Three, Four...Better Lock Your Door (16 page)

"He could be," I answered, "but again he could be someone just inspired by what they did."

"Like Mogens Holst," Sune exclaimed.

I looked at him with surprise. I hadn't thought about that angle. "I don't know about that," I said. "He doesn't seem to be the type. He has more of a sad existence."

"But he knows more about this than anyone else. Plus he is mad at the world for being wronged," Sune argued.

"Plus he is a schizophrenic," I mumbled. "And a drunk." I stared at the whiteboard while all these thoughts ran through my head. There was something here, we were definitely on to something, but I just couldn't quite figure out all the details.

"What do you think, Rebekka?" Sara asked.

"I was thinking about Irene Hoeg," I said.

"The doctor you interviewed about lobotomy. Why are you thinking about her?" Sara asked.

"It was something she said. Like she approved of the use of lobotomy. She said she had done it on one patient back in the seventies and even though the patient ended up like an apathetic vegetable then it was a better life for her than what she had. At least she was relieved of her pain and struggle inside of her."

"I think that you could find several doctors still advocating for these kinds of methods," Sune said. "Sad as it is."

I smiled. "I think so too. Maybe we should try and find out. Our killer might be one of them."

C
HAPTER 27

W
E FOUND A HANDFUL
of people, especially doctors who were known to have advocated the use of lobotomy in the media over the last fifty years. Three of them were already dead and that only left us with two. Irene Hoeg was one of them and also the most prominent, a doctor Arthur Sejr Andersen was the other. But he was eighty-three and lived in a nursing home.

I stared at the list a little resignedly. Sune stood beside me.

"Could it be Irene Hoeg?" he asked. "Could she be the killer?"

"Except that we are looking for a man," I said.

"Why?"

"Because they found semen in Susanne Larsen and Anders Hoejmark was a big guy. The police said he was held down by the throat while the lobotomy was completed," I said.

Sune nodded and sipped his coffee. "Sure but couldn't the semen belong to the lover that Susanne Larsen was with, the one she met up with, and who maybe just fled the scene to not have his identity revealed? Couldn't a very strong woman be able to hold down Anders Hoejmark?"

"Irene Hoeg is a fairly strong and tall woman. Her handshake hurt my hand," I said pensively. "So you're thinking that Susanne Larsen actually met with some other man, someone who was not the killer and then the killer showed up?"

"Yes. Let’s imagine the man she is with is married and has a great job and career. He doesn't want to risk losing anything by coming forward and telling the police what he knows."

"And Brian Poulsen?" I asked and pointed at his name that was written on the whiteboard under suspects.

"Same thing. Knew he was in trouble if they found his videos on the computer and took off."

"But why would Irene Hoeg travel all the way to Karrebaeksminde to commit these killings? Why not do it closer to where she lives?" Sara asked.

"Because that would be too obvious. Too dangerous. The woman is smart and not planning on being caught," I said.

"But why Karrebaeksminde of all places?" Sara asked.

I shrugged. "I don't know." I looked at Sune.

He smiled. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "We need to check the forensic reports again." Sune walked fast towards his computer. "We haven't even looked at Linda Nielsen's yet. Maybe there is something."

"You took the words right out of my mouth. That was precisely what I was thinking," I said. I grabbed a chair and pulled it up next to Sune's.

His fingers danced across the keyboard. Soon he was in the police's database and opened the report on Linda Nielsen's death. The pictures were brutal and we hurried past them assuming they were much like the previous two. Sune scrolled and read the text rapidly. His lips moved as he read.

"There," he said and pointed at the screen.

I looked and felt my heart racing in my chest. They had found blond hair near Linda's body. Long blond hair that they assumed belonged to a woman.

