“I’m alright. Just tired.”
Despite her declaration CI Skrautvol continued looking at the ominous sky. She observed how the sunlight had the strangest yellowish hue and how the nearby mountains seemed to be hunched in a menacing crouch over the city. Even the cool summer air had a bizarre otherness that Skrautvol could not describe in rational terms. She instantly understood how and why C.I. Hvoslef had gone mad—his sanity swallowed up by the overpowering remoteness of the bleak Arctic terrain.
The mismatched twosome got inside a marked police vehicle. Rasch drove the Volkswagen 4-WD Passat Alltrack SUV with extreme care. Chief Inspector Skrautvol liked the constable even more because too many policemen tended to drive with a recklessness that bordered on dangerous.
“What about the nine bodies?” said Skrautvol. “What’s the latest on their autopsies?”
“The autopsies are done.”
“Where did they do them . . . here?”
“Yes. We have an excellent medical examiner . . . Doktor Leif Jørgensen. . . . He’s quite the character. He’s a medical doctor and a med school professor and trained in forensics. Like his father and grandfather before him he’s done a pretty good job.”
“Excellent.”
“I made a copy of the entire case file for you to review tonight . . . it’s in the encrypted thumb drive inside that folder in the back seat. Did you bring a computer or do you want to stop at headquarters for one?”
“No. I brought my own tablet. I imagine that the system here will take my Oslo district password?”
“Yes. You’ll find everything in the files . . . notes from all the investigators . . . reports . . . pictures . . . the works.”
An impressed Skrautvol smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate you doing that. It’ll give me a head start for tomorrow. . . . Before I left the office I took a quick look at some of the information that’s online. I understand that all nine victims are still unidentified.”
“That’s correct.”
“What’s known about our vics?”
“Eight men and one woman. All naked and wrapped in plastic or a towel. Their hands were cut off . . . probably by some sort of axe. All except one suffered fatal gunshot wounds to their upper and lower torsos in what appears to have been an exchange of several types of semi-automatic weapons and a 12-gauge shotgun. . . . Two of the men were also shot once in the head execution style with two types of handgun calibers . . . their faces were then hacked off and smashed beyond all recognition.”
“Interesting. Tell me more.”
“Victims One and Two . . . muscular white men in their late twenties or early thirties. . . . Both men had Russian prison tattoos . . . but we haven’t yet been able to trace them to specific prisons or gangs. The two men had fatal gunshot wounds and deep knife wounds . . . someone stabbed and slashed at them. One of the men had his privates shot off with a shotgun. Someone shot him at point-blank range from the ground . . . while he was standing.”
Skrautvol recoiled at the image. “Did the other victims have tattoos?”
“No.”
“Alright. Please continue.”
“Victim Three . . . the oldest white male . . . was in his late sixties. Portly . . . balding . . . soft hands and body . . . probably white collar . . . probably East European or lived out there for quite some time based on his dental work as a young man.
“By the way . . . Doktor Jørgensen collected tooth samples. He shipped them down to Oslo to a lab that will test all of the victim’s teeth for minerals and radioactive isotopes that will help determine where the victims grew up and where they had recently lived. . . . Seems that what we eat and drink winds up in our teeth.”
“Excellent . . . I like the way this Jørgensen thinks and works.”
“Victims Four and Five . . . white males . . . maybe in their forties . . . or fifties or sixties . . . hard to tell because they lived rough lives . . . bad nutrition . . . lots of drinking and smoking. . . . They had dental work that’s typical of East Europe and Russia. One of them had upper and lower stainless steel teeth that some K.G.B. agents used to favor before the Soviet Union disappeared. Doktor Jørgensen thinks that both of these men were probably Russian . . . maybe even ex-military.”
“Interesting.”
“Incidentally,” said Rasch, “the man with the stainless steel teeth is the only one who did not have bullet wounds. He had a deep penetrating wound in the back . . . his spinal cord was almost severed . . . not enough to kill him but enough to have left him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life if he had lived. His actual cause of death was strangulation . . . he had very deep ligature marks to the neck . . . seems someone used a garotte on him. Whoever did that almost severed his neck with a very thin wire and lots of rage.”
