| Prologue On a summer evening in 2001, Kerstin Lund murdered her parents with an ax. She was 15 years old at the time. The family lived in the small Norwegian fishing village Henningsvær. It had been best known for its location in Norway’s extreme north, across a sprinkling of small islands in the Lofoten Arctic Archipelago. Kerstin’s father was a violent, abusive man who had worked hard but suffered from alcoholism and depression. Her mother, according to the family doctor, was a rigid and withdrawn woman. The police decided that the parents argued, and in the heat of the fight, Mr. Lund had murdered his wife. After realizing what he had done, he set his house and himself on fire. Their daughter had slept over at her friend’s that night, so she had a perfect alibi for the time of the incident. That was the official version of the events, but the village knew the truth. The daughter was the killer. The case attracted colossal press attention and captivated the minds of many psychoanalysts in the country for a long time. The teenage girl spent six months in a private mental treatment center for teens in Oslo, and after passing all the necessary tests, she was released and sent home. Unfortunately, Kerstin’s grandparents had died some while back, and the only relative left was her mother’s half-sister, Linda Bergsten, who lived and worked in the USA, Minnesota. After contemplating it, she agreed to adopt the child. Kerstin changed her last name to Bergsten and left Norway. In 2007, after the sudden death of her aunt, who had drowned during her vacation in Brazil, Kerstin vanished. In the interviews with the local media, some of the neighbors explained her disappearance by adding the mysterious remark, ‘she had a rough time finding her own self.’ Some were convinced that the girl was evil, and the darkness took her. After seven years missing, Kerstin Bergsten was declared dead. Her remains have never been found. CHAPTER 1 Nura Cocasse had often desired to change her last name. It was of French origin, meant "funny," and was pronounced "koo-kas." Despite its apparent simplicity, something caused people to mispronounce her name, and most of her colleagues referred to her as "cock-asse.” It was amusing at first, and Nura even enjoyed correcting or explaining it, but as time passed, the line between fun and disrespect blurred, and the constant ridicule from strangers, neighbors, or colleagues began to irritate her. Just as Nura dreamed about changing her surname, she fantasized about riding a bicycle or a tram to work so she could get to the center of Amsterdam without delay. But Nura was grown enough to understand that dreams and reality are opposites, and today, her reality was woven from smells of freshly baked ontbijtkoek—a rye cake spiced with cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, honey, pepper, and cloves—and long queues of tourists on the road at every turn. She stopped in the middle of the road and used her car horn several times, but it meant nothing to the man on the bike ahead of her, who rode off smugly as Nura was once again stopped at a red light. Having been unable to drive at her usual speed, she arrived late to Burgwallen Police Station. When the doors on the third floor to the Serial Killer Unit opened, Nura noticed the shadow of Chief Inspector Panetta. She carefully stepped out of the elevator and walked quickly to her desk, hoping to avoid his attention, but Panetta met her halfway. He was a short bulky man, in his fifties. “Cocasse, how often do I need to tell you that your lateness will not be condoned? What happened today? Why are you so late?” Well, you’ve condoned it so far, Nura thought but instead said, “I’m sorry, sir, I would have been here a lot earlier, but you know how it is.” “No, I do not know how it is. I’m always on time.” Panetta replied and went back to his office. Nura followed her boss and closed the door behind them. “I was rounding up a couple of my investigations. Paperwork and stuff,” Nura explained. “What investigations? In fact, never mind…I need you to get to the Old South, Johannes Vermeestrat Street.” Nura glanced around the Chief Inspector's room as he spoke: she liked spending time here because Panetta didn't have any mirrors. Although her boss always tried his best to look good, he usually had one wardrobe malfunction or another. Today, his hair was frayed, and his collar had a distinct little stain. Nura kept her observation to herself, as the last thing she needed was more boring lectures that Panetta was famous for. “Understood?” Panetta asked. “I need you to handle this because Gail…well, we all know Gail, don’t we?” After that remark, Panetta tilted his head towards the door. Nura was about to leave the office