Killing Moon

41 Thursday

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It was seven o’clock, and at the Forensic Medical Institute the only lights on were those in the laboratory. Harry stared first at the scalpel in Helge’s hand and then at the eyeball lying on one of the glass plates.

‘Do you really...?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, I have to get to the inside,’ Helge said and cut.

‘Yeah, well,’ Harry said. ‘The funeral is over, I suppose, no one in the family is going to see her again.’

‘Well, actually they’re going there tomorrow,’ Helge said, placing the piece he had cut away under the microscope. ‘But the guy from the undertakers had already put in a glass eye and will just put in one more. Look at this.’

‘You see something?’

‘Yeah. Gondii parasites. Or at least something similar. Look...’

Harry leaned forward and peered into the microscope. Was he imagining things, or did he detect an almost imperceptible odour of musk?

He asked Helge.

‘It could be from the eye,’ he said. ‘In which case you have an exceptional sense of smell.’

‘Mm. I have parosmia, I can’t smell corpses. But maybe it means I smell other things all the better. Like with blindness and hearing, you know?’

‘You believe that?’

‘No. I do, however, believe that the killer might have used the parasite to render Susanne fearless, and that she felt sexually attracted to him.’

‘No way. That he’s made himself the primary host, you mean?’

‘Yeah. Why no way?’

‘Just that it’s not that far off from the field I’m toiling in to obtain a doctorate. Theoretically, it is possible, but if he’s managed to do it, we’re talking the Odile Bain Prize. Eh... that’s like the Nobel Prize in parasitology.’

‘Mm. I’m thinking he’ll get life instead.’

‘Yeah, of course. Sorry.’

‘Another thing,’ Harry said. ‘The mice are attracted by the smell of cat, any cat I mean. So why are these women attracted to just one man in particular?’

‘You tell me,’ Helge said. ‘The key is the smell the parasites can direct an infected person towards. Perhaps he carried something the women caught the scent of. Or he might have smeared it directly on his body.’

‘What kind of smell?’

‘Well, the most direct way is a smell from the intestinal tract where the parasites know they can reproduce.’

‘Excrement, you mean?’

‘No, he’d use excrement to spread the parasite. But to attract an infected person he might use the intestinal juices and enzymes in the small intestine. Or the digestive secretions from the pancreas and gall bladder.’

‘You’re saying he’s spreading the parasite with his own faeces?’

‘If he has created his own parasite, then he’s probably the only possible compatible host, so he alone must ensure the life cycle continues running its course so the parasites don’t die out.’

‘And how does he do that?’

‘Same as the cat. He could see to it, for example, that the water the victims drink is infected with his faeces.’

‘Or the cocaine they snort.’

‘Yes, or the food they eat. It will take a while before the parasite reaches the victim’s brain and can manipulate it.’

‘How long?’

‘Well... if I had to guess how long it took with a mouse, I’d say two days. Maybe three or four. The point is that in humans the immune system would generally eradicate the parasite, and that would occur after a couple of weeks or a month, so he doesn’t have all the time in the world if he’s trying to keep the life cycle going.’

‘So, he’d need to wait a couple of days, but not too long, before killing them.’

‘Yes. And then he’d have to eat the victim.’

‘All of the victim?’

‘No, the parts where parasites ready to reproduce are most concentrated should do it. So, the brain...’ Helge stopped abruptly and stared at Harry as though it just dawned on him. He swallowed. ‘...or the eyes.’

‘Last question,’ Harry said hoarsely.

Helge just nodded.

‘Why don’t the parasites take over the brain of the primary host as well?’

‘Oh, but they do.’

‘Really? And what do they do to him?’

Helge shrugged. ‘Pretty much the same thing. He becomes fearless. And seeing as how he is receiving a continuous top-up as is the case here, the immune system won’t be able to get rid of the parasite, and he risks a dulling or a slowing down of reaction times, for instance. And schizophrenia.’

‘Schizophrenia.’

‘Yes, recent research indicates it. Unless he keeps the number of parasites in his own body in check.’

‘How?’

‘Well. That I don’t know.’

‘What about parasiticides? Like Hillman Pets, for example?’

