Sohlberg and the Gift (24 page)

The drive north on Holmliaveien and then east on Ljabrudiagonalen briefly brought to Sohlberg’s mind the happy memories of winter sleigh rides with his grandparents on remote country roads. But the confines of the narrow road and the tall pines and the walls of snow on both sides of the road also made Sohlberg feel that he was in a slippery white tunnel. That feeling intensified when they drove through the tunnel on Ljabrudiagonalen and then exited and turned into Herregårdsveien.

“Here
we
are,” said Jorfald as soon as he spotted a break among the 10-foot snow drifts that surrounded both sides of the road.

The hulking psychiatrist made a tight right turn and shot past a sign that read: “DOVE CENTER”.

“Dove Center,” said Sohlberg. “Whenever I drove through here I always thought that Dove Center was some kind of a retirement center . . . or a private club that had something to do with birds.”

“Good!” shouted Jorfald. “
We
always try to make our ward for seriously-ill patients look and feel civilian . . .
we
avoid the institutional look and the prison look.”

Nansen turned around with a seductive smile for Sohlberg. “Clean and safe and peaceful and pleasant settings are as important as providing humane treatment. This is no Cuckoo’s Nest. We have no Nurse Ratcheds.”

“That sounds good. But what do you
really
do with violent patients?”

“Drugs. Therapy. Humane and peaceful surroundings like these.”

“
We
,” added Jorfald, “of course provide the violent ones with titanium ankle bracelets that are almost impossible to cut off. The bracelets send a severe electric shock if the patient tries to leave the grounds. And the bracelets have a G.P.S. tracking device.”

A bone-white and modern three-story building barged in through the dark treeline. Large windows reflected the sun and snow in a blinding glare. The building curved around the circular driveway. Jorfald stopped in front of the main glass door and a smiling blonde attendant came out to drive the car away. The threesome signed in at the main desk and another smiling white-uniformed blonde attendant escorted them to a conference room in the ground floor section for the administration.

The patient stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that faced an enormous field of snow. Another smiling blonde attendant in white stood discretely near a wall. The doktors and Sohlberg entered and sat on the exquisite steambent oak-and-leather chairs designed by the great Norwegian designer Petter Bjorn Southall. As if lost in a trance the patient ignored his visitors. He remained standing with his back to Sohlberg and the doktors.

“Ludvik,” said Jorfald in a pleasing deep baritone. “
We’re
here. Doktor Nansen is with me. And
we
want you to meet a special guest . . . Chief Inspector Harald Sohlberg of the Oslo distrikt.”

The rail-thin patient turned slowly. Sohlberg expected to see a deranged face. Instead he was stunned by the tears flowing on the broad and deeply-lined face of Ludvik Helland. The patient stared at Sohlberg. In a raspy voice that was barely above a whisper the patient said:

“You’re finally here. Thank God. I almost lost hope.”

“One should never lose hope,” chimed in Dr. Nansen.

Sohlberg’s mind could hardly grasp Ludvik Helland’s next words.

“I never killed her,” yelled Helland as his face reddened and his voice grew louder. “I’m not Ludvik Helland. I’m Jakob Gansum. My daughter is Astrid Isaksen. I was set up. I’m not Ludvik Helland. I’m Jakob Gansum!”

A chill went down the detective’s spine as the unreal became real with every utterance that fell from Helland’s lips. Sohlberg’s sanity slipped a notch as his reality threatened to become unmoored. For the briefest of moments Sohlberg feared that he could easily become stranded on Ludvik Helland’s small island of insanity—one of the many dangerous isles of the criminally insane amidst the immense Deranged Ocean that flowed in the psychiatric ward of Dove Center. Every sentence from Ludvik Helland loosened Sohlberg’s tightly knotted ties to sanity.

“I was set up. Framed! I never killed Janne Eide. I am not her husband Ludvik Helland. I am Jakob Gansum. My daughter is Astrid Isaksen. I am not Ludvik Helland. Don’t you understand? I am Jakob Gansum!”

Jorfald attempted to calm his patient with dulcet entreaties. Meanwhile Sohlberg’s mind reeled as he tried to grasp the true meaning of what he had just heard. He fitted the pieces of the puzzle and felt sick at not having seen the obvious solution much earlier: the mental patient before him was not Ludvik Helland but Jakob Gansum—the father of Astrid Isaksen.

Who is behind my mystery visitor and her Delphic declarations?

Jakob Gansum/Ludvik Helland.

He sent Astrid as the enticing bait to hook and reel me in.

“Please Ludvik,” said Dr. Jorfald. “
We’ve
made so much progress . . . and now this.
We’ve
spoken a lot about you not going back to your fantasy life . . . you know how dangerous that is . . . how your fantasy life keeps you from progressing . . . from accepting yourself for who you really are and what you’ve really done . . . you’re preventing yourself from getting on with your life and completing your recovery.”

“Listen to me. I was framed. I did not kill Janne Eide. I am not her husband. I am Jakob Gansum. Don’t you understand? . . . I am Jakob Gansum.”

Jorfald tried to calm down the patient with more pleasant pleas. Meanwhile Dr. Nansen turned and she leaned into Sohlberg and softly said:

“I’m sorry it turned out this way. Jorfald had made good progress with him. I’m a little surprised that he slipped back into his psychosis so easily just because he didn’t get his morning medicines.”

“You . . . Nansen,” shouted the psychiatric patient known as Number 1022 or Ludvik Helland. “What are you telling him?”

