House of Evidence (13 page)

June 23, 1915. Everything in England is much duller than when I was here before. This is of course due to the war. It feels odd to have dwelt among two warring nations in the same summer. In truth, the feeling is very similar for both places…There is nothing for me here as things stand, and I must make a decision as to what to do next. I sent a telegram to Herr Lautmann in Chicago asking about employment prospects in railway engineering in North America. I need to gain practical experience…

June 26, 1915. Received a telegram from Herr Lautmann. He has engaged me as a railway engineer with the Chicago & North Western Railway. He requests me to come as soon as possible…

June 29, 1915. On board the Cunard liner
Pannonia.
We sailed from London about midnight and are heading, without navigation lights, north of the British Isles.
Pannonia
is 9,851 tons; she was built in Glasgow in 1902, and can accommodate 90 passengers in first class and 70 in second class. We have no idea when we shall reach New York…

H
refna sat opposite Halldór, absentmindedly chewing on her Biro pen, while he talked on the phone.

“Yes, I’ll be there soon,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to end the call. Halldór listened on wearily, and finally said, “No, no, I won’t be too late.”

Halldór and Hrefna had been looking through the files she had found on the investigation into the death of Jacob Kieler Senior before the phone rang.

After hanging up, Halldór turned glumly to the pile of documents between them. First was a report by a Detective Constable Andrés Hjörleifsson, who had been called to the scene in the summer of 1945; Hrefna read it aloud, skipping the less important bits:

“Today, July 15, 1945, constables N.L. and O.A. were called to the house named Birkihlíd. Household servant H.J. had found his employer, Jacob Kieler Senior, deceased in the main parlor of the house, with a large wound to the right eye. I, the undersigned Detective Constable A.H., was called to the scene and investigated the
situation. My examinations and conversation with household servant H.J. revealed the following:

“A glass pane in the main door had been broken from the outside, making it possible to unlock the door by extending an arm through the broken pane. The deceased was alone in the house during the night, as his wife and two children were out of town, and the staff, who live in the basement of the house, were absent, having been given leave for that weekend. The deceased was dressed in pajamas and dressing gown, and seems to have gotten out of bed during the night when he heard a noise, and encountered his killer in the parlor. No valuables are missing from the house, so it appears that the burglar was discouraged. It was not possible to take fingerprints from the door handle, as several people had passed through and touched it before I arrived at the scene.

“Search for clues outside the house was unsuccessful. Inquiries have found no evidence of dispute initiated by or against the deceased.”

Several black-and-white photographs accompanied the report; the overview pictures of the parlor showed where Jacob Senior’s body lay between the large leather sofas.

“He seems to have been standing in a similar spot as Jacob Junior when he was hit,” Halldór remarked. “This is getting stranger by the minute.”

A close-up of the head of the deceased showed that the shot had hit him directly in his right eye. Hrefna was grateful that the picture was not in color, it was gruesome enough as is. The left eye had remained open, and when she covered the right eye with her finger, it looked as if he were still alive.

Next in the pile of documents was the report of the pathologist who had carried out the postmortem. Hrefna read aloud again:

“The body is that of a 169-cm tall male. It presents dressed in pajamas and a dressing gown. Much loss of blood from the head, which displays evidence of a gunshot wound. Clothing is removed, and the body shows no other signs of injury apart from the aforementioned.

“Examination of the right eye reveals a gunshot wound in the center of the socket. There is a 1-mm powder ring round the entry wound, which measures 1.0 cm in diameter. The wound and surrounding tissue is excised and placed in a glass.

“On opening the skull and removing the brain, it transpires that the bullet has passed through the eye, fundus oculi, and right-brain hemisphere, stopping at and fracturing the occipital bone. The bullet was retrieved with minimum handling, and measured at approximately 1.0 cm. The brain weighed 1,470 grams.

“The man would have died instantly from this injury. No other pathology was found.”

Hrefna continued to leaf through the file, coming to a document written in English on FBI letterhead and translated into Icelandic by a state-registered translator on the reverse side:

“September 23, 1945

Att. Chief of Police

Dear Sir,

“This examination has been conducted on the understanding that the findings are related to an official criminal investigation and that this ballistics report is to be used solely for official purposes in connection with inquiries into, or later prosecution of, a criminal case. No permission is hereby granted for the ballistics report to be used in civil court actions.

“(Signed) David Gray, Superintendent.

“Ref: Jacob Kieler, deceased, murder.

“Requested investigation: bullet Q1. Arrived sealed in government mail September 20, 1945.

“Investigation findings: The sample Q1 was shot from a weapon with five lands and grooves twisting to the right. There is some surface damage to the bullet but not sufficient to obscure the distinguishing marks made by the weapon, which are reasonably distinct and could be evidence should the weapon be found. Bullets of this type are only produced for S&W 38/200 so it is highly likely that the weapon is of that type.

“(Signed) Lee Scanlon, Detective.

“Notarized by me

“Mary Ragland,

“Notary Public in the District of Columbia.”

“It seems Jóhann was right regarding the type of gun,” Hrefna added.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Halldór replied. “He wouldn’t have said anything about it unless he was certain. He doesn’t speculate.”

