“Well. The intestine is almost empty, remains of eggs and coffee, the rectum is full. He suffered, if that isn’t too strong a word, from constipation. Not uncommon at that age. No-one has claimed the body, I understand, so we’ve applied for permission to use it for teaching purposes. How does that grab you?”
“So he’s more use dead than alive.”
The pathologist looked at Erlendur, walked up to a table, took a red slice of meat from a metal tray and held it up with one hand.
“I can’t tell whether people were good or bad,” he said. “This could just as easily be the heart of a saint. What we need to find out, if I understand you correctly, is whether it pumped bad blood.”
Erlendur looked in astonishment at the pathologist holding Holberg’s heart and examining it. Watched him handling the dead muscle as if nothing could be more natural in the world.
“It’s a strong heart,” the pathologist went on. “It could have gone on pumping for a good few years, could have taken its owner past a hundred.”
The pathologist put the heart back on the metal tray.
“There’s something quite interesting about this Holberg, though I haven’t examined him particularly in that respect. You probably want me to. He has various mild symptoms of a specific disease. I found a small tumour in his brain, a benign tumour which would have troubled him a little, and there’s cafe au lait on his skin, especially here under his arms.”
“ Cafe au lait?” Erlendur said.
“ Cafe au laitis what it’s called in the textbooks. It looks like coffee stains. Do you know anything about it?”
“Nothing at all.”
“I’ll undoubtedly find more symptoms when I look at him more closely.”
“There was talk of cafe au lait on the girl. She developed a brain tumour. Malignant. Do you know what the disease is?”
“I can’t say anything about it yet.”
“Are we talking about a genetic disease?”
“I don’t know.”
The pathologist went over to the table where Audur lay.
“Have you heard the story about Einstein?” he asked.
“Einstein?” Erlendur said.
“Albert Einstein.”
“What story?”
“A weird story. True. Thomas Harvey? Never heard of him? A pathologist.”
“No.”
“He was on duty when Einstein died,” the pathologist continued. “A curious chap. Performed the autopsy, but because it was Einstein he couldn’t resist and opened up his head and looked at the brain. And he did more than that. He stole Einstein’s brain.”
Erlendur said nothing. He couldn’t make head or tail of what the pathologist was talking about.
“He took it home. That strange urge to collect things that some people have, especially when famous people are involved. Harvey lost his job when the theft was discovered and over the years he became a mysterious figure, a legend really. All kinds of stories circulated about him. He always kept the brain in his house. I don’t know how he got away with it. Einstein’s relatives were always trying to recover the brain from him, but in vain. Eventually in his old age he made his peace with the relatives and decided to return the brain to them. Put it in the boot of his car and drove right across America to Einstein’s grandchild in California.”
“Is this true?”
“True as daylight.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Erlendur asked.
The pathologist lifted up the sheet from the child’s body and looked underneath it.
“Her brain’s missing,” he said, and the look of nonchalance vanished from his face.
“What?”
“The brain,” the pathologist said, “isn’t where it belongs.”
22
Erlendur didn’t immediately understand what the pathologist had said and looked at him as if he hadn’t heard. He couldn’t fathom what he was talking about. For a moment he looked down at the body, then looked up quickly again when he saw a bone from a little hand protruding from beneath the sheet. He didn’t think he could handle the image of what was lying underneath it. He didn’t want to know what the girl’s earthly remains looked like. Didn’t want that image to appear every time he thought about her.
“She’s been opened up before,” the pathologist said.
“Is the brain missing?” Erlendur groaned.
“An autopsy was performed before.”
“Yes, at Keflavik hospital.”
“When did she die?”
“1968,” Erlendur said.
“And, if I understand correctly, Holberg was her father, but they didn’t live together, her parents?”
“The girl only had her mother.”
“Was permission given to use her organs for research purposes?” the pathologist continued. “Do you know about that at all? Did the mother give her permission?”
“She wouldn’t have done,” Erlendur said.
“It could have been taken without her permission. Who was looking after her when she died? Who was her doctor?”
Erlendur named Frank. The pathologist was silent for a while.
“I can’t say that I’m entirely unfamiliar with such incidents. Relatives are sometimes asked whether organs may be removed for research purposes. All in the name of science, of course. We need that. For teaching, too. I know of instances when, if there is no next of kin, certain organs are removed for research before the body is buried. But I don’t know many cases of organs being stolen outright when the relatives have been consulted.”
“How could the brain be missing?” Erlendur went on asking.
“The head’s been sawn in half and it was removed in one piece.”
“No, I mean…”
“A neat job,” the pathologist continued. “A skilled person at work. You cut through the spinal cord, through the neck from the rear here and take the brain out.”
“I know the brain was studied in connection with a tumour,” Erlendur said. “Do you mean that it wasn’t put back?”
“That’s one explanation,” the pathologist said, covering up the body. “If they removed the brain to study it they would hardly have been able to return it in time for the funeral. It needs to be fixed.”
“Fixed?”
“To make it better to work on. It turns like cheese. Brains take a while to fix.”
“Wouldn’t it have been enough just to take samples?”
“I don’t know,” the pathologist said. “All I know is that the brain isn’t in place, which makes it difficult to determine the cause of death. Maybe we can see with DNA tests on the bones. That could tell us something.”
There was no mistaking the look of astonishment on Frank’s face when he opened the door and saw Erlendur standing on the steps again in a torrential downpour.
“We exhumed the girl", Erlendur said without any preamble, “and the brain’s missing. Do you know anything about it?”
“Exhumed her? The brain?” the doctor said and showed Erlendur into his office. “What do you mean, the brain’s missing?”
“What I say. The brain’s been removed. Probably to study it in connection with the cause of death, but it wasn’t returned. You were her doctor. Do you know what happened? Do you know anything about the matter?”
“I was her general practitioner, as I think I explained to you the last time you came. She was under the supervision of Keflavik hospital and the doctors there.”
“The person who performed the autopsy is dead. We were given a copy of his pathologist’s report, which is very curt and mentions only a brain tumour. If he did any more studies of it, there’s no record of them. Wouldn’t it have been enough just to take samples? Did they need to remove the whole brain?”
The doctor shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He hesitated for a moment. “Were more organs missing?” he asked.
“More organs?” Erlendur said.
“Besides the brain. Was that all that was missing?”