Sohlberg and the Gift (19 page)

Enough. I get the idea.

Henry was the husband. Ottis the wife took orders. They was so sweet holding hands and kissing all the time. It was nineteen and eighty-one. July. Late July. Really hot. Damn hot. Not like this frozen hellhole of our country.

That’s one thing you’re right about.

Henry wanted me but he gave me to Ottis on account of Henry feeling bad that he took and killed this favorite niece of Ottis. She was the child bride of Lucas this fifteen year old sweetie pie Becky Powell. Real nice gal she was. After Lucas got angry with her and killed her I seen her panties inside Henry’s underwear. He used to wear her bra and clothes too after he killed her. Now Henry liked men and boys and girls and women and he did her every which way and then cut off her head. That got Ottis real sore. Kept bothering Henry over that. So Henry let Ottis keep me. That was real good cause Henry always used to tell me what he wanted to do to me. You see. That’s one way I learned so much about how to kill. I saw him do it with Ottis. Exactly what to do. How to scare the daylights out of them so bad that they can’t even move. How to leave them freaking frozen with terror. They won’t lift a finger to save themselves with all their good and fine manners.

Uh huh. So you say.

We was all three a happy family. Father mother son. Ottis called us the Unholy Trinity. I was an angel. Their angel boy who helped them get more boys and girls. You know what an angel is. Don’t you.

Not really.

A messenger. A messenger from God. In my case I was a messenger from the gods Henry and Ottis.

Gods.

Yes sir. You see women bring life to earth. But men take it. And there ain’t nothing wrong taking a life. Heck. Ottis used to say that them abortion doctors chop up babies all the time so why can’t a man do the same. Ottis and Lucas always said killing was retroactive abortion. And killing makes us gods. Yessiree. Men are gods.

Gods.

Yes sir. And not just any gods in the case of Ottis. You see Ottis and his sister and grandmother and his whole whacko family was into Satan and Devilworship. No doubt about it. The Devourer was head of that family. Dang. Now that I think of it no wonder I sort of went nuts with him and Henry. You think I’m nuts. Don’t you.

Why ask.

Just checking. Anyway. I go inside the Sears and beeline it to the toy section. It had video games. And an Atari Tele-games System video arcade. The video arcade is near the door. I see two black boys there all alone. Oh I knew I’d make Henry and Ottis so happy with one black boy for each of them. I mean they taught me real good what bait to use to hook women and girls and boys. But those two black kids wouldn’t listen to me. They only wanted to play the Atari video game that this little six-year-old was using. I figured that with a little extra work I could take all three boys with me after the black boys played the video game and that Adam would be mine. I was so sure that I would talk the three boys into coming outside with me that I even left a little wood falcon right there where I saw them three boys. I left it on the top shelf on the next row near a shelf that had those bug zapping lamps.

Now why would you go in and take a boy for yourself.

I wanted Adam real bad. A little brother. I’d teach him so much. Make a little man out of him. Just the same way that I was made a little man when I worked the streets. Maybe we’d get married later on. But those two black boys started fighting with Adam to get him off the game. Someone called security. This dumb teenage girl of a security guard not much older than eighteen shows up and she kicks the two blacks out one door and sends us two blond boys packing the other way. She thought Adam and I was together and she believed me when I told her that just like the black kids did that our parents weren’t in the store. She told us to go home. What a dummie. Can you believe that. She kicked Adam out of the store and away from his Mama and into my arms. I carried him off in my angel wings.

You make it sound real. You got some sick imagination.

Look here you fool. You see this here key chain. I made it from a piece of Adam’s skin after Ottis cut the boy’s head off. I’ll never forget the real nasty things that Ottis did to the boy’s head. You would start crying and hollering and screaming and try to kill me if I told you ten percent of what Ottis did to that boy’s head.

Don’t even go there because I’d surely would kill you if you told me. You’re a freak and a monster.

You call me that after what you did to your wife. Pishposh. Come now. Call the kettle black.

You shut up. You don’t know nothing about me. Would you like to see my shank stuck in your eye ball. Would you.

No sir. Probably not. Okay. I’ll spare ye the details of what Ottis did to Adam Walsh. But I will tell you that we took the body and when we was eating him Ottis gave me some skin to make a belt and this little piece is all I have left. Just this little key chain strap.

You’re the biggest liar. You should run for office.

I ain’t qualified. I only killed a lousy fifty and three here in Europe and many more in America. But I ain’t never sent hundreds of thousands of boys and men to die in wars. I ain’t sent millions of souls to concentration camps like in China or Russia or North Korea. Now those are serial killers. Them boys Stalin and Mao. They was Henry and Ottis. Only difference was they called it governing. Me and Ottis and Henry Lee called it fun.

You lie and lie.

You can doubt. But you can’t run. By the way. Your letter ain’t doing jack for you.

Like I said. I’ll take my chances.

Are you kidding me. That’s what a man says when he’s been dealt a losing hand.