when Panetta stopped her again. “Wait, one little detail. Did I tell you the anonymous caller said it was a suicide?” “A suicide?” “Yes.” “Can’t you assign that to somebody else then? We are SKU.” “Oh, I see…Do we have something urgent to do today, Cocasse? Waiting for a more important crime to drop on your head?” Panetta mocked. Yes, I do, Nura thought. “What is so special about this one that you must push it on me? Can’t Frankie take it?” "Frankie is in a Pipe Museum working on another case, and your Gail is already there..." “… my Gail?” Nura interrupted. “We aren’t a couple. And if he is already on the scene, why do I have to go there, too?” “I feel there is something strange about this one. And we can’t trust Gail’s judgment; surely you understand that?” Panetta coaxed. “Nothing is normal about any murder or suicide,” Nura replied. “Right. You know what? This conversation is making me want to kill myself right now. Go there and check.” Nura rolled her eyes. Welcome to how everyone feels when they speak to you. Panetta noticed the eye movement. He jumped from his chair and spat out, “What was that?” as Nura turned her back and ran out of the office. For the last two years, Nura Cocasse was a part of the regional Serial Killer Unit task force that worked with atypical murderers or serial killers. Despite the fact that she faced death on a daily basis—the path that separated one side of life from another, more darker segment—she was devoted to her work. Nura never expected to stay in Amsterdam for so long. She only arrived there in the first place to look after her younger sister when their mother remarried and left Europe. But fate had other plans. Nura’s childhood was more or less a tragedy. She was born in 1987 in Lebanon. Soldiers stormed their home in Sidon when she was a year old, threatening her mother, Ida — a twenty-four-year-old woman — that they would burn down the house and kill her only daughter, as well as her parents, unless she told them where her husband, Imad, was hiding. At that moment, Ida made a decision that changed her life forever, and on the same day, Nura’s father was murdered. With the help of her uncle, who had some connections in France, Ida escaped to Paris. After two years of struggling, Ida became the assistant cook in the large household of the famous journalist Andre Cocasse. They fell in love, and Andre divorced his wife to marry the lovely Lebanese cook. He took Nura under his wing and gave her a new last name, provided economic stability and opened doors to a better education and job opportunities. For this, Nura was forever grateful to Andre. Nura disliked suicides because she discovered that most of the time, things were exactly as they appeared to be, which reminded her of how sad the world truly was. She slowly walked around the corner to where she had parked the car and headed to the location: Johannes Vermeerstraat Street, a posh district in South Amsterdam. While driving, Nura slid her phone from her pocket and held down four, prompting a call to Dr. Chen. The phone rang for quite a while before a click finally gave way to a voice. “Dr. Chen’s office, how may we help you today?” “Ehm, it is Nuralain Cocasse. I’m calling to cancel my appointment for this afternoon; it seems I may be unable to make it on time.” She heard the sound of the flipping pages of a book, then typing fingers, followed by a short “Okay,” and then a bang that was meant to be the end of the call but was not. Seconds later, she heard a sigh of relief, “At least I don’t have to cover all these mirrors today. That woman is truly something esle…” Nura frowned, ended the call, and focused on driving. Soon, she came upon the address that Panetta gave her. She could see the lines of people from inside the car: a couple of men, neighbors, families with children, a group of tourists with backpacks, and older ladies with shopping bags, all gathered behind tape emblazoned with the words DO NOT CROSS. She could also see a police officer secretly taking pictures of the crowd in case it was ever needed for the investigation. Photos of people visiting crime scenes have always fascinated Nura because of the stories their faces revealed. Some of them had been good witnesses, too. She got out of her car, showed the officer her badge, and ducked under the tape, turning to chat with another officer she knew who was facing the crowd. While Nura was talking, something caught her eye among the curious mass. It was only a slight feeling, a fleeting suspicion that something was off. Probably nothing, she thought. “Where is Gail?” “Inside. Hakala is there too.” "Alright, then, let's have a look," Nura said as she stepped into a sleek, contemporary hall. The stone-carved stairs on the left led