Where Monsters Dwell (30 page)

“So this is a piece of one of the knives that the killer used?”

“That’s my theory, yes.”

“Can you say any more about it?”

“No,” said Kittelsen. “It will have to be analyzed by experts.” The doctor took out a transparent bag, placed the metal piece in it, sealed it, and handed it to him. “If I could make a suggestion,” he said as Singsaker got up, “an archaeologist should take a look at it.”

“Why?” asked Singsaker.

“Because it’s not exactly stainless steel,” said the pathologist laconically.

*   *   *

“Based on the quality of the steel and the little I can evaluate from the shape, I’d say it’s from at least the seventeen hundreds. It was most likely oiled and maintained almost continuously, since it’s in astoundingly good condition. If special care was taken, the knife could be even older, but probably not much older than five hundred years.” Jens Dahle raised his head from the microscope and straightened to his full height in front of Chief Inspector Singsaker.

Gunn Brita Dahle’s husband had agreed to meet him at the office in the Science Museum. Singsaker had told him on the phone why he wanted to see him, assuring Dahle that someone else could do the evaluation, but adding that there were a couple of other questions he’d like to ask him. When the detective arrived at the museum, Dahle was already in his office, waiting to receive him. He was unshaven and had beads of sweat on his forehead. It was close to one o’clock, and the temperature outside had gone up to seventy-five degrees. Jens Dahle raised his eyebrows when he saw the knife point that Singsaker handed him.

“The fragment is definitely steel, which is actually no different than iron but with a higher carbon content. But steel has been produced by different methods since ancient times. So that in itself tells us a little about its age. A closer analysis of the alloy could tell us more. For instance, any modern tool made of steel would contain some mineral, to give the steel different properties. The element chromium is used to make the steel stainless. In so-called surgical stainless steel we find a minimum of eleven percent chromium, as well as nickel. I can definitely state that this is not the case with this fragment. But if you want to know the exact age, it would have to be carbon-dated. I can arrange that for you, but it will take time.”

“A test like that will probably have to go through our own technicians,” said Singsaker. “Right now I just want to get a quick preliminary evaluation. But you don’t have any idea where a knife like this might come from?”

“This fragment isn’t big enough to tell us what sort of knife it’s from. It could be a hunting knife or a butcher’s knife. It’s from a time when pretty much every man wore a knife on his belt. Since it’s so pointed, I would guess that it’s not a barber’s knife, though it may well have belonged to a barber.”

“What makes you say that?”

“In the period we’re talking about, barbers owned the widest selection of knives, sawing implements, and drills. They did more than just cut beards. A barber often functioned as both a local surgeon and executioner. They were experts with blades of all types. At some of the universities on the southern part of the Continent, it gradually became more accepted to dissect human bodies, starting in the fourteen hundreds. Then it was usually a barber-surgeon who performed the dissection itself, while the professor stood at a lectern above the dissection table and lectured from his notes. Often the actual findings that the barber-surgeon made did not agree with the lecturer’s manuscript, which was frequently copied out from much older sources. If there was any doubt, the professor was always right, of course.” Jens Dahle chuckled.

Singsaker wondered if this was something Dahle had talked about so many times before that he managed to forget his grief for a moment. Even Dahle’s laughter was programmed into the subject matter.

“In any case that’s how it was until the renowned anatomist Vesalius began his series of dissections in the fifteen hundreds in Padua. Vesalius dissected the corpses himself. He became famous for doing that and, in some places, infamous. In Pisa he was called a barber surgeon. Vesalius was one of the first to prove that the great authority in the field of anatomy until then, the Roman doctor Galen of Pergamon, had built most of his knowledge about the human body by dissecting apes and other animals. Vesalius came to this conclusion because he himself dissected animals as well as humans. But some of Galen’s erroneous conclusions are still retained in anatomical terminology. The terminus of the human intestine, for example, is curved rather than straight, as the term ‘rectum’ indicates. In apes, the rectum is straight.”