It was all just a very loose theory so far but it kind of stuck with me, with all of us at the paper for the rest of the day. We had no evidence, we had nothing but thoughts and ideas so we couldn’t talk to the police about it yet, but still we couldn't stop thinking about it. I looked at the huge pile of papers I had received from Mogens Holst. I wanted to start reading them, I wanted to be prepared so I could talk to Jens-Ole about running the story, but I couldn't focus, I couldn't concentrate. If it turned out to be Irene Hoeg who was killing these people then who could stop her? Were the police even on to her? Had they investigated her?

Evidence or not I grabbed the phone and called the head of Karrebaeksminde police department.

"I know this will sound weird but have you investigated Dr. Irene Hoeg? She is one of the few doctors in the country who has actually performed a lobotomy and I recently did an interview with her where she clearly stated that she thought it had actually helped people back in the days when they used it. I don't know if there is anything to it, but I just thought ..."

Johannes Lindstroem interrupted me. "Let me just stop you right there," he said. "We have already spoken to the doctor and she has a clear alibi for all three nights when the victims were killed."

"Oh. Okay," I stuttered quite startled.

"Was there anything else?"

"Well I wanted to ask you if it is true that you are considering the possibility that the killer might be a woman, but I think you kind of already answered that."

"I guess I just did. Good day then."

"Good day."

I hung up and looked at Sune. "At least we can now run the story that the police think the killer might be a woman," I said.

I called up Jens-Ole and he was ecstatic. "Write, God damn it. Write the article. We're running it in the morning. 'Lobotomy-killer could be a woman,' I love it. This just gets better and better."

He hung up. I wrote the story and sent it. Afterwards I wrote a shorter version and sent it to the guys doing our on-line newspaper. I looked up the
Express
' online paper and found nothing like it. We were first again, I thought with satisfaction. First, before Christian Lonstedt and his perfect smile.

Then I went home to Dad and Julie.

I had barely gotten inside of the house and hugged my daughter when the phone rang. Julie gave me one of those “You're a terrible mother” looks.

"Sorry sweetie, but I better answer this. It might be important." I looked at the display. Private number it said. I answered it.

"Rebekka Franck."

"Christian Lonstedt."

I froze while looking for something clever and bright to say. I was kind of caught off guard here. I felt so foolish, but I actually blushed. I was beginning to wonder if I actually liked this guy. I had no idea why I would. He was insanely annoying, everything about him irritated me, but I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe he was the type that grew on you. Ever since that evening he had stopped by the paper I realized that there might be more to him than what I first anticipated. His experience in Africa had left an impact on me. I was beginning to suspect that I hadn't given him enough credit in the beginning. I hated to admit it, but I was open for a reevaluation.

"Christian. What can I do for you?" I asked expecting his call to be merely professional. As usual I put up all my guards suspecting that he wanted something from me, that he wanted to pump me for information.

"First of all, congrats on your story tonight about the killer being female. I just read it online. Everybody will be quoting you for this in the morning," he said.

I felt a wrinkle form in my forehead. What was this? Was he complimenting me? Was this some sort of trick? What did he want? He had to have an ulterior motive. There just had to be. "Well thanks. I was lucky, I guess. You know how it is sometimes," I said. My dad's cat was staring at me from the windowsill. Even she could hear how stupid I sounded.

"I'm never that lucky," he said gently. "You're really good."

"Um ... thanks?" I said not knowing how to deal with this, how to react. What was this? What did he want? "And second of all?" I asked.

"Oh yeah. Second of all I wanted to apologize for my bad behavior the other day. It wasn't tactful. It was insensitive and rude to ask you that question."

I laughed lightly. "You don't have to apologize. I’m not that easy to offend," I said.

"Well, I'd like to make it up to you by inviting you for dinner. I don't know anyone in this area and I could really use a night out. Does Wednesday night sound okay?"

I hesitated. I didn't know what to say. I guess he took me off guard once again. I wasn't prepared for this. Plus I didn't understand what he wanted. Was it a date-date? Or just a friend-date because he was lonely in a new area?

