Wednesday, December 23, 2020
The retired paramedic, Martin, had no less than three surnames and just as many litters of children all in the one place. Or at least there were six or more functioning children’s bikes in front of the open kitchen door of the terraced house in Albertslund. There was a mighty racket coming from inside, so when Carl rang the front doorbell, there was no reaction. The bell was simply drowned out.
Instead, he just went in and stood there like an unexpected and unknown guest in the living room with the present held out toward eight people, large and small, who suddenly stopped in their tracks, holding Christmas decorations in their hands, staring at him in confusion.
“Sorry for intruding,” he said. “I’m supposed to deliver this from Torben Clausen for a Martin. Is that one of you?”
The only real possibility, a man in his early sixties, came down from a chair and left the Christmas tree star hanging to one side.
“That’s me,” he said, then stared at Carl’s mouth in apparent shock that he was not wearing a face mask. “You can put it there on the table. I don’t think we should get too close to each other.”
Carl put a hand up to his mouth. “Sorry, it’s so easy to forget,” he said, fishing out one of the blue face masks he had been carrying around in his pocket for months. “Do you have five minutes, Martin?” He pulled out his invalid ID badge so everyone could see it, and the effect was brilliant. The older children fought to get closer so they could get a better look, while the adults had their eyes fixed on their host as if he was already under arrest.
“I know it looks like there are too many of us gathered together, but we do actually all live under the same roof. That means it’s okay, right?”
Carl smiled underneath his mask and hoped the man could sense it.
“Relax, I’m not here about the restrictions on gatherings. I’m here about Lisbeth Park. Torben Clausen has just been telling me that you were the first person on the scene after the lightning strike. Look, do you have a few minutes? I have some questions in connection with that event.”
“I’ve experienced a lot in my years as an ambulance driver and paramedic, but that day back in 1982 stands out. Try to imagine it. Six bodies still steaming and smelling like roast pork. Six people that just moments before had been as alive as you and I. And just one survivor.”
“Lisbeth Park?”
He nodded and gave a detailed account of what had happened.
“So you’re saying that she was happy the others were dead?” Not exactly anything that would surprise him in her case, but he was curious.
“Yeah, that’s what she said. Her exact words were ‘If I can survive this, then with God’s help I can survive anything.’ ”
Carl nodded. She had certainly tested that hypothesis ever since. But Carl would put a stop to that. He hoped.
“Torben Clausen told me that you’ve started writing your memoirs and that the accident—and the fate of Lisbeth Park in particular—has been on your mind. What have you found out about her? Can you tell me?”
The rugged man gave a cheeky smile. “So long as you don’t steal my story and publish it.”
“I promise. What happened to the girl after what you’ve just told me?”
“I drove her straight to Riget Hospital, which was just minutes away. She was admitted to the trauma center and then to the neurological ward. She was there for a few days and then transferred to the county hospital in Glostrup for further treatment. She was finally admitted to their psychiatric center. The psychiatrists wouldn’t tell me much, but I did manage to winkle out of them that she allowed herself to be admitted for a period of almost two years after suffering some intense and irrational episodes. Apparently her brain was heavily affected by the lightning strike.”
“Almost like electroshock, right?”
“No, far from it. Lightning can produce both gamma rays and X-rays and have a charge of several hundred million volts and a current of approximately ten thousand amperes. Electroshock doesn’t come close to that.”
“So what do you get with electroshock?”
“Something entirely different. Normally a direct current of four hundred and sixty volts and zero point eight amperes.”
“Okay. But then why didn’t the lightning kill her?”
Martin shrugged. “She must have been standing exactly at the right distance from the strike. And in contrast to ECT—that’s electroconvulsive therapy—which lasts between fifteen seconds and one minute, the discharge of lightning lasts only a quarter of a second as far as I’m aware. If the discharge had lasted as long as ECT, she would probably have been burned to a cinder.”
“Have you spoken with Lisbeth Park recently? I suppose you know that she calls herself Sisle Park these days and is a successful businesswoman?”
