Sohlberg and the Gift (16 page)

“How do you know the kid was a
homo
?”

“Obvious man. Obvious. He got what he deserved.”

Sohlberg shot up from his chair and stood within inches of Thorsen. Sohlberg noticed how carefully Thorsen combed wiggly strands of greasy hair over thinning spots. The cowardly idiot giggled nervously.

“Thorsen . . . it’s an insult to idiots to call you an idiot. I honestly don’t know what or who you are any more. I used to think you were an idiot . . . then a protein-deprived dim-wit . . . eventually I thought genetics left you borderline retarded. But that’s an insult to every member of those groups.”

Thorsen giggled again when Sohlberg got closer to him. One inch separated the men’s faces.

“
He got what he deserved?
”

Silence.

“You Thorsen haven’t the slightest idea exactly what the kid was doing in the park . . .
homo
or not. So don’t you even begin to think you can come in here and pretend that you are in a position to tell me or anyone else that the kid was a
homo
or that he got what he deserved.”

“It was obvious. He was a homo . . . and homos do things in parks.”

“Nothing in a murder is obvious except for the idiots who think that there’s something obvious in a homicide. . . . Unfortunately every police force has its share of lazy morons like you who just want to close their cases and be the boss’s pet.”

“But—”

“But you know nothing,” said Sohlberg who decided that he had to discuss the Vigeland case with Thorsen so as to distract the moron from any discussion about Sohlberg’s activities at the National Archives.

“Sohlberg . . . you saw the kid. He dressed and looked like a homo.”

“What I know for a fact is that Tom Velta worked for an accounting firm . . . that he was house-sitting for partner at the firm who wanted his home looked after while he was on a long-term assignment in New York. I found a coworker who may have switched house-sitting duties with him that weekend.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“My point is proved. Thorsen you’re as predictable as a math formula. Matter of fact I know your formula . . . you . . . Ivar Thorsen equals ignorance plus laziness multiplied by bootlicking squared.” Sohlberg knew he had landed a solid punch. Thorsen’s eyes bulged along with his neck veins.

“No—”

“Oh yes Thorsen . . . let’s not forget bootlicking. Who do you think you’re fooling? . . . Everyone in the office knows how you just happen to always have the exact same hobby as your boss.”

Thorsen took a deep breath and quickly reassembled his shattered ego. He sneered and spat out:

“Sohlberg you’re just jealous. Listen here . . . Mister Mathematician . . . something doesn’t add up . . . why can’t you close your cases? . . . Why do you have so many open cases? You’re making us look bad when the big bosses compare our year-end numbers to Trondheim and Bergen.”

“Don’t you understand? . . . A case closed prematurely is like a life ended prematurely. Don’t you understand that homicides have a life of their own?”

“You’re nuts Sohlberg. Nuts. Obsessed.”

“Yes . . . obsessed with truth. Why do you think I’ve been able to get the most homicide confessions in the Zoo during the past four years? . . . Why do you think I have a
zero
rate of appellate reversal for convictions when my criminals try to appeal?”

Silence.

“Thorsen. Get out of my way. You’ve wasted my time. Go waste someone else’s time.”

Sohlberg stood up and he began leaving his cubicle. He intentionally bumped hard into Thorsen because Thorsen simply would not move out of the way.

“Go on Sohlberg . . . go on with your gallivanting.”

Sohlberg burst out in a loud laugh. He laughed from genuine pleasure over the documents that he had left behind on his desk. Ivar Thorsen was sure to read these papers as soon as Sohlberg hit the down button at the elevator lobby. Many a time he had caught Thorsen snooping around different detectives’ desks.

Thorsen followed Sohlberg out into the main hallway. “Sohlberg! . . . Gallivant all you want but you’ll never solve the Velte case. You’re wasting your time and the taxpayers’ dime.”

“We’ll see,” whispered Sohlberg as he waited for an elevator.

 The documents on Sohlberg’s desk included a list of fake witness phone numbers and addresses that would mislead
The Janitor
into thinking that Sohlberg was going to spend all day at the hipster Aker Brygge neighborhood. Sohlberg actually planned on spending an afternoon tracking down and interviewing potential new witness in the Tom Velte homicide at the former shipyards west of downtown Oslo. That he would do. But first he had a detour. Another promise to keep and mile to go.

Who sent Astrid Isaksen?

Why?

Exactly
what connection does Astrid Isaksen have to the Janne Eide homicide?

~ ~ ~

Secrets. Concealed habits. Stealthy thoughts. Covert conduct. Hidden addictions. Everyone has them. Even Sohlberg—a man who was often called the straightest of arrows by his friends and family.

Sohlberg’s surreptitious habit: two or three times a month he would take a lunch hour off work and proceed to Hydroparken. Sometime he drove there. Or he walked from nearby appointments. Other times he took the tram. He kept this routine secret for years even after he married Emma.

