Where Monsters Dwell (16 page)

Vatten:
It was a short conversation. I just told you where I’d last seen Gunn Brita.

Singsaker:
What did you do after you left the stacks?

Vatten:
I went home.

Singsaker:
But you didn’t stop by your office first?

Vatten:
Yes, I did.

Singsaker:
What about the room outside the book vault?

Vatten:
Just my office.

Singsaker:
And then you put in a new DVD?

Vatten:
That’s right.

Brattberg:
Which means that if the murder occurred after you met Dahle in the morning, and before you stopped by your office in the evening, there would be no recording of what happened?

Vatten:
That’s correct.

Singsaker:
How convenient for the murderer.

Vatten:
I’m sorry about that, of course. But mistakes do happen.

Singsaker:
Mistakes such as someone being murdered in the book vault at the library?

Vatten:
I had nothing to do with the murder. I can assure you of that.

Singsaker:
Why is this giving me a feeling of déjà vu?

Brattberg:
We’re not going to get any further now. Singsaker, will you take Vatten with you to the library and go through the recordings? Check the new DVD that was inserted on Saturday evening. If the body is visible on the recordings in the book vault, then we’ll know more about when the murder was committed. If it’s not there, we might have the perpetrator on film. At least if what Vatten here is telling us is true.

Singsaker:
Yes, and that’s a big “if.”

16

They drove through town,
creeping along during the afternoon rush hour back to the Gunnerus Library. They went up to Vatten’s office without speaking to anyone. He turned on his computer and logged into the program that controlled the surveillance system.

“Why don’t you record directly to the hard drive?” Chief Inspector Singsaker asked, looking around the office.

“The system is a bit out of date. But we do record on DVDs and transfers to a hard drive are done regularly. And the resolution is good,” said Vatten.

A DVD drive began to hum next to the monitor. Singsaker stood there thinking about what they were doing. Maybe they would see a recording of the murder itself, which was undoubtedly the most bestial murder he’d ever investigated. Maybe they were about to see what happened. And this was only his first day back on the job after his long sick leave.

“Saturday, 10:21
P.M.
,” said Vatten, and clicked the mouse. The hum died down, and the video started playing. The vault appeared on the monitor. It was the same view Singsaker was familiar with: Gunn Brita Dahle’s mutilated body lying on the floor. And that left only one possible conclusion: “This means that she was killed before 10:21
P.M.
on Saturday, when you put in the disk, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So while you were still in the library?”

“Yes, so it seems.” Vatten looked resigned.

“The images that were recorded by this camera, can they also be viewed on this monitor?”

“Sure. I can sit here in my office and follow along if I want to. But that’s not the point. The primary objective with the surveillance is to document what goes on.”

“So Saturday night when you changed the DVD, the monitor wasn’t on?”

“Of course not. Then I would have seen the body in the vault,” said Vatten.

“I think it would be best if you come with me back to the station,” said Singsaker, placing a hand cautiously on Vatten’s shoulder.

He sighed heavily, then ran one hand through his disheveled hair. But he said nothing.

He’s five years older, Singsaker thought. But his hair is still just as thick, and he sighs as heavily as he did last time.

*   *   *

Brattberg, Jensen, and Singsaker had a brief meeting with police attorney Knutsen and they upgraded Vatten’s status to “suspect.” But they still didn’t have any tangible evidence against him. Even though his explanation rang false, they couldn’t put a finger on any falsehoods in what he’d said. So far all they had was that he’d been in the library during the period when Gunn Brita Dahle was killed, that he was one of very few who could have been with her inside the book vault, and that he had previously been involved in a possible murder case. One thing they could present at a court hearing was the fact that he was responsible for the surveillance system, and that there hadn’t been a DVD connected to the camera in the vault when the murder took place. The question was whether it was an honest mistake or had been done on purpose. For prosecutor Knutsen, a meticulous man who was even closer to retirement than Singsaker, the evidence wasn’t substantial enough to proceed.

