Sohlberg and the Gift (5 page)

The snow tapered off as the clouds stormed off. The sun made a glorious return appearance in the sky. Sohlberg continued his journey on the narrow and icy streets that wound their way around the low mountains that surround Lillestrøm. At one point he left the city limits by accident and wandered past expanses of lily-white snow fields chequered with dark hills crowned with old-growth strands of spruce and fir and hemlock.

Beautiful . . . but I’m totally lost.

Sohlberg eventually meandered back into town. He got lost two more times before he found the residence of Bjørn Nygård. A small garden surrounded the modest cottage from the 1950s. Of course the garden was nothing but a plot of deep gray snow. Sohlberg imagined a summer garden filled with a profusion of flowers. Regardless of the garden’s seasonal flora the humble residence and neighborhood matched the reported income of the former Chief Inspector in charge of the Janne Eide homicide.

A woman’s voice boomed somewhere in the back of the house after Sohlberg rang the doorbell and knocked on the door. “Wait a minute . . . I’m coming! . . . You better not be trying to sell us magazines or other junk! And we don’t want any preaching. We want nothing!”

A lacy curtain parted by a large window next to the front door. Sohlberg watched the woman’s suspicious rheumy eyes narrow when she saw the marked police car and then his blue police uniform.

The door swung open.

“Yes . . . what is it Officer?” said the frail woman in her seventies. Bowed down by age she looked up at Sohlberg and waved him inside to the hallway.

“Thank you . . . I want to talk with Bjørn Nygård.”

“What?” said the clearly perplexed woman.

“Just some quick questions.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Ma’am . . . are you his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Fru Nygård . . . please . . . I need to talk with him. It won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

“No.”

“Look . . . this is not a game. . . . Is he here?”

“Yes.”

“Well then . . . I want to see him.”

“You can see him but you won’t get what you want . . . which by the way young man . . . exactly what do you want to talk to him about?”

“An old case.”

“I told you . . . you will never get what you want . . . now go away . . . this is ridiculous.”

“Why? . . . Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re a fool. A young fool. It figures you’re from Oslo.”

“How do you know I’m from Oslo?”

“I know all the police here in Lillestrøm. My two sons are police here . . . one’s an inspector just like you.”

Sohlberg was glad that she had not asked for his name. “Fru Nygård . . . I just needed some help from your husband. I know what a great detective he was. . . .” Sohlberg took a risk and went for her undivided attention if not sympathy. “Look . . . I know he was unfairly forced out of the service.”

“Well . . . well.”

A grandfather clock ticked loudly somewhere nearby. Sohlberg heard someone stir in what sounded like a chair or sofa. Then a sigh and gentle snoring.

“Come.”

Sohlberg followed the bent woman. In the small living room a toothpick of a badly-dressed man slept open-mouthed on a sofa.

“My husband. What’s left of him. He doesn’t even know who I am anymore. Doesn’t know my name . . . just knows that I’m someone who feeds him and cares for him. On rare occasion he seems as if he recognizes me as someone kind or important from his past. Other days he talks to me about his wife and how she was nice and took great care of him.”

“I’m so very sorry,” said the pained Sohlberg. “I didn’t know.”

“Now you do. Go back to Oslo and tell them all to go to hell.”

“Oh I will.”

“Especially that rat of Ivar Thorsen. I’ll live as long as I can so I can one day spit on his grave.”

Fru Nygård’s rancor followed Sohlberg all the way back to Oslo. The unjust treatment and ultimate fate of Bjørn Nygård rankled Sohlberg. He was powerless to stop or change Nygård’s dementia. On the other hand Sohlberg decided that he might—against all odds—make right the humiliating career injustice meted out to Bjørn Nygård.

~ ~ ~

Emma Sohlberg was used to her husband’s absent-minded ways whenever he was solving a case. She was used to his keeping odd hours. For example that evening Sohlberg had arrived home extremely late—almost four hours after dinner time. Homicide is not a 9 to 5 job. Not for the murderer. Not for the detective. And certainly not for the spouse or family of the detective.

Trying to sound as casual as possible Emma Sohlberg said:

“Sohlberg . . . didn’t you tell me that you had a very light caseload this week?”

“Yes my Love,” he replied with a mouth full of rømmegrøt while he read the final draft of a report that he had to turn in at work. He did not notice her suspicious eyes.