Helge gazed into the air thoughtfully. ‘I’m not familiar with that brand, but theoretically the right dosage of a parasiticide could create a balance of sorts, yes.’

‘Mm. So the quantity of parasites you have in you is important?’

‘Oh yeah. Were you to give someone a large dose with a high concentration of gondii the parasites would block the brain, paralysing the person in the space of a few minutes. They’d be dead within an hour.’

‘But you wouldn’t die from snorting a line of infected cocaine?’

‘Maybe not within an hour, but if the concentration is high enough, it could easily kill you within a day or two. Excuse me...’ Helge picked up a ringing phone. ‘Yes? All right.’ He hung up. ‘Sorry, I’m going to be busy now, they’re on their way up with a body from the Custody Unit I have to carry out a preliminary post-mortem on.’

‘OK,’ Harry said, buttoning up his suit jacket. ‘Thanks for your help, I’ll find my own way out. Sweet dreams.’

Helge gave him a faint smile.

Harry had just walked out the door of the lab when he turned and went back in.

‘Whose body are they bringing over, did you say?’

‘I don’t know his name — the guy arrested at Jernbanetorget today.’

‘Fuck,’ Harry said in a low tone, gently striking the doorjamb with his fist.

‘Something wrong?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Who?’

‘The primary host.’

Sung-min Larsen was standing behind the counter at the Custody Unit peering down into the box containing the property of the deceased. There was no great hurry on the house keys, since they had already broken in and searched his place, but a forensics officer was on the way to collect the keys to the car, which had been found in the multi-storey car park closest to Jernbanetorget. Sung-min turned the theatre ticket. Had he been to the same performance as Helene? No, there was an earlier date on the ticket. But maybe he had gone to the National Theatre to reconnoitre, to plan the abduction and murder of Helene Røed.

His phone rang.

‘Larsen.’

‘We’re at Beckstrøm’s now but only the wife is home. She says she thought he was at work.’

Sung-min was puzzled. No one at Beckstrøm’s office knew where the defence lawyer was either. Beckstrøm was a key witness given that he was the last person who had seen the detainee alive. This was urgent. True, the media hadn’t linked the arrest on Jernbanetorget to anything in particular so far; after all, it wasn’t unusual for the police to apprehend pushers there. But it might only be a matter of minutes or hours before a journalist got wind of a death in the Custody Unit, and then they’d all be on the warpath.

‘Groth,’ Sung-min called out to the shift commander, leaning on the other side of the counter, ‘how did Beckstrøm seem when he came out?’

‘Different,’ Groth said sourly.

‘Different how?’

Groth shrugged. ‘He’d put on a face mask, maybe that was it. Or he was distressed by seeing the prisoner so sick. Wild-eyed, anyway, completely different from when he arrived. Maybe he’s the sensitive type, what do I know?’

‘Maybe,’ Larsen said, his gaze lingering on the theatre ticket while he ransacked his brain for the reason why this alarm clock was going off in his head.

It was almost nine o’clock in the evening when Johan Krohn tapped in the number of the apartment and looked up at the video camera above the entrance. After a few moments he heard a deep voice not belonging to Markus Røed. ‘Who are you?’

‘Johan Krohn. The lawyer who was in the car earlier today.’

‘Right. Come in.’

Krohn took the lift up and was let into the apartment by one of the bull-necked security men. Røed seemed irritable and was restlessly pacing the living room, back and forth, like one of the mangy old lions Krohn had seen as a little boy in Copenhagen Zoo. His white shirt was open and was ringed with sweat under the arms.

‘I come bearing good news,’ Krohn said. And added drily when he saw his client’s face light up: ‘News, not coke.’

As Krohn saw the anger flare up in the other man’s face he hurried to extinguish it: ‘The suspected killer has been caught.’

‘Really?’ Røed blinked in disbelief. Then he laughed. ‘Who is it?’

‘His name is Kevin Selmer.’ Krohn saw the name didn’t ring a bell with Røed. ‘Harry says he’s one of your cocaine suppliers.’

Krohn was half expecting Røed to dispute the allegation he had anyone who supplied him with cocaine, but instead it looked as though he was trying to recall the name.