For an archaeologist, Dahle knew a surprising amount about medical history. Singsaker couldn’t rid himself of the thought that this subject matter was somehow relevant to the murders. The corpse of Gunn Brita Dahle bore a remarkable similarity to the charts on the medical examiner’s wall. The murderer must have shared Jens Dahle’s fascination with anatomy, but in a way that was far more perverse than scientific.

“Did this Vesalius make drawings and charts?” he asked.

“Not personally, but he had one or more unknown illustrators,” said Dahle. “Vesalius published what is considered the first serious anatomical atlas,
De humani corporis fabrica.
That book consists of eighty-five detailed illustrations of the human body, in which the various anatomical details were revealed layer by layer.”

Almost like a striptease, Singsaker thought gloomily. Then he described the illustration in Kittelsen’s office.

“That’s probably not Vesalius. It sounds like a copperplate engraving by a famous anatomical illustrator from the sixteen hundreds. Now what was his name? Gerard de Lairesse, I think it was.”

“You seem to know a lot about this topic.”

“If you’ve dug up grave sites and studied enough bones, you begin to take an interest in the subject. But everyone ought to know more about it. Understanding one’s body is to understand oneself.” Here he stopped, and his expression turned somber. For the first time it seemed as though he was looking at himself from the outside, and he may have noticed the chasm between the scientific way he was speaking and the emotional chaos he found in himself.

But Singsaker wanted to push him further.

“Do you know anything about the anatomist Alessandro Benedetti?” he asked, finally getting to what he really wanted to know.

“Yes. But we don’t know as much about him as we do about Vesalius. Benedetti lived in Venice and Padua before Vesalius began working there. He’s one of several doctors who laid the groundwork for Vesalius, you might say. He presumably performed a number of dissections, possibly doing some of them with his own hands, and it’s conceivable that he already knew about many of the things that Vesalius is famous for having discovered. Like Vesalius, he stole a number of corpses from graveyards, but no doubt he also performed public dissections, which were legal and regulated in Venice starting in the fourteen hundreds. Alessandro Benedetti was the first to describe an anatomical theater.”

“An anatomical theater?”

“Correct. The first anatomical theater that we know of was built in Padua. There is still one in Padua today, and tourists can visit it. But several smaller and temporary theaters were presumably built earlier, perhaps according to Benedetti’s instructions. We don’t know for certain. The theater was supposed to be a place where public dissections could be held for many onlookers. The main point was that people who came to watch—students, doctors, and other spectators—could see what was actually revealed during the dissection. According to Benedetti, the theater had to ensure a good view, a large, well-illuminated dissection table; good ventilation; and a security staff. He also thought it was a good idea to charge an entrance fee. From Padua the concept spread from one university to the next in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds. Soon there were anatomical theaters everywhere. The northernmost one was built at the university in Uppsala, Sweden, in the mid–sixteen hundreds. This theater is actually one of only three that have been preserved from that period. I recommend paying a visit to it.”

“Maybe when this case has been solved,” said Singsaker, and once again the shadows returned to Dahle’s eyes.

“To get back to the matter at hand,” Dahle said, more bluntly, “the knife you are looking for could be one that was used for such dissections. It’s thin and very sharp, and the edge has a slight curve like a modern scalpel. No autopsies were performed in Norway during the period we’re talking about, so if the knife is Norwegian, it’s more likely that it was used for other medical purposes, such as amputations.”

“I see. But you don’t think the knife might be from Venice or Padua?” Singsaker asked.

“No, why should I? But if it was used for dissections, anything is possible, of course.”

“Who might be thought to own such a knife today?”

“Not many people. Maybe a collector, a farmer with far too much old junk in his barn, I don’t know. Most objects of this type are probably kept in storerooms at institutions like this.” The archaeologist threw out his arms.

“And if this knife turned out to be from the fifteen hundreds and privately owned, would you say that it was valuable?”

“It would be extremely valuable, because of the quality and condition of the metal. But of course it depends on the provenance. For example, if it could be linked to historical personages, the price would climb considerably in the private collectors’ market. And this one is in remarkably good condition, judging by the small fragment we have.”

