Sohlberg and the Gift (28 page)

Nansen smiled. “Oh sorry. We’ve been bad hosts. Of course.” She nodded at the attendant. “Wassel . . . can you get all of us a bottle of Farris mineral water that we keep in the top drawer next to you? . . . Get yourself one too.”

Without a word the attendant brought out five bottles which he silently handed to each person.

“Oh,” said Sohlberg, “could we have straws? . . . Are there any straws?”

The attendant might or might not have sighed. Sohlberg wasn’t sure if the man was irritated by his straw request. The orderly went back to the drawer and produced four straws. He pointedly did not take one for himself.

“Thank you,” said Sohlberg. He proceeded to pepper the patient with questions designed to elicit contradictions and inconsistencies. After a half-hour session Sohlberg found not one contradiction or inconsistency that would remotely indicate that Patient # 1022 had lied in the telling of his sybaritic life with Janne Eide and Ludvik Helland.

Nansen and Jorfald obtained the same results after their own half-hour sessions. Jorfald yawned and looked at his watch and said:

“I think we’ve done enough for the day.”

Sohlberg and Nansen and the patient nodded in unison. The attendant and his charge left first. Sohlberg got up with the two psychiatrists and while they turned their backs on him to leave the room Sohlberg lunged at the table and took the straw that Patient # 1022 had used for his refreshment.

The detective could barely keep himself from smiling as he left the Dove Center and the two psychiatrists behind. He now had two critical pieces of evidence and one lead. He had the name Hans Muller on a Netherlands passport which could be located in Dutch government files and used to track the international sex-and-drugs exploits of Patient # 1022. Second: he had the straw with the patient’s DNA which would prove once and for all that Patient # 1022 was not Ludvik Helland but rather Jakob Gansum—the father of Astrid Isaksen. Third but not least: Sohlberg had the lead of the Falkanger name for the supposed Gothenburg lawyer whose name if true would help verify the truth of the lurid life of Patient # 1022.

Falkanger . . . that lead will surely point me in the direction of the true killer or killers of Janne Eide.

Chapter 12/Tolv

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12,

OR TEN DAYS AFTER THE DAY

Undaunted at losing Sohlberg the day before the driver of the black BMW continued his night-time surveillance. Sohlberg saw the driver and the BMW after he had woken up at 12:05 A.M. to part the curtains and spy on his watcher. Sohlberg went back to sleep and three hours later he checked the street and found that a white Volvo had replaced the black BMW. Clenching his fists Sohlberg wished that Fru Sivertsen could magically hurry up and find out who was spying on him in such a brazen manner.

For breakfast the Sohlbergs had oatmeal topped with chopped California Medjool dates.

“So . . . are you ready to go back to work?”

“Yes. I missed the Zoo.”

“Won’t they be curious? . . . Asking plenty of questions?”

“Yes . . . but almost everyone is out for vacations. One sick detective in winter . . . during the flu season . . . won’t stand out even if he’s had a record for perfect attendance.”

“Well . . . you’ve showed up sick before. They’ll be very curious.”

“Times change. Besides. You and I have other curious people to worry about.”

“What? . . . Who?”

“Someone’s been tailing me and—”

“No!”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you before but it’s true. They even started watching us at night.”

“How?”

“Parked car. Two shifts.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I should be getting the name and address of the car owner or owners sometime later today.”

“This all started when your little visitor dropped by your office. Didn’t it?”

“Probably. Seems that way.”

“I knew it. So this is all about your visitor isn’t it? Your young galpal.”

“Seems that way.”

 “I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. This doesn’t sound good.”

“We’ll be okay. Now . . . do you still have the American stun gun I gave you last year when I investigated the Ullern rapist?”

“The stun gun that looked like a cell phone?”

“That’s the one.”

“It’s in my purse.”

“Is it charged?”

“I think so. The electric arc was spectacular when I last tested the stun phase.”

“Do you—”

“Test it every week? . . . Yes . . . as you asked me to.”

“Good. Don’t hesitate to use it.” said Sohlberg who had bought his wife the
Immobilizer
which delivered the right amount of incapacitating muscular spasms and neurological storms at 3.5 million volts.

“Sohlberg . . . maybe I should test it on you.”

He laughed. “Go ahead. I deserve it for dragging us into this mess.”

“True. But I’m confident your brain will scheme a way out.”

“I’m glad you still believe I have some intelligence left in me.”

“Well . . . remember what I’ve told you. You’re not
that
intelligent. But you are clever. Incredibly clever. Crafty. Cunning. Scheming. You’re the ultimate trickster. That’s why you always outsmart and outmaneuver everyone around you . . . including the so-called super-intelligent geniuses.”

“Oh please.”