“Keep on. . . .”
“Victims Six and Seven . . . white males . . . in their late twenties . . . very fit and well taken care of . . . calloused hands . . . given their tanned and prematurely wrinkled skin they probably worked in the outdoors. Maybe fishermen. These two men had serious mutilation in addition to their fatal gunshot wounds. . . . Their faces were smashed and hacked beyond recognition . . . probably by the same axe used to cut off the hands from all the victims. These two men might be Finnish or they were in Finland or knew someone from Finland because both men had pieces of undigested pulla bread in their esophagus.”
“Pulla . . . what is that?”
“A braided cinnamon yeast bread from Finland. Forensics tested the cinnamon and discovered that it’s a variety from Sri Lanka that’s only sold in Finland.”
“Finland . . . interesting. What else?”
“The gunshot wounds came from different sources . . . some had wounds from the shotgun I mentioned . . . others from semiautomatic handguns . . . three had wounds from what’s probably an Uzi submachine gun.
“Also . . . several bodies got riddled by what’s probably a Heckler and Koch M-P-Seven.”
“Really? . . . That’s a powerful gun to be toting around . . . a NATO weapon . . . maybe there’s some military or ex-military involved from here or some other country?”
“Could be,” said Rasch. “You’d be surprised by what you can buy from soldiers and sergeants who look the other way . . . last year we stopped a boat loaded with U.S. Army rocket propelled grenade launchers that had been stolen from the Heidelberg Army Base in Germany.”
“Well. Well. Ain’t that something. . . . Are ballistics in yet?”
“No . . . we’ve been promised a preliminary report for tomorrow.”
Chief Inspector Skrautvol raised her eyebrow. “Why so slow?”
“They’re still processing a ton of evidence that we collected out there in addition to what Doktor Jørgensen pulled out of the bodies . . . we found hundreds of bullets and spent shells outside the fish shack where the bodies had been buried.”
“A shootout by the fish shack?”
“Looks like it. So far everything points to that.”
Kristina Skrautvol stroked her chin in amazement. “A shootout . . . imagine that . . . just like a cowboy movie . . . or a gangster movie.”
“We’ve never had anything like that up here in Troms County.”
“Even for Oslo and its horrible crime rate . . . nine dead is quite a record for a shootout.”
“What about the other two victims?”
“Victims Eight and Nine . . . Asians killed by some kind of submachine gun—”
“Asians! . . . Really?”
“An Asian male in his forties and Asian female in her thirties.”
“From Central Asia? . . . Maybe from some of the old Soviet Central Republics?”
“Probably not. Jørgensen thinks Chinese . . . Korean . . . or Japanese. ”
~ ~ ~
Constable Rasch dropped Skrautvol off at her hotel. She received quite a shock when she entered her room. The bed took up most of the space in the room. Skrautvol could barely maneuver around the bed without bumping into a desk and a dresser. So
she went downstairs to the front desk.
“Sorry,” said the clerk, “but your room is the only available unit at that price range with the government discount.”
“Can you upgrade me to a larger room? . . . I’ll pay for it myself.”
“We’re all booked with the summer tourists.”
Skrautvol returned to her closet. The tasteful furniture and decor did little to make her happy. Unable to sit by the desk she instead sat on the bed with her back against the wall. The detective started reading the file on her Apple computer.
The dead victims depressed her. Lives cut short. Grieving families left behind.
Nine dead.
How and where do I start this investigation?
Chapter 14/Fjorten
TROMSØ, NORWAY: FRIDAY JULY 22,
OR THREE MONTHS AND 10 DAYS
AFTER THE DAY
Skrautvol left the hotel and took a few steps on the empty street. The bright sunlight deceived. The outdoor summer temperatures offered cold comfort. Tromsø’s coolness surprised her. The detective returned to her room for a tight but warm police uniform jacket.
