“Ja ja,” said Warden Birkeland sadly. “I know very well how that works. Remember the case of the mayor and his teenage boyfriend?”
“Exactly. See what I mean?”
“All too well. Anyway. . I hope you didn’t put dynamite in the boxes for Ronning to blast a hole in the wall and escape.”
“No. They’re Freia chocolates. Our Smiley Face Killer is crazy for any Freia chocolate confection. The melkesjokolade milk chocolate bars are his favorite. . as are the Kvikk Lunsj Quick Lunch chocolate wafers.”
“How charming. . chocolates for a killer. . like visiting a relative. . like me visiting Grandpa Birkeland this weekend.”
“Ronning is now what. . seventy-eight?”
“Eighty. This visit should be interesting. . Just don’t get too near him. He attacked a guard two months ago and broke her wrist.”
Anton Ronning had a good tan. The portly 80-year-old seemed rather hale and quite serene on the patio where he was taking the sun on a lounge chair. The monster listened to music piped into his earphones by an MP3 player. He smiled and looked the epitome of an old retiree enjoying a comfortable government pension. The serial killer reminded Sohlberg more of a retired accountant or a genial grandfather.
“Hello Sohlberg. I’d get up but I hurt my back two months ago. . I had to show this disrespectful guard how to respect me. . so I gave her the proverbial slap on the wrist. . I’m sure some tattle-tale already told you the gossip about the guard’s broken wrist.”
“Ja.”
“What have you there?” said Ronning. He pointed and cast a leering glance at Constable Wangelin and the boxes in her arms
“Your favorite.”
“Ha! That’s not exactly what I meant. . who’s the pretty lady. . your daughter?”
“No.”
“My my my. . well she’s not your wife. . you’re not the kind of man to dump an old wife to marry a newer gal half your age. A mistress? You have a mistress?. . No. That’s certainly not your style. . my straight straight arrow. Don’t tell me. . she’s just a co-worker?”
“Ja.”
“Interpol?. . No. She looks like one of ours. Home-grown I’d say. Quite lovely.”
“She’s Norwegian. . from the Olso district. . if that’s what you mean.”
“That so?. . Are the Police and the Ministry of Justice finally figuring out that it’s best to catch criminals with honey and not with vinegar?”
“I wanted to ask you-”
Anton Ronning raised his hand. “One minute please. . let me hear the end. . oh. . oh. . this is so good. . Vivaldi. . The Four Seasons. . played by Fabio Biondi and Europa Galante. Oh my! How they play. . so much energy. . how exciting.
“I can almost see that redheaded priest Vivaldi playing the violin in Venice like the devil himself! I’m surprised the church didn’t burn him at the stake for such outrageous music. . it just
Sohlberg shrugged and said, “I wonder what the world would be like if we brought back burning at the stake for society’s heretics.”
“Hot my boy. The world would be hot for devils like me.” The old murderer laughed lustily at his own joke. “Anyway. . what goodies have you brought me in those boxes?”
“Your favorite chocolates.”
“How kind. How lovely. You know. . I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. . just like Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire.”
“I need your help.”
“Again. . so soon?”
“Ja.”
Anton Ronning laughed and took one of the milk chocolate bars and it disappeared into his cavernous mouth in one stealthy move. “Sohlberg I’d like to get transferred out of here. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful very grateful to be here. After my last beating I probably had days to live in Spain before you got me out.
“But I’m getting old Sohlberg. I’ve spent what?. . The last thirty years in prison? More than fifteen years in Spain and more than ten here.”
Sohlberg removed his glasses and carefully cleaned them with a small soft blue cloth that he used only for that purpose. “Crime and punishment. Acts and consequences. One follows the other. . no? As night follows day.”
“But another day follows the night. Doesn’t it?. . Sohlberg I’d like to spend my last days without looking at any walls. I want to move to Bastoy Prison.”
Sohlberg was not surprised. The minimum security prison on Bastoy Island was an idyllic resort-like facility less than 50 miles south of Oslo. Inmates could easily swim to the mainland but did not for fear they’d be sent to less hospitable lodgings. Bastoy Island held 115 inmates who lived in cozy wood cottages when they were not working in the organic farm or horseback riding or fishing or swimming or playing tennis.
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Sohlberg. “Halden is as good as it gets. I will not be personally recommending that you get transferred to Bastoy.”
“Fair enough. Will you at least let them know that’s
“I’ll let them know about your request. Now. . will you help me?”
“Ja. Of course. You got me out of that nightmare down in Spain. We have a good working relationship.”
“I and the constable here are going to tell you everything about a case we’re working on.”
“The Karl Haugen case?”
“Oh?” Sohlberg raised his eyebrows. “You heard anything about the case here in prison?”
“Ja but not what you think. Most of the inmates are outraged that someone would take or harm the boy. We were even more outraged at the incompetent police investigation.”
“I’m going to lay out some basic facts to you about the case.”
“Alright.”
“You can ask me all the questions you want. Constable here will answer what I can’t.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Who is the person most likely to have taken the boy.”
“What’s the other thing you want to know?”
“I”ll tell you after you hear us,” replied Sohlberg who was thrown off balance by the question and by the killer’s lifeless flat eyes which stared out at odd angles like one of those horrid Picasso portraits.
How did Anton Ronning know that he wanted another piece of information from him?
The killer had a knack for always being one step ahead of everyone around him especially law enforcement. Ronning had only been caught because of one little slip-up — a parking ticket linking Ronning to the scene of another crime. Sohlberg’s mentor Lars Eliassen had noticed and persistently investigated the parking ticket. Like a bloodhound Eliassen had single-mindedly followed the trail of clues that ultimately unmasked Anton Ronning as the Smiley Face Killer.
An hour went by. Then another. Ronning listened intently to Sohlberg and Wangelin. At the start of the third hour the killer said:
“Enough.”
Constable Wangelin started to speak but Sohlberg held up his hand.
Ronning lapsed into silence. Fifteen minutes passed. Sohlberg and Wangelin waited in the growing shadows thrown by the forest around them. The lonely sun moved to the far west. Finally the killer spoke from the darkening shade:
“I seriously doubt if the boy was taken by a stranger. . least of all for deviant entertainment purposes like mine. . No. . Everything you’ve told me tells me one thing. . that one of the parents took the boy. The father or the stepmother. But you I think already suspected that.”