‘He’s the guy who was here at the party,’ Krohn said.

‘Ah! I didn’t know his name, he never told me. Said I should just call him K. I just figured he couldn’t spell and thought it stood for... well, you can probably guess.’

‘That I can.’

‘So K killed them? That’s baffling. He must be mad.’

‘I think that’s a safe assumption, yes.’

Røed stared out at the roof terrace. A neighbour was leaning with his back against the wall beside the fire escape smoking a cigarette. ‘I should buy his apartment, and the other two as well,’ Røed said. ‘I can’t bear them standing out there looking like they own...’ He didn’t finish the sentence. ‘Well, I can get out of this prison, at least.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, then I know where I’m going.’ Røed strode towards the bedroom. Krohn followed.

‘Not out to party, Markus.’

‘Why not?’ Røed walked past the big double bed and opened one of the built-in closets.

‘Because it’s only been a few days since your wife was killed. Think how people will react.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Røed said as he browsed the suits. ‘They’ll understand that I’m celebrating the fact her killer has been caught. Hello, long time since I’ve worn this.’ He took out a navy-blue double-breasted blazer with gold buttons and put it on. Felt in the pockets and pulled something out that he tossed on the bed. ‘Whoa, has it been that long?’

Krohn saw it was a black masquerade mask shaped like a butterfly.

Røed did up the blazer while he looked in a gold-framed mirror.

‘Sure you don’t want to come on a bender, Johan?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Maybe I can take my bodyguards instead. How long have we paid them for?’

‘They’re not allowed to drink on the job.’

‘Right, that would make for boring company.’ Røed went out to the living room and, with laughter in his voice, shouted: ‘Have you heard, lads? You’re discharged!’

Krohn and Røed took the lift down together.

‘Ring Hole,’ Røed said. ‘He likes to drink. Tell him I’m going on a bar crawl on Dronning Eufemias gate, from east to west. And the drinks are on me. Then I can congratulate him right away.’

Krohn nodded as he posed himself that perennial question: if he’d known that as a lawyer he would have to spend such a large portion of his life with people he disliked so much, would he still have chosen the same career?

‘Creatures.’

‘Hi. Is that Ben?’

‘Yeah, who’s this?’

‘Harry. The tall, blond—’

‘Hi, Harry, long time. What’s up?’

Harry looked down from Ekeberg, out over the city that lay like an inverse starry sky below him.

‘It’s about Lucille. I’m in Norway and I can’t get hold of her on the phone. Have you seen her?’

‘Not for... about a month?’

‘Mm. She lives on her own, as you know, and I was worried something might have happened to her.’

‘OK?’

‘If I give you an address on Doheny Drive, could you check on her for me? If she’s not there, you should probably contact the police.’

There was a pause.

‘OK, Harry, I’m jotting it down.’

After the call, Harry walked to the Mercedes parked behind the old German bunkers. Sat on the bonnet next to Øystein again, lit up a cigarette and continued from where they had left off while the music streamed out of the two open car windows. About all the others and what had become of them, about the girls they never got, about the dreams that didn’t shatter but faded away like a half-baked song or a long joke without a punchline. About the life they chose or the life that chose them, which was one and the same, since you — as Øystein said — can only play the hand you’re dealt.

‘It’s warm,’ Øystein said, after they had sat in silence for a while.

‘Old engines give the best heat,’ Harry said, patting the bonnet.

‘No, I meant the weather. I thought it was over but the warm weather’s back. And tomorrow that there will be eclipsed by blood.’ He pointed up at a pale full moon.

Harry’s phone rang. ‘Talk to me.’

‘So it’s true,’ Sung-min said. ‘You really do answer the phone like that.’

‘I saw it was you and was just trying to live up to the myth,’ Harry said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m at the Forensic Medical Institute. And to be completely honest, I don’t quite know what’s going on.’

‘Oh yeah? Are the press onto you about the death of the suspect?’

‘Not yet, we’re holding off a little before making it public. Until he’s identified.’

‘If he’s really named Kevin Selmer, you mean? Øystein here called him Al.’

‘No, if the man we found dead in cell 14 is the same man we brought in.’

