arms folded, watching me.
I stood there, trying to remember what my dad and uncles did at a crime scene. They’d always called me in for crowd control when a homicide came up on the board, to show me the ropes. Now I wished I had paid more attention. This is why they did it, so when I made it to the big leagues I’d know what to do. So I’d make the Boyle family proud. It felt like Dad was standing behind me, just shaking his head a little, wondering why he’d wasted all that time teaching me. I had to stop myself from turning to look for him.
Instead, I got down on my hands and knees close to the body, after checking to be sure there were no footprints or drag marks in the dirt around him. Just like Dad used to do. I looked at the flowers just in front of his feet. They weren’t crushed or disturbed. He hadn’t been standing and then been knocked down. This fella had come straight down, for sure.
I felt his jaw and neck for the first signs of rigor mortis. Nothing there, which is where rigor first sets in about four hours after death. His head was turned to the right, and the skin close to the ground was darker in color, where the blood had begun to settle. I pressed my finger firmly against the darkened cheek, and watched the skin whiten under the beard stubble and then return to the same crimson color. As the coroner would say, no evidence of fixed lividity. Around six hours after death, the blood settling in the body becomes clotted, and won’t blanch at a touch. That’s what fixed lividity means. I looked into the dark eyes below the bushy, thick eyebrows and saw they were flattened, as fluid drained out and the eyeball collapsed. That happened thirty minutes after death. I stood up triumphantly.
“He died no less than thirty minutes ago and no more than three hours ago, probably closer to an hour ago.”
“Boyle, it’s almost been thirty minutes since the sentries found him. That doesn’t tell us much.” Harding was unimpressed. I frowned and crouched down again, looking at Birkeland. I remembered seeing my father in this pose so many times. He would squat and stare for a long time, then suddenly get up and start barking orders. I was squatting and staring just fine, but I had not a clue what to do next. A clue. I really needed a clue. Dad, what was it you looked for? What did you see?
I looked Birkeland up and down. I tried not to assume anything, to take in everything that was in front of me, just as it was. He was fully dressed, in a dark blue suit with a matching vest. I picked up one hand and looked for anything he might be holding. The hand was empty. Clean fingernails too, no sign of a struggle there. I opened the other hand, which felt soft even with those calluses, and found the same thing. I could feel the coolness creeping into his skin. I patted down his pockets, looking for a note. There was nothing. No billfold, matches, handkerchief, or anything. I guess he’d dressed for a very short trip.
I signaled for Harding to help me roll him over. I took the shoulders and Harding pushed at the hips. Birkeland was a big guy, and it took both of us. No surprises there, just evidence that the body had come from a height and wasn’t dragged and dumped here. A visible indentation in the garden soil showed where his torso had hit. We rolled him back. His neck hung at an unnatural angle. I was pretty sure it was broken. Nothing jumped out at me, nothing to say there was anything here to be seen but Knut Birkeland, unable to defy gravity.
“So?” Harding said as he looked up to the window on the fourth floor. “Suicide?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“You don’t think so?”
“I really don’t know. I just wonder why a guy who was on a mission to stop Vidar Skak from becoming senior adviser would jump out a window.”
Harding was silent for a moment. I could tell what he was thinking but couldn’t say out loud. Could this be the work of our neighborhood Nazi spy?
“There’s a doctor from the Norwegian Brigade heading over here. He’ll act as medical examiner and conduct an autopsy as soon as he gets here. You done with the body?”
I was. Harding ordered a couple of guards to take the body away, and we headed upstairs. Kaz was standing at the door to Birkeland’s room, arguing with Jens Iversen.
“No, Captain, you must not enter… Billy!”
The sight of the little guy standing up to the obviously frustrated head of security almost made me forget my hangover.
“Billy, I’ve let no one in!”
“Good job, Kaz.”
“Now that you are here, Lieutenant,” Jens said, stressing my lesser rank, “perhaps we can enter?”
“Listen, Captain, I don’t mean to get in your way, but I’ve got a job to do. It’s nothing personal, I just used to be a cop, so I drew this assignment. OK?”
“All right. Are you ready to go in?” He seemed agreeable, but I wondered why he was in such a hurry to get into Birkeland’s room.
“Not yet. First, tell me, is the room locked?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have the key?”
“I have a key, Lieutenant, a spare from the housekeeper. What exactly do you mean by that question?”
“Nothing, I didn’t mean to imply anything. Just want to know what to look for. Let’s open the door, but I go inside first.”
“As you request,” Jens said with heavy sarcasm, stressing the last word. He unlocked the door and stepped aside. I went in. I took two steps and stopped and carefully looked around. The room was large and spacious. Besides the bed, which was unmade and looked slept in, there was a desk and chair by the open window. The lace curtains blew in as a light breeze swept through the room. There were no signs of a struggle. I looked into the bathroom, which was done in marble and much more elegant than mine. Not that it mattered, but I did think about how nice it would be to soak in a tub in such a fancy bathroom. I felt the towels hanging on the rack. They were damp. The bathroom had that steamed, damp smell that you get after a bath. Evidently Birkeland had wanted to meet his maker squeaky clean. I walked back into the bedroom and signaled the others to come in.
Then I saw it. On the desk, on top of a piece of writing paper, sat a single gold coin. A Hungarian gold piece, just like those in the Norwegian gold shipment. Even in the dimly lit room, it gleamed, shining brightly like the devil’s left eye. I almost ran the few steps to the desk, with Harding, Jens, and Kaz following me. I nearly fell over when I read the note beneath the coin. I know this is a great disappointment. I have always tried to serve Norway and my king as best I could. This final step is unfortunately necessary given the current situation.
The gold coin was carefully placed just below these lines. The paper was small, of a high quality, and there was a stack more of it at the side of the desk. A closed fountain pen was carefully positioned at the top of the blotter. I turned to Jens.
“Is this Birkeland’s handwriting?” He stepped closer and reached for the note.
“Don’t touch it,” I said, “please.”
Jens halted his movement, nodded his head, stood, and studied the note for a few seconds.
“Yes, absolutely. I see his handwriting nearly every day. This is it.”
I walked around the room and looked on top of the bureau, the nightstand, felt in the pockets of the coat hanging on the coatrack near the door. I thought about Knut Birkeland sitting at that desk, writing that note. I thought about him down below, dressed for a date with the daisies. Something was wrong. I scanned the room again.
“What are you looking for, Billy?” asked Kaz.
“Tell me what’s missing from this room.”
Kaz looked around, shrugged. “Nothing obvious.”
I walked over to the bureau, where some coins sat in a ceramic ashtray, a penknife on top of the pile. His billfold was next to the ashtray.
“What else belongs right here?” I asked. “If this were your room, what would be lying next to coins and a pocketknife?”
I saw the lightbulb go on.
“The key! The key to this room, of course.”
“Yes, good! It wasn’t in any of his pockets, and the door was locked when we got here, so it has to be in this room.” We began a thorough search. We looked in the obvious places again, then everywhere else. Lifted the mattress, moved the desk. Nothing.