“So he’ll have to stay home from work for a day or two,” said Brattberg. “And we’ll have to ask him to give us a saliva sample before he leaves.”

“I think we have one from the last time he was detained,” said Jensen. He had a laptop on the table in front of him, and he was frowning as he moved the mouse uncertainly.

“Well, we’re going to get what we need from him. Complete DNA, fingerprints, and everything,” Jensen asserted.

“Fine! We just heard a rumor from St. Olav’s that there are biological traces,” said Brattberg.

“Which means what?”

“Sexual contact,” she said. Her tone of voice belied what she actually felt: scorn for the sexual act as well as sympathy, sorrow, and a deeper insight into human fallibility. And Singsaker thought that this was what he liked best about his boss. The dry and matter-of-fact style that concealed a wisdom and humanity that surpassed that of most other people.

“But it’ll take some time before we get a final autopsy report. The body arrived at Pathology less than an hour ago. A DNA analysis will take days, maybe weeks. But we can use what we have already in the next interview, to pressure him a little. At the same time we have to follow up on a number of other potential leads. Primarily the husband, Jens Dahle. And I think this Siri Holm could be interesting. She was also in the library just before the murder. But if she’s a new hire from Oslo, she’s probably not a hot lead. Jensen, you continue interviewing the staff. Try to direct the conversations so they focus on Vatten.

“By the way, that bluff of yours, Singsaker, that the tiny red spots that Grongstad found were wine, seemed to make an impression on Vatten. And it actually turned out not to be a bluff. We got the analysis, and it really is wine. Very fresh spots, too. Could well be from Saturday. But we’ll wait on this until the techs have had more time to work. In addition, some fingerprints were found inside the book vault. It won’t be long before we have more concrete finds to put on the table. Until then, Singsaker, you take the husband and the new librarian.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he said in English.

“You mean, aye aye,
madam,
” Gro Brattberg corrected him with a smile.

“What are we going to do about the press?” Thorvald Jensen asked. “It’s the top story on all the news sites, and somebody even found out that we’ve been interrogating Vatten. I doubt it’s been difficult to get the others in the library to talk.”

“We’re saying as little as possible to the media. They’ll have to wait until tomorrow’s press conference. By then we may be able to give them something more about Vatten, if we’re lucky,” she replied.

“One more thing,” said Singsaker.

Everybody looked at him.

“Are there any experts on serial killers here in Norway?”

“Why do you ask?” Brattberg snapped back. “We only have one murder.”

“True enough,” he said. “But I’m thinking about the way the murder was committed. And of course, there’s the old Vatten case.”

“We do have that cop in Oslo. I don’t remember his name,” said Jensen. “He solved a serial case in Australia in the nineties. I heard he’s turned into a drunk since then.”

“Doesn’t sound that reliable, does he?”

“It’s worth a try,” said Jensen, with his usual understated optimism.

“No, it’s not worth a try,” said Brattberg. “It’s only on American cop shows that the police call in experts on serial killers after only one murder. That’s not how we conduct our investigations here in the real world.”

Singsaker had known Gro Brattberg long enough to realize that the topic was not only closed, it was dead and buried. Too bad, really. He’d been looking forward to meeting the drunken detective.

The meeting broke up. When Brattberg went out the door, Jensen turned to Singsaker.

“It’s OK by me that Brattberg isn’t enthusiastic about perp profiles, but there’s still one thing I’d like to find out.”

“What’s that?” asked Singsaker.

“What the hell does the killer intend to do with her skin?” Jensen threw out his arms in resignation before he followed their boss out the door.

Singsaker remained standing there, thinking about what he’d said. Something told him that Thorvald’s question was important.

*   *   *

After the meeting, Singsaker called one of the officers who’d been assigned to inform Jens Dahle about the murder. They had found him at home, just about to leave for work. He was alone in the house. The news of his wife’s brutal murder seemed to have made a strong impression on Dahle. According to the officers, he told them he was going to stay home until the police contacted him again.