Harry pressed the phone harder against his ear. ‘What do you mean, Larsen?’

‘His legal counsel has disappeared. He was alone in the cell with Kevin Selmer. Five minutes after he arrived, he left again. If it was him. The man who left was wearing a face mask and the lawyer’s clothes, but the shift commander of the Custody Unit thought the person seemed different.’

‘You think that Selmer...’

‘I don’t know what I think,’ Sung-min said. ‘But yeah, it’s possible Selmer might have escaped. That he killed Beckstrøm, smashed his face in, switched clothes and just walked out of there. That the corpse we’re sitting with is Beckstrøm, not Al. Or Selmer, that is. The face is totally beyond recognition, we can’t find any friends or relatives of Kevin Selmer who know him well enough to identify him. And on top of that, Beckstrøm is nowhere to be found.’

‘Mm. Sounds a bit far-fetched, Larsen. I know Dag Beckstrøm, he’s probably gone off the deep end. You have heard about Judgement Dag?’

‘Eh, no.’

‘Beckstrøm has a reputation for having a rather sensitive nature. If a case has upset him he goes out and drinks, and then he turns into Judgement Dag and pronounces verdicts on all and sundry. Sometimes for days. That’s probably what happened here.’

‘Well, let’s hope so. We’ll find out soon enough, Beckstrøm’s wife is on her way over here. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

Harry hung up. They sat in silence listening to Rufus Wainwright singing ‘Hallelujah’.

‘I think I might have underrated Leonard Cohen,’ Øystein said. ‘And overrated Bob Dylan.’

‘Easily done. Put out the fag, we need to go.’

‘What’s happening?’ Øystein asked, hopping off the bonnet.

‘If Sung-min is right, Markus Røed could be in danger.’ Harry swung into the passenger seat. ‘Krohn called while you were in the bushes taking a piss. Røed’s gone on a bar crawl and wants my company. I said no but maybe we need to find him all the same. Dronning Eufemias gate.’

Øystein turned the key in the ignition. ‘Can you say step on it, Harry?’ He revved the engine. ‘Please?’

‘Step on it,’ Harry said.

Markus Røed lurched to the side, took a step to steady himself, and stared down at the glass on the table in front of him.

It had spirits in it, he was sure of that. He wasn’t so sure what the rest of the stuff in there was but the colours were nice. Both in the glass and in the bar. Which he didn’t know the name of. The other guests were younger and looked over at him with stolen — and not so stolen — glances. They knew who he was. No, they knew what his name was. Had seen his picture in the papers, especially lately. And would have formed an opinion on him. Choosing this particular street for a pub crawl had been a mistake; you only had to look at the pretentious name of Oslo’s newest attempt at an avenue: Dronning Eufemias gate. Ouch! Femi. There you have it, a bloody gay street. He should have gone to some of the old spots. Places where people accepted the offer and flocked to the bar when a capitalist got to his feet and announced the next round was on him. In the last two bars he had been in they had just gawped at him as if he had spread his cheeks and shown them his balloon knot. In one place the barman had even asked him to sit down. As if they didn’t need the revenue. Those places would be out of business within a year, just wait. It was the old hands who survived, those who knew the game. And he — Markus Røed — knew the game.

His upper body began tipping forward, his dark hair flopping down towards the glass. He managed to straighten up at the last moment. A full head of hair. Real hair that didn’t need dyeing every fucking week. Put that in your pipe.

He gripped the glass, something to hold on to. Drained it. Maybe he should drink a little slower. On the way between the two first bars he had been crossing the street — sorry, avenue — when he heard the piercing clatter of a tram bell. He had reacted so sluggishly, as though wading through mud. But that drink he’d had in the first bar must have been strong, because not only were his reflexes poor, it was as if he had lost all sense of fear too. When the tram passed, so closely that he could feel the air pressure on his back, his pulse had hardly increased. Now that he wanted to live again as well! It was like a distant memory that he had asked to borrow Krohn’s tie when he was in custody. Not to improve his appearance but to hang himself. Krohn had said he wasn’t allowed to hand anything over. Idiot.

Røed looked around the room.

