Killing Moon

40 Thursday

Absence of fear

Terry Våge lifted the chair — just to hip height, he couldn’t raise it higher — and flung it at the wall.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’

Locating the owners of the vehicles that had passed Kolsås Shopping Centre had been easy. All you had to do was go into REGNR online and type in the licence plate, then — for a certain fee — you were given a name and address. It had cost him over two thousand kroner and taken a couple of hours, but finally he had a complete list with fifty-two names and addresses and was about to start calling them. But now on VG’s website he had just read the guy had been caught, arrested at Jernbanetorget!

The chair didn’t even tip over, just came rolling back towards him on the sloping floor, as though bidding him to sit down and calmly evaluate things.

He put his head in his hands and tried to do as the chair suggested.

The plan had been to land the scoop of all time, one that would even top the photographs he had taken of the heads in Kolsås. He was going to find the killer on his own and — here was the genius of it — demand an exclusive, in-depth interview about the murders and the man behind them in exchange for complete source protection. Våge would explain that source confidentiality would be cemented by going public, safeguarding them both against prosecution by the police or other authorities. He would, however, fail to mention that this protection of sources — just like the privileged information and duties of confidentiality of certain professions — only stretched so far, and certainly not past the point where life was in danger. Våge would, therefore — as soon as the interview was published — tell the police where they could find the murderer. He was a journalist, and nobody could hold the fact he was doing his job against him, especially when it was he, Terry Våge, who had found the killer!

But now someone had beaten him to it.

Fuck!

He scrolled through the other newspapers’ sites. No pictures of the guy, and no name. Common practice when the person concerned wasn’t a high-profile figure, like Markus Røed, for example. It was just typical bloody Scandinavian mollycoddling, protecting the bastards, it made you want to emigrate to the USA and other places where journalism got a bit of elbow room. Oh well. Anyway, so what if he did find the name? All he could do was berate himself for not having found it sooner and ringing the guy.

Våge sighed heavily. He was going to be in a bad mood the rest of the weekend. And that would impact Dagnija. But she would just have to put up with it, he had paid half the cost of her tickets, after all.

At six o’clock, everyone in the Aune group was in room 618.

Øystein had brought a bottle of champagne and plastic cups.

‘I got it at Police HQ,’ he said. ‘As a thank-you, like. Think they must’ve had a few bottles themselves. Never seen so many jolly cops.’

Øystein popped the cork and poured into the cups, which Truls distributed to everyone, a smiling Jibran Sethi included. They toasted.

‘Can’t we just continue having these meetings?’ Øystein said. ‘We don’t need to be solving cases either. We can argue about... who the most underrated drummer in the world is, for instance. The correct answer is Ringo Starr, by the way. The most overrated is Keith Moon from the Who, and the best is of course John Bonham from Led Zeppelin.’

‘Would make for pretty short meetings by the sound of it,’ Truls said, and everyone laughed, not least Truls himself upon realising he had actually been funny.

‘Well, well,’ Aune said from the bed when the laughter had subsided. ‘I guess it’s time for a summary.’

‘Yep,’ Øystein said, tilting back on his chair.

Truls merely nodded.

All three looked at Harry expectantly.

‘Mm,’ he said, fidgeting with the plastic cup, which he had yet to drink from. ‘We don’t have all the details yet, and some questions remain. But let’s draw some lines between the dots we have and see if we get a clear picture. OK?’

‘Hear, hear,’ Øystein said, and stamped approvingly on the floor.

‘We have a killer with a motive unknown to us or that we can’t understand,’ Harry said. ‘Hopefully the interviews will tell us something more. Otherwise, it seems clear to me that the whole thing started at the party at Røed’s place. As you’ll recall, I thought we should track down the cocaine pusher, but I have to admit my focus was on the wrong pusher. After all, it’s easy to believe that the guy wearing a face mask, sunglasses and a baseball cap is the bad guy. Let’s go through what we know about him before we look at the murderer. What we know is that this guy was an amateur with samples of green cocaine originating from a recent seizure. Let’s call him the Greenhorn. My guess is the Greenhorn is someone who happens to be at one of the stops along the way before the drugs are sent for analysis, so one of the customs officers or someone working at police storage. He realises the quality of this stuff is off the scale and spots his chance to hit the jackpot. What he needs to do after stealing so much from the seizure is sell the whole lot in one go to one individual who appreciates quality product and can pay for a batch that size.’