She waited for him to finish his favorite dish. They sat in a small cozy alcove in the kitchen. She made the sour cream pudding from an old family recipe that called for sour cream with melted butter and brown sugar and cinnamon with a touch of nutmeg and allspice. Her secret variation of the family recipe was Saigon cinnamon and a delicious organic butter from Norsk Melk. The small dairy co-op refused to be controlled by the giant
Tine
milk monopoly of Norway.

“Sohlberg . . . isn’t December when you traditionally cut back on work in Homicide unless there’s a new murder?”

“Yes . . . it is,” he said slowly as he lifted his eyes up to meet hers. “I’m sorry I got in so late and missed dinner. But something came up.”

“Oh?”

“Yes . . . an old case. Nothing really. I’m just reviewing it. Making sure all the t’s crossed . . . and i’s dotted . . . you know.”

“But you always do that
before
you close your cases.”

“It’s someone else’s case.”

“You be careful.”

“It’s not like
that
time. Not at all.”

“I hope not. You told me they went ballistic when they caught you snooping around an old case.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“I hope so. But why do this?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s never a good thing.”

Chapter 3/Tre

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 3, OR ONE DAY

AFTER THE DAY DECEMBER 2

I will not be denied. There must be blood.

The Falconer stared out the window. It smells you know.

I don’t care if it smells or not. All I care about is that there will be blood. There will be blood for that long-tongue liar. That midnight rider.

Wish I could be there. The falcon could then take her away.

Falcon. I don’t need no stinking falcon. God is gonna cut her down.

You got religion boy.

I got Johnny Cash. I used to hear him all the time when I was young and sang his songs on my guitar. I could’ve been like him.

Nobody cares about what a man could or should or might have been. What’s important is the killing. Ain’t nothing like killing. Preparing. Doing it. The Afterwards. What matters is that you are gonna do a killing. That ain’t no small thing. No sir. Killing is no small thing.

I guess not.

Killing is the ultimate. It’s the absolute greatest thing that a man or a woman can do with his or her life. Killing is the highpoint of my life. Killing ought to be the highpoint in the life of every man. Ain’t nothing like it. It’s so freaking powerful. Beyond powerful. Killing is the greatest thing a man will ever do because death is the greatest thing a man will ever encounter. You ever think about that.

Ask me if I care. Not at all. Who cares what killing could be or should be or might be.

Don’t you mock me. You listen good because death is the most important thing in life. If you don’t think death is important then maybe you can die right now. Tell me if you care to die right now.

No I don’t.

Then you listen real good. Death is so powerful that life can’t fight it and win. That’s why the dead don’t come back here on earth. Death is my old friend. A good friend. Loyal. Dependable. Always there when I need him. You’ll see Death when you catch up with your lady. I wish I was there and see you kill her. The hair will stand on her skin just a few seconds before the falcon comes to take her away.

You should know.

They always know when death is coming. Always. Everyone does. Say you walk down a dark and lonely street and my knife comes out for you. Say you are sitting in some faraway war and a bullet or bomb is coming for you. Say you got a clot coming into your heart or lungs or brain. Even if you don’t see it coming the hair will stand on your skin just a few seconds before the falcon takes your soul.

I don’t care what happens afterwards. That ain’t my business.

The Falconer smiled. It will be your business. This here ain’t all there is.

You know.

I sure do. You know I do.

He shrugged and looked out at the field and pretended he didn’t care about what happens After Death. But may be just may be the Falconer did know. The killer next door. He has to know.

~ ~ ~

The morning went by quickly as Sohlberg finished reviewing sundry paperwork for an upcoming trial in mid-January. The only other detective in the department had left in a hurry at 10 A.M. to pick up a suspect: a man who had just slashed his wife’s throat because she had served him undercooked scrambled eggs.

The call on Sohlberg’s private cell phone came in shortly after two o’clock. He looked at the caller’s number and smiled.

“Hei.”

“I’m about to take the tram. See you there in a few minutes.”

“You’ll be alone?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“How’s The Zoo today?”

~ ~ ~

The Zoo. No one knows who came up with that nickname for Oslo’s Grønland police station. The nickname appeared in the early 1980s when the Prime Minister appointed one disastrous and incompetent political hack after the other to serve as the Minister of Justice and the Police.

The first political hack was a beautiful if not exquisite female appointee whose hideous personality and corrupt administration earned her the nickname
wildebeest.

Nicknames proliferated. Specific types of job positions received the appropriate nickname. Jailers became
zookeepers
. Detectives became
animal handlers
and then just
handlers
. Administrators became
animal feeders
and eventually
feeders
.