Death on Pilot Hill

He thought aloud and almost started shouting as a result of his excitement over the true nature of the case:

“You know Constable Wangelin. . everything. . and I mean everything. . that took place on that Friday was essential. . critical. . to the kidnaping of Karl Haugen. It was all so intricate. . like a Swiss watch filled with dozens of tiny springs and screws and sprockets that all have to work together in perfect harmony and timing.

“Karl Haugen would never have vanished so easily if any one single event had gone wrong. It’s hard to believe. . but we’re dealing with a master criminal in a boring suburb of Oslo. . a criminal genius who put as much work and thought into the kidnaping of Karl Haugen as a Swiss watchmaker does into the best time mechanism.”

“Ja. . that’s the word for the abduction. . intricate.”

“Now think about this. . a Swiss watch is intricate. . but it’s intricate for only one single solitary purpose. . to accurately tell time. . the same goes for this kidnaping. . it was. . it is so intricate. . executed with the greatest care and precision. . and planned months or maybe even years in advance. . and yet despite its intricacy the entire kidnaping was only for one purpose. . ”

“To take Karl Haugen.”

Sohlberg paused for a long time before he spoke. “Yes that’s the obvious purpose. . but could the kidnaping be for some other hidden purpose that we can’t see or fathom or understand?”

“Oh. . I see what you mean.”

“If we find out what is the sole purpose of all of the events on that June fourth then we will find out who is the kidnaper and what was the kidnaper’s motivation.”

“Ja. . that is the key to solving the case Chief Inspector.”

“The purpose of the abduction. . the goal of the kidnaping. . reveals the who and the why since we already know the how.”

Four miles northeast of the town of Halden a clearing in the forest revealed the prison. It left Sohlberg speechless.

The taupe-colored prison walls rose out of the forest. A psychologist had picked the calming and warm gray- brown tint of the concrete walls. Interior decorators had picked elegant modern art to fill all of the walls and all of hallways of the prison. The outer prison walls were covered by large murals of inmates wearing prison stripes in humorous situations such as playing volleyball. Ten years and $ 1.5 billion kroner ($ 252 million) had gone into building Norway’s super-modern and second largest prison. In Sohlberg’s eyes the maximum security facility for 252 inmates looked more like a modern spa in Los Angeles or Palm Springs.

“I’m sorry Constable Wangelin. . but this is rather luxurious for people who don’t deserve luxury accommodations as punishment for rape or murder.”

“Well. . you know the Norwegian way,” she said alluding to the low 20 % re-offending rate of Norwegian prisoners in comparison to the 50 % to 60 % rate in Britain and the USA. “Don’t forget Chief Inspector. . we have less than five thousand men and women in Norway’s prisons. . that’s less than seventy convicts per one hundred thousand people versus the American rate that’s one thousand percent greater.”

“Ja. . but still. You can murder or rape and then you get to come out here for a maximum sentence of twenty-one years? Think about it. . you can kill fifty or sixty or more people and yet you only get twenty-one years in Norway.”

“Well that’s changed Chief Inspector. . since a few years ago. . when was it? Two thousand eight?. . Since then criminals can get charged with the new law of crimes against humanity.”

“What’s the penalty?”

“A maximum penalty of thirty years. And there’s an anti-terrorism law that allows for the indefinite prolongation of sentences. . in blocks of five years at a time. . each renewed by a judge if the convict is deemed dangerous to public security.”

“How many times has that law been applied?. . How about zero times? How about never?”

Wangelin nodded slowly in reluctant agreement.

Sohlberg waved at the 75-acre facility where inmates enjoy a music studio and a rock climbing wall and hobby rooms and recreational areas and jogging trails and a superb library and two-bedroom cabins where inmate families can stay during overnight visits. “I wish you could see some of those miserable French or Russian prisons. . or the truly horrible ones in Peru or Brazil.”

“Ja,” said Constable Wangelin, “I know about those hellholes. . but we have a low enough crime rate and more than enough oil money to pay for this.”

“I. . I don’t know. . is this fair? Is this justice?. . I mean this prison here is a country club for millionaires compared to San Quentin in California or other American horrors like SuperMax in Colorado.”

“I’ve heard they’re absolutely awful.”

“Of course they’re all topped off by the ultimate nightmare of Louisiana’s Angola State Penitentiary.”

“Bad?”

“I went to pick up a prisoner for extradition. . hope to never be back there again. . ever.”

“But don’t you think Chief Inspector that we are a little more civilized than the Americans?”

Sohlberg shrugged and merely kept saying “What the heck is this place. . a luxury hotel?” several times after they checked in and wended their way through security checkpoints.

A deputy warden joined them and showed them how the prisoners’ cells were arranged in units of 10 to 12 rooms “just like college dorms”.

“I don’t think so,” said Sohlberg. “The cells in this prison are far better than most college dorms.”

“Why do you say that?” said the deputy warden.

“Because each cell has a private bathroom and a flat-screen TV and a mini-fridge and lovely views of the forest. The windows don't even have bars on them. . and each group of cells shares a living room and kitchen. That’s far better than any college dorm.”

“That is true Chief Inspector,” said the deputy warden with pride.

“What the heck is this place. . a luxury hotel?” said Sohlberg again while he pointed to the stainless-steel counter-tops and wraparound sofas and birch-colored coffee tables that seemed straight out of an Ikea catalogue.

The oblivious deputy warden continued his lecture about the strong and positive relationship between the prison staff and the inmates and how the guards do not carry weapons. The man pointed out how the prison was not depressing to the inmates thanks to more than $ 1,000,000 worth of original artwork that graced every location that inmate eyes might happen to fall upon.

Sohlberg was about to make a rude comment when they were ushered into the elegant office of the Prison Warden Henrik Birkeland.

“Harald Sohlberg!. . I’m glad you’re in this part of the world. How long has it been since we last met?. . I think you had just been promoted to Inspector when I last saw you.”

“I don’t remember. . but I’d say it’s been at least fifteen years since we’ve seen each other no?”

The two men briefly spoke of a few cases that they had worked on when they had started out in the police force as rookie constables in Oslo.

“Why Henrik did you ever join the kriminalomsorgens correctional services?”

“Rehabilitating criminals is much less stressful than catching them. The K.S.F. lets me spend lots of time with my wife and kids. I’m a grandfather now you know? What about you. . are you-”

Sohlberg evaded the personal question especially with Wangelin at his side. “I’m here just for a short visit. This is a temporary assignment. I’ll be back to Interpol soon.”

“I see,” said Warden Birkeland. “Is that why you’re visiting the Smiley Face Killer?. . Your temporary assignment? The one that’s so hush-hush?. . When they told me you were coming out here I asked and no one in Oslo wanted to tell me exactly what your visit is all about.”

“I’m sorry. . but we have to keep the investigation under wraps.”

“Alright. So be it. Are you ready to see him?”

“Ja.”

“With those boxes?” said Warden Birkeland. He pointed at two boxes that Constable Wangelin cradled in her arms.