Frost and Ashes (Daniel Trokics Series Book 2) Read online

  "A few hours later, Olesen called us for assistance, also to bring as many dogs as we could spare. He rounded up every volunteer he could find. One of the dogs followed the boy’s scent from the school to Hørretvej, just past the church, then he lost the trail."

  He paused for a moment and looked out at his fellow officers. Their faces were stony, determined; his rundown of events represented the deepest of injustices, the very heart of what had inspired many of them to become cops. For once, it looked like no one would be griping about working overtime.

  "They divided the surrounding area into sections and took the dogs out. The boy was found today at approximately 3:40 p.m. outside Mårslet, tangled up in branches on Giber Creek."

  "It might have snowed too much, maybe that’s why the dog lost the scent," suggested a blonde female officer. Trokic couldn't remember her name.

  The K-9 officer who had been out with the dogs spoke up. "Kashmir finds everything; that goes for snow too. The boy was picked up by a car on Hørretvej. That's the only explanation."

  Trokic's old partner, Detective Jasper Taurup, was tapping a pen on his desk. "But they must have searched for him in the creek? It's the logical place to look for kids."

  "Yeah, obviously," Trokic said. "But he was found outside town, and their first priority was the creek in town and other places there he could've been hiding. We're also searching for the crime scene. We suspect he was killed then thrown into the creek. Any more questions?"

  Anne Marie spoke up. "Yeah. How many years would someone get if they find the bastard and blow his brains out?"

  "Let's be careful here; we don't want a lynch mob on our hands," Agersund said. He looked pale and shaken. "We're all worked up about this, especially those of you with kids around his age. But we have to keep our heads clear."

  "Has there been an autopsy yet?" Lisa Kornelius said.

  "No, it's set for early tomorrow," Trokic said. "Of course, we hope something will come out of it, but he's been in water. Which destroys evidence."

  "Is there any sign of sexual abuse?" she said.

  "That's something the autopsy will have to help us with. But it does look like he's been burned to some extent. Torben Bach thought he must have been close to an open fire. We’ll search for the crime scene tomorrow. Several things are missing, including his schoolbag. So be on the alert for any trace of fire, and also ask around if anyone has seen fires in the area. It's doubtful he was taken very far from Mårslet."

  Agersund took over. "Like I said, you'll be working in your usual teams. If we don't make progress very soon, the chief has promised he'll assign other departments to help us. I'll be holding a press conference tomorrow morning at eleven; that's when we'll reveal the details of his disappearance. There's still a small chance of finding witnesses who saw him after he left school, other than the parents we've already talked to."

  The hint of a tired smile appeared on his narrow lips. "I bet you're all hungry. Sandwiches are over on the table in the corner. And we'll meet here again tomorrow at two o'clock."

  The door opened, and a man in his early 60s walked in. The officers who had stood up to grab a sandwich sat down, and all eyes were on the chief forensic technician, Kurt Tønnies.

  Agersund raised an eyebrow. "I thought you guys got stuck in the snow out there since you didn't show up. Anything new?"

  Tønnies waved a green plastic sack with something printed on it. "Not really. It just took us a long time. But I stopped by the stores in Mårslet on the way here, and I got recordings from three surveillance cameras. It's possible one of them might have caught Lukas on his way home from school yesterday. Soooo…there's some late-night films here if anyone's interested."

  "It won't do any good," the K-9 officer mumbled. "Kashmir lost him at Hørretvej. Someone picked him up in a car."

  Trokic spoke diplomatically. "Let's check it out anyway."

  * * *

  Lisa stayed seated after the others walked over to the sandwich table and ate, some more enthusiastically than others. She stared at the map and photo of Lukas. "Why him?"

  Trokic gathered up his papers. He was skipping the evening meal; the horrible smell from the creek still lingered in his mind. "That might be the most relevant question of the evening. You win the honor of accompanying me to the autopsy tomorrow to help find out."

