The Dinosaur Feather

Johannes Trøjborg’s mother, Janna Kampe, that Henrik reacted and wanted to know why. Had Søren come across something? After all, they had already spoken to Mrs Kampe.
    ‘I want to know whether Johannes was gay or—’ Søren began.
    ‘Of course he was.’ Henrik interrupted. ‘If Johannes was straight, I’ll watch the Eurovision Song Contest with you next time.’
    Søren glared at Henrik. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘They like that kind of thing. They fuck each other up the arse and watch cheesy shows.’ A few people tittered.
    ‘Just as you’re some fascist pig who sits in his patrol car all day, stuffing his face with doughnuts?’
    Søren expected his comeback to trigger howls of laughter, but it didn’t. Suddenly he became aware of how angry he had sounded.
    Anna turned up at ten o’clock, exactly as they had agreed. He could clearly forget all about a truce. She stared daggers at him during the whole interview, but never looked at Henrik once, not even when he addressed her directly, or when she replied to his barrage of questions. She was clearly making a point.
    ‘Jesus, she’s hard work,’ Henrik said, as he looked down the corridor where Anna was disappearing. Søren followed his eyes.
    ‘What’s your problem?’ Søren snapped, went into his office and slammed the door shut behind him. Henrik opened the door, wanting to know why the hell Søren was so uptight. At that moment the telephone rang, and Søren gestured for Henrik to come in.
    It was Bøje.
    ‘Yes?’ Søren snarled.
    ‘Someone been raining on your parade?’ Bøje asked.
    ‘Just get to the point,’ Søren said.
    ‘There wasn’t a single parasite in Johannes Trøjborg’s tissue.’
    Søren didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Now he was looking for two killers.
    ‘What else?’ he demanded, impatiently.
    ‘I’ve found several semen traces on Johannes’s body,’ Bøjecontinued and Søren heard him flick through his report. ‘Crime scene officers have isolated samples on the floor and at the bottom of two table legs in a radius of fifty centimetres from the spot in the living room where he was killed. I don’t need to tell you that the semen didn’t come from Johannes, do I?’
    Søren held his breath.
    ‘What’s your conclusion?’ He could hear the rustling of paper, then Bøje took a breath.
    ‘Johannes Trøjborg died as a result of six injuries to the back of his head, of which four would have been severe enough to kill him on their own. Judging from the forensic report, which I have in front of me, and the injuries sustained by the victim, he was thrown up against the far right corner of the sofa, which penetrated the back of his head. Two of the injuries were inflicted prior to the victim’s death and probably rendered him unconscious, but didn’t kill him, then he suffered another four which . . .’ Bøje hesitated. ‘Well, it’s the equivalent of someone stabbing him with an ice pick. Johannes Trøjborg undoubtedly died from the first blow, and it begs the question, why did the killer carry on? The victim was of medium build, which suggests that the killer was either very strong or very angry or both. By the way, what an extraordinary piece of furniture,’ he added, and Søren assumed that he was looking at a photograph of Johannes Trøjborg’s sofa.
    ‘It looks like Count Dracula’s sofa,’ he commented. ‘Everything indicates that someone went berserk and that we’re
not
dealing with a calculating killer, but rather some lad who went nuts. You have to be well and truly angry toattack an unconscious man and carry on after he’s dead, wouldn’t you agree?’
    ‘What does the semen tell us?’ Søren asked.
    ‘Well, that’s something of a mystery. Semen traces were found on the body. On the body, but not inside. So they didn’t have sex, and it wasn’t rape.’ Bøje paused and waited for the penny to drop.
    ‘And?’ Søren prompted him after a long, ominous pause.
    ‘What bothers me is that we’re talking about very little semen.’
    Søren was perplexed.
    ‘I don’t follow.’
    Bøje hesitated.
    ‘Well, it’s as if . . . as if the killer ejaculated while he manhandled the body. Very confusing and difficult to explain. Even for me.’
    Søren groaned. A parasite freak and a necrophile. What the hell was going on?
    ‘Are we talking about necrophilia?’
    ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Bøje replied. ‘Do you recall that man from Søborg who killed an armed