A Nearly Normal Family(17)

“That’s my little girl!” I shouted right in his face.

The guard glared at my clerical collar in surprise.



* * *



Love is a human’s most difficult task. I wonder if Jesus understood what He was asking of humanity when He urged us to love our neighbor as we love ourselves.

Can you keep loving a murderer?

As I sat there outside the courtroom, during that first detention hearing, the thought grew stronger and stronger. It had tried to force its way into my mind earlier, but this was the first time I dared to linger on it. The thought that Stella might be guilty.

The stains on her blouse. They might be from anything. But why hadn’t anyone seen Stella? Someone who could say where she had been, what she had been doing. There was a gap of several hours on that Friday night. What had she done in that time?

I have sat across from abominable killers and promised them the unconditional love of God. Human love is of a different type. I thought of Paul’s words about love that rejoices when truth wins out, love that is faithful no matter the cost.

For my family. That’s what I was thinking. I have to do whatever it takes for my family. Far too many times I had failed in my endeavors to be the world’s best spouse and father. Suddenly I had the chance to mend my ways. I would do everything I could to protect my family.

By the time the door to the courtroom opened again, my body felt so heavy that Ulrika had to help me up and inside. Before us sat Stella, her face buried in her hands.

Ulrika and I clung to each other like two people drowning in rough seas.

The door closed behind us and the judge’s gaze swept the room.

“Stella Sandell is under reasonable suspicion for murder.”

No parent ever expects to hear their child’s name in that context. No one who has held their child to their chest, all tiny floundering feet and gurgling laughter, could have imagined this. This happens to other people. Not to us.

I held tight to Ulrika’s hand and thought, This isn’t the kind of parents we are. We aren’t substance abusers; we’re academics, high earners. We are in good health, both physically and mentally. We’re not a broken family from a marginalized area with social and economic problems.

We were a perfectly ordinary family. We weren’t supposed to be the ones sitting there. And yet there we were.





17


After the detention hearing, Ulrika and I waited in silence outside Blomberg’s office. I stood up, then sat down, then stood up again. Walked over to the window with a sigh.

“Where is he?”

Ulrika was sitting perfectly still, staring at the wall.

“When can we talk to Stella?” I asked. “It’s inhumane to keep her isolated like this.”

“That’s how it works,” Ulrika said. “She’ll be under restrictions as long as the investigation is ongoing.”

At last Blomberg came bustling in. The orange-peel skin on his cheeks was even redder now. He spoke rapidly, like a wind-up toy.

“I’ve got all my people checking out Christopher Olsen. It turns out he had more than one skeleton in his closet, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

I didn’t, but I was far too curious to speak up.

“Tell us!”

“It’s easy to make enemies as a businessman,” Blomberg said. “But in Olsen’s case, they’re not just any enemies. Apparently he’s found himself in hot water with some Poles whose rap sheets are as long as the Gospels.”

I made a skeptical face. That sounded like something straight out of a bad police procedural.

“It’s about a property Olsen purchased last spring. The Poles have a pizza place on the ground floor, and Olsen was eager to get rid of it. I imagine it didn’t do him any favors when it came to the rent he could have charged.”

“But the method hardly suggests a mafia hit,” Ulrika said.

“Who said anything about the mafia? I’m talking about Polish pizza bakers. But it gets even better.”

I disliked the whole concept. In my world, the police were the ones who handled homicide investigations, not lawyers. What’s more, it didn’t feel at all right to cast suspicion on the victim like this.

“Just six months ago, charges were filed against Christopher Olsen for repeated instances of assault and rape. A preliminary investigation was opened, but after a few months the prosecutor decided to close it due to lack of evidence.” Blomberg paused for effect and eyed us. “The accuser was Olsen’s ex-girlfriend. According to her, Christopher Olsen was a violent tyrant who ruined her life.”

I could see the change in Ulrika as everything brightened.

“She never obtained redress?”

“No,” Blomberg said.

“She may be out for revenge.”

Blomberg nodded.

Ulrika turned to me.

“Do you understand what this means?”



* * *



Blomberg’s plan was to present an alternative perpetrator in order to create reasonable doubt about whether Stella was guilty. The Polish pizza bakers were one option, but Christopher Olsen’s ex-girlfriend seemed to be much more relevant.

“But she might not have anything to do with this,” I said to Ulrika as we sat on the sofa that night, unable to sleep. “Wouldn’t it be better to leave this sort of thing to the police?”