Free The Drowned Boy by Karin Fossum Page A

concentration, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was interested in the small boy’s body and had written a very detailed report. He could never get used to it. A small dead child was tragic every time, and a melancholy had settled on him that could last a long while.
    “No point in being modest in this profession,” Sejer said somberly. “So here I am, hoping to get an answer. And I know you normally prioritize in order of conscience. Women and children first, isn’t that so?”
    Snorrason pointed to a chair. “Yes, I’ve been busy. And already we can ascertain that he was alive when he fell in the pond. There is a lot of water in his lungs, and dear God, the poor little mite fought against death. He’d drawn lots of water down into his lungs in a panic. I have also done a number of tests. But I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient and wait for those results, as there are plenty in line ahead of us. What about you, have you found anything? Have you got any more out of the parents?
    “No,” Sejer said. “They just repeat the same story. Carmen Zita is insistent when it comes to the sequence of events. But she’s uncertain and a bit vague in her explanation. She says, “Yes, I’m not sure, but I think I was cleaning the fish,” which has since proved to be true. But I still feel uneasy. You know how it is, intuition, and I felt it from the outset. She likes to perform and is pretty artificial to begin with, so it’s easy to take what she says with a grain of salt anyway. But you know, it’s almost like a smell or a particular mood. And over the years, like you, I’ve become a wily old fox.”
    Snorrason took off his glasses and popped them on his knee. He rubbed his eyes as though he was tired. And perhaps he was; he wasn’t getting any younger. But retiring was out of the question, even though he was well over sixty. The greater part of his time was spent teaching younger minds who would eventually take over from him when he did step back. He got up and walked over to the green filing cabinet, took out the preliminary report, and started to read.
    “Tommy Nicolai Zita. Age, sixteen months. Well-nourished and apparently healthy in every possible way, with the obvious exception of Down syndrome. The syndrome is a genetic disorder, not an illness, which results in secondary complications and deficiencies over time. But he had no heart problems, as a good many people with Down syndrome do; he was fit and healthy. And there is no reason to believe that he would not have done well in life, despite his disabilities. No visible traumas to the body. No wounds, no breaks, no bruises, no internal bleeding. Toxins? Don’t know, too early to say. Samples have been taken and sent to the lab, so we’re waiting for answers.”
    He gave Sejer a grave look. “Poor little man. Drowning is not a pleasant way to go and it takes some time. The water burns your lungs like fire and it’s incredibly painful. So, you’re open to the eventuality that something criminal may have occurred?”
    “Yes,” Sejer replied. “There’s something about Miss Carmen Zita that unnerves me. She is strong and stubborn and insistent. She weeps buckets, but it feels forced. I’m sure you know what I mean. Something’s not right.”
    Snorrason put the papers away. “Do you mean a lack of grief?”
    “Well,” Sejer started, then paused. “One has to be careful when judging another person’s grief. There’s no set formula, no exact science. Everyone grieves in his or her own way. Some people want to move on quickly, whereas others want to hold on to it, wrap it around them. But she has an odd manner, and I don’t believe her. Like I said, she cries at the drop of a hat, constant tears. When I ask probing questions, she gets angry and defensive, fights tooth and nail to keep me at bay. The boy’s father, Nicolai, is more reserved. He really does seem to be shaken to the core. So if there is anything fishy, it is