Even so, data was lacking from a good number of the interviews, and also the preliminary autopsy report for Ranveig Børve. It would be a while before he got that. He went to get coffee from the vending machine in the hall while the computer worked out the profile.
Afterwards, he let the coffee cup rest in his hand while he studied the results. Felt the heat spread out from his palms and throughout his body. He made himself more comfortable in the chair, and gradually, as he read the document closely, his mouth formed into a broad smile. Wonder if this isn’t the first smile I’ve allowed myself since I came to town on Wednesday? Deep down, he knew that he ought to have seen this without a computer having to remind him of what was right before everyone’s eyes, but that was just what this software was designed for.
The software had somewhat unexpectedly focused on a man with an eye for detail. An analytical person. This tallied little with the thoughts he’d had. A man was far more inclined both to plan and carry out serial killings. But that the man was analytical was not so easy to see in the chaos he left behind him at the crime scenes.
The killings bore the mark of a perpetrator who was careful about the details in everything he did. In any event, if you took into account that the form and message of the emails was significant, and that the chaotic crime scenes were not a result of carelessness, but of objects and traces that were planted intentionally. Producing this and at the same time misleading the police to think he was careless obviously assumed detailed planning that required above-average analytical abilities.
The perpetrator is not simply planning how he will carry out the killings, but also how he wants us to respond, thought Scheldrup Hansen, pounding a pen on the desk.
That way he can control both sides of the chessboard. Like a practiced player who always knows what move his opponent will be forced to make, and that way can also plan his next move based on this.
Scheldrup Hansen turned slightly on the swivel chair. Fished up a Post-it pad and wrote a word on top: Policeman?
Why he wrote this, he didn’t know, but there was something about the pattern of action that fit. Policemen know how other policemen think and act in an investigation.
The rest of the information on the laptop created a gloomy picture. According to the software, it was highly probable that the man was solitary, childless, had grandiose ideas about his own excellence, and would not let himself be stopped except by force. This was a “stayer.” The only positive thing was that he would probably not disappear from the surface the way other perpetrators had done in previous cases.
The probability was great that the person in question had an IQ well above average, and therefore probably had higher education and an occupation where he could work with something that was of academic interest. Doctor, lawyer, teacher, architect, journalist, editor, or some form of management position. There were plenty of college graduates with a law background in the police.
The most interesting thing, however, was at the end of the document. Based on the profile, the software gave credible tips about what weak points such a perpetrator might have.
Lack of flexibility. Lack of ability to adapt to sudden changes. Lack of ability to improvise, Olav read, nodding to himself as if he had gotten an oracle’s answer from the computer screen. Obviously it must be that way. So long as everything went as the perpetrator expected, he was unbeatable. We have to make an amateur move, Olav thought, going over to the printer to pick up a copy of the profile. The story of the chess master who is knocked off his perch by the amateur who doesn’t make the obvious and “formulaic” moves is a familiar one. If the amateur followed the book, he wouldn’t have a chance, but when he makes unexpected moves, the master has to start improvising, and the amateur’s big chance lies in the chaos that then arises.
Downtown Haugesund
Friday evening, October 17, 2014
Captain’s Cabin was a home for worn-out souls. Their bodies had checked out long ago, leaving only the souls behind in empty, wrinkled skulls. Not to say that this was a place for drunks and dallying ladies only, that would be going too far, but they were certainly there. Many of them were fixtures. Others made more sporadic visits to Captain’s. One of these was Viljar.
He was younger than his drinking companions, but he didn’t care. According to Viljar, you would have to search far and wide for a place where loyalty and true friendship were more highly prized. Maybe you couldn’t trust everyone who frequented the bar, but you could count on honesty. It was nailed into the walls. What was said at Captain’s definitely did not stay at Captain’s, but it was passed on with sincerity. So there was always something.
