The Beast from Bjerkås

The Beast from Bjerkås is Konrad Sejer’s name for the prankster whose campaign of intimidation he believes will continue. The expression begins as an investigator’s interpretation of a wolverine image and becomes a nickname circulated by the press and the public. Its movement from animal description to human label captures a central tension in the investigation: Sejer is trying to understand a pattern, while the community’s appetite for a memorable culprit can make a suggestive name feel like a settled identity.

From postcard to animal portrait

The name’s starting point is a small, inexpensive picture postcard with a glossy finish that Sejer finds on his doormat. Fascinated by its wolverine image, he consults the thirteen-volume 1984 encyclopedia by Aschehoug and Gyldendal, locating the entry on page 495. The reading gives the image a concrete natural history: the wolverine is a solitary, muscular animal, black-brown with a yellowish stripe, and roughly as tall as a gun dog. It inhabits mountainous regions, though the encyclopedia notes researchers’ belief that it originally lived in forests.

The description also gives Sejer a vocabulary of behavior. The wolverine is characterized as a sly, sharp hunter; its prey varies with the seasons, from reindeer in winter to sheep and smaller animals in summer. Females produce an average litter of two to three in February or March, often in a snowdrift against a low mountain wall, and the encyclopedia reports that numbers were estimated at 150 in 1964. In southern Norway, it was classified as endangered as far north as South Trøndelag. After reading, Sejer studies the photograph closely. He wonders whether its subject is the kind of figure the person behind the attacks wants to resemble: rare, endangered, and dangerous. The name thus carries both threat and vulnerability from its first appearance.

Sejer’s working theory

Sejer turns the animal image into an investigative hypothesis rather than merely an evocative label. While eating a meatball and looking over Lake Skarve, he tells Jacob Skarre that there will be more attacks and that they are dealing with a beast of prey. The prediction makes the metaphor practical: the pattern is not over, and the person responsible is being approached as a hunter whose next action must be anticipated.

Later, after reading Lily Sundelin’s account of the day, Sejer notes that Karsten Sundelin heard a sound that could have been a moped in the grove behind their house, near a trail to Askeland. Sejer decides to investigate alone. Thinking of the name, he calls the figure “The Beast from Bjerkås” and adds, “You’d like that name.” The remark connects his theory to the presumed culprit’s desire for recognition: the title is not only an image of menace but potentially a flattering role for someone who wants to be noticed. Sejer drives to Askeland, though the trail leading to Bjerketun proves difficult to find. The name sharpens the search, but it does not itself establish who made each attack.

A nickname becomes a public role

When the fake obituary is discussed, Jacob Skarre imagines the horror, dread, and bewilderment he would feel if his own death were announced in the newspaper. He also considers the shock to everyone who knew him. Asked whether the Wolverine has been on the prowl, Sejer confirms the identification and calls him “The Beast from Bjerkås,” remarking on the name’s originality. He then offers a tentative account of motive: the prankster may be deprived of experience and companionship and may want attention, or simply “to make things happen.” This is Sejer’s interpretation, not a proven explanation of every act.

By late summer, the nickname has spread among editorial staff and the general public, with people inventing audacious alternatives. Johnny Beskow hears others talking about him and is delighted by the attention. He thinks he has finally made something of himself and that people are being forced to acknowledge him; he intends to continue the game. Riding Johnny’s red Suzuki moped, he watches ordinary scenes in gardens and driveways, finding pleasure in the life around him while also wanting to destroy it. The contrast gives the predator image a disturbing human counterpart: the threat is directed not at wilderness but at the everyday security of neighbors.

Suspicion, harm, and the limits of the label

The name continues to shape how later events are interpreted. After the fatal dog attack, Gunilla Mørk rejects Bjørn Schillinger’s claim that the incident was sabotage. She recalls the prankster’s weeks of mockery as creative and stylish, and keeps her own obituary in a small silver frame, reading it each morning with the thought that she is still alive. Meanwhile, suspicion itself has become consequential: Nihmet Skarning observes that the prankster has been blamed for one strange thing after another, while Sverre Skarning insists that Bjørn’s long care for his dogs makes the accusation of a carelessly left gate implausible. The language of the beast can organize fear, but it can also blur the distinction between a proven act and a rumor attached to a notorious name.

Johnny’s later conversations with Sejer bring that distinction into focus. Because Johnny is a minor, he cannot be held in custody; he must report to the police station three times a week, and he arrives on time before speaking with Sejer over mineral water. He admits that frightening people was fun and calls the campaign a game, while insisting he did not mean to hurt anyone. Sejer answers that people were hurt badly and may carry that harm for life. The title’s dramatic force therefore exceeds Johnny’s own description of his intention: the figure celebrated as a clever predator is also responsible for real distress. As a name, The Beast from Bjerkås tracks that gap between the thrill of being seen and the consequences imposed on those who become its targets.