The Dinosaur Feather (17 page)

She allowed the conclusion to hang in the air before she continued. “If the cysticerci are discovered in time, the patient will be given medication and/or surgery, depending on the number of cysticerci, their location, and how advanced their development is. In the case of the deceased, the cysticerci weren’t discovered which, in itself, is incredible. To me, it’s a physiological mystery how the deceased managed to go to work on the day he died.”

A moment of silence followed, then Dr. Bjerregaard said, “Anything else I can do for you gentlemen today?”

Søren was taken aback. He wasn’t used to being shown the door before he had announced he had no further questions. Dr. Bjerregaard glanced at her watch and pursed her lips again.

“Can you explain how Helland was infected?” Søren said, refusing to be brushed off.

“No,” Dr. Bjerregaard replied. “I certainly can’t.”

She sounded almost hurt, and Søren realized what a stupid question it had been. It was the equivalent of asking the mechanic what caused a car crash.

“But, like I said,” she carried on, giving Søren a final look, “either he ingested feces, or something which had been in contact with infected feces—and all things considered, that’s highly unlikely. Or he worked with live tapeworms and was accidentally infected, which doesn’t really add up, either. There are parasites that infect their host through the skin, the blood-sucking Japanese mountain leech, for example, which causes bilharziasis, but
Taenia solium
has to be ingested via the digestive tract to complete its life cycle, so even if we assume the deceased had a work-related accident, I still can’t see how he could have been infected. You would expect a biologist who happens to drop a test tube to take precautions immediately, and you would most certainly not expect him to go to lunch without washing his hands after an accident involving
Taenia solium
. My guess is Professor Helland must have spent time in a high-risk area within the last six months, and that was where he was infected. It’s still hard to imagine how, but as I said, it does happen.”

Søren looked at Dr. Bjerregaard for a long time, before he said, “And if it’s none of the above?”

Bjerregaard stood up.

“The deceased lived in excruciating pain and died as a result of this infection. The idea that he was infected accidentally is unpleasant enough in itself. The suggestion that someone infected him deliberately, well, that’s not a thought I would like to pursue. Besides, to my ears it sounds highly implausible. It requires biological competence to extract a proglottid from infected feces, and it would be difficult for a layperson to clean that kind of organic material without destroying it. And even if you were successful, the rest of the plan seems rather far-fetched. It’s regrettable and horrifying that the deceased died under such dramatic circumstances, but I find it hard to see how a crime could have been committed. Very hard.” Bjerregaard’s face made it clear their meeting was over.

“How do you store your material?” Søren persisted. Dr. Bjerregaard flashed an irritated look at Søren before she relented.

“It’s impossible to gain access to material here at the Serum Institute, if that’s what you’re insinuating. That’s self-evident. We store far more dangerous material than tapeworms. HIV, hepatitis C, Ebola, avian flu. And it’s obviously impossible,” she shot Søren a sharp look, “to force entry and steal such material. And if anyone were to succeed, only an expert would know how to treat the material to keep it alive. If someone broke into our basement and nicked a test tube, the contents would die and, consequently, cease to be infectious before the thief was halfway down the street.”

“Are you the only facility that stores live organic material?” Søren wanted to know.

“We store the majority. But, as you may know, there’s the parasitologist, Hanne Moritzen, at the University of Copenhagen. And Professor Moritzen has a substantial supply, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to do her work. But she’s Denmark’s biggest expert, and I can promise you she treats her material with the utmost care. She’ll be awarded a Nobel Prize for her brilliant work in the Third World one day. She would never take safety lightly. Never.”

This declaration concluded the meeting, and Søren and Henrik left the Serum Institute in silence. When they were back in the car, Henrik was about to say something, but Søren stopped him.

“No,” he said. “Just no.”

They drove through the city without speaking. Søren leaned back in his seat and looked out of the window, where trees and houses rushed past. He felt he was on very thin ice.

