Free Where Monsters Dwell by Jørgen Brekke Page A

done it before?”
    “It’s hard to say, but if you force me to give an opinion, I’d say no. If his intention was to separate the head from the body quickly and efficiently, then this killer didn’t know what he was doing. He used the wrong tool—an ax that was much too small, I think, and a very sharp knife that still wasn’t sharp enough. He also used the wrong technique. It looks like he used the knife to hack at the neck instead of slicing.”
    “So the killer had no idea how to decapitate a person before he arrived at the scene. Is that what you’re saying?”
    “Either that, or he wanted to take a long time cutting off the head. There’s a certain pattern to all the cuts and chops. As if he were enjoying it.”
    “But what about the flaying?”
    “There was nothing precise about that either. He probably used the same knife he used for the neck. In many places he cut a little too deeply into the flesh. But the fact that he managed to flay a man’s torso while leaving the skin on the arms and legs indicates that he must have had some sort of experience. Maybe we’re dealing with a hunter, or someone who worked as a butcher. A doctor is also a possibility.”
    “So in general you don’t think he got this experience from earlier murders?”
    “I’ll leave that sort of conclusion to you experts.”
    Stone nodded.
    “Can you put a rush on the autopsy report?” she asked.
    “Today I’m eating lunch in the office,” he replied. “But promise me that you won’t tell anybody.” He did a rather good imitation of a mad scientist, both in voice and expression. He looked like a character in an old horror movie.
    She laughed. And it struck her that it was probably the first time she had laughed in that room.
    On the way out the door she also remembered his name. Knut Jensen. Scandinavian, she surmised. A rarity in the South.
    *   *   *
    The press conference was over, the first interviews of the staff at the Edgar Allan Poe Museum were finished, and the crime scene investigation was well under way. The verbal autopsy report told them nothing new. Even though the city news desks were jumping, the Internet was overflowing with sensational reports, and her stomach was churning with an inexplicable nausea that came and went, things were getting back to normal at the police station. It was time for a lengthier, more in-depth meeting. They needed to map out the long-term plans for an investigation that could potentially become extensive. Besides Stone, Morris, Reynolds, Laubach, and Patterson were at the meeting. The five of them made up a special investigative team. For the time being this case would be handled locally, and Morris would wait to seek reinforcements from the FBI, at least until something new turned up. Stone knew that meant it wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Morris didn’t like outsiders.
    The meeting started where the last one ended, with one important change: A janitor had finally fixed the air-conditioning, so now it was possible to think without sweat running down their temples. Morris had already touched on the important issues. They would start with the assumption that the victim was not chosen at random. There had to be some sort of connection between Efrahim Bond and his killer; it was crucial to find out what that connection might be.
    “I don’t really think it’s any of the museum staff,” said Morris. “What do the rest of you think?”
    “Nobody stands out as a hyperviolent killer among the ladies on staff,” said Reynolds. True to form he didn’t look directly at anyone, and he chewed gum as he spoke. Reynolds was a methodical guy, indispensable because of his precision, but not a great thinker. The big breakthroughs in a case seldom came as a result of anything he had deduced, although they might emerge from the basic work he had laid down. It was Reynolds who’d been assigned to talk to the people at the museum this morning. By “the ladies” Reynolds was referring