The young female clerk at the front desk smiled. “Feels cold? . . . It usually happens the first summer you’re here . . . but for us it’s downright balmy today. Anything above forty degrees is warm. Fifty and over is tropical.”
“And above sixty?”
“Killer heat wave.”
Skrautvol chuckled. She then walked the six long blocks from her hotel to police headquarters at 122 Grønnegata. She strolled past the main front door and turned back and stood at the corner of Grønnegata and Bispegata. She studied the rectangular 5-floor building of olive brick and gray concrete. The imposing drabness of the police headquarters emphasized the stark wilderness that surrounded her and the city. Skrautvol marveled at the heavy snow that covered the peaks of the nearby brooding mountains in late July.
“What a strange place,” muttered the detective. She looked around and found the odd brightness of the sun’s light in the crystal clear air to be disconcerting. “Humans are not meant to live this far north.”
The wind from the Norwegian Sea picked up. A lingering if not lurking chill drove her inside.
~ ~ ~
As soon as the elevator door opened to the top floor Chief Inspector Skrautvol noticed heads and eyes turning in her direction. The six foot tall detective was used to it. The detective’s 325 pounds and chaotic uncombed hair almost always attracted disapproving looks from women and men. Snickering and sneers came with the territory of a large woman. That month she proudly sported a pixie cut of disheveled bleached blonde hair with a buzzed nape. Skrautvol never cared about her weight or her appearance. Quite the opposite: she enjoyed flaunting her weight and looks as a life-long reaction to the endless criticism that she had endured from her dim-wit mother ever since the age of ten when she had put on weight thanks to Mama’s unhealthy cooking. Skrautvol’s mother thought that she was a clever psychological genius by harping over her daughter’s weight and appearance in roundabout ways.
Boys prefer girls that. . . .
It’s a shame you’re so fat because you’ve got such a pretty face. . . .
Men want a woman who. . . .
~ ~ ~
Skrautvol advanced into unknown territory. She hated the first day at a new job. It reminded her of the dreaded first day at a new school.
Would the Tromsø office be friendly or hostile?
Whispers floated about. More heads and eyes turned.
“Good morning!” she bellowed. “I’m Chief Inspector Kristina Skrautvol!”
All eyes widened to get their fill.
Kristina Skrautvol peeled off her jacket and stomped her way past a floor packed with gawking staff and officers. She wanted everyone to get a load of her abundant rolls and curves which threatened to burst out of the exceedingly tight uniform.
“Good morning,” whispered a slightly embarrassed young man in his twenties as he rushed to greet the detective. “My name is Jon Kirkvaag. I’m your office assistant. This way please.”
Skrautvol marched triumphantly to the office on the southeast corner. The entire floor fell silent. “Hello everybody! . . . It’s great to be here and . . . boy oh boy! . . . What a beautiful day!”
Once inside the spacious office she walked up to an enormous floor-to-ceiling glass window that offered splendid views of mountains and islands and sea. The inspiring vista triggered an unexpected reaction in Kristina Skrautvol. Right then and there she made up her mind that she would—if necessary—stay and live in northern Norway and enjoy the experience while she was at it.
Westbound cars lined the Bruvegen Bridge over the strait of Tromsøysundet as commuters drove into town from Tromsdalen and other suburbs on the east side of Tromsø. The urban sprawl surprised Skrautvol. She observed how the city spread along the skirt of the mountains on the mainland. An attractive tiny white triangle in the distance—the Ishavskatedralen or Arctic Cathedral—caught her eye. She made a mental note to try her hardest to visit it and other tourist attractions if she ever had the time.
“Please call a meeting of everyone who’s working with Constable Rasch on the nine murders.”
“It’s only him and Inspector Haakon Giske.”
“Fine. Send them in.” Skrautvol smiled but she was definitely not amused by the meager amount of manpower assigned to the case. She stood behind a round table and waited for her team.
~ ~ ~
“Good morning,” said Constable Rasch as he strode in with the purpose and vigor of youth. At 29 the freckle-faced ginger-haired constable looked a decade younger. But for his rugged outdoorsman looks he could be taken for some naive youngster in his late teens.
