She nodded at the shield on the wall; it was blue, tasteless, and eye-catching.
“I’m an academic, Stubo. And I’m the mother of a young child. This case repulses me. It frightens me. Unlike you, I’m allowed to think like that. I want to go.”
He poured some water from a bottle without a top and put a paper cup down in front of her.
“You were thirsty,” he reminded her. “Drink. Do you really mean that?”
“Mean what?”
She spilled some water and noticed that she was shaking. The cold water trickled from the corner of her mouth down over her chin and into the hollow of her neck. She tugged at the neck of her sweater.
“That it doesn’t concern you.”
The telephone rang. The sound was shrill and insistent. Adam Stubo grabbed the receiver. His Adam’s apple made three obvious jumps, as if the man was about to throw up. He said nothing. A minute passed. A quiet yes, not much more than an incomprehensible grunt, came from his lips. Another minute passed. Then he put the phone down. He slowly angled for the cigar holder in his breast pocket. His fingers tickled the brushed metal. Still he said nothing. Suddenly he pushed the cigar back into place and tightened his tie.
“The boy has been found,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Kim Sande Oksoy. His mother found him in their own cellar, wrapped up in a plastic bag. The murderer had left a note.
Johanne pulled off her glasses. She didn’t want to see. She didn’t want to hear, either. Instead she stood up blindly and put out her hand in the direction of the door.
“That’s what the note said,” said Adam Stubo. “‘You’ve got what you deserved.’ Do you still think this is none of your business?”
“Let me go. Let me out of here.”
She shuffled toward the door and fumbled for the handle, with her glasses still in her left hand.
“Of course,” she heard in the distance. “I’ll get Oscar to drive you home. Thank you for coming.”
ELEVEN
Emilie couldn’t understand why Kim had been allowed to go. It was unfair. She had come first, so she should be the first one to go. And Kim had gotten a Coke, whereas she had to drink tepid milk and water that tasted of metal. Everything tasted of metal. The food. Her mouth. She chewed and sucked her own tongue. It tasted like money, coins that had been in someone’s pocket for a long time. A long, long time. Long before she had come here. Too long. Daddy wasn’t looking for her anymore. Daddy must have given up. And Mommy wasn’t in Heaven, she was ashes and dust in an urn and didn’t exist anymore. It was so bright. Emilie rubbed her eyes and tried to shut out the sharp glare from the strip light. She could sleep. She slept nearly all the time. It was best that way. Then she could dream. And in any case, she had nearly stopped eating. Her stomach had shrunk and there wasn’t even room for tomato soup anymore. The man got angry when he collected the still-full bowls. Not really angry, just irritated.
Kim had been allowed to go home.
That was unfair and Emilie couldn’t understand why.
TWELVE
Adam Stubo had to pull himself together to keep from touching the naked body. His hand was reaching out toward the boy’s calf. He wanted to stroke the smooth skin. He wanted to make sure that there was no life left in the boy. The way the boy was lying-on his back with closed eyes, his head to one side, his arms alongside his body, one hand slightly closed and the other open with the palm facing up, as if he was waiting for something, a gift, some candy-the child could so easily have been alive. The incision from the autopsy, which went across his breastbone and down to just above his small penis in the shape of a T, had been carefully closed. The paleness of his face was due to the time of year; winter was just over and summer had not yet begun. The boy’s mouth was half open. Stubo realized that he wanted to kiss the child. He wanted to breathe life into the boy. He wanted to ask for forgiveness.
“Shit,” he said, choking, into his hand. “Shit, shit.”
The pathologist looked at him over the rims of his glasses.
“You never get used to it, do you.”
Adam Stubo didn’t answer. His knuckles were white and he sniffed gently.
“I’m done,” said the pathologist, pulling off his latex gloves. “A lovely little child. Five years old. You may well say shit. But it won’t help much.”
Stubo wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He carefully lowered his right hand to the boy’s face. It was as if the child was smiling. Stubo let his index finger touch the face lightly, running it from the corner of the eye to the chin. The skin was already waxy to the touch; it felt like an ice-cold shock to his fingertip.
“What happened?”
“You people didn’t find him in time,” said the pathologist, drily. “Strictly speaking, that’s what happened.”
He covered the body with a white sheet. It seemed even smaller when covered. The body was so small, it seemed to shrink under the stiff paper. The steel table was too big. It was designed for an adult, someone who was responsible for him or herself, who died of a heart attack, perhaps-fatty food and too many cigarettes, modern life and unhealthy pleasures. It wasn’t meant for children.
“Can we just drop the gags?” said Stubo quietly. “We’re both affected by this. By…”
He kept quiet while the pathologist washed his hands thoroughly. It was a ceremony for him, as if he was trying to rid himself of death with soap and water.
“You’re right,” mumbled the doctor. “Sorry. Let’s get out of here.”
His office was beside the autopsy room.
“Tell me,” said Adam Stubo, dropping down into a tired loveseat. “I want all the details.”
The pathologist, a thin man of around sixty-five, remained standing by his chair with an absentminded, slightly surprised look on his face. For a moment, it was as if he couldn’t remember what he was doing. Then he ran his hand over his scalp and sat down.
“There aren’t any.”
The office had no windows. But the air was fresh, nearly cold, and surprisingly free of smells. The quiet buzz of the ventilation system was drowned out by a distant ambulance siren. Stubo felt closed in. There was nothing to give him his bearings. No daylight, no shadows or shifting clouds to tell him where he was.
“The subject was a five-year-old identified boy,” the pathologist reeled off, as if reading from an invisible report. “Healthy. Normal height, normal weight. No illnesses were reported by his family, no illnesses identified during the autopsy. Inner organs healthy and intact. There is no damage to the skeleton or connective tissue. Nor are there any marks or signs of violence or inflicted injuries. The skin is unbroken, with the exception of a graze on the right knee that is obviously from an earlier date. At least a week old and therefore inflicted before he disappeared.’’
Stubo rubbed his face. The room was spinning. He needed something to drink.
“Teeth are intact and healthy. A full set of milk teeth, with the exception of the front tooth in the upper gum, which must have fallen out a matter of hours before death…”
He hesitated and then rephrased it.
“Before little Kim died,” he finished quietly. “In other words…
“No known reason for death,” said Adam Stubo.
“Exactly. Though he did…”
The pathologist was red-eyed. His thin face reminded Stubo of an old goat, especially as the man had a