The image in Singsaker’s mind was now crystal clear. The ancient scalpel he held in Siri Holm’s apartment as she dried herself off with a towel. He had only studied the shaft of the knife and hadn’t noticed whether the point of the blade was missing. The first thing I have to do when I leave here is call her, he thought.

“I hope I’ve been of some help,” said Dahle. “When I spoke with you on the phone, you mentioned that there were other things you wanted to ask me about.”

“Yes, there are,” said Singsaker. “But we’ll have to get to them later.”

26

Odd Singsaker swore on
his way out of the Science Museum. He was supposed to be hunting for Vatten, but every new clue he found pointed in a different direction. This case had turned into a labyrinth, no, a cabinet of curiosities, he thought, imagining a museum storeroom full of cartons and file boxes with no catalog or labels, so it was impossible to know what might be hidden in the next box.

He dialed Siri Holm’s number. “You have reached the voice mailbox of 555 10 476. Please leave a message after the beep.” Singsaker didn’t leave a message. His feet were already carrying him toward Rosenborg.

*   *   *

After he had rung Siri Holm’s doorbell three times without getting a response, he began to study the locks. One was an ordinary lock that he could probably pick easily. But the deadbolt looked more difficult. It looked recently installed and wouldn’t be easy to crack. Even the door was relatively new and seemed solid. Impossible to break it down without causing a lot of damage. He looked at his watch. It was almost three. Just before he got to the apartment he’d called Hornemann to check whether Siri had shown up at work. She hadn’t. So she’d been gone almost the whole workday. But he didn’t have any indication that criminal activity was behind her disappearance. In other words, he had no legal grounds for breaking into her apartment.

He went outside the fourplex and stood there looking around. The whole building seemed empty. There were no lights on, and no one was moving about. Then he walked around the building to the backyard. There he saw a trampoline, which indicated that there were kids in one of the units. At the top right he could see Siri Holm’s balcony. He felt a prickling at the back of his neck when he saw that the balcony door was open. A ladder hung down the wall.

Police officers are never surprised at how easy it is to break into someone’s dwelling. They know it’s easy. They know that people don’t pay close enough attention, especially in broad daylight. Even though anyone could see him if he climbed up the ladder to the balcony, he knew from innumerable witness interviews that few people would think he was doing anything illegal. Most would have seen a workman doing his job, or an unfortunate renter who had locked himself out. Of those who might be suspicious, most would be reluctant to say anything to him. It was incredible the lengths people in Norway would go to in order to avoid bothering strangers, even if they happened to be thieves.

Once inside, he noticed that Siri hadn’t cleaned up since the last time he was there. Then he saw the dog, who was lying in the same spot by the door. He tried to recall if it had been there the whole time during his last visit. If it had, that would have been the first time he’d had sex with a dog watching. Now the dog merely raised an eyebrow when he came in. Obviously not a watchdog. That the dog was in the apartment might mean that her disappearance hadn’t been planned. The Afghan hound closed both eyes, yawned as if terribly bored, and rested its long snout on one paw. The dog had no objections to him taking a look around. Then he caught sight of a human form standing in the kitchen doorway. The mannequin was naked now, the way Siri Holm had been when he left her. He stood there admiring it. It was beautifully made. The whole mannequin had been carved from wood and polished; was it oak? The limbs were round and could be posed. The proportions were exact, male. And this mannequin was also an antique. He could imagine it in a nineteenth-century Italian tailor’s shop. Siri Holm’s apartment was an eclectic, disorganized museum.

His looked around the room for something in particular, and in the middle of the floor, about where it had been lying the last time, he found it. Alessandro Benedetti’s scalpel. He picked it up and studied the point.

Damn, he thought, when he saw it. He stood there with the knife blade pressed between his right thumb and index finger. It felt warm against his fingertips. Then he threw the scalpel. It spun several times in the air before it struck the oak mannequin over by the door. The arms and one leg shook as if in death spasms. The scalpel protruded from the mannequin’s chest. It had gone in right above the heart, with a point that was still intact. Damn, he thought again, but he was relieved. Siri Holm wasn’t the killer. But where was she?