Punishment aka What Is Mine

FORTY-NINE

The pathologist was alone in the office. It was late on Sunday, June 4, and he was hopelessly behind in his work. He was getting close to sixty-five and in many ways felt that he was hopelessly behind in many areas. For years he’d put up with bad working conditions, too much to do, and a salary that in his opinion bore no relation to the pressures of the job, but now he was starting to get angry. In terms of professional satisfaction, he had no regrets. But now that he was nearing retirement, he wished he had a better income. He earned just under six hundred thousand kroner a year, when you included teaching and overtime, which he’d stopped counting. His wife reckoned it must be about a thousand hours a year. It was of no concern to him that most other people thought his salary was impressive. His twin brother, who was also a doctor, had pursued a career in surgery. He had his own clinic, a house in Provence, and a taxable fortune worth seven million, according to the last tax rolls.

Sunday was his reading day. His position was actually supposed to allow him time to keep up to date with developments in the field within normal working hours. In the past decade, he had virtually never read an article between nine and four o’clock. Instead, he got up very early on Sunday morning, put lunch and a thermos into his backpack, and walked the half-hour to work.

He was depressed by the time he had sorted the magazines, periodicals, and theses into two piles: one must read and the other can wait. The latter was very small. The former towered from the floor to knee height. At a loss, he grabbed the publication on top and poured himself a cup of strong coffee.

Excitation-concentration coupling in normal and failing cardiomyocytes.

The thesis was from January 1999 and had been there for a while. He was not familiar with the author. It was difficult to say whether the thesis was relevant without taking a closer look. He was tempted to pick something else out of the pile, but he pulled himself together and started to read.

The pathologist’s hands were shaking. He put the publication down. It was so alarming and at the same time so obvious that he was afraid, for many reasons. The answer was not in the thesis itself. It had just made him think. He felt his adrenalin rising, his pulse racing, and his breathing quickening. He had to get ahold of a pharmacist. The telephone directory fell on the floor as he tried to find the number of his wife’s best friend, who owned a pharmacy in Tåsen. She was home. The conversation lasted for ten minutes. The pathologist forgot to thank her for her help.

Adam Stubo had left his card. The pathologist searched among all the paper and Post-it notes, penholders and reports, but the card had vanished. He finally remembered that he had stuck it up on the corkboard. He had to punch the number into his cell twice. His fingers felt sticky.

“Stubo,” said a voice from the ether.

The pathologist took a minute to explain why he had phoned. There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’m still here,” said Stubo. “What sort of stuff is it?”

“Potassium.”

“What is potassium?”

“It’s one of the substances in our cells.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How…”

The pathologist was still shaking. He was clutching the phone and changed his grip in an attempt to calm down.

“To put it as simply as possible, so simple that it’s nearly imprecise,” he started and coughed, “there is a certain level of potassium in human cells, which is essential for our survival. When we die-how can I put this-our cells start to… leak. In the course of an hour or two, the level of potassium in the fluid surrounding the cells will rise sharply, which is in fact an obvious sign that you are dead.”

The pathologist was sweating; his shirt was sticking to his body and he tried to breathe slowly.

“So the fact that potassium levels around each cell have risen since the time of death is in itself not remarkable. It’s normal.”

“And…?”

“The problem is that this level will also rise if you supply the body with potassium in some way. When the person is alive, that is. But then… they die. A rise in the potassium level results in heart failure.”

“But then it must be easy to trace the stuff?”

The pathologist raised his voice:

“Listen to what I’m saying! If you get an injection of potassium and die from it, the cause of death cannot be proven unless the autopsy is carried out immediately! A delay of one to two hours is sufficient. Then the higher potassium levels will simply be attributed to the death of that person! The autopsy won’t show anything at all, except that the person in question is no longer alive and that there is no evidence of the cause of death.”

“Oh my God…”

Stubo swallowed so loudly that the pathologist heard.

“But where would he get the poison?”

“It isn’t a poison, for Christ’s sake!”

The pathologist was practically shouting. When he opened his mouth again, his voice was trembling and low:

“First of all, both you and I take in potassium every day in our normal food. Not significant amounts, granted, but all the same… You can buy potassium by the pound from the pharmacist! That is, you can buy potassium chloride. If that is then injected into the bloodstream, it separates into potassium and chlorides, to put it simply. The potassium chloride has to be diluted so that it’s not too strong, as it can damage tissues and veins.”

“Can be bought at a pharmacy? But who…?”

“Without a prescription.”

“Without a prescription?”

“Yes, but as far as I know, very few pharmacies actually stock it. It can be ordered. There is also a special potassium chloride product that you can only get with a prescription, which is used by patients who are losing potassium. I imagine that most intensive care units would have some in stock.”

“Tell me if I’ve understood this correctly,” said Stubo slowly. “If someone gives me an injection with enough diluted potassium, I’ll die. And then if you get me on your slab more than one hour later, you would only be able to confirm that I’m dead, and not how I died. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. But I would still see a syringe mark.”

“Syringe mar… But there weren’t any injection marks on Kim and Sarah?”

“No, not that I saw.”

“Not that you saw? You did check the children for injections?”

“Of course.”

The pathologist felt exhausted. His pulse was still high and he breathed in deeply.

“But I have to admit that I didn’t shave them.”

“Shave? We’re talking about two small kids.”

“On the head. We try to minimize incisions and interference when we do an autopsy, as we don’t want the family to be offended or shocked by what we’re required to do. It’s possible to make an injection in the temple area. Not easy, but possible. I have to confess…”

He could hear Stubo holding his breath at the other end of the phone.

“… I didn’t check for syringe marks around the temples. I just didn’t think about it.”

They were both thinking the same thing. Neither dared say it. Sarah’s body was still available to the pathologist. Kim had already been buried.

“Thank goodness we refused permission to cremate,” said Adam eventually.

“I apologize,” said the pathologist. “I really do apologize, with all my heart.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Adam. “As far as I understand, you’ve just described the perfect murder to me.”