‘Markus Røed,’ Øystein said.

‘Exactly. And that’s the reason the Greenhorn is so insistent on Røed having a taste. He was the target.’

‘And I was the one who got the blame,’ Truls said.

‘But let’s forget the Greenhorn for now,’ Harry said. ‘After Markus sneezes on the table and ruins everything for the poor guy, it’s Al who provides Markus with cocaine. And probably the girls too, even though they got some of the green type first. The girls like Al. He likes them. And he lures them into taking a walk in the forest. And that’s where we get to what for me is a mystery. How did he manage that? How does he get Susanne to willingly travel all the way across the city and meet him at a secluded spot? By dangling some mediocre cocaine under her nose? Hardly. How does he get Bertine to readily agree to meet him in the forest after another girl, who she knows about, has just disappeared? And after these two murders, how on earth does he persuade Helene Røed to willingly leave with him in the interval at Romeo and Juliet?’

‘Do we know that?’ Aune asked.

‘Yeah,’ Truls said. ‘The police checked with the ticket office and found out which seat numbers they’d sent to Røed and who’d been sitting next to her as well. And they said the woman sitting beside them hadn’t returned after the interval. The cloakroom attendant also remembered a lady picking up her coat, and a man standing waiting a little way off with his back turned. She remembered because they were the only people she had seen leave that particular play during the break.’

‘I spoke to Helene Røed,’ Harry said. ‘She was a smart woman and capable of taking care of herself. It just doesn’t make sense to me that she would willingly leave a play with a drug dealer she doesn’t know. Not after everything that’s happened.’

‘You keep bringing up willingly,’ Aune said.

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘They ought to be... scared.’

‘Go on.’

‘Yes. Terrified.’ Harry was no longer sitting in his usual slumped position, but on the edge of the chair, leaning forward. ‘It reminds me of this mouse I saw one morning when I woke up in Los Angeles. It just walked right over to the house cat. Who of course killed it. And a few days ago I saw the same thing happen in a backyard here in Oslo. I don’t know what’s wrong with these mice, maybe they were drugged or had lost their natural instinct of fear.’

‘Fear is good,’ Øystein said. ‘A little bit at least. Fear of strangers, for instance. Xenophobia is a pretty negatively charged word, and yeah, it’s to blame for a lot of seriously evil shit. But the world we live in is eat or be eaten, and if you’re not suitably scared of what’s unfamiliar to you, then sooner or later you’re fucked. Don’t you think, Ståle?’

‘Certainly,’ Aune said. ‘When our senses perceive something they recognise as a danger, the amygdala excretes neurotransmitters like glutamate, so we become fearful. It’s a smoke alarm from evolution, and without it...’

‘We burn up,’ Harry said. ‘So what’s wrong with these murder victims? And the mice?’

The four of them looked at one another in silence.

‘Toxoplasmosis.’

They turned to the fifth person.

‘The mice have toxoplasmosis,’ Jibran Sethi said.

‘What’s that?’ Harry asked.

‘It’s a parasite that’s infected the mouse, blocking the fear response, and replacing it with sexual attraction instead. The mouse approaches the cat because it’s sexually attracted.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Øystein said.

Jibran smiled. ‘No, the parasite is called Toxoplasma gondii and is actually one of the most common in the world.’

‘Wait,’ Harry said. ‘Is it only found in mice?’

‘No, it can live in almost any warm-blooded animal. But its life cycle goes through animals which are prey for cats because the parasite needs to get back into the intestines of the main host to reproduce, and that has to be a feline.’

