The Dinosaur Feather

switched on the light and the cold, dim gleam helped him get his bearings. The smell of solvent was overpowering. Then he spotted something glowing white. In every terrarium lay balls of cotton wool, each the size of a child’s fist.
    Behind him, his colleague coughed. Søren turned around and asked him to open the window. He walked up close to one of the tanks. Then he spotted it. A bird spider, the size of a cake plate, diagonally behind the cotton wool ball. It didn’t stir.
    ‘The window has been painted over,’ the officer gasped.
    ‘Smash it,’ Søren said, now desperate. Suddenly he felt faint and the smell irritated his nostrils. Two loud bangs followed, then the autumn air filled the room. Søren tapped the glass of the tank, but the spider stayed put. He checked the animals, searching for one he knew something about. What else had Professor Moritzen said? Crickets and mice. He had to find them to be certain. What did he know about the behaviour of bird spiders? He found both in two tanks on the floor. One contained cricket-like beings, stacked like a pile of dried twigs. He tapped the glass. Not a single nervous twitch. The tank beside it was filled with sawdust and dead mice. Søren straightened up.
    ‘He’s killed his animals,’ he concluded, sadly.
    He walked past his colleague and back to the hall where the other three officers were waiting, exhibiting varying degrees of tension.
    ‘Call for an ambulance. I’m sure he’s in the bedroom,’ he said, looking at the officer at the back. Then he put on a pair of rubber gloves and entered Asger’s bedroom. The darkness practically spilled out of it. Søren called out. Same words, no response. He listened. Someone passed him the torch and he shone it inside the room. Blacked-out windows, a desk, bundles neatly arranged along the wall, a bed, a human foot.
    He found the switch and turned on the light.
    Asger lay on the bed. His hips and stomach covered by a duvet, his torso bare and white. His eyes were closed, his hair, which needed cutting, lay like a matt halo around his face. His skin was pale and waxy and he didn’t stir when the three officers came in. Søren carefully checked if Asger had a pulse.
    ‘He’s dead,’ he said, softly. Spots indicating early decomposition were forming on the surface of Asger’s skin. Søren thought hard. Every impression must be memorised. Soon the medical examiner and the crime scene officers would take over and ask Søren to leave. Now was the time.
    ‘Check the expression on his face,’ Søren said. ‘Why so tortured?’ He sniffed the air. Had Asger taken solvent to kill himself? Had he wanted to die like his animals? The room was tidy like the others. The bundles, the small desk with the laptop, wrapped up exactly like Professor Moritzen had described. He turned around and looked at the shelves. Small tanks, jars of preserved animals, books. How had he died? Søren carefully sniffed the body, but he couldn’t smell anything, then he lifted the duvet and peered under it. Nothing.
    ‘Søren,’ one of the officers behind him called out. ‘Watch out.’
    Søren had sent the officers out of the bedroom, but one had stayed in the doorway, watching him. His voice was ominous. Søren had pulled the duvet over Asger’s hips and had just let go of it. Suddenly, a scorpion emerged from Asger’s hair, just behind his ear. It was yellow and had retracted its venomous sting. It scampered across Asger’s chest. Søren quickly withdrew his hand.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed. ‘He was bitten by a scorpion.’ The scorpion darted across the body and disappeared under the duvet.
    ‘There’s another one,’ said the officer. He was right. It sat in a fold to the right of Asger’s pillow. Søren looked up at the wall. There was another one.
    ‘Okay, boys,’ he said, keeping very calm. ‘I’m coming out.’ He retreated with as much dignity as he could muster and closed the door to Asger’s bedroom. A shiver went down his spine.
    ‘Bloody hell,’ he said again.
    ‘What do we do now?’ one of the officers asked.
    ‘No one is going in there,’ Søren ordered. Not that anyone wanted to.
    The ambulance arrived, then Bøje, another two sergeants, two crime scene officers and a wizened man from Animal Welfare who had come to remove the scorpions. He went into Asger’s bedroom with two of the crime scene officers who were there to make sure he didn’t destroy any traces. Wearing special gloves, he