  Chapter Three

  Lisa polished off the egg and shrimp sandwich, leaving behind a gigantic glob of mayonnaise. "God, that's gross," she mumbled. She stood up and followed Trokic to his office at the end of the hall. She and Jasper Taurup had volunteered to go through the surveillance camera videos, which meant they were kissing goodbye a good night's sleep.

  Rammstein, the German group Trokic listened to constantly, was still growling in the office. She shuddered at the crude music; what he got out of listening to them was a total mystery to her.

  Trokic's dark blue eyes showed no sign of outrage at the horrible murder they'd discovered that day. She laid two sheets of paper on the desk. "Here's a few lists of sexual offenders Agersund asked me to pull out of our records."

  Trokic sat down in his chair and poured a cup of coffee. To Lisa's relief, he shut the music off. Christmas vacation had just ended, but his desk was already filled with papers, cups, CD covers, and pens. As if he functioned best within a certain degree of chaos. She smiled to herself; the mess made her feel at home.

  Lisa had been a detective in Department A for almost eighteen months. After a rocky start, she'd begun to feel a certain admiration for her boss. True, she still felt some of Trokic's stubborn opinions were outrageous. He was also a mystery. About all anyone knew was that he was in his late thirties and lived with his cat in a house in the south part of town. And because he kept his work and personal life separate, he was the subject of much speculation in the department. But that wasn't a problem for Lisa, as long as she was in Department A. She had him to thank for that. Earlier she'd been with the Copenhagen police for three years, in the IT crime division, and Trokic was aware that she'd had more than her fill of unraveling pedophile networks.

  Agersund valued Trokic highly too, though at times the Lieutenant Detective played the lone wolf. Which was unacceptable to Agersund, who considered teamwork to be essential in his department. But Trokic had a gift for identifying patterns in behavior, which made him an exceptional investigator.

  So despite their differences, they had gradually formed a mutual respect. She'd even caught herself watering the plant in his office when he wasn't around. The peace lily was a birthday present from a hopeful female office worker. Even hardy flowers needed a minimum of attention, and without her, it would have passed away long ago.

  Trokic glanced at the two sheets of paper, ran a hand through his hair, and patted down his cowlick. She'd seen him do that a million times. Vacation had done him good, she noticed; he looked better than he had in a long time. A bit more meat on his long, lanky frame. And his tufts of hair lay more or less in place. His skin even glowed a bit. But a demanding investigation could quickly change all that. In a few months, he would turn forty, and she doubted there would be a party.

  "Cup of coffee?" Trokic asked.

  "No, thanks."

  She sat down in front of the desk and tapped her finger on the papers she'd given him. "Agersund thinks we should check them out. That first list is top priority; they all live within ten kilometers of Mårslet."

  "Good to see you're on the ball with this. How many of these guys are there?"

  "Four. But I think we can eliminate two of them; they're no spring chickens. I doubt they'd have the strength to pull this off."

  "How old are they?"

  "Ninety-one and eighty-two."

  "Yeah, I see what you mean." He flashed her one of his rare smiles that lit up his face. "Cross them out. Let's hold off on this until after the autopsy; right now, there's nothing pointing to sexual assault. I see that you and Taurup went out to inform the parents this afternoon. Your impression was of a normal, w
ell-functioning family, right?"

  "Right, nothing unusual. They seem like your average decent family. The mother works thirty hours a week as a dental assistant in town; the father handles cargo down at the harbor. They have another boy, two years old."

  Trokic scratched his beard stubble. "Tough news to break to them."

  "It's the hardest thing I've had to do so far."

  Lisa could still see the devastated parents. Still hear the mother's scream on hearing that Lukas had been found. She'd grabbed the wax tablecloth and ripped it off the table; cups of scalding hot coffee and a sugar bowl flew halfway across the room. Then with surprising strength, she pushed Lisa and Taurup out of the apartment and slammed the door. Lisa had stood stiffly outside, looking at the house as the animal-like wailing penetrated the walls. Finally, she’d hurried away with a burning knot in her stomach and an almost unbearable feeling of inadequacy.