They were all idiots. His father had taught him that, beaten it into him. That everyone — except those with Røed as a surname — was an idiot. That it was an open goal, all you had to do was tap the ball in every time. But you had to do it. Don’t feel sorry for them, don’t feel you had enough, you had to keep going. Increase the wealth, get further ahead, take what came your way and then some. Damn it, he might not have been the most academically gifted in the family but unlike the others he had always done what his father said. And didn’t that give him the right to live it up once in a while? Snort a few lines. Slap a few boys on their tight arses. If they were under that idiotic age of consent, so what? In other countries and cultures they saw the big picture; knew that it did the boys no harm, that they grew up and moved on, became solid, decent citizens. Not drama queens and queers; it wasn’t contagious or dangerous getting a grown man’s cock in you when you were young, you could still be saved. He had often seen his father strike out but only once seen him lose his temper. It was when Markus was in fifth year and his father had walked into his bedroom to find Markus and the boy next door playing mummies and daddies in bed. Jesus, how he had hated that man. How frightened he had been of him. And how much he had loved him. One single word of approval from Otto Røed and Markus felt like the master of the world, invincible.

‘So this is where you are, Røed.’

Markus looked up. The man standing in front of his table was wearing a face mask and a flat cap. There was something familiar about him. About the voice too, but Markus was too drunk, everything was blurry.

‘Got any coke for me?’ Markus asked automatically, and wondered in the same moment where that had come from. Probably just the craving.

‘You’re not getting any coke,’ the man said, sitting down at the table. ‘You shouldn’t be out drinking at a bar either.’

‘I shouldn’t?’

‘No. You should be at home crying over that lovely wife of yours. And over Susanne and Bertine. And now another person is dead. But here you sit, looking to party. You worthless, fucking pig.’

Røed winced. Not because of what he said about the women. It was the word ‘worthless’ that had struck home. An echo from childhood and the man who had stood over him frothing at the mouth.

‘Who are you?’ Røed slurred.

‘Can’t you see? I’ve come from the Custody Unit. Jernbanetorget. Kevin Selmer. Ring any bells?’

‘Should it?’

‘Yes,’ the man said, removing his face mask. ‘You recognise me now?’

‘You look like my fuck,’ Markus slurred. ‘My father.’ He had the vague feeling he ought to be scared. But he wasn’t.

‘Death,’ the man said.

Maybe it was the sluggishness and the absence of fear that caused Markus not to raise a hand in defence when he saw the man lift his. Or maybe it was just automatic, the conditioned response of the boy who has learned that his father has the right to hit him. The man was holding something in his hand. Was it a... hammer?

Harry entered the bar, which — if the red neon letters over the door spelled the name — was simply called Bar. This was the third place he had tried, and it was indistinguishable from the other two: glossy, probably stylish and no doubt pricey. He scanned the room and spotted Røed seated at a table. In front of him, with his back to Harry, a man was sitting in a flat cap with his hand raised. He was holding something. Harry saw what it was and knew in the same instant what was going to happen. And that he was too late to prevent it.

Sung-min and Helge were standing next to the woman gazing down at the body.

She was somewhere in her sixties and had the hair, clothes and make-up of a hippy; Sung-min expected she was one of those women who turned up at music festivals featuring old acoustic heroes from the seventies. She had already been crying when they opened the door of the Forensic Medical Institute to her, and Helge had given her some paper towels which she was now using to wipe away tears and running mascara with.

Now that Helge had washed away all the coagulated blood, Sung-min could see that the face of the dead man was more intact than he had previously thought.

‘Take your time, fru Beckstrøm,’ Helge said. ‘We can leave you alone if you wish?’

‘No need,’ she sniffed. ‘There’s no doubt.’

The buzz of voices in Bar fell silent instantly and the customers turned in the direction of the sound. A bang as loud as a pistol shot. Half in shock, they stared at the man in the flat cap who had risen to his feet; some had picked up on the fact that the other person at the table was the property magnate, the husband of the woman found dead on Snarøya. In the silence they heard the man’s voice clear as a bell and saw him raise the hand with the blunt weapon.

‘I said death! I sentence you to death, Markus Røed!’