Without missing a beat Dr. Nansen turned to face Patient # 1022. “Ludvik . . . I’m disappointed that you’re again repeating all this nonsense about you being someone else. It’s not true. It’s not reality. You must try . . . Ludvik . . . try to control yourself. . . . You should at least be polite to our guest and keep quiet until you hear what Chief Inspector Sohlberg wants to talk to you about.”

“I know why he’s here. It’s because he knows I was framed.”

“Ludvik . . . you must behave,” said Dr. Jorfald with the feeble firmness of his profession.

“I am not Ludvik. Stop calling me that.”

Jorfald and Nansen looked at each other. Before the two psychiatrists could reach any decision or say anything Sohlberg spoke up:

“Look . . . Ludvik or Jakob . . . I’m here because I need your help. Now . . . I don’t mind listening to your story as to how and why you came to this place . . . matter of fact I will gladly hear you out as to why you are Jakob Gansum and not Ludvik Helland . . . I don’t think Doktors Jorfald or Nansen would object to my hearing your life story as long as you first hear me out. Okay?”

“No. I want—”

“Hear me out,” said Sohlberg with the threatening firmness of his profession.

“Alright. Go ahead.”

“Thank you. I’m here because I’m investigating Håkon Krogvig . . . your next door neighbor.”

“He’s a nut case. A real killer.”

“I’m investigating Håkon Krogvig because I have reasons to believe that he’s killed more than two teenagers. Also . . . I have an unsolved murder. A cold case.” Sohlberg chose his next words carefully because they laid out the necessary legitimate excuse for him to be meeting with Ludvik Helland at the Dove Center.

“What murder?” said Patient # 1022.

“A young man. Tom Velta. Twenty-one years old. Stabbed once in the heart in Vigeland Park near the monolith tower. He was left by a granite sculpture of an old man with a beard who held an old and sick or dying woman. I have reasons to believe that Krogvig might have killed Tom Velta.”

“That ain’t nothing. The maniac says he’s killed men and women and children everywhere. He’s bragged about killing fifty-three in Europe. He’s been to the United States where he’s killed many many more. He says he learned how to stalk and kill from this serial killer Ottis Toole when he was living in Florida.”

Sohlberg tried not to get his hopes up. He had never been assigned to investigate Håkon Krogvig. But he had always thought that Krogvig should have been investigated much more thoroughly after confessing to the murder of two teenaged girls in Oslo.

If a 46-year-old man confesses to killing two girls then wasn’t it likely that these victims were not his first ones?

Why would Krogvig start on a homicidal rampage so late in life?

Patient # 1022 spoke louder and faster in a deluge of words:

“Krogvig has been carving wood falcons in the arts and crafts workshop. He’s been making one for each of his victims. He’s going to send the little falcons to his brother . . . for him to put one in every place where he left his victims. Don’t you understand? He cut them up. Ate parts of them. They’ve disappeared. . . . Never been found. He has a map of Europe filled with red dots . . . marking the spot where he hid the bodies. I’ve seen his map of Norway . . . it has seven red dots. Don’t you understand? He’s raped and killed over and over and hidden most of his victims. Others he robbed and killed just for the money.”

Sohlberg blurted out: “Wait . . . where are his maps?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t showed me where he hides them. Maybe in his room. Maybe in the workshop. Maybe somewhere else. I don’t know.”

 “Well. Here’s what I propose. I need two things from you. First . . . see if you can get him to talk about meeting or robbing or having sex with a young man five years ago in Vigeland Park near the monolith tower. Second . . . find out where he keeps those maps.”

“What do I get in return?”

“I promise that I will look into your case with an open mind . . . I’ll investigate everything from scratch—”

“That’s not good enough. You’ve got to get me out of here.”

“It’ll have to be good enough for now. This is the best deal you will ever get.”

“No!”

“But I’m just a police officer. I’m not a judge. Only a judge can set you free.”

“I want justice,” shouted the increasingly agitated patient.

“Jakob Gansum! . . . I promise to do everything possible to get your case re-opened in court if any of the things you say are either true . . . or could be true.”

Patient # 1022 immediately calmed down when he heard his name uttered by Sohlberg. His demeanor underwent a radical transformation. The crazed jerky eyeballs became still and morphed into the most placid of benevolent gazes. The bulging veins on his forehead and neck disappeared. So did the dark red splotches from his face. Sohlberg and the two psychiatrists exchanged surprised looks as the crazed wife-killer Ludvik Helland transformed himself before their very eyes into the falsely accused Jakob Gansum.

“Okay,” said the newly meek-and-mild patient. “Let’s go ahead and do this . . . I trust you Chief Inspector.”

Jorfald nodded at the attendant who then escorted the patient out of the room. The detective and the psychiatrists followed but in the opposite direction down another hallway. Several patients walked past Sohlberg and they reminded him of the living dead from the zombie movies of his childhood. Their glassy eyes and expressionless demeanor testified to the pharmaceutical effectiveness of the patients’ daily Thorazine-Risperdal cocktail which was spiked as necessary with Aripiprazole or Dilantin for the more violent.

No one said anything more at the Dove Center or during the drive back to the Søndre Oslo Distriktspsykiatriske Senter. After he entered Jorfald’s office Chief Inspector Sohlberg expected Jorfald to call off the project. A funereal silence accompanied the glum faces of the two psychiatrists.