Before visiting Jens Dahle, Singsaker decided to Google him. The result clearly showed that he really was a scientist. Apart from the obligatory hits in various telephone databases and meaningless information about Dahle’s ranking in the big tax assessment race, which was quite high, all the hits dealt with various scientific publications, seminars, conferences, and lectures. A few feature articles in the daily press also turned up. Most of the material was incredibly turgid, especially for Singsaker, who had not yet had his daily shot of aquavit. This had also been his toughest workday on the Trondheim police force—at least as far as he could remember.

One article interested him more than the others. It was written in English and was part of a database that, with typical academic stinginess, published only the first page for the curious public. The rest of the article required a subscription that only cultural snobs and public institutions could afford. For Singsaker the title was enough: “Forensics of Time.” And from the introduction alone he knew that he now had something to talk about with Jens Dahle.

The article turned out, despite its fancy title, to deal with an excavation on the Fosen peninsula carried out about twenty years ago. The excavation was done in an old graveyard from the late Middle Ages. In the introduction Dahle intimated, although with a large dose of academic caution, that examinations made of many of the skeletons at the site indicated they might have been victims of murder. There were stab marks and other signs of external violence on the old bone fragments. This was nothing unusual for grave sites from that era, which according to Dahle was a violent age, when murder was a common cause of death. But what was special here, he hinted, still with a scientist’s caution, was that much of the bone damage exhibited conspicuous similarities. But it was the last sentence in the free portion of the article that particularly piqued the interest of Chief Inspector Singsaker.

It read, “Could we be dealing here with an unknown serial killer from the past?”

*   *   *

In the late afternoon, Jens Dahle’s car was still parked in the driveway, shiny and newly washed. All traces of the weekend trip to the cabin were gone.

Singsaker rang the doorbell. As he waited, his thoughts returned to the conversation earlier that morning. Jens Dahle had looked so healthy and content, and he couldn’t recall ever seeing him look any other way. The few times he had spoken with him he’d always given the impression of being extremely fit. A well-dressed sort, always with a woolen undershirt. A guy who could metamorphose from a desk jockey to an outdoors type during a quick trip to his cabin.

It took almost a minute before he heard any sound on the other side of the door. Had he been sleeping? The door was unlocked and opened slowly. Singsaker looked for some sign of surprise on Dahle’s face. Until now they had known each other only as passing acquaintances. But his expression showed no such reaction.

Jens Dahle looked shattered. Even in broad daylight his face seemed poorly lit; all his wrinkles and furrows cast shadows across his face. He’s older than I imagined, thought Singsaker. Jens Dahle was the father of two schoolchildren, but this was the first time it occurred to Singsaker that he had to be relatively old for a father. An old and now sad father. And even though the inspector had encountered murderers before among fathers and husbands, who were equally sad at the loss of their victims, he didn’t think he was looking at a murderer.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to answer the door,” said Jens Dahle. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No,” said Singsaker. “I’m the one who’s come to help you.”

“I see. What’s this regarding?”

“I don’t know if I ever told you very much about myself,” he said, “but I’m a police officer, and I’ve come to talk to you about your wife and what happened.” He studied Dahle as he said this. It surprised him how little his neighbor’s expression altered. It remained morose and mournful.

“So you’re a police officer?” he asked in a monotone.

“That’s right. Do you have time to talk?”

Jens Dahle opened the door all the way and stepped aside.

“Come in,” he said.

Inside they stood looking at each other in an entryway that was being renovated, with unvarnished pine paneling and missing floorboards. The remodeling project was obviously something that Dahle was doing himself. Something that probably wouldn’t be finished before his kids were grown. Under normal circumstances this might have been the icebreaker for a conversation. They could have talked about the dimensions of various types of panels and such things. But now was not the time for that.