Postgiro u200bu200bbuilding
Essential
Pokerface (Extra Spor)
My assistant police officer Roger Hansen and I found him lying with his head on the desk.
Don't touch anything, I said, aiming at the weapon the dead man held in his left hand.
Left-handed.
The blood had hardened like glue.
Red-brown glue.
Roger smelled it, but it smelled nothing.
We exchanged an understanding look.
Suicide I said and Roger nodded.
The phone went off, he must have been talking to someone.
Thrown across the floor, I found five cards with advertisements for Colgate zero cavity toothpaste on the back.
I put on my gloves and laid the cards out on the table.
Full house.
No, it's just us here, said Roger.
He didn't understand poker.
The cards Roger, the cards.
I got a very good idea.
Of course it was my idea.
Roger did not understand quality-conscious police work, or poker for that matter.
He doesn't exactly have a poker face like I do.
I could give the last little finger joint for a Havana, a double Jameson,
a medium raw brisket from the Thompson casserole and a game of poker right now.
But I dream.
Telverket provided the information I had expected.
The deceased's last number called was an open poker line for up to five participants.
Middle-aged, lonely heroes on their way out into the sunset.
I shook my head, took a good hold of his hair and lifted his face up from the desk,
and by that I mean the face.
The bullet had entered the left temple and exited through the right eye.
Parts of the face were gone, yet I saw it.
The harmonious masculine features and the harmonious composition of the muscles.
Every opponent's nightmare.
He had it.
He had the poker face.
Just such a shame that none of the opponents on the 820 number got to see it, or feel it on their body.
Poor bastard.
He should have realized that all the others must have cheated.
Poor gullible bastard.

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