“It’s true! You always ran circles around the most intelligent people in law school and your law firm. I’ll always remember how you made that jerk lawyer from New York eat dirt by making him work real hard to win the lawsuit and then foreclose on a bunch of junk assets that you had your client leave behind in London while keeping the best ones in Switzerland . . . forever away from the jerk and J.P. Morgan.”

“That was fun . . . back in those days.”

“You’ll think of something. You’ll figure it out.”

“I hope so.”

~ ~ ~

While Fru Sohlberg dressed a hot shower relaxed Sohlberg’s tense neck muscles. Although he was fuming over the surveillance detail outside his home Sohlberg was grateful that he was not outside but rather inside—enjoying the warmth and conveniences of home. As a constable and during his first years as an inspector he had spent too many freezing nights in marked and unmarked cars.

The joys of winter surveillance in Norway!

He remembered his first winter’s night surveillance. He shivered for hours inside the icebox of his car while he spied on a murderous pimp during the long and lonely night. A few foolish officers ran their car engines to warm up. But that choice almost always blew their cover since most surveillance targets would sooner or later get suspicious about a car that had billowing exhaust spewing out of the tailpipe for hours at night. Sohlberg like most other officers reverted to wearing mountain climbing clothes and a balaclava and gloves and boots to survive the sub-freezing temperatures. He also came up with the trick of slipping into a large sleeping bag that was spacious enough to let him drive if necessary without his feet getting tangled with the accelerator and brake pedal. A black
Marmot Minus 40
sleeping bag with a hood always did the job in keeping him warm and thoroughly concealed.

~ ~ ~

As soon as his wife left the house Sohlberg called the courier company to have a driver meet him at the Central Station to pick up two envelopes for immediate delivery to the DHL offices. He then cut the straw that Patient # 1022 had sipped on the day before by slicing it from top to bottom into equal halves. He placed the two samples in separate sandwich bags which he placed inside pre-addressed envelopes to Bio-Synthesis and Genelex.

Sohlberg hurried upstairs and sent an e-mail to the American companies asking them to compare the DNA on the straw with the DNA on the hair samples to determine if the straw’s DNA held the paternal genetic material of Astrid Isaksen’s father. Finally Sohlberg would have proof that the man sent by the prosecution to an insane asylum for the murder of Janne Eide was
not
her husband Ludvik Helland but rather Jakob Gansum.

Where is Ludvik Helland?

Is he alive . . . laughing his head off somewhere at getting away with his wife’s murder?

Or . . . is Ludvik Helland dead . . . another casualty of the strange life and death of Janne Eide?

~ ~ ~

After two sick-days Sohlberg delved with pleasure into the hubbub of the Zoo. He didn’t mind the reduction in noise due to the shrunken workforce of vacation-bound detectives. The subdued clamor was just as relaxing to Sohlberg. He loved the mechanics of a homicide department. The endless ringing of telephones. The buzz of a hundred conversations. The defeated shuffle of doomed suspects and the intense concentration on the faces of detectives as they entered and left interrogation rooms. The mind-numbing
click-click
of typing on keyboards. The clink of shackles and chains. A smattering of laughter and weeping and occasional screaming.

“Hei,” said Fru Sivertsen when Sohlberg walked past her desk. “Hope you’re feeling better. Welcome back!”

Sohlberg nodded and smiled at her. He loved his job because it offered the excitement that few other jobs could compete with or exceed. Of course there were plenty of legitimate jobs or careers filled with excitement. Firefighting. Stock trading. Race car driving. Professional gambling. Building demolition. Soldiering. And these were just to name a few. But police work in Homicide and Serious Crimes contained one unique attribute that set it apart from all other jobs—it was literally the frontline in the war between good and evil. Only here could a man or woman literally confront evil and wrongdoing on a daily basis. Only here could a detective stop or prevent evil and wrongdoing by capturing the carnal forms of evil. Only here could a homicide inspector stare at pure evil in the eye and come to understand evil in
all
of its shapes and sizes and colors and ages and backgrounds and net worth.

“Look who’s back,” said Thorsen with as much enthusiasm as an Egyptian mummy. “We thought you had some fatal disease.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” replied Sohlberg as he smiled brightly. “Besides . . . work is an elixir. A cure-all. You should try it some time.”

Thorsen snorted and frowned before leaving Sohlberg alone and happy at his work. Unlike his lazy former friend Sohlberg reveled at his choice of careers. He loved how a homicide detective is part cop and part surgeon or priest. While Thorsen shambled away Sohlberg remembered his mentor Lars Eliassen’s brilliant observation:

“A homicide detective is the cancer surgeon who cuts out the rotting and malignant tumors of society . . . or you can think of the homicide detective as society’s exorcist . . . with a badge and a gun instead of a cross and an aspergillum to sprinkle holy water.”

“Welcome back,” said Constable Høiness who followed Sohlberg to his cubicle. “We’ve progressed quite a bit on the Grønland stabbing.”