What is Mine (34 page)

“Stubo,” said a voice from the ether.

The pathologist took a minute to explain why he had phoned. There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’m still here,” said Stubo. “What sort of stuff is it?”

“Potassium.”

“What is potassium?”

“It’s one of the substances in our cells.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How . . .”

The pathologist was still shaking. He was clutching the phone and changed his grip in an attempt to calm down.

“To put it as simply as possible, so simple that it’s nearly imprecise,” he started and coughed, “there is a certain level of potassium in human cells, which is essential for our survival. When we die—how can I put this—our cells start to . . . leak. In the course of an hour or two, the level of potassium in the fluid surrounding the cells will rise sharply, which is in fact an obvious sign that you are dead.”

The pathologist was sweating; his shirt was sticking to his body and he tried to breathe slowly.

“So the fact that potassium levels around each cell have risen since the time of death is in itself not remarkable. It’s normal.”

“And . . . ?”

“The problem is that this level will also rise if you supply the body with potassium in some way. When the person is alive, that is. But then . . . they die. A rise in the potassium level results in heart failure.”

“But then it must be easy to trace the stuff?”

The pathologist raised his voice:

“Listen to what I’m
saying!
If you get an injection of potassium and die from it, the cause of death cannot be proven unless the autopsy is carried out immediately! A delay of one to two hours is sufficient. Then the higher potassium levels will simply be attributed to the
death
of that person! The autopsy won’t show anything at all, except that the person in question is no longer alive and that there is no evidence of the cause of death.”

“Oh my God . . .”

Stubo swallowed so loudly that the pathologist heard.

“But where would he get the poison?”

“It isn’t a poison, for Christ’s sake!”

The pathologist was practically shouting. When he opened his mouth again, his voice was trembling and low:

“First of all, both you and I take in potassium every day in our normal food. Not significant amounts, granted, but all the same . . . You can buy potassium by the pound from the pharmacist! That is, you can buy potassium chloride. If that is then injected into the bloodstream, it separates into potassium and chlorides, to put it simply. The potassium chloride has to be diluted so that it’s not too strong, as it can damage tissues and veins.”

“Can be bought at a pharmacy? But who . . . ?”

“Without a prescription.”

“Without a prescription?”

“Yes, but as far as I know, very few pharmacies actually stock it. It can be ordered. There is also a special potassium chloride product that you can only get with a prescription, which is used by patients who are losing potassium. I imagine that most intensive care units would have some in stock.”

“Tell me if I’ve understood this correctly,” said Stubo slowly. “If someone gives me an injection with enough diluted potassium, I’ll die. And then if you get me on your slab more than one hour later, you would only be able to confirm that I’m dead, and not how I died. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. But I would still see a syringe mark.”

“Syringe mar . . . But there weren’t any injection marks on Kim and Sarah?”

“No, not that I saw.”

“Not that you saw? You did
check
the children for injections?”

“Of course.”

The pathologist felt exhausted. His pulse was still high and he breathed in deeply.

“But I have to admit that I didn’t shave them.”

“Shave? We’re talking about two small kids.”

“On the head. We try to minimize incisions and interference when we do an autopsy, as we don’t want the family to be offended or shocked by what we’re required to do. It’s possible to make an injection in the temple area. Not easy, but possible. I have to confess . . .”

He could hear Stubo holding his breath at the other end of the phone.

“. . . I didn’t check for syringe marks around the temples. I just didn’t think about it.”

They were both thinking the same thing. Neither dared say it. Sarah’s body was still available to the pathologist. Kim had already been buried.

“Thank goodness we refused permission to cremate,” said Adam eventually.

“I apologize,” said the pathologist. “I really do apologize, with all my heart.”

“I’m sorry too,” said Adam. “As far as I understand, you’ve just described the perfect murder to me.”

F
IFTY

M
y son-in-law is in Copenhagen,” said Adam, and put a young boy down on the floor.

The child was somewhere between two and three. He had brown eyes and black hair and smiled shyly at Johanne while keeping a firm hold on his grandfather’s calf.

“He’s coming back tomorrow morning. I normally have Amund on Tuesdays and every other weekend, but the way things have been recently . . . I haven’t had a chance to do that. And this was an emergency so I couldn’t say no.”

He squatted down. The boy didn’t want to take off his jacket. Adam pulled down the zipper and let him keep it on. Then he tapped the boy gently on the bottom and said:

“Johanne has some great toys, I’m sure.”

Why didn’t you ask me to come to you?
she thought.
I’ve never been to your house and it’s past eight. You knew that Kristiane was with Isak and this child should be in bed. I could have come to you.

“Come,” she said, and took the boy by the hand. “Let’s see what we can find.”

Amund beamed when she led him to the box of cars. He grabbed a tractor and held it up in the air.

“Red tractor,” he said. “Red truck. Red bus.”

“He’s a bit obsessed with colors at the moment,” said Adam.

“He’ll have a boring time here then,” said Johanne, and helped Amund with a bulldozer that had lost its front wheels.

“It’s exactly a month since Emilie disappeared. Have you thought about that?”

“No,” he said, “but you’re right. Fourth of May. Where’s Jack?”

“I think . . .” Johanne started. The boy dropped the bulldozer and studied an ambulance that Isak had painted with bright red enamel.

“Red ambulance,” said the boy with some skepticism.

Johanne sat down at the table.

“I think the deal is that the dog goes with Kristiane. And to be honest, thank God for that. I’ve spent an hour getting rid of the smell of dog and puppy piss. Without entirely succeeding, I’m afraid.”

She sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose slightly before adding:

“Looks like something’s bothering you.”

Adam Stubo seemed bigger. It couldn’t just be her imagination; he looked like he’d put on weight over the past few weeks. His cheeks were rounder and his shirt was tighter at the neck. He was constantly running his finger under his collar. His tie was coming loose. Johanne had noticed that he always ate too much and too fast.

“I hope it’s not too rude to ask if you’ve got any food?” he said in a tired voice. “I’m so hungry.”

Amund was asleep in Johanne’s bed. It had taken an hour to put him down. Finally Adam came out of the bedroom. He had stuffed his tie into his pocket now and the top buttons of his shirt were open. He folded up the sleeves and sank into the sofa. It creaked underneath him. He grabbed a Danish pastry from the glass plate and wolfed it down in three fast mouthfuls.

“This potassium theory is truly terrifying,” he said, and wiped the crumbs away from his mouth. “I mean, it’s frightening enough in this case, but if people get wind of it . . .”

“The problem is the injection mark,” said Johanne pensively. “But if the victim is . . . if the person is sick or a drug addict or for any other reason might have injection tracks without raising an alarm, well then it’s . . .”

“Terrifying.”

“But you said that the fluid that’s injected consisted of potassium and something else?”

“Potassium chloride. Which separates into potassium and chloride in the blood.”

Johanne frowned.

“Wouldn’t there be traces of chloride then?”

Adam looked like he was about to take another Danish. Then he brushed his hands and folded them behind his head.

“I’m not sure if I understand it entirely, but the point is that the level of chlorides in the body is higher than the level of potassium.”

Adam closed his eyes to think. Then he opened them again, leant forward, and started to draw with his finger on the glass table.

“I might not get all the figures exactly right, but at least they illustrate what I’m getting at. Let’s say that your level of potassium is three of some measure or another.”

“Okay. Three measures potassium.”

“Then your chloride level is actually a hundred. This can rise to one hundred and five without it being dangerous or remarkable. A similar increase from three to eight measures of potassium would, on the other hand, kill a person. This really
is
the recipe for the perfect murder.”

“Which explains why he had to abduct the children,” said Johanne. “He had to take them somewhere where he could drug them with Valium and then inject them in the temple.”

“If that’s what he did.”

“Mmm. If that’s what he did. When will we find out more?”

“The pathologist will look at Sarah first, tomorrow morning. We’re going to do what we can to avoid opening Kim’s grave.”

They both looked at the bedroom. The door was ajar.

“If that’s the case, we certainly know more about the murderer,” said Johanne.

“How exactly?”

“We know that he has access to potassium.”

“But we all do.”

“But you said only a few pharmacies actually stock it.”

“Of course we’ll question all the pharmacists in the country. The pathologist reckoned that an order of potassium is unusual enough to be remembered. But the murderer may have bought it abroad. God knows he’s careful enough. And then there’s the problem with the hospitals. Intensive care units have potassium on hand. And there are a good number of intensive care units in Norway.”

“But we also know more,” said Johanne slowly. “We know that not only is the murderer an intelligent man, he also knows about a method that only a handful of doctors would . . .”

Adam interrupted, “The pathologist was really shaken. He must be around sixty-five and he said he had never thought about killing people in this way before. Never. And he’s a pathologist!”

He raised himself slightly from the sofa and hunted in his back pocket for the printout that Sigmund Berli had scribbled on. It was torn and would not lie flat on the table.

“Which makes our gynecologist more interesting again,” he said thoughtfully, and pointed at the doctor’s name. “And the nurse for that matter. Except that she’s a woman. But it knocks out . . .”

“We’re not looking for a woman,” said Johanne. “And it’s not likely to be a doctor.”

Adam glanced up and asked, “What makes you so sure?”

“This new information mustn’t make us forget what we’ve worked out already,” she said firmly. “We’re still talking about a damaged person. A psychopath or someone with clearly psychopathic tendencies. I think we’re looking for a man with a string of broken relationships behind him. Also in terms of his education, he has possibly studied at a university, but is unable to complete a course given the obligations and efforts required to do that. He may well be intelligent, possibly
very
intelligent, and can therefore benefit from any knowledge he does pick up. A world of information has opened up on the Internet in recent years. You can find everything from recipes for bombs to suicide clubs; it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if there’s a Web site somewhere about unusual murder methods. For that matter, our man might be smart enough to have worked it out himself, based on information from the countless medical Web sites. He’s definitely intelligent. But he has never managed to get an official qualification. How long does it take to train to be a nurse now? Four years? I reckon it would be more or less impossible for this man to complete something like that.”

“But why the
precision
?”

“With the potassium, you mean?”

“Yes. Why such an . . .
advanced
murder method? He could have strangled them, shot them, drowned them for that matter!”

“Control,” said Johanne. “Arrogance. He wants to prove he’s better than anyone else. Remember, this is a man who feels he’s been wronged. Deeply wronged. Not just by one person or one event. He’s built up an arsenal of defeats to be avenged. To manage to kill children without us even discovering how it’s . . .”

“Grandpa,” said a thin little voice.

It frightened Johanne that she hadn’t heard the boy. He was already out in the room, with a teddy bear under his arm. His T-shirt had a big spot of ketchup on it, but Adam had refused the offer of borrowing some of Kristiane’s old pajamas. The top of the boy’s diaper was sagging well below his belly button and an unmistakable smell made Johanne get up and guide him over to the bathroom. For some reason she hoped that Adam would not follow. Amund was unusually trusting. When she sat down on the toilet seat and took off his diaper, he gave a big smile.