Read Online The Murder of Harriet Krohn by Karin Fossum - Free Book Online

child again and be able to play with a clear conscience, protected by adults. He loses himself in childhood reminiscences and remembers a particular day when he was walking back from school. It was winter and icy cold. The snow creaked under his boots. Just then he caught sight of something in a pile of snow close to his front door. A cat that had been run over. The cat was virtually turned inside out; its intestines were partly splayed out on the snow. It made him almost ecstatic, and inquisitive. He knew that his mother could see him from the window, but he couldn’t help himself. He began prodding around the cat’s innards with a stick. It didn’t move, so he could prod as much as he liked. The cat was at peace. He was only seven, but he understood that much, and the stick worked frenetically among all the entrails. He couldn’t get enough of it. After a few minutes, his mother came out and wanted to know what he was doing. From her reaction, he concluded that what he’d been doing was inexcusable. But he didn’t think the cat was nasty. He was deeply fascinated. Pondering it now, he wonders if perhaps he’s different—if other, normal children would have run away in disgust. Where did he get the idea of picking at the dead animal’s remains? He thinks there’s a meaning to everything, so he analyzes past events and searches for a flaw. If, that is, he has a flaw. No, he can’t think of anything. He feels totally normal. Here’s old Charlo. I’m perfectly normal, but I’ve killed.
    He drives along the main road and the houses get farther apart. That car behind me, he thinks as he looks in the mirror, has been there a long time. A Renault. There’s a man at the wheel. Is he after me? Charlo can’t get himself to relax. He feels exposed in the sharp winter light, feels the car is making more noise than usual. He thinks all manner of strange things. It feels almost as if his cheeks are on fire. Nevertheless it’s a relief to be out among people, to be a natural part of the flow. Here, among the crowd, both good and bad, he feels anonymous. Gradually the farms and apple orchards appear. He likes the landscape around here: the fields and spruce forests, the gently sloping wooded hills and the mountains. He likes the heavily pruned apple trees, decorative as Japanese letters in the bright snow. In May they will stand like buxom bridesmaids in white and pink. He glances at his watch, turns on the radio, and listens. Maybe Harriet has been found by now. Maybe someone has entered the house and a scream has pierced the stillness in the kitchen. He continually checks his mirror. He sees his own black pupils and thinks they’ve turned into slits now, like a goat’s. No, he’s imagining it; his imagination is playing tricks on him. He’s under stress, after all. It’s hardly surprising that he sees Japanese characters in the snow or hears his own voice in his head.
    Do you realize what you’ve done?
    He grips the little knob on the gearstick, sits leaning forward, and drives. Here’s the familiar fanfare that signals it’s time for the news, so he pulls off onto the shoulder and stops. Chechen rebels have been caught on the Russian border, a suicide bomber has struck in Israel, flu vaccine has arrived. Nothing about the murder of Harriet Krohn. He bangs the steering wheel and turns the car back onto the road. He’s frustrated almost to the point of despair. He wants to get it over with, the noise, the furor. Theoretically she could lie there for days. They won’t find anything, he thinks. I haven’t left any traces. I was quick and pretty single-minded, even though I was agitated. He dwells on all the people who’ll trample through her house—skilled, experienced people with limitless expertise. What sort of tiny fibers could he have carried in with him? Maybe one of his hairs fell out. Will they see his footprint in the blood and the pattern of his soles? He tries to breathe calmly. He’s feeling hungry