The Hanging

Chapter 25

Toward Wednesday the investigation started to pick up steam. The morning had been slow and more or less without results, whereas the afternoon was fruitful. Konrad Simonsen stood for the official assessment of the day’s work, which took place in his office at police headquarters in Copenhagen. He had nothing to relate himself, so he turned the meeting over to Poul Troulsen.

Malte Borup’s cross-referencing program had proven its worth. The application was coded to reveal coincidences, as data was introduced. It was then up to a human brain to determine which of these were of interest and should be followed up. The majority of the output was indifferent: two instructors who had been in Oslo that fall, a neighbor with the same name as the school vice principal, but a bill from Bagsværd lumber was connected with a teacher’s witness statement about the janitor’s use of the woodshop equipment in the evenings.

Troulsen’s visit to the lumberyard had yielded results. He said, “At the beginning of March, Per Clausen purchased the lumber necessary to construct the trapdoors in the podium in the gymnasium. It was a private transaction, in which the Langebæk’s School account was charged. Possibly in order to get a discount, which in itself is neither out of the ordinary nor expressly forbidden, but the purchase speaks for itself.”

He held out a green receipt so that everyone could see, then read aloud, “ ‘Carriage bolt, leaf hinges, latches, swing hooks, toothed washers, and not least three rolls of plastic.’ Clearly, this gives us at least a minimum time frame of the planning of the killings. In addition, in crucial ways this supports the technician’s hypothesis of a scene in which-”

“Excellent work, Poul, but let’s wait with the rest of your reflections,” Simonsen cut in. “Unfortunately I have no time; the financial people are waiting for me.”

“I thought you had free hands with regard to the financial considerations of this investigation.”

“Free hands does not mean that expenses can run amok.”

“And are they?”

Simonsen allowed himself a wry smile. “I don’t know, but I’m certain that the three accountants who have asked to meet with me know a great deal on the matter. Arne, your turn.”

Arne Pedersen had been in Malmö. His task had been to uncover Helene Clausen’s life from 1987 to 1993. The trip itself turned out to be unnecessary since the Swedish police commissioner-who was contacted by telephone at Simonsen’s request-could easily have managed the matter on his own. The Swedish police were extremely effective and gave high priority to the matter but no one had thought to involve Pedersen on the simple grounds that he was not needed, so he’d spent three interesting hours at Malmöhus Castle, where the city museum was located. Back at the police station in Kirseberg he received two reports, one in Swedish and one in English. Five closely written pages constituted a shining example of effective Nordic collaboration if one ignored the fact that the Swedes had done the whole thing.

His presentation was to the point.

“Everything points to Helene Clausen having been sexually molested by her stepfather while she lived in Sweden. Neither her mother nor her stepfather is prepared to speak on the subject but several independent sources have confirmed this. There is also the fact that after Helene Clausen grew up, her stepfather found other victims. He was cited on two counts of sexual molestation of a minor in 1992. These cases were never prosecuted due to a lack of evidence.”

He patted the reports.

“These documents also contain an explicit report from a psychologist who no longer found it necessary to observe her doctor-patient confidentiality. She was also the one who recommended that Helene Clausen move back to Denmark.”

The Countess took the opportunity to ask a question: “What about Helene Clausen herself? Didn’t she confide in anyone?”

“It appears not, at least not directly to the psychologist. Apparently she blocked out her memories and tried to forget, which is not uncommon. On the other hand, we don’t know what happened during the years she was in Denmark.”

Simonsen hurried them along again: “That’s something we need to take a look at. Get a couple of officers going on it. Anything else, Arne?”

There actually was one other thing. The Swedish colleagues had asked him delicately, on two occasions, if the Danish police were concealing the sexual orientation of the victims, whatever that meant. He had denied this but it was evident that they did not believe him. He would have liked to share these episodes if Simonsen’s timetable had allowed for a discussion of minor matters. But apparently this was not the case, so he shook his head. But it still struck him as strange.

Berg’s trip to Roskilde had also been strange but not without results. The boy, who had played with his cousin at the Langebæk School last Wednesday, had turned out to be a sweet and bright little thing with white-blond hair, prominent ears, freckles, and an appealingly frank and direct way with adults. With the mother’s help, she had been able to get the child to recall surprisingly quickly that day during the autumn holiday when he and his playmate had gathered bottle caps. In order to further stimulate his memory, the three of them had enacted this activity in the living room and this tactic had had the intended effect. The boy suddenly remembered that he had been chased away at one point by a man who looked like Buller’s father. Buller turned out to be another playmate. Berg’s heart skipped at this. The mother, who had grown alert to the fact that the information could turn out to be significant, did what she could to get the boy to elaborate on his description by going back over it step by step. But here they ran into a hurdle because although Buller’s father was dissected from top to bottom, there was nothing particular about him that apparently matched the unknown man at the school.

