“There you are,” he said, as Søren entered.
Søren took a seat and Bøje glanced at him. Then he looked down at a sheet with indecipherable hieroglyphs and up at Søren again. He rolled his lips and tapped the table once with his finger.
“Today I performed an autopsy on one Lars Helland,” he began.
“And?” Søren wished he could extract the information from Bøje now and absorb it later at his own pace.
“He died from heart failure,” Bøje went on, and nodded. Søren nodded back. It was what he had expected.
“And his tongue?”
“He bit it off himself. His heart failed after a series of violent epileptic seizures and because no one was there to put a splint in his mouth, his tongue bore the brunt of the fits.”
“Right, okay, I might as well get going then,” Søren said, getting up and letting him know through his facial expression he was annoyed at having been summoned to the hospital.
“In theory, yes,” Bøje shrugged. “Unless I can interest you in a charming detail which, in all likelihood, induced the seizures?”
Søren sat down again. Bøje peered at Søren over the rim of his reading glasses.
“It was an agonizing death, Søren,” he then said. “It’s not uncommon for the tongue or the lips to be bitten through in places, but I have never come across a case where the tongue was severed.”
“I think your memory is faulty. There was the Lejre case and that one from Amager,” Søren objected.
“Yes, but in those two cases—actually I know of three, but never mind,” Bøje glanced at Søren. “In each severed-tongue case, other instruments were involved. It requires huge force to bite off a tongue. It isn’t something you just decide to do,” he said emphatically, and then his expression softened.
“And as it doesn’t look like anyone was directly involved in Helland’s death, it’s my theory he experienced extreme convulsions which led, among other things, to the severing of his tongue and heart failure shortly afterward. There is no doubt that Lars Helland died a brutal and painful death.” Bøje was looking urgently at Søren now.
“But, Søren Marhauge, my friend,” he said, amicably. “That’s nothing compared to the hellish agony he must have suffered while he was alive.” A sincere and almost naked horror briefly revealed itself in Bøje’s eyes, before he managed to herd his feelings back into their box.
“What do you mean?” Søren asked.
“He’s riddled with bugs,” Bøje said.
“Bugs?”
“Parasites of some sort, but I’m a forensic examiner, not a parasitologist, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve been unable to identify the little devils. All I can tell you is they are everywhere in his tissue. The strongest concentration is found in his muscles and central nervous system. It’s unbelievable. For example, his brain is filled with encysted organic… growths. Do you understand what I’m saying? A parasite of some kind. I’ve sent samples to the chief medical officer at the Serum Institute, obviously. We’ll know what we’re dealing with tomorrow.”
Søren was speechless.
“Yes, that’s exactly how I felt when I realized what the poor man had been through. I can’t imagine how he was able to function on a daily basis.”
“Where do they come from?” Søren asked eventually.
“I don’t know.”
“But is this normal?” Søren wanted to know. He had never heard about parasites in human tissue before. A tapeworm, yes, threadworm, giardiasis, bilharziasis even, he had heard of, and he knew the latter was widespread in the Third World, but they were unwanted guests in the stomach, the intestines and, possibly, in the blood, but not in actual human tissue. It was the most disgusting thing he had ever heard.
“I don’t know,” Bøje repeated. “Like I said, I’m no parasitologist.”
“How many of them would you estimate he had in him?” Søren asked.
Bøje picked up his sheet.
“Around 2,600 in total, spread across nerve, muscle, and connective tissue… a relatively high concentration in his brain…” Søren held up his hand.
“. . . and one in his eye,” Bøje said. “It was visible.”
Søren shook his head in disbelief. “Listen,” he said. “Are you saying Professor Helland didn’t die from natural causes?”
“Again I’m tempted to take a pass on guessing,” Bøje said gravely. “On the one hand, his death is exceedingly natural. His system collapsed, and it was exclusively down to his superb physical condition and strong constitution that it didn’t happen much sooner. And like I said: I don’t know enough about parasites to be specific, but if I can speak off the record, my immediate and most pressing concern is obviously: how did the little devils get into him?” Bøje narrowed one eye.
“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.