to the apartments. While Nura was inspecting the area close to the elevators, she suddenly felt a tense sensation throughout her body. She stared at her reflection in a large mirror with a golden frame and remained motionless, her jaw tightening as if she were allergic to the sight. A voice above the stairs said, “I always knew you were ugly, Nuralain, but I don’t think that is enough reason to be scared of your own damn reflection.” The voice belonged to Sergeant Gail, one of the laziest detectives known to the world; it couldn’t be argued. Trying to argue was akin to challenging basic facts like the earth is round or the grass is green. Nura closed her eyes briefly, swallowed, and then willed her legs to move. It is getting worse, she thought. Gail stood on the second floor, waiting. He opened his palm in front of Nura to usher her into the bright hall of the chic apartment. From the entrance, Nura could see the living room, which, aside from the size, was not much different from hers: almost empty. She walked in. The walls that separated the rooms were covered in a slab of flowing white paint, leaving only one wall wrapped in rectangular bricks to provide a rustic aesthetic. The window lodged within the stonewall provided sunlight, which was then reflected by the other partitions, ensuring that the entire room was filled with light. At that moment, the detective’s eyes were greeted by the forensic expert, Enni Hakala. Nura walked forward, stopping just short of the girl's lifeless body, and asked, "How did she die?" “Overdose,” a quick reply came from behind. Nura raised her head and looked at Gail. “I was talking to Enni,” she said, pointing to the blonde woman in front of him. “What was the cause of death?” Nura rephrased her question to the forensic expert. “I didn’t know you were talking to me, Nuralain,” Enni said. Her hair was in a sleek bun at the nape of her neck, she wore a light red blush and no lipstick—she looked stunning for her age. Nura didn’t answer; she just watched the pathologist’s precise moves. It was clear Enni was still angry at her after the night Nura spent with her son Chris almost a month ago. “Her name is Maryssa Goldsmith, twenty-one years old. A famous Instagram influencer. She mostly shared book reviews and sometimes vlogged about local celebrities. Lived alone but threw a house party each week. As for the cause of death…” Gail tried to smooth out the tension in the room. “… we don’t know for sure how it happened. We did find a needle in her left arm. So far, looks like an overdose.” Enni showed the evidence bag with an outstretched arm. Nura took the bag and glanced at the contents of the syringe through the plastic film before handing it back. “Did you find the needle on the floor or inside her arm?” Nura asked no one in particular. “What does that have to do with anything?! Do you think she died but returned to get one last shot?” Gail asked with a smile creeping along the right side of his lip. Nura wanted to shake her partner, but instead, she put her hands behind her back and continued exploring the area around the body. “The needle was still lodged inside her,” Enni said while stretching her hand to collect a new evidence bag from a member of her team. "We also discovered this blue wig near her in the room. Nobody knows where it came from. We couldn’t find any more wigs in her closet... And by the way, Gail,” Enni turned around to face a bored sergeant," she wasn’t a junkie. Mm, only one stick and only one needle. It’s all I can see for now, but a post-mortem will show more.” Nura collected the wig bag and looked it over; the brand was impressed with a defaced logo, leaving the rest unreadable. “I dunno, guys, it looks like a simple suicide to me. And partying as much as this gal did means zero valuable DNA.” Gail wasn’t giving up. “True, don’t hold your breath, Nuralain,” Enni agreed. “We have no idea how many people typically visit this apartment… but it seems like a lot. Nevertheless, we will run all the prints through the database. More questions?” Nura handed over the wig to Enni, then took a small notebook and scribbled something down, "Time of death?” “Between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. My best guess for now,” Enni answered. “What was that? What are you writing in that damn notebook? It’s all clear as day,” Gail interrupted. He looked worried. “You see that green chair? Do you notice how the one chair in the living room is angled so that it faces the victim instead of the TV?” Nura asked, gesturing towards the space. “That means the victim was probably not sitting on it, so…” She stopped to let Gail fill in the blanks, but her partner was not following. "Seriously, I don't understand why Panetta sent you