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charge of African genital mutilation cases. The police rounded up the usual suspects that winter. One excellent suspect emerged. But the Politically Correct prosecutor assigned to the murder refused to charge anyone. The prosecutor found a convenient lack of evidence that protected his political reputation for sensitivity to minorities. Of course no one challenged his insensitivity to the murdered victim or her family which had to bury her in a closed casket.
     
    At exactly 2:30 P.M. the craggy-faced Petra Sivertsen walked in and sat in front of Sohlberg. Both ordered fiskesuppe and brød—fish soup and bread—after exchanging Merry Christmas! greetings.
     
    “Thanks for coming over to meet me.”
     
    “No problem,” said the vacationing Executive Assistant who looked as if she meant it. “I needed to come to downtown to shop for some Christmas gifts. See? . . . I’ve got my bag right here of Santa’s goodies in case anyone sees us together.”
     
    “Very convincing. Can I reimburse you?”
     
    “No. No. I really had to buy this stuff. I’ll keep the receipts to prove my purchases.”
     
    “Thank you.”
     
    “And when I go back to work I’ll make sure the right gossips at the office hear about my finding lovely gifts on such great rabatt . . . such excellent discount sales . . . at the Steen and Strøm shopping center on Nedre Slottsgate. And . . . of course I just happened to stop off at the Munkegata station to have a snack here before heading back home on the Number Eighteen tram which . . . by the way . . . is also the line you take home . . . right?”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “And if anyone does ask later on I will tell them what a pleasant coincidence and surprise it was to meet you here at the old watering hole.”
     
    “I appreciate you helping me Fru Sivertsen.”
     
    “My boy . . . you were the only one from the Zoo who came to visit me when I was sick two years ago . . . you and Heidi . . . the clerk in Evidence.”
     
    “I was worried about you.”
     
    “Thank you. It meant a lot to me. Imagine . . . almost forty-two years of service and no one came to visit me from the Zoo . . . not my boss or any of the detectives from Homicide came to visit me at the hospital . . . or at my home when I was recovering. You . . . my Solly wonderful boy . . . came to the hospital God knows how many times . . . and you later came to help me with house chores at home.”
     
    “It was my pleasure . . . an honor.”
     
    “Yes. But not everyone respects . . . or helps . . . an old widow like me. I know I get smiles and little office gifts from all my boys and girls because I’m useful . But I know my place at the Zoo. I’m a nobody . . . an insignificant replaceable and expendable employee.”
     
    “That’s not why I visited you Fru Sivertsen.”
     
     “I know. You too lost your soul mate . . . just like me. You know what it’s like to be shipwrecked by death on that lonely and invisible island of pain in an ocean of grief.”
     
    “True.”
     
    “Now my boy . . . what can I do for you? . . . Why all this hush-hush spy-like business?”
     
    “I’m interested in getting my hands on a homicide case file that’s considered closed. I have yet to find out where old homicide case files wind up. So . . . where are old homicide files stored?”
     
    “My Solly boy . . . homicide files get stored in different locations based on the age of the case and whether an appeal is pending before the courts. Eventually all murder case files get moved to the National Archives if more than four years have passed since the case was solved or closed or if all normal appeals have been exhausted after someone has been convicted. Now . . . why do you ask?”
     
    “I’m interested in an old case.”
     
    “Why?”
     
    “Because I understand something was wrong with—”
     
    “Wait. Are you still interested in that triple homicide?”
     
    “No no. Actually it’s the Janne Eide case.”
     
    “Oh good!