A THIN FOG HAD settled like a ghost over all of Copenhagen in just a few hours. There was no wind at all. The temperature was up to forty-three degrees, and the slightly damp air felt almost warm after the recent freezing cold.
Heloise stood, shifting her weight from foot to foot, by the back door to police headquarters on Otto Mønsteds Gade, the entrance Schäfer always used.
She peered into the fog at cars as they drove by and checked her cell phone every thirty seconds. It was 4:11 PM, and she had been trying to reach Schäfer since she had left the medical clinic, but he hadn’t picked up and no one seemed to know where he was.
When at long last his black Opel pulled up in front of the building, Heloise made eye contact with him through the dirty windshield and threw up her arms in frustration.
“I’ve called you a hundred times.” She held her hand up to hear ear like a phone handset and gestured grumpily through the window.
Schäfer lowered his window and tried to shoo her away. “I don’t have time now, Heloise.”
“But haven’t you gotten my messages?” she asked. “It’s at the clinic, that picture from the case file is hanging in the waiting room at the clini—”
He held up a hand to stop her. “I don’t have time right now. Go home and I’ll call you later.”
Heloise furrowed her brow. She realized there were two passengers in the back seat and cast a quick glance at them. Then she gaped at Schäfer.
Schäfer clenched his teeth and grasped the wheel so his knuckles turned white. Then he nodded.
“All right,” he grumbled. “Go around to the main entrance and ask them to escort you up to the second floor. Have a seat outside my office and wait until I come for you. You will not call anyone, and you will not write a single word. Got it? You will just sit, as quiet as a mouse and not say a peep!”
Heloise nodded hastily.
Schäfer shook his head and closed his window.
“Right this way.”
Schäfer held the door open for Lukas and tried to catch his eye.
The boy’s eyes swept anxiously from side to side, scanning the room they entered. This room was reserved for questioning minors who had suffered any sort of violence or abuse, and unlike the other interrogation rooms at police headquarters, it was furnished in cheerful, confidence-inspiring pastels. There was a salmon-colored sofa in the middle of the room and a bowl of candy on the coffee table. There was a plastic basket of toys, children’s books, and stuffed animals on the floor. Things that Lukas—judging from the look on his face—had outgrown.
“If you’d take a seat here, then one of my colleagues will be in to see you in a moment,” Schäfer said. “She’s nice and you can trust her, so it’s very important that you tell her your story as honestly and in as much detail as possible.” He nodded confidentially to the boy. “The more we learn about what happened, the better we can help you. Do you understand?”
For the first time, Lukas looked Schäfer in the eye.
“I don’t want to go home,” he said. His voice was reserved and sharp. It did not invite debate. “No matter what she says, I’m not going home.”
Schäfer was not prepared for the coldness in the boy’s eyes. The steely resistance in his gaze. It wasn’t a look you got from ten-year-olds, he thought. The eyes before him reminded him more of the ones he used to gaze into when he sat in the interrogation rooms one floor farther up in the building. Up where the furnishings were sparse and the colors drab.
“No matter what who says?” Schäfer asked.
“My mom. If you try to force me to live there again, you’ll regret it.”
Schäfer squinted one eye and zoomed in on the boy with the other as a deep silence settled over the room. The boy continued to stand there, back straight, chin up. His words hung in the air between them like an unambiguous threat.
Schäfer frowned and nodded.
“All right,” he said. “As I said before, tell my colleague what you have to say. Then we’ll see what happens next, okay?”
Schäfer didn’t wait for a response. He walked out the door, leaving the boy alone in the room.
Michala Friis stood waiting in the hallway when Schäfer came out, and he shook her hand.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Of course,” she said and nodded. “So, what have we got?”
“Well, everything points to the father abusing the boy. We’re talking persistent physical abuse and then attempted murder on Monday. The aunt thinks Jens is suffering from PTSD, that he went through things in war zones that have damaged his mental health and activated this violent behavior in him.”
Friis listened attentively as Schäfer spoke.
“We’re going to go pick the parents up now, and in the meantime I need you to talk to the boy and figure out the general situation here. He seems very angry. Cold! Get him to tell his side of the story.” Schäfer shrugged. “Just do what you do best.”
“Roger that,” she said and walked over to the interrogation room.
Schäfer took a few steps in the opposite direction. Then he turned back to Friis again.
“Admit it!” he said.
She glanced back at him and raised one eyebrow. “What?”
“That you belong here with us. It means something to you, working here. It’s a feeling you don’t get from working other places.”
Friis smiled. “Perhaps.”
Schäfer sucked in his cheeks and nodded contentedly. “Mm-hmm, what did I tell you?”
Friis chuckled. Then she wiped the smile from her lips and opened the door into the interrogation room.
Schäfer spotted Heloise as he made his way down the hall toward his office. She was sitting on a stainless-steel bench that was bolted to the floor, staring at the portable computer that sat on her lap, her fingers tapping away furiously at the keys.
“Kaldan,” Schäfer called out.
Heloise looked up with a start. She had a bandage on the one eyebrow.
“What happened?” she asked eagerly. “I saw Lukas. Where did you find him? What does he say? Who was that woman sitting next to him in the car?”
“Close that computer and come with me. In here,” Schäfer said, unlocking the door to his office. He pointed to a chair at the back of the room. “Have a seat!”
Heloise did as she was told.
Schäfer paced back and forth a little, studying her as if she were a bomb he needed to deactivate. “You can’t write anything yet.”