At this point the phone rang and the mother left them. Then the boy explained very secretively that the unknown man reminded him of Buller’s father because he drove a bus. He recognized the words bus driver. This piece of information was critical and unleashed further questions, which Berg, however, chose to wait with until she was joined by his parent. But when the mother returned, she had coldly and abruptly asked her to leave, without any additional explanation and without further comments. So from one minute to the next Borg had found herself outside the door, which slammed shut behind her.

Simonsen asked her, “That was rather strange. And you have no idea why?”

“No, none at all. I was thrown out. What should I do about it?”

“Leave, just as you did. You couldn’t do otherwise. That happens. You can’t be the hero every time.”

Berg blushed. Pedersen gazed up at the ceiling. Simonsen went on, unaffected.

“This reminds me of the fact that Per Clausen’s suicide was caused by a potassium solution. The pathologist called. I have canceled additional technical studies, as they simply will be a waste of time and resources. There must have been dozens of people who-”

The Countess cut him off and got his attention. No one else interrupted the boss.

“Simon, I can verify the van. Do you want to hear it?”

“Of course, of course. I am done anyway.”

Earlier in the day there had been a miracle when the school psychologist, Ditte Lubert-under great pressure-let her defenses fall and finally cooperated with the authorities. The Countess related, “At Gladsaxe town hall they have performed their own little bit of sleuthing by going over the past ten years of accounts at the Langebæk School with a magnifying glass. A clerk reacted to three telephone calls to Pretoria in South Africa and he contacted the telecommunications company to find out if there had been any similar calls last fall vacation, which indeed turned out to be the case. Thereafter he informed me.”

Troulsen predicted the course of events, outraged at the psychologist: “So her recalcitrance was based on a simple case of telephone abuse?”

“Yes. I called the number and got an answering machine that said Ingrid Lubert was not available at the moment. Then I contacted her brother-in-law to share this turn of events with him. You know, the lawyer, he was extremely cooperative. In part he confirmed that his other sister-in-law was stationed in South Africa for Danida, and in part he promised to have yet another talk with Ditte Lubert, but then there was apparently some atmospheric disturbance on the line.”

She formed her hand like a cell phone and cleverly mimed a bad connection. Then she smiled briefly.

“When I went through everything one more time, he wanted to be sure that he had understood me correctly, that what I had said was that this kind of unauthorized use of county telecommunications could mean that his sister-in-law could be demoted from senior to junior school counselor unless she rectified the situation by cooperating fully with the police, which I could find no fault with. Ditte Lubert turned up twenty minutes later. Without the lawyer.”

Troulsen commented again: “Very entertaining.”

“Like a dentist appointment. She was sulky enough but she came crawling back on her knees and admitted that she called her sister last Wednesday. To save money, she walked over to the school and used the speech therapist’s office phone to cover her tracks. The call ran from one twenty-one to one fifty-four, which we know from the account invoice, and on her way home she saw a white van that was turning out from the school’s back entrance. It was around two o’clock but unfortunately that is all that she saw. No matter how hard I pressed her after that, she was unable to elaborate on her answers. This time there was no resistance, she simply had nothing more to contribute.”

Pedersen asked, “But is she sure that it was a minivan?”

“Completely sure. Unfortunately, that hardly narrows down the field. The smallest are eight-passenger but they range all the way up to twenty for the largest. I’m sending a vehicle expert to her home tomorrow, but I doubt it will give us anything.”

Simonsen took over.

“At least now we know how the victims were transported to the school. Who they are, why they were killed, and why no one misses them are still unknown. Of course, there have been numerous inquiries, but as yet none that we can use. The best guess is that they are all thought to be on vacation and won’t be missed until later. Countess, can you organize a new door-to-door round regarding the white minivan? Ideally this evening. Sorry.”

The Countess agreed, and Berg also volunteered. She felt she owed something.

The meeting was over and Simonsen stood up and paused in the middle of the floor. His co-workers followed him with their eyes as he swayed from side to side for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. Then he took a deep breath and took on Kasper Planck’s role of posing questions of his co-workers, although he hated being in that position.

“What is the difference between an execution and a murder?”

No one made a motion to answer, as the question appeared rhetorical.

“An execution is legal, a murder illegal. The state retains the right to kill its citizens. Citizens do not have that right in relation to each other. The act itself is fairly similar and for the person who is affected the difference is negligible. For the victim, the outcome is the same if an executioner cuts his throat or if he is strangled by his neighbor, but from a judicial and sociological viewpoint there is a world of difference. The executioner maintains the social order. The murdering neighbor breaks it down. Order is the key word in this context.”

His words grew many and the point was oversold. Perhaps because he was a man who cared about right angles and logical relationships. When he finally finished, none of his listeners could have had any doubts about the social-orderbuilding aspect of executions.

