“I know what we’re all thinking,” he said, “but you also know that we need to do this in the right order. No leaks to the media, is that understood? We can’t risk the family finding out too soon.” He stood up. “All right, let’s get to it!”

The crew started getting up to exchange relevant names and other information. The phone on the table in front of Jeppe rang. He looked at the number on the screen. Pathology.

“Kørner speaking.”

“Nyboe here.” This introduction was followed by a sigh and, for Nyboe, an extremely uncharacteristic pause. “I have bad news. Or good. It depends on how you look at it.”

“Let’s hear it.” The conversation around Jeppe faded away as if Nyboe’s serious tone on the other end of the line could be felt in the room.

“We’ve had a look at him. Look, Kørner, you’ve got the body of a dyscrinic man on the table, i.e., small in stature… you know, a young man who isn’t producing a lot of sex hormones. In the old days people would incorrectly use the derogatory term hermaphrodite…”

“Nyboe, what are you trying to tell me?” Jeppe felt his colleagues’ eyes on him.

“What I’m trying to tell you is that the deceased is not Oscar Dreyer-Hoff.”

“What?!”

“It’s not a boy at all, but a grown man in his twenties, slight of build and underdeveloped in terms of his—”

“But,” Jeppe heard his own voice, like an echo, “if it’s not Oscar, then who is it?”

The team fidgeted uneasily. Jeppe turned his back to them.

“My forensic chemist found his fingerprint in the system.” Nyboe rustled some paper. “He filled out one of those background forms that people who work with kids have to sign. You know, to make sure they’re not pedophiles. The deceased was a schoolteacher, a guy named Malthe Sæther.”

CHAPTER 14

He really did look very young, the man on the stainless steel table. Skinny, smooth cheeks, and thick, dark hair. His head lay at an odd angle, and his legs were bent in a fetal position. There was a dirty sneaker on one foot, otherwise he was naked. Scratches and bruises competed with purple livor mortis on the body, and his skin had a faint greenish tint.

“How old did you say he was?” Anette asked, leaning in over the inert form of Oscar Dreyer-Hoff’s Danish teacher.

“Twenty-seven. But his physique is almost like a teenager’s. See the narrow chin and the underdeveloped Adam’s apple? Clear signs of a low testosterone level.” Professor Nyboe sounded defensive. Anette knew he didn’t like to be wrong.

“Don’t touch him. The skin might come off!” Nyboe warned.

Anette pulled back. She thought she detected a taunting twinkle in Nyboe’s eyes, but it was gone again before she could be sure.