The letter was posted on bulletin boards in sixty lumberyards, where no one read it except staff members who had great fun with the old codger’s latest whim. Thus the rumor found its way into yet another of its dead ends, but in one of the stores there was a customer who had come in to get a key made. As host of the most popular radio show in Chattanooga, she was always on the lookout for stories with surprising angles and unexpected twists. She asked two clerks what they were smiling at.
On its way west, the campaign gathered momentum and in one of its many iterations the e-mail was transformed into a drawing. A drawing with a punch far stronger than Per Clausen’s and Erik M?rk’s studiously crafted words.
Two reasonably serious news agencies in Madison and Indianapolis had separately put out the story about the hanging of five Danish pedophiles and indicated that the national police were keeping the truth from the public. Both gave the Internet as a source, which was another way of saying that no one could vouch for the truthfulness of the information, but very few people took any notice of this. A middle-aged man in Tucson, Arizona, heard the news from his neighbor, who clearly enjoyed sharing it. Summary executions and subsequent mutilations were in her opinion the right kind of treatment for those kind of animals, which the state government could certainly learn from. The brief conversation across the fence energized and inspired him. He made his living as an artist who specialized in weeping children, and it was a good living. A great number of his unhappy faces hung in houses around the Midwest and his pictures were in demand. Maybe he wasn’t a great artist. His repertoire was a bit too narrow for that and his talent insignificant. But few could—as he was able to—capture the helpless despair in the eyes of little boys who had been forgotten by God, but not the priest. Sharp cold twinges and short uncontrollable twitches appeared in his face, neck, and abdomen, which was normal when he worked. He said a fervent prayer before he went to his studio and began to work. Eight years at the Catholic Mercy School in Cleveland had left him with a fear of God in his soul and a fear of the world in his body.
CHAPTER 25
Toward Wednesday the investigation started to pick up steam. The morning had been slow and more or less without results, whereas the afternoon was fruitful. Konrad Simonsen stood for the official assessment of the day’s work, which took place in his office at police headquarters in Copenhagen. He had nothing to relate himself, so he turned the meeting over to Poul Troulsen.
Malte Borup’s cross-referencing program had proven its worth. The application was coded to reveal coincidences, as data was introduced. It was then up to a human brain to determine which of these were of interest and should be followed up. The majority of the output was indifferent: two instructors who had been in Oslo that fall, a neighbor with the same name as the school vice principal, but a bill from Bagsv?rd lumber was connected with a teacher’s witness statement about the janitor’s use of the woodshop equipment in the evenings.
Troulsen’s visit to the lumberyard had yielded results. He said, “At the beginning of March, Per Clausen purchased the lumber necessary to construct the trapdoors in the podium in the gymnasium. It was a private transaction, in which the Langeb?k’s School account was charged. Possibly in order to get a discount, which in itself is neither out of the ordinary nor expressly forbidden, but the purchase speaks for itself.”
He held out a green receipt so that everyone could see, then read aloud, “‘Carriage bolt, leaf hinges, latches, swing hooks, toothed washers, and not least three rolls of plastic.’ Clearly, this gives us at least a minimum time frame of the planning of the killings. In addition, in crucial ways this supports the technician’s hypothesis of a scene in which—”
“Excellent work, Poul, but let’s wait with the rest of your reflections,” Simonsen cut in. “Unfortunately I have no time; the financial people are waiting for me.”
“I thought you had free hands with regard to the financial considerations of this investigation.”
“Free hands does not mean that expenses can run amok.”
“And are they?”
Simonsen allowed himself a wry smile. “I don’t know, but I’m certain that the three accountants who have asked to meet with me know a great deal on the matter. Arne, your turn.”
Arne Pedersen had been in Malm?. His task had been to uncover Helene Clausen’s life from 1987 to 1993. The trip itself turned out to be unnecessary since the Swedish police commissioner—who was contacted by telephone at Simonsen’s request—could easily have managed the matter on his own. The Swedish police were extremely effective and gave high priority to the matter but no one had thought to involve Pedersen on the simple grounds that he was not needed, so he’d spent three interesting hours at Malm?hus Castle, where the city museum was located. Back at the police station in Kirseberg he received two reports, one in Swedish and one in English. Five closely written pages constituted a shining example of effective Nordic collaboration if one ignored the fact that the Swedes had done the whole thing.