young woman whose attractiveness was enhanced by the charming manner in which she bit her lower lip at the end of each sentence. “Would you like a refund or do you want to exchange them?”
“Exchange please. I need the ones that are two inches taller.”
A telephone call to the right department produced the desired set of candle holders.
“These new ones are more expensive,” she said before biting her lower lip. “Twenty percent more. Is that all right?”
“Yes.”
Sohlberg paid the balance for the new set of candle holders.
“Can you please hold them until I come back from my lunch appointment?”
“Yes,” she cooed enthusiastically as she stared right past Sohlberg at her next client who just happened to be a handsome young man who could have walked straight out of photo shoot for Armani or Ralph Lauren Polo or some other impossibly expensive brand hawked by impossibly good-looking people.
“Thank you,” said Sohlberg who was greatly satisfied that he was an invisible nonentity to her and everyone else around him. He was the cellophane man. That’s the way he wanted it. That’s the one-man show that he worked hard to produce every day. To be seen and yet not seen. To be seen as a non-threatening nonentity who can earn the suspect’s trust. That’s how Sohlberg got close to his suspects and deep inside their minds. That’s how he got them talking. Arguing. Sharing. Bragging. Explaining. Dismissing. Confessing.
The cloudless day threw a harsh Arctic sunlight on the people and buildings on the street. The majority of pedestrians frowned at the intense sub-zero cold. But Sohlberg was beaming. His return expedition to Hansen & Dysvik and the candle holder re-purchase served three purposes in the most discrete and effective manner.
First: the return trip and the re-purchase gave him a legitimate and credible excuse to be back in the area.
Second: the return trip and the repurchase allowed him to carefully and discretely check if he was being followed.
Third: the H&D shopping bag and credit card receipts enhanced the credibility of his cover story if he ever needed to use the story especially if he needed the story when he returned to the Zoo later that afternoon with the shopping bag.
Sohlberg walked along Apotekergata. The street swarmed with human bears and seals and walruses bundled in enormous coats and hats and gloves and mufflers to ward off the sub-zero weather. Sohlberg blended perfectly into the crowd.
He was everyman and forgettable. Within seconds of seeing him no one would remember him: a see-through nobody.
Faceless.
He was the ultimate nonentity of a boring and timid low-level bureaucrat. He wore unassuming clothes of faded or fraying or stained polyester blends and other fabrics and accessories befitting the discount store patron.
In the eyes of most people he passed for one of life’s losers. Sohlberg also passed for one of those cowered employees who are soon to be fired in a round of layoffs. He looked like the typical target of corporate cost-cutting measures in the business world. His meek and bland appearance matched that of the many victims of corporate measures to trim off older and more experienced employees who must be sacrificed on the altar of Cash Flow and Free Trade.
All this was Sohlberg’s public and official persona —a purposeful put-on show. He had learned the act from his mentor: Chief Inspector Lars Eliassen—a man who could and did get deep inside a suspect’s mind long before the suspect could put up any mental defenses to a line of carefully-planned questions.
The biting December weather was as warm and appealing as a rabid pit bull. Sohlberg nevertheless took a long stroll down Apotekergata towards Kristian Augusts gate. Most of the buildings along Apotekergata had big windows on the ground floor. The windows allowed Sohlberg repeated opportunities to stop and pretend to
“Exchange please. I need the ones that are two inches taller.”
A telephone call to the right department produced the desired set of candle holders.
“These new ones are more expensive,” she said before biting her lower lip. “Twenty percent more. Is that all right?”
“Yes.”
Sohlberg paid the balance for the new set of candle holders.
“Can you please hold them until I come back from my lunch appointment?”
“Yes,” she cooed enthusiastically as she stared right past Sohlberg at her next client who just happened to be a handsome young man who could have walked straight out of photo shoot for Armani or Ralph Lauren Polo or some other impossibly expensive brand hawked by impossibly good-looking people.
“Thank you,” said Sohlberg who was greatly satisfied that he was an invisible nonentity to her and everyone else around him. He was the cellophane man. That’s the way he wanted it. That’s the one-man show that he worked hard to produce every day. To be seen and yet not seen. To be seen as a non-threatening nonentity who can earn the suspect’s trust. That’s how Sohlberg got close to his suspects and deep inside their minds. That’s how he got them talking. Arguing. Sharing. Bragging. Explaining. Dismissing. Confessing.
The cloudless day threw a harsh Arctic sunlight on the people and buildings on the street. The majority of pedestrians frowned at the intense sub-zero cold. But Sohlberg was beaming. His return expedition to Hansen & Dysvik and the candle holder re-purchase served three purposes in the most discrete and effective manner.
First: the return trip and the re-purchase gave him a legitimate and credible excuse to be back in the area.
Second: the return trip and the repurchase allowed him to carefully and discretely check if he was being followed.
Third: the H&D shopping bag and credit card receipts enhanced the credibility of his cover story if he ever needed to use the story especially if he needed the story when he returned to the Zoo later that afternoon with the shopping bag.
Sohlberg walked along Apotekergata. The street swarmed with human bears and seals and walruses bundled in enormous coats and hats and gloves and mufflers to ward off the sub-zero weather. Sohlberg blended perfectly into the crowd.
He was everyman and forgettable. Within seconds of seeing him no one would remember him: a see-through nobody.
Faceless.
He was the ultimate nonentity of a boring and timid low-level bureaucrat. He wore unassuming clothes of faded or fraying or stained polyester blends and other fabrics and accessories befitting the discount store patron.
In the eyes of most people he passed for one of life’s losers. Sohlberg also passed for one of those cowered employees who are soon to be fired in a round of layoffs. He looked like the typical target of corporate cost-cutting measures in the business world. His meek and bland appearance matched that of the many victims of corporate measures to trim off older and more experienced employees who must be sacrificed on the altar of Cash Flow and Free Trade.
All this was Sohlberg’s public and official persona —a purposeful put-on show. He had learned the act from his mentor: Chief Inspector Lars Eliassen—a man who could and did get deep inside a suspect’s mind long before the suspect could put up any mental defenses to a line of carefully-planned questions.
The biting December weather was as warm and appealing as a rabid pit bull. Sohlberg nevertheless took a long stroll down Apotekergata towards Kristian Augusts gate. Most of the buildings along Apotekergata had big windows on the ground floor. The windows allowed Sohlberg repeated opportunities to stop and pretend to
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