Ulrika and I squeezed each other’s hands. Our little girl was just five meters away from us and we weren’t even allowed to touch her.
The prosecutor entered, wearing heels that could be heard from all the way down the hall. Springy steps in expensive clothing, tinkling jewelry around her neck and wrist, the body of a gymnast: short, slim, fit, and bowlegged. Her glasses had square, black frames and her hair was slicked down, not a strand out of place. She arranged her documents in three prim stacks on the table, straightened their edges with her ruby-red nails, and then shook hands with Blomberg and Stella.
I hardly had time to understand that the hearing had begun before the presiding judge ruled that it would take place behind closed doors and a bailiff explained that Ulrika and I needed to leave.
“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.”