“Morning,” croaked a wheezy and red-eyed Inspector Giske. The dark bags under his eyes and the intricate cobweb of wrinkles on his face reminded Skrautvol that she needed to cut back on her non-stop smoking. Giske shambled into the office while balancing a giant mug overfilled with a steaming black brew that was presumably coffee. Black sludge marks coated the outside of the mug that had never been washed. Tremors ran through Haakon Giske’s hands. A steady flow of inky drops fell from the trembling mug.
“Gentlemen . . . let’s sit here by the table . . . it’ll be less formal. I want to work as a team . . . I will be going out and investigating the case with you.”
“That’ll be good,” said Constable Rasch.
Giske merely grunted.
Skrautvol eyed the men as they sat down. If Rasch represented the young and eager and hard-working police officer at the beginning of his career then Giske at age 54 represented the cynical and burnt-out senior officer who had long ago hit the promotion ceiling at age 40. Skrautvol however knew that even an old warhorse like Giske had his uses.
“I understand that both of you are life-long natives of Troms. Is that right?”
Both men nodded. Giske scratched the raspy clumps of rust-colored hair that emerged from his scalp like shredded Brillo Pads.
“Good. Then I’m sure that we can find the identity of all nine victims . . . as well as why they died . . . and who is responsible for their deaths.”
“Who’s responsible?” Inspector Giske looked as pleased if he had just found a cockroach swimming in his coffee. He nevertheless slurped away. “Sorry . . . but the whole thing seemed like a wild shootout to me. Victims and culprits are all mixed in together. It’ll be close to impossible to tell who shot who. I say it’s a waste of time at this point in the investigation to spend any time figuring out who shot what person with which weapon. That’s best left for later on . . . I say we focus on other things . . . but that’s your call . . . Chief Inspector.”
Skrautvol noticed that Rasch maintained a poker face while Giske spoke. The constable’s facial neutrality left her unsure as to whether Giske was a pessimist or a defeatist. Pessimists were somewhat tolerable because Skrautvol knew from experience that nay-sayers provide useful reality checks on any investigation. Defeatis
ts—on the other hand—were unacceptable because Skrautvol knew from bitter experience at home and at work that defeatist thinking is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Skrautvol reminded herself to ask Rasch whether Haakon Giske was competent or not. If not she would have to remove Giske from the case and get him assigned elsewhere.
What if her new boss—Troms Police Superintendent Tor Einar Eilertsen—refused to provide her a substitute for Giske?
During a brief phone call the previous evening the superintendent had warmly welcomed her to Tromsø. He also mentioned that he appreciated her presence because the department was stretched to the max with the influx of summer visitors and the inevitable petty and serious crimes that follow tourists.
An ugly thought hit Skrautvol.
Was she stuck with Haakon Giske thanks to the manpower shortage?
Was he like so many of the sub-par and undesirable men who had come across her life?
~ ~ ~
“Look,” said Giske abruptly, “I don’t want to pee in anyone’s pool but we shouldn’t waste time and energy figuring out exactly what happened out there and who killed who. . . . Granted that it wasn’t good or nice or civilized . . . and maybe they didn’t deserve to die like that . . . and the dead need us to speak for them and blah blah blah. . . . But I’ve noticed a few little details that I want to share today . . . if I may.”
Skrautvol warmed up to the man. His insulting bluntness reminded her of her own special brand of honesty. “Go ahead. Share by all means.”
“No one is missing the nine vics. There are no missing person reports for any of them in our system.”
“Hum. Let me think about that.” Skrautvol pursed her lips as Giske’s thought-provoking statement sank into her mind. She organized the thoughts that surged into her consciousness. But her brain cells demanded fuel. Her neurons craved not food but a very dirty fuel—nicotine a/k/a the diesel of Kristina Skrautvol’s mental engine. “Inspector Giske . . . could it be that the vics have been reported as missing in some other country?”
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 15