~ ~ ~

An overnight storm draped Oslo in snow. The exquisite white blanket disappeared when the city’s traffic stained the pristine snow. Sohlberg regretted how quickly the city corrupted the pure white snow. He arrived at the Zoo and promptly ignored Thorsen. After a few discrete inquiries that morning Sohlberg discovered that Thorsen had informed no one else about yesterday’s fake witness list. The harassing telephone calls to Fru Sohlberg had only come from Ivar Thorsen—acting alone and on his own—without the boss’s okay.

At 10:01 A.M. a call came in about another Grønland stabbing fatality. A Christmas vacation shortage of politiinspektors forced Sohlberg to call on Constable Hanna Høiness for assistance as his lead detective. They rushed to the crime scene less than a mile from the Zoo. A bill collector had discovered the young woman’s body on the top floor of a 4-floor tenement building on Tøyengata. The crime scene was less than two blocks from the building where Astrid Isaksen lived with her aunt.

A blood-soaked shroud covered all of the body except for the face. Her fine black hair and veil and dark skin spelled Pakistan. The young victim’s lovely white and straight teeth stood exposed from deep knife wounds that cut into and across the delicate cheeks. Little remained of her shredded tongue. A final throat slash from ear to ear had finished her off. Sohlberg felt sick as he imagined the last horrific ten minutes of this teenager’s life on earth. He frowned and said:

“How old do you think she is?”

Constable Høiness shook her head. “Not more than fifteen.”

“I know that type of veil. I’ve seen it before. It’s Sindh. Probably from the Ghotki area. It’s what rural tribal Sindhi people wear in southeast Pakistan.”

“Chief Inspector . . . I had no idea you were so well versed in international culture.”

“I’m not.”

“Then how do you know so much?”

“A year ago I had a similar case with a similar victim. She was sixteen and secretly dating a Norwegian boy. Family found out. Then it was Karo Kari time.”

“What?”

“Karo Kari . . . an honor killing . . . it’s justified homicide under Islamic tradition . . . it allows the murder of any family member . . . usually women . . . who bring dishonor to the family . . . usually because the woman has or might have pre-marital sex or an adulterous relationship. A male family member must kill the offender to save the family honor.”

“That’s nasty. I can’t believe that stuff goes on.”

“Why not?” shouted Guttorm Nordø. “Honor killings and other Stone Age lifestyles were brought here to Norway courtesy of our genius liberal politicians.”

The 56-year-old crime scene investigator had just walked up the dank stairwell. He was—as usual—wheezy and red-faced and cranky. As far as Sohlberg was concerned Nordø was the best investigator at processing a homicide. Nordø’s experience and meticulous attention to the smallest detail had proven critical in securing at least ten homicide convictions that had started off as spontaneous confessions to Sohlberg.

Constable Høiness said with a sneer:

“Nordø . . . you’re a racist religious bigot.”

“And you . . . young lady . . . are a sexist.”

“Shush!” ordered Sohlberg.

The two combatants glared at each other.

“I think I heard crying,” said Sohlberg in the softest of whispers. “Yes . . . someone’s crying.”

The faintest of whimpers echoed up the stairwell.

Constable Høiness got on her walkie-talkie and ordered everyone inside and outside the building to keep five minutes of silence.

Sohlberg and Høiness slowly and quietly walked down the stairs. They stopped at the third floor and followed the soft wailing to rear apartment 3-B. Sohlberg pointed at a pearl-sized drop of fresh blood by the door.

Sohlberg gently knocked on the door that had a little tag for A.M. Mahar.

The wailing stopped.

Sohlberg motioned Constable Høiness to get closer to him. He whispered into her ear:

“I’m going to knock on the door . . . if it’s a man I will talk. If it’s a woman you nicely tell her in a friendly normal voice that you’re with the politi and need to talk with her.”

Høiness nodded.

A long minute passed after Sohlberg knocked gently on the door. A woman called out a meek “Yes?” from deep inside the apartment.

“Hei . . . I’m Constable Høiness with the Oslo politi. I need to talk with you please.”

Silence.

“Ma’am . . . I need to get some information from you.”

A long silence.

Sohlberg again whispered into Constable Høiness’s ear. “Make sure that you don’t rush . . . thoroughly interview all of the women in the house . . . even children who can identify and talk about relatives. Get the names and addresses and whereabouts of every male in the family who’s twelve and older.”

The door cracked open. Høiness moved closer to the doorway and started talking to the female occupant. A minute later the door opened wide. Sohlberg and two constables searched the apartment for adult men while Høiness buttonholed a middle-aged Pakistani woman under gentle but persistent questioning. She had obviously been weeping and looked distraught and she identified herself as:

“Zulema Mahar. I am the wife of Ali Mohammed Mahar.”

“Fru Mahar,” said Constable Høiness, “I know this is a difficult time. . . .”

The house reeked of bleach and ammonia. The toxic fumes sickened Sohlberg. He turned to Høiness. “Open all the windows. I’m going back to the office. I’m feeling sick. Keep me posted.”

Guttorm Nordø and one of his men moved into the apartment. They took pictures of blood drops that started in the kitchen where neat rows of empty bleach bottles and ammonia bottles and pink rags and sponges pointed to the price of honor restored to the house of A.M. Mahar.