The Dinosaur Feather(56)

She’s not a happy woman, Søren thought instinctively, and felt sad. Anna Bella Nor wasn’t exactly a picture of happiness, either, but she had her rage, and rage, at least, sparked life. Hanne Moritzen had given up, and her defeat had left permanent traces in her dull silver eyes. However, she was articulate, precise, and far more accommodating than Søren had expected after their telephone conversation. She was wearing soft clothes, and her hair was loosely gathered in a ponytail.

Søren tried to explain the situation as best he could. He passed on Dr. Bjerregaard’s best wishes, though she hadn’t asked him to. Hanne Moritzen went pale when Søren summarized the autopsy and mentioned the 2,600 cysticerci, and he noticed how her eyes flickered and her hands trembled slightly before she regained her composure. Søren asked to use the bathroom and when he came back, she had calmed down and gave, without prompting, her opinion on the matter. She was adamant Professor Helland couldn’t have been infected at work accidentally.

“He was a vertebrate morphologist,” she said, as if that explained everything, and then she added: “He hasn’t been in contact with parasites in the course of his work since the obligatory introduction to parasitology at the start of his degree in the 1970s. It’s a highly specialized field, and Lars Helland went completely in the opposite direction. Parasitology and vertebrate morphology are about as far removed from each other as psychiatry and orthopedic surgery.”

In the next half hour Professor Moritzen confirmed all of Dr. Bjerregaard’s hypotheses.

“The last registered case of cysticercosis in Denmark was in 1997,” she informed him. “The patient, a twenty-eight-year-old male, presented with violent skin symptoms after a lengthy stay in Mexico. We soon located nine cysticerci in his subcutaneous tissue and all were surgically removed. And do you know how he was infected? He got caught up between two gangs of boys hurling mud at each other, and the mud hit his mouth. It sounds very unlikely, but it was the only explanation we could come up with. There are plenty of other parasites that are easy for people from Western Europe to pick up, parasites that infect you directly through your skin, through food and drinking water, from unhygienic toilets or sexual transmission. But an actual cysticercus infection is rare, if hygiene levels are generally high. If we’re talking about the tapeworm itself, well, of course, that’s another matter. Raw or undercooked meat is a constant source of infection, and the human penchant for raw meat is, for some inexplicable reason, considerable.”

“So, in your opinion, a natural infection is unlikely?”

“No,” Professor Moritzen said. “A natural infection is the only explanation that is even vaguely possible, but it still remains highly improbable. I just don’t buy that Helland had an accident in his lab.”

“Why not?”

“Because he had no contact with parasites,” she said, emphatically. “There is no living material in his department.”

“Might he have become infected during a visit to the department of parasitology?”

“In theory, yes, but it’s unlikely.”

“Why?”

Professor Moritzen looked directly at Søren.

“Because I’m the head of that department, and I know who comes and goes, what leaves the department, who with, and why. It’s a legal requirement.”

“Dr. Bjerregaard estimated that Helland became infected three to four months ago,” Søren stated, and looked back at her.

“That, too, sounds highly improbable,” she said, locking eyes with him.

“Why?”

“Because it seems very unlikely that anyone could live in that state for several months. Have you ever pricked yourself on a cactus?” she asked. Søren shook his head.

“Its spikes are thin and transparent but scalpel-sharp and they dig deep into the palm of your hand. After just a few hours, they cause irritation and in only a few days each cut turns into an infected abscess. Imagine the same thing occurring in vital tissue. It’s unrealistic, don’t you see?”

Søren nodded.

“But maybe Helland’s an exception?” she suggested. At first, Søren thought she must be joking, but her silver eyes looked gravely at him.

“Perhaps the locations of the cysticerci were such that he could still function? We know from brain tumors that it’s a question of where the pressure is. Some people collapse when the tumor’s the size of a raisin, others are fine until it’s the size of an egg.” She shrugged.

“This has really shocked you,” Søren said, scrutinizing her. “You’re trying to hide it, but I can sense it.”