“Yes, I know quite a lot about her. But I haven’t spoken with her. I’ve tried to get an interview with her a few times, but I’ve always been given a point-blank refusal by whomever I spoke with at her company. It’s a shame because it’s a very interesting story. Especially given the path she’s taken in life.”
If only you knew, Martin, thought Carl.
When Carl called the psychiatric center in Glostrup to make an appointment, he was told that the place had changed a lot since 1982. Back then when Lisbeth Park was admitted, it was called Copenhagen County Hospital Nordvang, but since then, not only had the name changed but also the psychiatric principles and management structure.
“If you have questions about patients who have been committed here, there are standard procedures that you’ll need to follow before being given access to a patient’s records,” said the secretary. He realized it would make no difference how much he stressed the importance of his inquiry or said that he was investigating a case that could have dire consequences if he did not receive a little help as quickly as possible.
“It’s the Christmas holidays and we’re short-staffed because a lot of people have been sent home due to COVID-19, but you might be able to get a reply sometime in January.”
Carl wanted to explode but he could not muster the energy. It would make no difference anyway.
“Can you tell me the names of the doctors working there in 1982? Please,” he begged.
“You’ll have to search the internet,” came the reply.
Thanks for nothing, thought Carl.
He stopped at a gas station, bought a pair of reading glasses, strength plus two, a hot dog baguette, and ten nonalcoholic Carlsberg Nordic beers and began surfing on Laura’s tiny phone.
I should have bought strength two point five, he thought, squinting. It was not easy to track down retired psychiatrists. He did find references to many doctoral theses written by psychiatrists, and also mention of a few who had worked at Nordvang in the eighties. But the ones who were not already dead had withheld numbers.
He thought better of waking Rose to get her to search. Gordon would be a safer bet, so he called the temporary number.
He waited until the phone went to voicemail. Then he tried again, still with no luck.
It was out of character for Gordon to leave his shift early and then just head home to sleep.
Carl sighed and squinted at the screen again. Not many of the doctors who had been at Nordvang in the relevant period had stayed very long. But that was just the way it was with doctors. They were promoted, switched fields, were offered better incentives, and changed jobs. It definitely did not resemble the police force.
Carl started searching for psychiatric nurses instead, and after half an hour he came across one called Karen Jochumsen who had worked over many years at Nordvang as a charge nurse and, thankfully, also in the period he was interested in. She had retired after a few extra years as an agency nurse, and from the phone it seemed like she did not mind the diversion from her usual humdrum existence.
“Lisbeth Park!” It sounded as if she drew a deep breath.
“If there’s one patient I remember clearly, it’s her. But you have to understand that just like the doctors, I’m bound by confidentiality and can only talk about her illness and treatment providing she gives her consent.”
Carl knew that Sisle’s consent to discuss her mental health was the last thing anyone would ever manage to obtain.
“Of course, I understand. But maybe you can refer me to one of her doctors? It is a police matter after all, so don’t you think I might be able to get a bit of help?”
“Oh, well, I must admit that you’ve got my curiosity now. If you do manage to get access to her records, please get back in touch.”
“It sounds like you’ve been wondering what happened to her.”
“Of course I know what happened to her. I’ve seen her on TV a few times over the years, and it’s impressive what she’s managed to achieve. But then she was very special.”
Carl thought that her emphasis on the word “very” was an invitation for him to challenge her on her opinion.
“So you had concerns about her, Karen?”
The pause was long enough to get his hopes up that she might fall into his trap.
“I’m not allowed to say anything about her stay at Nordvang. But if I’m honest, no one who worked on the ward really understood her. We knew that she’d been through a lot, but she had actually suffered more damage from the lightning strike than we first thought. But again, you’ll have to ask someone else about it.”
Carl gave up. She was too professional to be manipulated.
“Could you maybe give me the name of a doctor so I can try to get access to her medical records?”
“I could give you several names, but I’m only in contact with one of them. And he is the one who could help you most, come to think of it. His name is Thorleif Petersen, and he was the consultant psychiatrist on the ward. In the last few years, he’s had his own practice and taught forensic psychiatry at university on and off.”