“What happened?” Heloise asked, curious.
“I need a couple of hours. Then you’ll probably get your story.”
“Was it the father? Did he do it?”
Schäfer didn’t respond, and Heloise sat up straighter in her chair.
“I was right! Jens Bjerre is behind the whole thing, isn’t he?”
Schäfer held up his hand. “Not a peep, Kaldan! I’m telling you—I need a couple of hours. You’ll get your story.”
Lisa Augustin poked her head into the office and looked at Schäfer. “Hey, I understand the boy’s here?” She smiled, relieved. “Phew! Man, I didn’t think we’d find him alive.”
With a nod, Schäfer made her aware that they weren’t alone.
Augustin looked over her shoulder and noticed Heloise. “Oh. Hey.”
“You make some pair, the two of you,” Schäfer said, shaking his head. “Look at you!”
The women looked at each other, taking in each other’s facial injuries.
Schäfer started walking toward the door and signaled to Augustin that she should follow him.
“Heloise,” he said and pointed in the direction of the exit with his thumb. “I’ll call you tonight so you can get the quotes you’re fishing for, but you need to skedaddle now. Lickety-split!”
Heloise wrinkled her forehead. “But you said I should wait for you up here?”
“Yes, but I don’t have time to take care of you right now. It’s just important that what you’ve seen here today does not end up online. Not yet anyway. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Heloise eyed him hesitantly. “Are you going to go pick up the parents now?”
Schäfer didn’t respond.
“Can I come?”
Schäfer looked at her in disbelief. “What the … No! You can’t come!”
“If you let me come along, then I’ll wait to break the story until you say so.”
Schäfer shot her a warning look. “You’re going to wait to break the story, period! And you’re not coming with me.”
Heloise stared into his eyes for a few seconds. Then she nodded. “Okay, but I’ll wait here until you come back.”
Schäfer pointed to the metal bench in the hallway.
“You sit right there.”
They drove off in two police groups maneuvering through the fog and the evening rush hour traffic, past the Black Diamond library building and down to Kongens Nytorv. Bro and Bertelsen continued down Bredgade heading toward the clinic on Amaliegade, while Schäfer and Augustin turned right at Charlottenborg.
The car tires sounded liked a drumroll as they drove over the cobblestones, and they braked with a squeal in front of the residential property on Heibergsgade. The tourists at Nyhavn turned at the sound, craning their necks and holding out their cell phones.
“Do you think he’s armed?” Augustin asked as she unbuckled.
“Maybe,” Schäfer said and hopped out of the car. “I haven’t been able to figure him out at all, so we’re taking precautions.”
They rang the buzzer for one of the building’s other residents and quickly made their way up the narrow staircase instead of using the elevator. When they reached the top floor, the door to the apartment was open and Augustin and Schäfer exchanged a quick glance.
They drew their service weapons and stepped into the front hall. A cold wind raced down the hallways toward the open front door.
Schäfer held up one hand and they both stood still, listening. There was no noise coming from inside the apartment.
They split up and searched the rooms one by one. Schäfer reached a half-open door at the end of the apartment’s long hallways and gave it a silent push with his foot.
The door opened slowly, creaking, and Schäfer peered into the room.
Jens sat at a desk at the far end of the room. The door to the balcony behind him was wide open. It was completely quiet. He sat staring blankly into thin air and didn’t react when Schäfer stepped into the room.
“Jens,” Schäfer said. He held his gun up in front of him, his arm out straight. “Stand up.”
Jens slowly turned his head toward Schäfer.
“Is … is there any news?” His voice sounded strangely slurred, like a whisper underwater.
“Stand up,” Schäfer repeated. “Come on! Stand up!” He glanced at the desk. It was covered with open jars and boxes of pills. There was a syringe and a rubber tube next to a glass full of a clear liquid.
Jens stood up with difficulty. His eyes focused for a moment on something infinitely far away, as if he were looking right through Schäfer.
Then suddenly he zoomed in on the gun in Schäfer’s hand and nodded slowly.
“Ah, I see,” he said and put his hands down flat on the desk. “You’ve found him …”
“Step away from the desk,” Schäfer said. “Turn around and put your hands behind your head!”
Jens turned around.
“I never meant to hurt him,” he said slowly.
Jens gathered his hands behind his head and took a couple of slow steps toward the balcony. His silhouette was highlighted in the open doorway by the streetlight.
“Freeze,” Schäfer said. He aimed the gun at Jens. “Stop!”
Jens took another step.
“Stop!” Schäfer launched into motion, lunging through the room to reach him.
Jens still had his hands clasped behind his head as he leaned over the railing and then vanished.
“What the hell!” Schäfer yelled as he reached the balcony. He grabbed the railing and looked down at the ground below.
Jens had landed on a bike rack five stories down. His lower body was draped over the frame of a white women’s bicycle, a pool of blood slowly spreading around his head like a halo.
“Fuck!” Schäfer yelled and kicked the balcony door.
Augustin appeared in the doorway to the room. She ran across to the balcony and peered down toward the ground. Then she nodded slowly and looked around the office.
“What about the mother? Where is she?”
“I don’t know, but we need to find her now!” Schäfer turned toward the pills on the office desk and picked up a box at random.
“What is it?” Augustin asked.
“Morphine.” He browsed through the medications, reading their labels. “Sleeping pills, narcotics, all sorts of different shit.”
“Well, he chose the easy way out, then.”
Schäfer looked down at the ground again and shook his head.
“That down there does not look like an easy way out.”