What is Mine by Anne Holt Read Free Book Online Page B

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