Back at the station, Søren went to his office and drank three cups of tea. Professor Helland had died from 2,600 parasites in his nerve and muscular tissue, and he had sustained multiple fractures and other injuries. What the hell did it all mean? Before he had time to think it through, he called Mrs. Helland to ask if she was at home. Ten minutes later he was on his way to Herlev. If Professor Helland had been murdered, and this was now a possibility, Søren could no longer ignore the fact that there was a 98 percent probability the killer would be found among family or close friends. Birgit Helland had just gone straight to the top of his list of suspects.

Mrs. Helland offered him a seat in a large, airy room and called down her daughter from the first floor. Both women were red-eyed. Without revealing any details, Søren explained that Helland appeared to have suffered from a tropical infection, and the police were looking for a possible link between the infection and his death. Mrs. Helland’s reaction was a cross between denial and shock. A tropical infection? That’s impossible, she said, over and over. Her husband had never visited the tropics. He had a fear of flying. It had been a source of endless frustration, as the vast majority of bird symposia and conferences were held abroad, and every time he had had to send his young colleague, Erik Tybjerg. He only traveled to places he could reach by train or by car. Nanna sat beside her mother, crying. Mrs. Helland obviously wanted to know more about the tropical infection, but Søren said that at this stage in the investigation, he was unable to provide her with further details. Investigation? Mrs. Helland’s jaw dropped, and Søren explained that while a heart attack was regarded as “natural causes,” they had now learned something that meant yesterday’s conclusion no longer applied. Helland’s death was now being treated as “suspicious,” and this forced him to withhold certain information due to the ongoing investigation.

Mrs. Helland was outraged. “Are you suspecting me? Because if you are, just go on and say so.”

“I’ll do everything I can to find out how and why your husband died,” he said, avoiding her question. “Until then I’m asking you to trust me. Will you do that, please?”

She looked skeptical, but Nanna nodded. Eventually Birgit Helland agreed.

Nanna left to go to the lavatory, and Søren started asking about Professor Helland’s health.

“Lars was in great shape,” his widow protested.

“So, in your view, he was well?”

“Of course, I’ve just said so. Nearly nine years ago Lars had surgery for a brain tumor. It was discovered early, the tumor was removed, and there’s been nothing since. He went for regular checkups. He was in great shape,” she repeated.

“So no signs of illness?”

“No!”

Søren thanked her, got up and left, unable to decide whether Mrs. Helland simply knew nothing about parasites or fractures, or whether she was devious enough to hide it.

When Søren got back to the police station, he called the Natural History Museum and asked to be put through to Erik Tybjerg. The telephone rang for a long time before the switchboard operator informed him Dr. Tybjerg wasn’t in his office, but she would send him an e-mail asking him to call back. Søren sighed.

There was a knock on the door and Sten appeared. Sten was the crime squad’s computer analyst, and since yesterday he had been busy examining Helland’s computer. Søren had barely given the computer a second thought; he had been convinced he wouldn’t have to devote much time to this case. Overcome by sudden guilt, he asked Sten for his verdict.

“Professor Helland’s e-mail account was opened in February 2001,” Sten began. “Approximately 1,500 e-mails are stored on the server, and I’ve been through them all.” He looked drained.

“The vast majority are work-related, apart from those he sent to his wife, Birgit Helland, who works at the Humanities College of the University of Copenhagen, and to his daughter, Nanna. The only interesting thing I discovered was that for the last four years Lars Helland exchanged twenty-two e-mails with a professor of ornithology at the University of British Columbia—a guy named Clive Freeman. Mean anything to you?”

Søren shook his head.

“They disagree about something,” Sten went on, “and they refer repeatedly to each other’s papers in various scientific journals, such as
Scientific Today
, which I’ve heard of, but also a range of other journals that I haven’t. To begin with, their correspondence is relatively balanced, but it changes in early summer. The tone of their e-mails shows they’re trying to maintain the illusion that they’re fine, honorable scientists engaged in a duel, but it becomes obvious on numerous occasions that Freeman is increasingly cornered and Helland is enjoying it big time. Twice, Freeman actually threatens Helland.” Sten handed Søren a printout with highlighted sentences.