Hrefna turned to the next sheet, a report by DC Andrés, typed on an imperfect typewriter.

“On August 7, 1945, laborer H.E. came to see the undersigned, wanting to report an incident that might be a clue to the murder of engineer Jacob Kieler. H.E. said he had been employed by the army digging a trench for a drainage pipe in the military barracks area. In his group was a laborer S.J. who, according to H.E., is a well-known communist who frequently tries to agitate among his co-workers to stage protests of various kinds.

“There was urgency to completing the drainage trench, as officers in the military were about to move into the new barracks. S.J. successfully incited his fellow workers to stage a sit-down strike, demanding better terms as the job was unusually dirty. Engineer Jacob Kieler, who was in charge of the project, arrived at the site and politely asked S.J. to a negotiation meeting, where after they left the site in J.K.’s vehicle. J.K.’s assistant engineer subsequently arrived on site with a message for the workers that they would all be dismissed and blacklisted by their employers if they failed to complete the work on time. Solidarity among the workers proved weak when S.J. was no longer on site, and they resumed working. When S.J. returned on foot to the site toward the end of the working day having, as far as he was concerned, attended a negotiation meeting with engineer J.K., the job was nearly finished. S.J. became very angry and swore, in the hearing of a number of workers, that he would kill engineer J.K.; H.E. said he would be able to name witnesses to these words. On numerous subsequent occasions, S.J. had expressed his hatred of engineer J.K. and his desire to do him harm. H.E. confirms this testimony with his signature.”

The next sheet, also from Andrés, was handwritten and dated August 8, 1945. The handwriting was poor and the ink had faded, making it difficult for Hrefna to read:

“Sigurdur Jónsson, laborer, who was arrested earlier today at his place of work at Reykjavik harbor, has been brought in for questioning. When asked, Sigurdur says he cannot remember where he was on the night of July 14 and the early morning of July 15, but thinks he was probably at his home, and that his wife is more likely to be able to answer this as she is much better than he
at remembering his absences from home at night. When asked, Sigurdur acknowledges altercations between himself and engineer Jacob Kieler and admits to having shed few tears on hearing of his demise. Sigurdur claims neither to own a gun nor to know how to use one. He says he knows nothing about who committed Kieler’s murder, and that he had nothing at all to do with it. After questioning, Sigurdur was placed in custody.”

Following this interrogation, a warrant had been issued to search Sigurdur’s home, and Andrés had written a report on the execution of the search.

“Today, August 8, 1945, I, the undersigned, and police officers N.L. and O.A. went to the home of laborer Sigurdur Jónsson at Brekkustígur 25, where we found his wife Kristín Jósefsdóttir and their three young children. Kristín presents as a simple and straightforward person. When asked, she admits that Sigurdur only arrived back home toward morning on July 15, but that this is actually a fairly frequent occurrence. We searched the home for a gun but did not find one. Two unused rounds were discovered in a box containing a number of toys under a child’s bed, and Kristín says she thinks that the children must have brought them into the home. They appear to belong to a larger weapon than that which killed J.K., but they were removed for further examination.”

The next sheet was dated three weeks later.

“The prisoner still refuses to disclose where he was on the night of July 14 and the early morning of July 15. An extension to custody is requested.”

Hrefna leafed quickly through the rest of the papers. “They seem to have lost interest in this case after that.”

“I know Andrés very well; he was still here when I first joined,” Halldór replied. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow and find out if he’s got anything to add to this.”

Diary III

July 2, 1915.
Pannonia
has now come through the worst of the war danger zone and the atmosphere on board is improving. I have met a young American, a Mr. Stephen Green, who dines at my table. He is a writer who lived in Paris before the war, and is now on his way home. I try to talk as much as possible to him to practice my English…

July 8, 1915.
Pannonia
arrived at Lower New York Bay toward the evening and sailed at half speed through the Verrazano channel into the Upper Bay and then up the Hudson River. There is a considerable amount of shipping traffic here in spite of the darkness of the night. It is hot and muggy…We saw the Statue of Liberty, donated by the French,
which has stood here in the harbor since 1886. The statue is made of a copper-clad iron frame and is 151 feet high…The tall buildings of Manhattan Island are to the right and the wharves for the passenger liners lie ahead…

July 9, 1915. Have now landed in New York. I had an easy time at the Immigration Office. I was able to present the telegram from Lautmann, and the people of this country do not seem to worry at all about my stay in Germany; these nations are not at war, of course…I wanted to be on my way as quickly as possible, and Mr. Green assisted me with getting to the railroad station, where we took our leave. I can get on to a train to Chicago in two hours. It is strange to be here where there are no worries, having dwelt in the war zone in Europe. Here there is no lack of anything…

July 10, 1915. We are approaching Chicago. The train has passed through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana and, just now, Illinois…

E
gill was puzzled.

Jóhann had just presented him with a fingerprint card that had been tucked into a folder on a corner of his own desk, and said that the owner of these prints had been in Birkihlíd just before the murder, examined the stamp frames, and probably played the piano.