‘So the parasite can in principle be present in people?’

‘Not just in principle. In certain areas of the world it’s quite common for humans to be infected with the gondii parasite.’

‘And they are then sexually attracted to... eh, cats?’

Jibran laughed. ‘Not that I’ve heard of. Perhaps our psychologist knows something about that?’

‘I’m familiar with the parasite, so I should have made the connection,’ Aune said. ‘The parasite attacks the brain and the eyes, and there’s research to show that people with no history of mental problems begin to display abnormal behaviour. Not that they start carrying on with cats, but they do exhibit violence, directed primarily at themselves. There are numerous instances of suicide where it’s believed the parasite is to blame. I read in a research paper that the reaction times of people with the gondii parasite are diminished, and that the probability of them being involved in road accidents is three to four times greater. And there’s an interesting study showing that students with toxoplasmosis are more likely to become businessmen. They reasoned that this was due to an absence of fear of failure.’

‘Absence of fear?’ Harry said.

‘Yes.’

‘But not sexual attraction?’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking that the women didn’t just leave willingly, they went all the way across town or left a theatre production they liked to be with their killer. No signs of rape were found, and the footprints in the forest may indicate that they had their arms linked as they walked, like lovers.’

‘It’s the scent of the cat and cat’s urine that attracts infected mice,’ Jibran said. ‘Imagine, the parasite eats away at the mouse’s brain and eyes, while at the same time it knows it needs to return to the cat because it’s only within the bowels of the cat that the environment is conducive to reproduction. So it alters and manipulates the mouse’s brain to be attracted sexually by the smell of the cat. So that the mouse voluntarily helps the parasite return to the cat’s intestines.’

‘Holy shit,’ Truls said.

‘Yes, it’s gruesome,’ Jibran conceded. ‘But that’s how parasites function.’

‘Mm. Is it conceivable that the killer has taken on the role of the cat, as it were, after he’s infected them with the parasite?’

Jibran shrugged. ‘It’s perfectly conceivable that it’s a mutated parasite or that someone could breed a gondii parasite that requires human intestines as a primary host. I mean, in this day and age even a biology student can engage in gene manipulation on a cellular level. But you’d have to ask a parasitologist or a microbiologist about that.’

‘Thanks, but first we’ll hear what Al has to say.’ Harry checked the time. ‘Katrine said they were going to question him as soon as he’s had a chance to talk to the lawyer appointed to him.’

It was rare anyone at the Custody Unit dared to ask Duty Officer Groth the reason behind his chronically bad humour and ill temper. Those who had were now gone. His haemorrhoids, however, were not. They had been at the Custody Unit as long as Groth — for twenty-three years. He had been interrupted in the middle of a promising game of patience on the PC, and now winced in pain on the chair as he looked at the ID card the man in front of him had placed on the counter. The man had introduced himself as the lawyer for the prisoner arrested at Jernbanetorget earlier that day. Groth didn’t care much for lawyers in expensive suits, even less for ones like this, slumming it in a bomber jacket and wearing a flat cap like some dock worker.

‘Would you like an officer present in the room, Beckstrøm?’ Groth asked.

‘No thank you,’ the lawyer said. ‘And no one listening at the door either.’

‘He’s killed three—’

‘Suspected of having killed.’

Groth shrugged and pressed the button that opened the full-height turnstile. ‘The guard on the inside will search you and open the cell door.’

‘Thanks,’ the lawyer said, picking up his ID card and going through.

‘Idiot,’ Groth said, not bothering to look up from the PC screen to see if the lawyer had heard.

Four minutes later it was clear the game of patience wasn’t working out after all.

Groth swore, and just then heard someone clear their throat and saw a man wearing a face mask standing behind the full-height turnstile. Groth was momentarily taken aback before he recognised the flat cap and the bomber jacket.

‘That was a short conversation,’ Groth said.