The Countess summed it up in a friendly way: “The execution ceremony sets this act apart from a mass murder. But…”

She hesitated, and Simonsen took over again.

“No buts. It is the difference that’s interesting. But let me take the opportunity to remind you not to use the word execution in this context. And then on to our big question: why the mutilation? It doesn’t fit the pattern. It goes against everything I’ve mentioned, so either I’m mistaken with regard to the words and the legitimacy or else this step has been so desperately necessary that the perpetrators have had to accept it as a kind of sloppy side effect.”

“Identification?” the Countess chimed in.

“Yes, that is the most obvious explanation, but the ones who are behind this must know that we will secure the identities of the victims sooner or later, however much they have mutilated the bodies.”

This time Pedersen jumped in: “They’ve given themselves time.”

“Yes, that may be. In any case it raises a number of interesting questions. If you are right, why do the perpetrators need time? And anyway-it is logical to destroy the men’s faces and to remove their clothes, but why remove their hands? It would only be necessary if their fingerprints were registered, that is to say, if they had a history with law enforcement. And what about their genitals, which have no role in identification at all? Think this over, discuss it among yourselves in your free time, and let me know if you think you have found an answer or-which is of equal importance-if you have found any good questions.”

Over the course of the last few words, Simonsen had moved toward the door. His intention was to slip away as soon as he was done with his little lecture. But this backfired completely. Malte Borup was standing outside with a piece of paper. He had been standing there for a while without daring to interrupt, and his waiting time only increased when Pedersen rushed over and waved him away.

Simonsen snapped, “Can it wait, Arne?”

The question was ignored and thus received its answer.

“She called me about an hour ago. Just as you predicted.”

“Who called?”

“Anni Staal from the Dagbladet.”

“And what did she say?”

“Well, it took a while. She was very careful and naturally I played along and was guarded… yes, it was a bit of theater-”

“And what was the conclusion?” Simonsen interrupted.

“That I will pass along any news when I have any, and she… what shall I say… will compensate me for my troubles. Dammit, Simon. It’s like a bad American TV series; this kind of thing isn’t like you at all. And what will I do with the mon-”

Again Simonsen interrupted, this time with his palms raised defensively in front of him. “That last bit-I don’t know anything about that.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. It was Planck’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, for the most part.”

“It’s illogical, almost amateurish.”

“He has a feeling it may come in handy.”

“Illogical. Dare I say, idiotic.”

Finally, Simonsen allowed himself some time to talk. He said quietly, but intently, “You are right, but I have worked with Kasper Planck for over twenty years, and as I stand here I can give you at least two occasions when his illogical and perhaps silly feelings have saved a person’s life. Not to mention the many times these illogical and silly feelings have solved a case. But you are naturally welcome to back out of the arrangement, if you don’t-”

This time it was Pedersen’s turn to interrupt. He wrapped up the conversation in a conciliatory way: “No, it’s fine. I just wanted to let you know.”

Pedersen stepped aside; Malte Borup was next in line. The young man hurried up to his boss as soon as he saw that the coast was clear.

Simonsen unfolded the piece of paper he handed him, scrutinized it, and then asked, “What do I do with this?”

“It is everywhere, and it’s spreading as we speak. Blogs, newsgroups, sites, even the really big ones. Fox TV has it as a top story, as well as MTV. It’s like a supervirus but people are taking it home themselves and sending it on, and you can already buy T-shirts from…”

He fell silent, looking at his new boss’s face, and wrapped things up with a “that is, maybe.”

Simonsen listened with forced patience. Impatience was a bad habit with him when he was involved in a big case, but in opposition to the rest of his staff, this young man read him poorly. In any case, he was convinced that he was up in the red-alert area, sure that what he had to tell was urgent. For his part, Simonsen lacked the command of the details in this matter to determine its urgency. He glanced at the paper again. It was hard to let it be.

The sketch was disarmingly simple with its few striking black lines. The artist had captured a dark, relentless gravity with sureness. The perspective followed the line of sight that one of the final victims might have had, immediately before the trapdoor opened. The viewer of the sketch looked, so to speak, through the eyes of the victim. Slightly ahead and to the side one could see the backs of the heads of his already executed companions. Some bars drawn on the right indicated that the events were taking place in a gymnasium, but what primarily drew one’s interest were the spectators. At the top was a judge enthroned as a slightly moth-eaten heavenly father, half god, half clown, with a dusty accoutrements next to his limp hand. The law book, a thunderbolt, and scales. A tragicomic relic from the storeroom of antiquity with a vacant stare and dead flies sprinkled in his wig. Below him were children of all ages sitting on the floor, staring with sad eyes at the convicted; present in the moment, as dozens of small alternatives. Patient, just, without mercy. One could almost feel the rope tightening around his neck, and Simonsen shivered. The title was “Too Late.”