The address she gave Carl turned out to be close to Maurits van Bierbek’s house in Gammel Holte, so he decided to pay the doctor a visit.
I should’ve been a doctor, he thought, comparing his own house in Rønneholtparken with the three-wing whitewashed farmhouse leading directly onto paddocks and frozen pastures.
“My husband is out with the Icelandic ponies. Third path to the right in between the paddocks. You’ll have to speak up because he’s become a bit hard of hearing with age,” explained his white-haired wife, who could easily fit a size 2, unlike Carl’s own mother, who didn’t have the luxury of a healthy diet.
Carl looked down at his shoes as he trudged through the mud. He had to admit that a couple of days’ rain was more beneficial to the soil than it was to his shoes, which soon filled with mud, reminding him how bloody cold it could be in Denmark.
“Hello there!” he shouted at a suitable distance when he saw a head appear over the backs of a group of ponies waiting for treats.
A man with eyebrows so bushy that it was impossible to focus on anything else stepped out from behind the ponies. He stood with his legs wide apart in insanely long rubber boots, looking at Carl as if he were one of his patients.
Carl introduced himself a couple of times with increasing volume, showed his badge, and received an accepting smile. This man definitely had plenty of good experience working with the police.
Carl told him who had given him the address, and he received another smile, which bore witness to the high esteem in which he held Karen Jochumsen.
But the smile soon evaporated when Carl mentioned Lisbeth Park.
“What about her?” he asked, sounding suddenly hostile. He knelt down and raised the hind leg of one of the ponies. “I’m afraid it’s laminitis, as far as I can see. Do you know what that is?”
Carl nodded. Everyone who had grown up in the countryside knew that. “I’m sorry to hear it. He looks healthy enough otherwise.”
The man stood up and stroked the horse’s muzzle. “He’s been a good boy, but I think the vet will have to put him down tomorrow. It’ll be a sad day.” He patted the pony on the chest and led him to a paddock on the other side of the path.
“What about the others? Do they also have laminitis?”
“I hope not. But if they do, I’m entirely to blame.”
“Feed or grazing?” asked Carl.
The doctor frowned, and a hint of respect showed in his eyes.
“I grew up in the countryside,” said Carl, guessing his question.
“Can I offer you a little drop inside? It’s a bit cold today.” He looked at Carl’s muddy shoes and smiled.
“I’m not at liberty to say anything about the patient or her treatment, unless there is a risk to life by my withholding information about her.”
Carl sniffed the whisky that Thorleif Petersen had poured. It was proving to be a rewarding talk. He explained in detail what Department Q had pieced together and what the current situation was for the kidnapped Maurits van Bierbek.
Thorleif Petersen’s professional mask disintegrated.
“Ohh, that sends a shiver down my spine,” he said. “I must admit that she was the most complicated case I’ve ever come across. It’s terrible that we didn’t manage to neutralize her before letting her go.”
“Neutralize?” Carl was reluctant to ask exactly what he meant by that. “Tell me about her. How did she turn out the way she did, in your opinion? And what are her weaknesses? We’ve only got three days to prevent another murder.”
“What’s that?” He held one hand behind his ear.
“We only have three days to prevent another murder.”
“Can’t we get a judge to issue a warrant for her arrest?”
“Everything we have on her is built on assumption and speculation. I’m convinced that we’re right, but it’s not enough for us to have her arrested.”
“You asked me who she is. I can tell you that she came to us from Glostrup County Hospital, and before that, she had been admitted to the neurological ward at Riget Hospital. The latter tried to ascertain the damage to her nervous system and brain following the lightning strike, but they didn’t get very far. The scans showed that certain areas where the tissue is most sensitive were affected, but the neurological and neuropsychological aftereffects of such an impact often don’t show for some time. So we don’t know if her cognitive and emotional state was a result of the accident, but she was without doubt a very special case. And when she was transferred to the burns unit at Glostrup County Hospital, they discovered a dead fetus inside her.”
Carl struggled to fit all the new pieces into their grand puzzle.
“I’m thinking that she may have already been insane,” suggested Carl, and the doctor nodded.