‘He’s in pain, just bawling and wailing,’ the lawyer said. ‘You need to get him medical help, and then I’ll come back later.’

‘Oh, the doctor was just in there, but he couldn’t find anything the matter with him. The guy got painkillers, so I’m sure he’ll stop his wailing soon.’

‘He’s screaming like he’s about to die,’ the lawyer said, walking towards the exit. Groth watched him leave. Something wasn’t right but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He pressed the call button.

‘Svein, how are things in number 14? Is he still screaming?’

‘He was when I unlocked to let the lawyer in, but when I went to let the lawyer out he’d stopped.’

‘Did you take a peek inside?’

‘No. Should I?’

Groth hesitated. The line he took — and it was built on experience — was to let the prisoners scream, cry and yell without giving it too much attention. They’d been stripped of anything they could use to harm themselves and if you came running every time they started whining, they soon learned it got them attention, just like wailing infants. In the box that was still in front of him lay the possessions the prisoner in number 14 had had on him when they brought him in, and Groth automatically took a look for something that could give an answer. Evidence and Seizure had already been to collect the bags of cocaine and money, and all he saw were house keys, car keys and a crumpled theatre ticket that said ‘Romeo and Juliet’ on it. No packets of medicine, prescriptions or anything to give an indication. He twisted in the chair, felt a jolt of pain as one of the haemorrhoids became pinched and swore under his breath.

‘Well?’ Svein said.

‘Yeah,’ Groth said gruffly. ‘Yeah, check on the prick.’

Aune and Øystein were sitting at one of the tables in the Radium Hospital’s almost deserted canteen. Truls had gone to the toilet, and Harry was standing on the terrace outside the canteen with the phone to his ear and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

‘You’re the doctor in these sorts of things,’ Øystein said and nodded out in the direction of Harry. ‘What’s bugging him?’

‘Bugging?’

‘Driving him on. He never stops working, even now the guy’s been caught and he’s not getting paid any more.’

‘Oh, that,’ Aune said. ‘I suppose he’s seeking order. An answer. The need for that is often more keenly felt when everything else in your life is chaotic and seems to lack meaning.’

‘OK.’

‘OK? You don’t sound convinced. What do you think the reason is?’

‘Me? Well. Same as Bob Dylan answered when he was asked why he keeps on touring long after he’d become a millionaire and his voice had gone to shit. ‘“It’s what I do.”’

Harry leaned on the railings with the phone in his left hand while he sucked on the single cigarette he had allowed himself to take from Alexandra’s Camel packet. Perhaps the principle of moderation could be applied to smoking. While waiting for an answer on the other end, he caught sight of a person standing down below in the sparsely lit car park. A man with his face tipped up towards Harry. It was hard to make out at this distance, but he had something white on his neck. A freshly laundered shirt collar, a neck brace. Or a clerical collar. Harry tried to put the thought of the man in the Camaro out of his mind. He had got his money, why would he be coming for Harry now? Another thought occurred to him. What he had said to Alexandra when she asked if he thought he had killed the man with that blow to the throat. If he had died, I don’t think his friends would have let me live afterwards. Afterwards. After he had made sure they got their money.

‘Helge.’

Harry was jarred out of his thoughts. ‘Hi, Helge, Harry Hole here. I got your number from Alexandra, she was saying you might be at the Forensic Medical Institute working on your doctorate.’

‘She’s not wrong,’ Helge said. ‘Congrats on the arrest, by the way.’

‘Mm. I was going to ask you for a favour.’

‘Shoot.’

‘There’s a parasite by the name of Toxoplasma gondii.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re familiar with it?’

‘It’s very common, and I am a bioengineer.’

‘OK. What I was wondering was if you could check to see if the victims might have had the parasite. Or a mutated version of it.’

‘I understand. I wish I could, but the parasite is concentrated in the brain, and we don’t have theirs.’

‘Yes, but the parasite can also be present in the eyes, I’m told, and the killer left one eye on the corpse of Susanne Andersen.’