Viljar had strolled in the doors at three o’clock after wandering aimlessly around on Haraldsgata. His thoughts were a confused mess. Again and again, he had to exert himself to keep the anxiety from getting the best of him. The third time it swept over him, he saw no recourse other than to drown his nerves in alcohol. Not the world’s best idea, common sense told him, but as things were now, that was secondary. He chose Captain’s for one simple reason. No one knew that he occasionally frequented the bar with the somewhat sleazy reputation. The bartenders and regulars never asked intrusive questions. For them it was enough that he drank.
Four hours later, the anxiety was gone, even if the sorrow was still there. It had settled in his chest like a sinker. Viljar realized that he’d lost the only person that with a little goodwill he could call a close friend. Ranveig wouldn’t have used that word herself, but for Viljar that was what she’d been. A friend. Never anything romantic or sexual. Just friendship, and a kind of mutual understanding.
Now she was gone, and Viljar knew very well that he had played a decisive role in the jigsaw puzzle that led to her death. This must have something to do with the Jonas case. He was up to his neck in misery, and he didn’t believe in coincidences. This whole case revolved around him. That conviction would no doubt pursue him the rest of his life, but right here and now, there was no room for those thoughts. Now there was only sorrow. Sorrow and anger. Once again, the tears came, and one of the female regulars in the house stroked a wrinkled hand across his cheek. Her hand smelled strongly of loose tobacco, with a hint of something that might indicate she hadn’t washed her hands after using the toilet. He wrinkled his nose, but did not remove the hand. The touch did something to him.
The woman, with the dignified name of Magda, snuffled slightly impudent overtures into Viljar’s ear. The finger, which a moment ago had stroked him lightly across the cheek, was now doing the same exercise over his crotch. That part of him had a life of its own, and Magda grunted contentedly when she noticed that he was not unmoved by the touch. The alarm bells, however, were ringing full blast. This was not a woman he wanted to wake up with tomorrow. Viljar got up with a jerk and stumbled over to the men’s room. He double-checked the lock before he placed himself by the urinal. Magda might be expected to come after him.
When he came out again a few minutes later, Magda was gone. He noticed that his table had been occupied by a group from East Norway and Bergen. Viljar didn’t have the energy to discuss seating arrangements, so he turned his nose toward the bar
. A few unsteady steps later, the waitress had already taken his order, shown by raising one index finger in the air. The half liter came sliding toward him just as he reached the bar. Viljar knew he’d already had too much to drink, but this particular day did not allow for any more feelings. He saw no way out other than to seek oblivion in a serious bender. Tomorrow would have enough torments of its own.
In the morning edition of Haugesund News, he had appeared cool and balanced. The story about his private correspondence with the first serial killer in West Norway had a mark of sensationalism about it. The reportage, or commentary if you will, could very well have been written on glossy paper. The advantage was that he stood out as someone who had control of the situation. Someone who knew more than anyone else. The disadvantage was that the desk had used a number of pictures, which meant that Viljar was recognized everywhere, and just on that day in his life when he mostly wanted to tell the world to go to hell, and then sit down in the wagon along with them.
* * *
A little later, Viljar was scooped up from the bar by the group from East Norway and Bergen. They got him on his feet, and with some effort maneuvered him to a place at their table. Viljar was so far into the land of fog and mist that they had to supply him with three cups of coffee before he noticed he had company. He snuffled something unintelligible. Then suddenly he called loud and clearly out into the room.
“Journalists!”
The merry voices around the table turned their heads toward him at once.
“In the name of Jesus, is there life in the hero of the day?” said one of the journalists, who had evidently taken it upon himself to be the evening’s master of ceremonies. He had an innate compulsion to talk a few decibels louder than what was strictly speaking pleasant, interrupt his associates with long discourses on this and that, and at any moment tell an even more amusing anecdote or story than the previous speaker. In that way, he guided the whole party as he wanted. Now he’d set his eyes on Viljar, and it was evident that he was enjoying himself.