  She looked up and met Trokic's eyes. "But I don't think it surprised them all that much. Not after he'd been missing so long. They'd had all night to imagine the worst, even though you always hope."

  "When are you going to Amsterdam, by the way? Let me make a note of that, so I don't forget when you're gone."

  She slumped. In all the sudden rush, she had completely forgotten the much-debated seminar in profiling she was supposed to attend. "Monday. But surely I can't go now." She raised her voice. "I’ll have to cancel!"

  "You have to talk to Agersund about that. It's his decision."

  Lisa was about to say something, but he was right. It was Agersund's call.

  "We'll drop by and see the parents tomorrow," Trokic said. "Meanwhile, we need to check with social services and hear if they know anything about the family, and we need to talk to everyone working at the after-school club. I'll check the boy’s medical records."

  "But I don't think…I mean, if you had seen their reaction…"

  "Most likely you're right, and it’s sad, but you know what statistics tell us; we have to check the parents and eliminate them. Hopefully, they’ve had nothing to do with it, but all we have is their word that he didn't make it home. And their house is only a few hundred meters from Giber Creek. And remember, I want you at that autopsy tomorrow morning. It's going to be rough, but I want someone else's input. I'll pick you up on the way. No cop car. In the Civitch. You can't pass that up."

  She managed to disguise her misgivings about the autopsy as well as not roll her eyes at the mention of his car. Just before Christmas, Trokic had bought a Honda Civic with i-Shift. Trokic! A man who’d never shown the slightest interest in cars before, who his entire life had driven an old wreck, the most expensive part of which was the car's stereo system. Until one day last fall he'd had to move a splinter-new impounded Honda Civic. Suddenly, he was reading car magazines at lunch, and a few colleagues told him quite a bit about the car’s performance. His purchase hadn't gone unnoticed, either. At a morning briefing, Jasper had asked him if it was called a Honda Civitch in Croatia. The name stuck.

  "Gee, thanks. Can I drive?"

  He laughed. "No, you can't drive. How's Jacob?"

  "He's fine." For a moment, all the misery of dealing with Lukas’s death faded as she pictured the blond-haired, handsome officer. Her boyfriend for the past eighteen months.

  "We're going to need help from MCI. If it's possible, I'll bring him in."

  "I'd appreciate that." Lisa smiled. "I'd better go in and help Jasper look through the recordings."

  Chapter Four

  There's a cold spot inside everyone, tucked away in corners of the soul. At least that’s what fifteen-year-old Stefan Jørgensen sensed as he pushed his late dinner of lasagna around his plate and glanced at his parents across the table. Something had been gnawing at his stomach since he'd heard the news about Lukas late that afternoon. He tried to tell himself he was wrong. That the murder had nothing to do with the horrible thing he and his classmate Tobias had done. But the thought kept nagging at him. His stone-faced parents had watched the report about Lukas on the evening news. The journalist had frowned, the corner of his mouth had quivered as he explained that the police had very little information at the present time.

  During that evening's snowball fight on the street, the kids had also talked about Lukas, with a growing panic behind their voices. Who had murdered Lukas? And would they kill someone else in town? There were lots of theories, though the favorite one seemed to be that it was a child molester; they all feared this monstrous but vague figure–what exactly does a child molester look like? Several of them had ideas about that. Most of them thought it had to be a man. An old one. Some of the younger ones thought he had a mustache, wore black overalls, and had hair growing out of his ears.

  Stefan was, of course, too old to believe that, even though the vivid descriptions sent shivers down his spine. And the growing mass hysteria was affecting him, too. But that wasn't why his stomach hurt.

  "Is something wrong?" his mother said. Her face was pale, and she rubbed her tired eyes. She was a nurse, and she looked more exhausted after every shift, whether it was day, evening, or night; she constantly complained about the allocation of resources and working conditions at Skejby Hospital. He called his mother Radar because, despite her stress and exhaustion, she always noticed when something was bothering him or when his mood changed, even slightly. It was like she was one of those weird machines at the hospital. She reached across the table and gently swept a lock of hair out of his eyes, then she stared at him. Inspected him. He tried to avoid her eyes. He knew a glance was enough for her to see right through his pupils and optic nerves and into his brain, his innermost thoughts. And there she would find winter. It felt like the kitchen's white walls were closing in on him as if they could collapse any time and suffocate him. Mostly, he just wanted to sit in his bedroom and think.