There was another loud bang.

They saw a tall man in a suit walking quickly towards the table. And as the man in the cap lifted his hand a third time, the tall man snatched the object from his grip.

‘It’s not him,’ fru Beckstrøm sobbed. ‘It’s not Dag, thank God. But I don’t know where he is. I’m beside myself with worry every time he disappears like this.’

‘There, there,’ Sung-min said, and wondered if he should place a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sure we’ll find him. And we’re also relieved it’s not your husband. I’m sorry you had to go through this, fru Beckstrøm, but we just had to be certain.’

She nodded mutely.

‘That’s enough now, Judgement Dag.’

Harry pushed Beckstrøm back down into his chair and put the gavel in his own pocket. The two drunk men, Røed and Beckstrøm, gawped stupidly at each other, as if they had both just woken up and were wondering what had happened. The glass-topped table had a large crack in it.

Harry sat down. ‘I know you’ve had a long day, Beckstrøm, but you should contact your wife. She went to the Forensic Medical Institute to see if the body of Kevin Selmer was you.’

The defence lawyer stared at Harry. ‘You didn’t see him,’ he whispered. ‘He couldn’t handle the pain. He’d told them his stomach and head were hurting, but the doctor had just given him some mild painkillers, and when they didn’t work and no one came to help he bashed his head against the wall to knock himself unconscious. That’s how much pain he was in.’

‘We don’t know that,’ Harry said.

‘Yes,’ Beckstrøm said, his eyes now wet with tears, ‘we do, because we’ve seen this type of thing before. While his sort—’ he pointed a trembling finger at Røed, who was sitting with his chin on his chest — ‘don’t give a fuck about anyone or anything, they just want to be rich, and along the way they trample on and exploit anybody weaker in society, all those who never had the silver spoon they suck on. But the day will come when the sun will be turned into darkness, the great and terrible—’

‘Judgement Day, Judgement Dag?’

Beckstrøm glowered at Harry while looking like he was making a great effort to keep his head straight.

‘Sorry,’ Harry said, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s do this another time. Right now, I think you need to call your wife, Beckstrøm.’

Dag Beckstrøm opened his mouth to say something but shut it again. Nodded, took out his phone, got to his feet and left.

‘You handled that well, Harry,’ Røed said clearly sloshed, almost missing the table as he put his elbows on it. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘No thanks.’

‘No? Now that you’ve solved the case and everything? Or almost everything...’ Røed motioned to a waiter for another drink but he ignored him.

‘What do you mean by almost?’

‘What do I mean?’ Røed said. ‘Well, you tell me.’

‘Out with it.’

‘Or what?’ The tip of Røed’s tongue emerged, he smiled, and his voice became a hoarse whisper. ‘Or else you’ll put me in a chokehold?’

‘No,’ Harry said.

‘No?’

‘I can put you in a chokehold if you tell me.’

Røed laughed. ‘Finally, a man that understands me. It’s just that I have a little confession to make now that the case is solved. I lied when I said Susanne and I had sex on the same day as she was killed. I didn’t meet her at all.’

‘No?’

‘No. I only said it to give the police a plausible explanation as to why my saliva was found on her body. It was what they wanted to hear, and it was also going to save me a lot of trouble. The path of least resistance, you might say.’

‘Mm.’

‘Can we keep that between ourselves?’

‘Why? The case has been cleared up. And you hardly want it known you were screwing another woman behind your wife’s back?’

‘Ah,’ Røed said, and smiled. ‘I’m not worried about that. There are... other rumours to consider.’

‘Are there?’

Røed twirled the empty glass in his hand. ‘You know, Harry, when my father died, I was both devastated and relieved. Can you understand that? What a release it was to be rid of a man you didn’t want to disappoint for anything in the world. Because you know that sooner or later the day will come when you have to disappoint him, when he has to find out who you really are. And so you hope to be saved by the bell. And I was.’

‘Were you afraid of him?’

‘Yes,’ Røed said. ‘I was afraid. And I suppose I loved him too. But above all...’ he put the empty glass to his forehead, ‘...I wanted him to love me. You know, I would happily have let him kill me if I just knew that he loved me.’