"Your pause makes me quite uncomfortable," he continued. He sounded so correct and polite. It was sweet.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to imply that I was reluctant. I’m just a little surprised that's all. Plus we are competitors in a way so I guess I was wondering if there could be an ulterior motive. But of course there isn't. You're not that type. I know. Forgive me. I'm just paranoid, I guess."

"You're rambling," he said.

I laughed. "Yes. I'm sorry. I ... I'm just ..."

"Just a simple yes or no would soothe my unease," he said.

I exhaled.

"Then it is a yes."

C
HAPTER 28

M
ARTIN
F
RANDSEN WAS A
quiet man. He enjoyed the calm days of his early retirement. He liked to read the paper, go for a long walk on the beach or in the forest. He enjoyed a good dinner prepared for him by his wife of forty years, he loved reading a good book, preferable a mystery - while sitting in the quiet corner of the living room with nothing but a lamp lit over his head. He didn't care much for other people. They were noisy and they always wanted something from him. Especially his children and grandchildren. He liked seeing them every now and then, but they disturbed his peace, they interfered with the calmness in his mind that he worked so hard every day to obtain.

And so did his wife. Marianne Frandsen was a very noisy woman and over the years she hadn't exactly become quieter. She always wanted something from him. She wanted him to clean up the garage, fix the sink when it was clogged, and take out the trash. She always wanted something from him and Martin Frandsen found himself often trying to escape her voice by hiding from her either in the bathroom, the basement or the garage. And she always talked. Boy did she talk. The mouth never stood still on that woman. She would talk and talk about everything and nothing; about the neighbor's cat that looked weird because it had grown a lump on the side of its face, their daughter's new job and colleagues that Martin Frandsen would never meet and therefore couldn't care less about. Marianne would try and pick a fight with him just to get him to talk to her. She would nag him about his reading, his quietness and silence that she didn't understand. She would say that he had stalled, that he needed to pull himself out of this. He had even heard her talk to their grown son about him. They asked each other if it could be depression. That maybe Martin had a hard time accepting that he wasn't going to work anymore, that he wasn't needed any longer? Their son who was a doctor had told her that often elderly people became depressed.

Martin Frandsen let them talk. He didn't care much about any of them anyway. He wasn't depressed and he certainly wasn't an elderly man. He was just trying to finally enjoy life, enjoy his retirement and listen to the birds. But he could never get to hear them since there was always someone talking.

Martin Frandsen thought about leaving his wife every day. He wasn't sure he even loved her anymore; it was hard to say that he loved anything at all except for the few quiet moments he stole during the day.  Today he considered leaving her more than ever.

After lunch Marianne Frandsen told her husband that she wanted them to try something new. She had the idea that all they needed was to spice up their sex-life. Then everything would be better. She thought that she could get her husband out of this depression-like state of his by giving their sex-life something new, something more exciting.

"Like the couple down the street did. The Jensens. They started going to this swinger-club. Spiced up everything in their life," she said. "The husband became a brand new person. Gitte Jensen told me that it was like getting an entirely new husband."

Martin Frandsen stared at his wife with great suspicion and wide open eyes. "Maybe you need a new husband," he answered slightly hoping that she would take him up on his word.

Marianne Frandsen tapped him on his shoulder with an "Oh you silly old man" and a laugh to match it. Then she stood up and looked at him. "I have arranged for everything," she said. "He'll be here at six."

"Who will be here at six?" Martin Frandsen asked while his wife started removing their plates from the table.

"You'll see," she said with a vicious smile.

That was when Martin Frandsen seriously considered start packing his belongings and moving for good. But where would he go? Who would cook for him while he searched for a quiet moment?

Martin Frandsen sighed deeply and sat in his favorite chair in the corner of the living room. Then he picked up his book and started reading. If his wife wanted to spice up their sex-life then so be it. She could do whatever she wanted. He didn't care. At least she had stopped talking for a little while.

C
HAPTER 29

T
HE DOORBELL RANG
at precisely six o'clock. Martin Frandsen exhaled deeply and stared into the darkness outside the windows.