  "It's this math assignment I have to hand in tomorrow," he said. A lie. "It's way too hard."

  He popped a light red cherry tomato into his mouth and crushed it with his tongue. It was sour but sweet; the taste was a little bit like summer.

  "I'm sure it won't be so bad once you get started," she said. "And you can always say if you get stuck. I'm sure your father would love to help you."

  "Sure," his dad growled. He didn't bother to look up from his food.

  Stefan nodded. His lie felt like a larva swelling up in his stomach. If there actually had been a math assignment, his dad couldn't have helped; even fourth-grade math had been beyond him, a secret the two of them shared.

  * * *

  He cleaned up the last of his lasagna, ate another piece of cucumber for the sake of appearance, thanked his mother for the meal, and left the table. All the way from the kitchen to his room, his mother's eyes bored into his back.

  Would he go to jail if he told about what happened? He threw himself on the bed. What he and Tobias had done on the deserted soccer field last fall was horrible, vicious even, he realized that now. They’d egged each other on, had gone a lot farther than what they'd meant to. And though Tobias had seemed much less affected afterward, even he looked all wrong the one time they talked about it. When Stefan closed his eyes at night, he could still see the jumble of fallen leaves and torn mushrooms, smell the wet, moldy earth, hear the girl's screams. That loud, piercing voice.

  But they weren't the only ones. He'd found that out later. Others somewhere else in the small town had the same kind of secrets. More evil secrets. Revealing that, though, would mean he’d have to tell someone about what he’d done. And if he was going to do that, he had to know there was a connection. But was there? How could he be absolutely sure?

  When Stefan compared himself to his friends and classmates, he understood he had it made. Even for here in Mårslet. He’d been given the largest bedroom in the house after his confirmation two years earlier, so he had lots of space for his desk and laptop. His mother felt that a teenager needed room to spread out, and she'd helped him decorate the room and had given him that fantastic Eragon poster an
d the small TV hanging from the ceiling. He knew he was treated well at home. His parents had never hit him, and they spoke respectfully to him. It's just that they weren't really there. Even when they were there physically, even when they were worried about him. It was as if their thoughts were somewhere else. But what would they say if they knew what he had done? His stomach cramped up at the thought.

  And the evidence. What he had done. It was out there, in circulation. Living its own life, like a silent digital fragment of evil. It was only a matter of time before it came back to town and somebody talked about it.

  Chapter Five

  The night hung like a dark blanket on the small red house. Lieutenant Detective Daniel Trokic had lived there since returning from a longer stay in Croatia twelve years ago. It was located in Højbjerg, a section of southern Århus, only seven minutes’ drive from headquarters. Away from the crowds, yet a close neighbor to the center of the city. He'd been incredibly lucky on the price, and even though it was only a single-bedroom house, a very modest seventy square meters, he couldn't imagine living anywhere else. The house had witnessed so much of his life.

  A brown plate lay on the kitchen floor beside a piece of plastic wrap. The plate had held two exquisite chunks of chorizo the evening before; apparently, he’d forgotten to stick it in the refrigerator. Pjuske sat on the kitchen counter, casually washing his long black-and-white fur.

  "What’s this?" Trokic stared at his cat and pointed at the empty plate. Pjuske hopped down and strolled into the living room. If he knew that cat, it was about to seize control of Trokic's favorite chair and settle in for a nap. And as usual, Trokic would have to make do with the couch. The cat hated winter or any inclement weather for that matter, and as a result, it stayed in the house unless the conditions outside were to its liking. Though Trokic sometimes pushed it out the terrace door, where it sat and sniffed the air a few minutes, offended at this grossly abusive treatment, after which it strolled around to the back door and restored its sovereign right to the house by waltzing through the cat flap.