Kim had been allowed to go home.
That was unfair and Emilie couldn’t understand why.
TWELVE
Adam Stubo had to pull himself together to keep from touching the naked body. His hand was reaching out toward the boy’s calf. He wanted to stroke the smooth skin. He wanted to make sure that there was no life left in the boy. The way the boy was lying-on his back with closed eyes, his head to one side, his arms alongside his body, one hand slightly closed and the other open with the palm facing up, as if he was waiting for something, a gift, some candy-the child could so easily have been alive. The incision from the autopsy, which went across his breastbone and down to just above his small penis in the shape of a T, had been carefully closed. The paleness of his face was due to the time of year; winter was just over and summer had not yet begun. The boy’s mouth was half open. Stubo realized that he wanted to kiss the child. He wanted to breathe life into the boy. He wanted to ask for forgiveness.
“Shit,” he said, choking, into his hand. “Shit, shit.”
The pathologist looked at him over the rims of his glasses.
“You never get used to it, do you.”
Adam Stubo didn’t answer. His knuckles were white and he sniffed gently.
“I’m done,” said the pathologist, pulling off his latex gloves. “A lovely little child. Five years old. You may well say shit. But it won’t help much.”
Stubo wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He carefully lowered his right hand to the boy’s face. It was as if the child was smiling. Stubo let his index finger touch the face lightly, running it from the corner of the eye to the chin. The skin was already waxy to the touch; it felt like an ice-cold shock to his fingertip.
“What happened?”
“You people didn’t find him in time,” said the pathologist, drily. “Strictly speaking, that’s what happened.”
He covered the body with a white sheet. It seemed even smaller when covered. The body was so small, it seemed to shrink under the stiff paper. The steel table was too big. It was designed for an adult, someone who was responsible for him or herself, who died of a heart attack, perhaps-fatty food and too many cigarettes, modern life and unhealthy pleasures. It wasn’t meant for children.
“Can we just drop the gags?” said Stubo quietly. “We’re both affected by this. By…”
He kept quiet while the pathologist washed his hands thoroughly. It was a ceremony for him, as if he was trying to rid himself of death with soap and water.
“You’re right,” mumbled the doctor. “Sorry. Let’s get out of here.”
His office was beside the autopsy room.
“Tell me,” said Adam Stubo, dropping down into a tired loveseat. “I want all the details.”
The pathologist, a thin man of around sixty-five, remained standing by his chair with an absentminded, slightly surprised look on his face. For a moment, it was as if he couldn’t remember what he was doing. Then he ran his hand over his scalp and sat down.
“There aren’t any.”
The office had no windows. But the air was fresh, nearly cold, and surprisingly free of smells. The quiet buzz of the ventilation system was drowned out by a distant ambulance siren. Stubo felt closed in. There was nothing to give him his bearings. No daylight, no shadows or shifting clouds to tell him where he was.
“The subject was a five-year-old identified boy,” the pathologist reeled off, as if reading from an invisible report. “Healthy. Normal height, normal weight. No illnesses were reported by his family, no illnesses identified during the autopsy. Inner organs healthy and intact. There is no damage to the skeleton or connective tissue. Nor are there any marks or signs of violence or inflicted injuries. The skin is unbroken, with the exception of a graze on the right knee that is obviously from an earlier date. At least a week old and therefore inflicted before he disappeared.’’
Stubo rubbed his face. The room was spinning. He needed something to drink.
“Teeth are intact and healthy. A full set of milk teeth, with the exception of the front tooth in the upper gum, which must have fallen out a matter of hours before death…”
He hesitated and then rephrased it.
“Before little Kim died,” he finished quietly. “In other words… mors subita.”
“No known reason for death,” said Adam Stubo.
“Exactly. Though he did…”
The pathologist was red-eyed. His thin face reminded Stubo of an old goat, especially as the man had a goatee that made his face look even longer.
“He did have some diazepam in his urine. Not much, but…”
“As in… Valium? Was he poisoned?”
Stubo straightened his back and laid his arm along the back of the sofa. He needed to hold onto something.
“No, not at all.”
The pathologist scratched his little beard with his index finger.
“He was not poisoned. I am of the opinion, however, that a healthy boy of five years should absolutely not be taking medicine that contains diazepam, but all the same, there’s no question of poisoning. Of course, it’s impossible to say what kind of dose he was originally given, but at the time of death, there were only traces left. In no way…”
He stroked his chin and squinted at Stubo.
“… enough to harm him. The body had gotten rid of most of it already, unless he was only given a ridiculously small amount. And I can’t imagine what that would be good for.”
“Valium,” said Adam Stubo slowly, as if the word itself held the secret, the explanation as to why a boy of five could just die for no apparent reason.
“Valium,” the pathologist repeated, equally slowly. “Or something else with the same substance.”
“But what is it used for?”
“Used for? You mean: what is diazepam used for?”
For the first time, the pathologist got a slightly irritated look just above his eyes and he glanced over at the clock, openly.
“Surely you know that. Nerves. It’s widely used in hospitals for pre-op purposes. Makes the patient drowsy. Calms them down. Relaxes them. It’s also given to patients with epilepsy to prevent severe convulsions. Both children and adults. Kim didn’t suffer from anything like that.”
“So why would anyone give a five-year-old…”
“I’ll have to stop there for today, Stubo. I’ve actually been working for eleven hours. You’ll get a preliminary report in the morning. The final report won’t be ready for a few weeks. Have to wait for all the results before I can finish it. But, generally speaking…”
He smiled. Had it not been for the expression in his small, close eyes, Stubo might have suspected him of enjoying all this.
“You’ve got a major problem. The boy simply died, just like that. For no apparent reason. And that’s it for today.”
He looked at the clock again, before taking off his white lab coat and putting on a parka that had seen better days. When they were both through the door, he locked it with two keys and then put a friendly hand on Stubo’s shoulder.
“Good luck,” he said drily. “You need it.”
As they passed the autopsy room on the way out, Adam Stubo turned away. Fortunately it was pouring rain outside. He wanted to walk home, even though it would take him well over an hour. It was May 16 and past six o’clock. In the distance he could hear a school band practicing the national anthem, out of time and out of tune.
THIRTEEN
Something had happened. The room seemed lighter. The oppressive feeling of an old-fashioned sickroom was gone. The metal bed had been pushed against the wall and covered with a bright blanket and lots of colorful cushions. Someone had carried in a wing chair. And in it sat a well-dressed Alvhild Sofienberg with her feet on a footstool. Her slippers were just peeking out from underneath a blanket. Someone had managed to breathe something that resembled life into her gray, wispy hair; a soft curl fell onto her forehead.