The Dinosaur Feather(50)

“A disturbing thought,” he went on. “On the other hand, Helland was a biologist, and who knew what he was up to? Perhaps it was a work-related injury? Perhaps he knocked over a dish in his lab?”

“The man was an ornithologist,” Søren objected.

“The source of the infection could be birds. It’s pure guesswork for my part, and I don’t enjoy that, but we have a distinguished expert, Dr. Bjerregaard, on parasitology at the Serum Institute and I’ve already spoken to her. She promised me she would embed the samples in paraffin, slice them before going home today and examine them first thing tomorrow morning. At twelve noon we’ll have the answer. And then there is Professor Moritzen at the College of Natural Science. She’s one of the world’s leading parasitologists and worked for years in South America and Indonesia, which have huge parasite problems. She’s definitely the right person to talk to. She can explain to you how all these little critters ended up inside Lars Helland.” Bøje paused, then he held up his index finger.

“Meanwhile, I have some more fascinating information to share with you. Lars Helland had a fair number of recent fractures that were left to heal by themselves; not a pretty sight in some places. He had broken three fingers on his left hand, two on his right and two toes on his right foot within the last six months. Further, he had scarring on his scalp from violent seizures and two minor hematoma in his brain, neither of them in a dangerous location, but they’re there.”

Bøje had been hunched over his papers, now he looked up at Søren. “I can also tell you he has had brain surgery, eight to ten years ago? Not that it matters and, apart from the two hematoma, there is no sign of brain disease. I just thought I would mention it. Now, about the fractures. I called a colleague of mine in the ER and asked him to check their records. He owed me a favor and, yes, I do know it’s illegal.” Bøje raised his hand to preempt Søren’s objection. “Helland never visited the ER in the last year. Not once. Obviously, he might have seen his own doctor, you’ll have to check that, but he definitely never went to the ER here, even though several of his injuries would require immediate medical assistance. The damage resembles those of victims of domestic violence, women who are too scared to see a doctor because they know it would mean a week in jail for the husband. If Helland’s body hadn’t been crawling with parasites, I would have suggested he might have been abused. Now, of course, my guess is the fractures are connected to the parasites. Why he was never patched up is a different story altogether . . .” Bøje gave Søren a knowing look as if to say that was Søren’s department.

“Could his injuries alone have killed him?”

“No,” Bøje said. “Lars Helland died from 2,600 uninvited organic growths in his tissue. I’m 100-percent sure.”

Søren’s knees wobbled as he stood up.


After his visit to the hospital, Søren drove home as though the devil was on his back. The sky had been gray and heavy all day, but while Søren had been in the basement with Bøje, patches of blue had broken through and the temperature had dropped. Søren rolled down the window and felt the sharp air against his face.

What the hell just happened?

He pulled behind a truck and reduced his speed.

Easy now.

Once he got home, he cooked dinner and sat down to eat. Suddenly, he felt crawling and prickling underneath his clothes. His groin itched, and after he wolfed down his food he took a shower. His cheek tingled, and so he shaved. Finally, he tried to check himself for head lice and spent ages staring at his big toenail. Did he have a fungal infection? How had those ghastly creepy-crawlies entered that poor man? He couldn’t come up with a single explanation. Had Helland eaten one of them? How had it multiplied? Had it reproduced once it was inside him? Was it airborne? Or in the drinking water? He paced up and down the living room. Then he fetched a beer and told himself to give it a rest.


Early the following morning, Søren drove to Copenhagen, bursting with pent-up energy. From the car he called Helland’s widow, Birgit. He got the answering machine. He asked her to call him as soon as possible. Then he called his secretary and asked her to find the number for Professor Moritzen, a parasitologist at the University of Copenhagen. He liked making Linda laugh, but this morning he failed. She called him back three minutes later. He had to move to the slow lane to write down the number and hoped none of his more officious colleagues were around. He called Professor Moritzen and pulled back into the fast lane.