Egill and Halldór compared the fingerprint samples that had been taken in Birkihlíd with those on the card, and agreed there was every indication that Jóhann was right. The odd thing was that the owner of the fingerprints did not have a criminal record, and the card belonged to a completely different case, some burglary.

“How did you make the connection?” Egill asked.

“It was just an idea,” Jóhann replied, not offering any further information.

Just after seven o’clock Egill and Marteinn were sent to fetch the man whose name appeared on the card, one Sigurdur Sigurdsson, born 1950, and bring him in for questioning. The address given was a house in the middle of the Old Town. It was quite straightforward, really, Egill reflected. The guy only needed to explain why he had been in the house, that was all, but it was
better to bring him in to the station to do that. After all, neither Matthías Kieler nor Sveinborg the housekeeper had recognized the man’s name, nor were they able to imagine what business he would have had at Birkihlíd.

“We are going to practice like crazy this winter,” Marteinn confided in Egill on the way downtown. “It’s been five years since we became Icelandic Champions and we’re determined to get the title back.” Marteinn was missing a soccer practice and he was upset about it.

When they arrived at their destination, they found an old, corrugated iron-clad building with two stories and an attic.

“I’ve been here before,” Egill said, as they stood outside the house. “There’s loads of weed here. We did a house search once and there were mysterious potted plants on all the floors.”

Sigurdur’s name was one of those listed on the directory by the front door, so Egill rang the bell. A few short minutes later, the door was opened by a barefoot young man with dark shoulder-length hair, wearing a brown cotton tunic and threadbare jeans.

“Good evening, we are from the detective division,” Egill said, flashing his ID card. “Sigurdur Sigurdsson, does he live here?”

“Yes,” the young man said suspiciously, “he lives here.”

“Is he in? We need to ask him to come with us.”

The young man shot them a wary look and then turned and yelled, “Siggi.” There was no reply so he tried again, a little louder this time. “Siggi! There’s somebody here wants to talk to you.” Still no answer.

“He’s probably asleep,” he concluded, shrugging his shoulders. “Come in, I’ll get him.”

Egill and Marteinn stepped into the lobby and the young man disappeared into the apartment.

“We’re getting a new trainer this spring, an English guy, he’s bloody good,” Marteinn said, continuing their previous conversation. “We’re not allowed to talk about it yet; the contract isn’t set.”

Egill sniffed the air. “There’s always this cloud of incense in these communes. You might just think they were trying to hide something.”

“My mum’s got incense like this; she’s not trying to hide anything,” Marteinn replied. “It just hides the smell of food, she says.”

“I think I’d prefer the smell of proper Icelandic food,” Egill said, wrinkling his nose.

“The guy can certainly sleep,” said Marteinn, after a few more minutes slowly passed.

“This lot never have a clue whether they’re awake or asleep,” Egill said. “Hello?” he called into the apartment, but there was no reply.

“Hello?” Egill called again, this time stepping cautiously into the apartment, but still there was silence. Marteinn followed him into a large, dark room whose only furnishings were a few beanbag chairs and some mattresses on the floor. There was a tabletop, painted glossy black, resting on four brown beer crates. A number of half-burned candles stood on the table in a solidified pool of wax. The wine-colored walls were covered in revolutionary political posters and hand-painted peace signs.

They looked into the other rooms but there was nobody to be seen anywhere. A large window in the bathroom stood open, and when the two men peered out, they spotted a set of footprints in the snow outside.

“He’s gone,” Marteinn said, surprised. “I wonder if that guy was our Sigurdur?”

They knocked on the doors of the other apartments but nobody could give them any further information about Siggi.
They all said the same thing: If he wasn’t in his apartment, then he wasn’t at home.

They returned to the apartment and looked around for any photographs of the occupant without success. Before returning to the car, Egill took a measurement of the footprint outside the window; it was made by a clog, twenty-nine centimeters in length.

Diary III

July 11, 1915. I took a room at the Richmond Hotel late yesterday and slept like a log all night. It is an expensive hotel so I only spent the one night there…I presented myself at the office of C&NW early this morning and was well received. Mr. William O’Hara was given the task of looking after me to begin with. First he showed me the railroad station and a 4-4-2 Atlantic no. 125 locomotive that stood there. He then assisted me in settling in at a guesthouse in Bridgeport; this gives me a fixed residence that is reasonably priced, though in practice I shall be traveling a lot of the time…

July 12, 1915. A meeting with the railroad engineers this morning. Although I consider my knowledge of English to be quite good, I still missed much of what was said. I was given a few simple tasks to begin with. I am to go to St. Louis via Peoria and check the condition of some small bridges en route. O’Hara will be accompanying me…

July 16, 1915. In St. Louis for the first time. Looked at the Eads Bridge over the Mississippi River. It was opened in 1874 and is over 6,000 feet long. As we were standing there looking at the bridge a C&NW train arrived and passed across it. Today is Matthías’s birthday; I shall write him a letter and send him a little something…

August 20, 1915. Completed my first design of a short switch at Burlington. We drank a toast with brandy at the office when Mr. Wolfert, the chief engineer, signed it off…