On this overcast Monday he drove by the park. Even in the dead of winter the lovely five acre park brought back vivid memories of his dead wife Karoline. He could almost see and feel her whenever he went to or drove by the park especially when he passed by the fountain next to Bygdøy Avenue. The park and the fountain had been favorite jaunts of theirs when they had been dating. Passionate hours of kissing and embracing had gone by in thrilling ecstasy at the park.

Karoline!

They had also spent many blissful hours together south of the park where they perused out-of-print and rare books at the Nasjonalbiblioteket. Sohlberg drove past the National Library’s elegant building which was built in 1913 to house the Main Library of the University of Oslo. He remembered how after the library they’d spent the endless days of summer strolling down Henrik Ibsens gate all the way to the Slottsparken or Royal Palace Park where they continued their rapturous time together. Sohlberg’s face reddened with lust as he remembered their heated nightly encounters at her rental cottage on Sinsenveien near the Ring 3 Highway.

A few minutes after he drove past the park and library a thought other than a memory of Karoline lodged deep in Sohlberg’s mind. He remembered that the National Library had once served the function of a National Archive. Royal decrees of the invading Danish kings had required that any and all published material be deposited with the library. The Danish obsession with documents also meant heavy-handed political censorship because the police in Norway used the library to keep track of dissident writings especially those that espoused an independent and free Norway.

Yes—a document obsessed country like Norway must somehow have saved a copy of the psychiatrist report in the Janne Eide murder. But where is it?

~ ~ ~

Dead ends are part and parcel of a homicide investigation. Some detectives see them as a dreaded waste of time and energy and resources. Others like Sohlberg see an investigation’s inevitable
cul de sacs
as the equivalent of the blacked-out squares of a crossword puzzle—necessary parts without which the puzzle would be impossible to solve.

Many years ago at a homicide investigation seminar Chief Inspector Lars Eliassen had said it best:

“A dead end is a sharp u-turn that leads you back to that road called truth.”

Sohlberg pulled over and parked his car on a side street as soon as he left Hydroparken and memories of his dead wife behind. He went over the four dead ends that he had run into. The dead end at the home of retired Chief Inspector Nygård. The dead end at the courthouse for the Oslo Tingrett or District Court. The dead end at the Isaksen household turned hospice. The dead end at the National Archives. And yet none of these dead ends deterred Sohlberg. Quite the opposite: they energized him.

As Sohlberg thought about the case he realized that he had never found an answer to a question that bothered him.

Where’s the psychiatric report?

The experts’ report was the only piece of evidence used to send the defendant Ludvik Helland to an insane asylum. And yet the report was not to be found at the courthouse where it belonged in the case files. The report should have been at the Oslo District Court because no appeal had ever been filed in the case. The report should also have been in the police files at the National Archives.

Sohlberg had two choices: interview one or both of the two psychiatrists who had written the report for the court; or, find someone who had a copy of the report.

Approaching one of the two psychiatrists was out of the question. Dr. Oskar Penze was Dead End Number Five because he had died two years ago from a heart attack while on vacation in Scotland. His family had closed his office and thrown away all his records. That left the second psychiatrist: Dr. Haakon Norloff.

Sohlberg got on his cell phone. His Internet research revealed that Norloff was a well-known 64-year-old psychiatrist who had more than 42 years of experience. He got an address for the doctor and drove off.

The doctor kept elegant offices near the corner of Kristinelundveien and Bygdøy Allé in the elegant tree-lined Skøyen neighborhood which had become Oslo’s Embassy Row. The Swedish Embassy was just a few buildings away. Dr. Haakon Norloff was as polite as he was educated and handsome and well-dressed. After his secretary called him out to the reception room the patrician psychiatrist stood cross-armed at the doorway to his office and said:

“No. I don’t even want to know why you are here at my office. I do not talk with the police. You must go through my lawyer.”

Sohlberg did not press the point. He kept his head bowed low and meekly said:

“Thank you.”

Sohlberg did not want to attract attention. It was imperative for him to stay below the radar. That’s why he had mumbled his name to Norloff’s secretary. He doubted if either of them would remember his name let alone his face within ten minutes of his leaving the building.

Now that he was done with Dead End Number Six it was time to think carefully about his next step. He had no idea what to do. He walked aimlessly down the block and went back to his car to eat the sack lunch that his wife had packed for him.

“Not bad,” said Sohlberg as he devoured two sandwiches of wafer-thin slices of rakfisk while he sat in the police car. Fru Sohlberg always bought him the salted and fermented trout fillets from Valdres where Norway’s best mountain trout is harvested and salted and stored for sale during the Christmas Season.

I have to get the report from the two psychiatrists.

The six dead ends forced Sohlberg to go over every single possible option as to the location of the medical report or any copies. Thirty minutes went by before he knew exactly what to do and where to go.

“That’s it!”

Sohlberg remembered that copies of every psychiatric report filed with a court in any criminal case must be sent to a panel from the Norwegian Board of Forensic Medicine or DRK which is run by the Ministry of Justice and the Police. The DRK must approve the report and make sure that the report meets certain standards and safeguards that control the forensic medicine opinions of expert witnesses in criminal cases.