The muder of Harriet Krohn (2004, Eng trans 2014) by Karin Fossum
By Kathy Blumenstock, The Washington Post
December 28, 2014
A day after leaving the bludgeoned body of Harriet Krohn in her blood-spattered kitchen, Charlo Torp calmly drives to a riding stable and arranges an expensive purchase: a handsome bay gelding, trained in dressage, to be paid for by the sale of Harriet’s heirloom silver. The animal is a peace offering to his teenage daughter, Julie, who grew up watching her father feed grocery money into slot machines. But Charlo is certain he has reformed: paying off those staggering gambling debts with a bundle of cash taken from Harriet, talking his way into a job at the stable, and hoping the horse, named Call Me Crazy, brings Julie into his life again. After all, she has no idea he is a killer.Although billed as one of Karin Fossum’s popular Inspector Sejer mysteries, “The Murder of Harriet Krohn” finds the detective mostly on the periphery; this is Charlo’s story, told from his perspective in a present-tense play-by-play of thoughts, actions and fears. Harriet appears only in the pivotal scene, her fate set when curiosity nudges her to let her guard down and take the door chain off.The novel opens with an impassioned letter written by Charlo to Julie, feverishly explaining and excusing his behavior. He has been a gambling addict, he misses his late wife, he prizes Julie above all else. The cheerless narrative that follows takes Charlo from his plan to rob Harriet through the disastrous reality of the fatal attack and its unnerving aftermath. Like every crook and sneak in history, Charlo rationalizes his crime as a logical way of solving problems, telling himself that “he is doing what he has to do. . . . That’s what he’ll say if they catch him. I had to do it. I saw no other solution; it was a matter of survival.” It’s more a matter of Charlo surviving his delusions. For someone who prides himself on attention to detail — dropping his bloody parka in a dumpster, attributing his windfall to an advance on his mother’s estate, stuffing Harriet’s jewelry in Julie’s old gym bag — he often seems clueless as to how badly he is failing Murder 101. A lavish pastel bouquet, bought as a clever ploy for getting inside Harriet’s home, now stares out from news photos. A fender-bender puts Charlo and his dented red Honda in the wrong place at the worst time. He visits Harriet’s grave, encountering her sharp-eyed neighbor and stammering that he didn’t know the deceased. No wonder his internal musings veer between dread and confidence. “He’s left no clues. He hasn’t, has he? He digests this first little sprouting of hope. He’s the one who’ll get away with it; not everyone gets caught.”
Konrad Sejer, the lead detective on the case, seeks the public’s help in rounding up stray facts that might finger Harriet’s killer. Unaware of its significance to her, Julie points out a line in a news story: Sejer’s career record boasts no unsolved murders. Charlo tries to shake off the sensation of being shadowed and wonders if repeated glimpses of a gray Volvo mean anything. But his cloud of worry lifts a bit as winter melts and Harriet’s murder moves off the front pages. He watches Julie compete in a horse show, thrilled by her expertise in the saddle, and tries not to fret over a recurring physical ailment. Fossum depicts Charlo as an unsympathetic, whiny man who thinks he wants to be good. He is earnest, detached from his wicked deed, and even blames Harriet for causing her own murder, casting himself as a victim of circumstance: “You got in my way; you scared me with all your screeching. . . . This has marked me for life, you know. . . . It mustn’t be allowed to destroy me; it’s bad enough as it is.” Fans of previous Sejer novels may be disappointed to find the inspector without a bigger role, and the book’s pace is slower than that of a classic police procedural. But Sejer’s skill in dealing with the surly Charlo is tantalizing to observe. Can Charlo’s endless loop of justification and denial enable him to get away with this murder? Fossum’s descriptive prose is a reminder, for criminals and readers alike, that the details that damn us are likely to be the ones that escaped us.
