The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

It was definitely a different workday for psychiatrist Kjersti Rødsmoen. And not just because the
sun had made a rare appearance in the Bergen sky and was at this moment shining through the
windows where she was hurrying along a corridor at Haukeland Hospital’s psychiatric department
in Sandviken. The department had changed its name so many times that very few Bergensians knew
that the current official name was Sandviken Hospital. However, a closed ward was, until further
notice, a closed ward while Bergen waited for someone to claim that the terminology was
misleading or at any rate stigmatising.
She was both dreading and looking forward to the imminent session with the patient confined under
the strictest security measures she could ever remember in the department. They had reached
agreement on the ethical boundaries and procedures with Espen Lepsvik from Kripos and Knut
Müller-Nilsen from Bergen Police. The patient was psychotic and could therefore not attend a
police interview. Kjersti was a psychiatrist and entitled to talk to the patient, but with the patient’s
best interests at heart, not in a way that might have the same purpose as police questioning. And
ultimately there was the issue of client confidentiality. Kjersti Rødsmoen would have to assess for
herself whether any information that emerged from the conversation could be construed as having
such great significance for the police that she should take it further. And this information would
have no validity in a court of law anyway as it came from a psychotic person. In short, they were
moving in a legal and ethical minefield where even the slightest slip might have catastrophic
consequences, as everything she did would be scrutinised by the judicial system and the media.
A carer and a uniformed policeman stood outside the door of the consulting room. Kjersti pointed to
the ID card pinned to her white medical coat, and the officer opened the door.
The agreement was that the carer would keep an eye on what was happening in the room and sound
the alarm if necessary.
Kjersti Rødsmoen sat down on the chair and scrutinised the patient. It was hard to imagine that she
represented any danger, this small woman with hair hanging over her face, black stitches where her
torn mouth had been sewn up and wide-open eyes that seemed to be staring with unfathomable
horror at something Kjersti Rødsmoen could not see. Quite the contrary. The woman appeared so
incapable of any action that you had the feeling she would be blown over if you so much as
breathed on her. The fact that this woman had killed people in cold blood was quite simply
inconceivable. But it always was.
‘Hello,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘I’m Kjersti.’
No response.
‘What do you think your problem is?’ she asked.
The question came straight from the manual governing conversations with psychotics. The
alternative was: How do you think I can help you?
Still no response.
‘You’re quite safe in this room. No one will harm you. I won’t hurt you. You’re absolutely safe.’
According to the manual, this solid statement was supposed to reassure the psychotic patient,
because a psychosis is primarily about boundless fear. Kjersti Rødsmoen felt like an air stewardess
running through the safety procedures before take-off. Mechanical, routine. Even on routes crossing