‘True, they are also concentrated in the eyes, but it’s too late. Susanne’s remains were sent for the funeral, and that was to take place earlier today.’

‘I know, but I checked. The funeral did go ahead today, but the body is still lying in the crematorium. There’s a queue so she won’t be cremated until tomorrow. I got an oral court order over the phone, so I can go up there now, get the eye and then come over to you. That OK?’

Helge let out a laugh of disbelief. ‘All right, but how were you planning to remove the eye?’

‘You’ve got a point. Any suggestions?’

Harry waited. Until he heard Helge sigh.

‘It would, strictly speaking, be regarded as part of the post-mortem, so I’d better get down there and do it.’

‘The country owes you a debt of thanks,’ Harry said. ‘See you there in thirty minutes.’

Katrine walked as quickly as she could across the floor of the Custody Unit. Sung-min was right behind her.

‘Open up, Groth!’ she called out, and the duty officer did as he was told without a murmur. For once Groth looked more shocked than grumpy. But that was small comfort.

Katrine and Sung-min squeezed through the rotating bars of the turnstile. A guard held open the door leading into the corridors between the detention cells.

The door of cell 14 was open. Even in the corridor she could smell the stench of vomit.

She stopped in the doorway. Over the shoulders of the two medics, she saw the face of the person lying on the floor. Or rather, what should have been a face but was now only a bloody mass, the front of a head where fragments of nasal bone were the only white in a red pulp of flesh. Like a... Katrine didn’t know where the words came from... blood moon.

Her eyes moved to the spot on the brick wall the man had obviously dashed his head against. He must have done it recently, because half-coagulated blood was still making its way down the wall.

‘Inspector Bratt,’ she said. ‘We just got the message. Is he...?’

The doctor looked up. ‘Yes. He’s dead.’

She shut her eyes and cursed to herself. ‘Is it possible to say anything about the cause of death?’

The doctor grinned grimly and shook his head wearily, as though it were an idiotic question. Katrine felt anger bubbling up. She saw the Médecins Sans Frontières logo on his jacket, he was probably one of those doctors who had spent a few weeks in some war zone and played the role of hardcore cynic the rest of his life.

‘I asked—’

‘Miss,’ he interrupted, his voice sharp, ‘as you can see, it’s not even possible to tell who he is.’

‘Shut up and let me finish my question,’ she said. ‘Then you can open your mouth. Now, how—’

The doctor without borders laughed, but she could see the vein in his neck become more pronounced and more colour come into his face. ‘You may be an inspector, but I’m a doctor and—’

‘And have just declared our prisoner dead, so your job here is done, Pathology will take care of the rest. You can either answer here or be locked up in one of the neighbouring cells. OK?’

Katrine heard Sung-min clear his throat softly beside her. She ignored the discreet admonition about having gone too far. Fuck it, their party was ruined, she could already see the newspaper headlines — Murder Suspect Dies in Police Custody. The biggest murder case she had ever had would probably never be completely resolved now that the central figure couldn’t talk. The families would never know what had really happened. And here was this puffed-up doctor guy trying to play cool?

She breathed in. Out. Then in again. Sung-min was of course right. That was the old Katrine Bratt who had surfaced, the one this Katrine had hoped was buried for good.

‘Sorry.’ The doctor sighed and looked up at her. ‘I’m being childish. It’s just that it looks like he was suffering for a long time without anything being done, and then... then I react emotionally and blame you lot. Sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ Katrine said. ‘My own apology was close on the heels of yours. Can you say anything about the cause of death?’

He shook his head. ‘It could have been that.’ He nodded at the blood on the whitewashed wall. ‘But I’ve yet to see someone manage to take their own life by banging their head against a wall. So maybe the pathologist should check that out as well.’ He pointed to the yellowish-green pool of vomit on the floor. ‘I heard he’d been in pain.’

Katrine nodded. ‘Any other possibilities?’

‘Well,’ the doctor said, getting to his feet, ‘possibly someone killed him.’