“At the end of June, there is unexplained silence. Nothing in their correspondence up until then indicates why, and even though I did some searching on the Internet, I haven’t been able to find a plausible cause for their sudden ceasefire. However, shortly afterward, on the ninth of July, to be exact, Helland starts receiving anonymous e-mails.” Sten pulled out a new file and extracted a small pile of printouts. “And now the tone is brutal and blunt. Someone is threatening Helland.”

“Did Clive Freeman send them?” Søren asked.

Sten shook his head. “I’m fairly sure he didn’t. The tone is completely different. The person making the threats has only one aim: to scare Helland. The threats consist of one sentence only.”

Søren waited.

“‘You will suffer for what you have done.’”

Søren frowned. “Did Helland reply to them?”

Sten nodded. “And he seems to find the threats highly amusing. Perhaps he thinks they’re coming from Professor Freeman and are merely empty threats, or maybe . . . well, he just doesn’t take them seriously.”

“Sender unknown, you said?”

Sten nodded again. “A Hotmail address. Whoever created it registered themselves as ‘Justicia Sweet.’ Neat, eh? The person who threatened Helland could be anyone.”

Søren buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“There is. I don’t know how important this is, but Helland seems to have unfinished business with another colleague.” Sten narrowed his eyes. “In the ten days leading up to his death, there was a fierce exchange of opinions between the deceased and Johannes Trøjborg.” He paused to let the sentence take effect.

“However, in contrast to the exchange between Helland and Freeman, it was easy to figure out what the problem is. They appear to be cowriting a scientific paper and Johannes Trøjborg expresses dissatisfaction with Helland’s lack of effort. Johannes wants Helland to pull out, so Johannes becomes the sole author of the paper, and Helland is refusing.”

Søren nodded, and Sten carried on.

“There’s more. I only started noticing it in the e-mails Helland sent over the last five to six weeks. He became very careless. His e-mails are littered with typos, and those sent in the last three to four weeks are practically illegible. Have a look at this.” Sten handed Søren a printout which read:

I ca’nt elph yu bcase we d’nt argee. Soory, se yo tmorrrow at mu office a 10 a..m as arrrnged. L.

“You wouldn’t call that standard spelling, would you?” Søren remarked, and then he realized the obvious.

“Sten,” he exclaimed and looked utterly revolted. “Helland’s brain was teeming with parasites. No wonder he couldn’t type.”

When Sten had left, Søren called Professor Moritzen again to insist on a meeting. She was still in her cottage, she protested. Søren checked his watch, asked her for the address, and told her he would be there as quickly as the highway traffic would allow him. Reluctantly, she agreed.

Then he called Johannes Trøjborg. Søren’s intuition told him that the account given by the transparent Johannes was genuine. Still, he wanted Johannes to explain why he hadn’t mentioned his disagreement with Helland. The telephone rang repeatedly, but no one answered.

Søren found Professor Moritzen’s cottage, with great difficulty, in a resort at Hald Beach. It was a small, well-maintained cottage on a huge plot, like a building block on a football field. The cottage consisted of a single airy and sparsely furnished room, with a few Japanese-inspired objects placed directly on the floor. Hanne Moritzen served an almost white but surprisingly strong tea in Japanese cups and offered Søren something he thought was chocolate, but it turned out to be a foul-tasting Japanese concoction. She laughed when she saw the look on his face.

She’s not a happy woman, Søren thought instinctively, and felt sad. Anna Bella Nor wasn’t exactly a picture of happiness, either, but she had her rage, and rage, at least, sparked life. Hanne Moritzen had given up, and her defeat had left permanent traces in her dull silver eyes. However, she was articulate, precise, and far more accommodating than Søren had expected after their telephone conversation. She was wearing soft clothes, and her hair was loosely gathered in a ponytail.

Søren tried to explain the situation as best he could. He passed on Dr. Bjerregaard’s best wishes, though she hadn’t asked him to. Hanne Moritzen went pale when Søren summarized the autopsy and mentioned the 2,600 cysticerci, and he noticed how her eyes flickered and her hands trembled slightly before she regained her composure. Søren asked to use the bathroom and when he came back, she had calmed down and gave, without prompting, her opinion on the matter. She was adamant Professor Helland couldn’t have been infected at work accidentally.