“Naturally, she took the removal of the dead fetus hard. She talked about how God’s punishment had struck her and the child because she had become involved with the devil who had impregnated her. She said that he had betrayed her with another woman in her class and that she had wanted him and several others in the group to die a violent death. She repeated over and over that the lightning had provided the answer. And she increasingly blamed the man who had betrayed her for the death of her child.”
“Do you think she wanted the baby?”
“She didn’t even know she was pregnant. But the damage was much more severe than the loss of the child because her uterus was so inflamed and injured that there was no saving it. She’d never be able to have children, and that was the state she came to us in. Incredibly angry and vengeful. Talking about evil and God and revenge incessantly. I was called in because my colleagues were worried that she might be a danger to her surroundings. She certainly was hard on some of her fellow patients, and one of them allegedly took their own life because of her. So in some way they were right.”
“But she hadn’t committed anything that might be understood as some form of criminal offense at that point, had she?”
The doctor sighed and poured them another whisky. He downed his own and licked his lips while seemingly searching for an answer.
“Sisle Park was not committed against her will, and no one had requested for her to be. She was there voluntarily. I took her voluntary stay with us of around a year and a half as a sign that she wanted to get better and function normally in private and public.”
“But then she discharged herself?”
He nodded. “How many people did you say she’s killed?”
“Premeditated?”
He nodded.
“At least twenty-two people and possibly more. And that doesn’t include the indirect victims of her actions.”
Thorleif Petersen buried his face in his hands. “It’s terrible. Just terrible. We should’ve stopped her. We should have seen it coming. But how could we?”
“Sisle Park is probably a different person from the Lisbeth Park you met. She’s clearly developed aspects of herself that only function via specific rituals. Otherwise this Maurits van Bierbek would probably be dead already. There’s the fact that the murders can only happen on the birthdays of despots. Then we’ve got the salt at the scene of every murder, which is an obvious allusion to God’s judgment on Sodom and Gomorrah. The entire pseudo-religious element and the methods all indicate something highly ritualized. Is it possible that she also suffers from OCD? I mean, everything she’s done points to compulsive ideas and actions.”
The doctor straightened up in his seat. He was as pale as a sheet. “We discussed the possibility several times during conferences, and also that she had schizophrenic characteristics, but she managed to convince us otherwise every time. We focused instead on what had happened to her with the accident and the dead fetus. And we became convinced that her main issue was major depression. But now that you mention it, I’m sure that she suffered from OCD—and still does. Based on what you’ve told me, I would now view her as both a schizophrenic and someone with a serious obsessive-compulsive disorder in addition to lots of other disorders. The woman is deeply troubled. But all this, combined with her compulsive ideas, which she justifies in a quest against bad morals and ethics, makes for a deadly cocktail.”
Carl nodded. “With what you know about her now, what would you think her biggest weakness is?”
The doctor stared blankly into the distance for a long time. Then he took another whisky while still looking at a loss.
“Do you think she takes medication for any of this?” asked Carl.
Thorleif Petersen seemed to wake up from his trance. He still looked distressed and melancholy, but at least he was present again. “With everything you’ve told me, I can say it’s almost certain that she doesn’t take any medication. There’s nothing to indicate that the extent and violent nature of her actions have waned in the least. She may have taken sedatives once in a while—after all, there are two years between each murder—but definitely not in the lead-up to a murder. And that’s where we are now if I understand you correctly.”
He leaned forward toward Carl. “You mentioned the small child who she inadvertently killed. That, combined with the flowers and the money she sent the mother, and not least that she had lost a child herself and will never be able to have one, that is her Achilles’ heel. Believe me, if you really want to get to her, that’s your best bet. Use it against her.”
Carl nodded. Then his phone rang. He did not recognize the number even though something told him that he should.
“Hello, Carl Mørck speaking,” he said.
“Gordon never made it home last night.” It was Rose, and she sounded like she was panicking. “He disappeared on his shift, Carl. And Assad told me that Sisle sped away from her home this morning. She’s taken him, Carl. I just know it.”