here," Nura said, perplexed as to how Gail managed to become a sergeant. The man couldn’t even detect winter if his leg was stuck in a big pile of snow. “Panetta called you, but you didn’t answer,” Gail replied, then chuckled. “Or maybe he sent me to monitor you.” "What if the killer was sitting here when our victim took the needle?" Nura continued as she walked in circles. “Seeing how the victim is sprawled all over the floor, I believe she was standing in this spot. And if she was standing when the drugs kicked in, what are the odds that the syringe remained intact in her arm when she fell? And why was she standing at all? Is it some kind of game? Or an execution? A joke? Did the killer want to watch her die? I wonder what was in that syringe." “We can’t know exactly what it is until we check it at the lab. I think heroin,” Enni added after a brief pause. “Okay, make it quick. We’ll be waiting for your first report,” Nura replied as she looked around for a second time, taking in the furniture positions to check if there were any signs of a struggle. There weren’t, at least none she could see. She flipped the notebook shut. Apart from the blue wig and the needle in the arm when they found the girl, she did not have any other evidence to prove it wasn’t a suicide. She was about to call it a day when Enni Hakala turned the body and drew her attention to something peculiar on the girl’s face. “Check this!” Nura looked at Maryssa’s face—her brows were carefully shaved. The young inspecteur almost fell off her feet; she had to look again to make sure it wasn’t… her. Her sister. “Detective Cocasse? Nura? Are you alright?” Enni asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “I’m fine.” Jarred away from her flashback, Nura answered. “Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts, Enni. Do we know how this happened?” She pointed to the girl’s missing eyebrows. “No, we don’t. A new trend?” “Could the killer have done this? It can change everything,” Nura asked. Gail began laughing, “The killer? Come on, Nuralain. For all we know, she probably got heartbroken, then shaved her brows and took her own life. I have a daughter myself; I know how it is.” “Really? Did she also do this?” Enni Hakala pointed to the girl's hands, which bore small but visible burn marks. “Well, she could. She has gotten this by—” Gail looked around the house. "Ehm, let’s say touching a hot pot?” “It would have to be a boiling pot to do that damage. Her hands would have had to be on an open flame for two-three minutes to achieve this kind of burn,” Enni remarked. “After death?” Nura asked. “No. What makes it interesting is that the damage occurred before her death.” “That’s what I’m saying. Girls and social media, they'll do anything for fame," Gail speculated. Nura went over her notes as she moved through the house, trying not to look in the mirrors as she searched for anything that might give her a clue as to what had happened here. She hated to admit it, but Panetta was correct - this death was perplexing. “I don’t think this is a suicide,” Nura said to no one in particular. “What?! Look at the kitchen: my guys just found a stash of coke, amphetamines, speedballs, and who-knows-what-they-call-that-shit. You know what I mean? Case closed.” Gail mimicked wiping away something from his nostrils. “Okay. Let’s go, Mister Case Closed. We’re done here for now.” Nura replied. “It would be great if I could see CCTV from the street, and of course, we need to send a couple of agents door-to-door. Send the new one. What’s her name?” Nura wasn’t in the mood to argue with anyone. She could still feel her head banging from the previous night’s excesses. “Zanna?” Gail asked. “Yeah, send Zanna. Is she that one from…mmm, Spain?” “No, she is local. Quite bright girl, spent a year working in London's Trace Evidence," Gail explained. “Did you find the victim’s phone? Laptop?” “Yes. I messaged Michael at the lab, he is going to analyze it as soon as he gets it.” As they drove back from the scene, Nura found that she still could not get it out of her head—the girl lying on the apartment floor looked just like her sister.
She drove the thought out of her mind, redirecting her attention to the road instead. But the thought came back, this time stronger, and she had to park the car on the side of the road to regain her focus. Gail chatted non-stop without objecting to an unexpected pause. When they finally continued on their way, Gail suddenly asked Nura to drop him off on the other side of Skinny Bridge. He didn’t want to say more or explain why. And Nura didn’t care. She was happy to be left alone. She sat and watched as her lazy partner ran across the road to a Café de Magere Brug, making a call. | 
No comments:
Post a Comment