“See what?”
“The spot. The playground.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea at all,” Ulrika said. “It’s best for us to stay as far away from everything as we can.”
Instead I looked around on the internet.
Thus far there was only limited information about the murder, but it was clearly only a matter of time, probably just hours, before people would be posting about it in forums, before it would be chatter on social media. Stella would in all certainty be stamped as guilty. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, people would say. The gossip would be extra delicious given that a pastor’s daughter was involved.
The power to condemn belongs to the people, no matter the opinion of the legal system, and the court of popular opinion hardly has the same evidentiary requirements as a court of law. I have only to look at myself. How many times have I felt doubt when a suspect is freed for lack of evidence?
I kept googling, but words and images were not enough. I needed to see it with my own eyes, stand at the center of it.
* * *
I didn’t tell Ulrika where I was going. She seemed so certain that Stella had nothing to do with what had happened. I climbed into the car with my chest constricting.
My phone rang when I was halfway into town; the screen told me it was Dino.
“The police questioned Amina. I’m not happy that she is being dragged into this.”
His words came quickly, and there was an unusual harshness to his voice.
“What did they ask about?” I wondered aloud, but Dino wasn’t listening.
“What if word gets out at the medical school that Amina is involved in a murder investigation? That won’t look good.”
“Dino, stop! My daughter is suspected of murder! Amina isn’t the one we should be feeling sorry for here.”
He abruptly fell silent.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry, I just don’t want anything bad to happen to Amina because of something … something she has nothing to do with.”
Naturally, he didn’t mean any offense. Tact and discretion are not Dino’s strong suits. I can’t even count all the times I’ve had to smooth things over after one of his hasty reactions or harangues on the handball court. But this time I was under stress as well. To say the least.
“So do you believe Stella had something to do with it?” I asked.
“Of course not, but we’re talking about medical school here. Amina doesn’t know a thing about what happened last Friday.”
“But Stella doesn’t either, does she?”
“It’s just so typical, that this would happen now. It’s not like this is the first time Amina has gotten into trouble because of…”
He never completed that sentence. He didn’t need to. I hung up on him with a trembling index finger.
I stopped the car outside the Ball House and walked the last little bit. I found the playground behind a hedge alongside the allotment gardens. All that was left of the police barrier was a forgotten scrap of blue-and-white tape tied to a lamppost. Inside the playground, a girl full of bubbling laughter had pumped her swing so high that one shoe had flown off. Her dad was nearby, his arms outstretched before the slide, where the girl’s little brother was hesitating before taking the plunge.
A memorial had been set up along the hedge behind them. Candles, roses and lilies, photographs and cards bearing final greetings. Someone had written the word WHY? in capital letters, in red on a black background.
The girl made a flying leap from the swing, grabbed her shoe, and put it back on her foot all in one movement; she rocketed for her father with a joyful shout.
“Shhh,” he whispered, glancing my way.
I stood with my head bowed before the flowers and candles and said a short prayer for Christopher Olsen.
I had only seen his face on my computer and phone screens, a few photographs from an article and a corporate presentation. Now I saw him for the first time in a different way, in the context of a private life, as a human being of flesh and blood, a person whom others missed and grieved. In the largest portrait, he was looking into the camera with sparkling eyes and a smile that seemed a blend of happiness and surprise, as if he had been startled by the photographer. Death is seldom so tangible as when you can see how alive a person once was.
I was overwhelmed by a brutal feeling of helplessness. Everything felt so hopelessly terrible. A young man, a stranger, had been robbed of his life here in the crunching gravel. There were still signs of blood.
How could anyone believe for even a second that Stella could have been involved? I looked at the pictures of Christopher Olsen. An obviously attractive young man with happy eyes full of promise for the future. This was a senseless tragedy.