Grendel's Game (19 page)

“We should have more information at tomorrow morning's meeting on the other missing men.”

“Good. I'll talk with Malmer and Edvardsson today about whether they want to hold a press conference. I'm going to recommend we have one tomorrow afternoon because I think Grendel's next step will be to go to the media. We need to preempt him.”

Holm left as Ekman picked up the phone to call Malmquist.

“Ludvig, I'm sorry to tell you I'm sending a horrific package,” Ekman said, explaining what had happened.

“My God, you really are dealing with a maniac.”

“I'll also be sending along later today a DNA sample from the parents, so you can see if there's a match.”

“I'll look for it. We'll rush it as much as we can.”

“Thanks, Ludvig. This is going public tomorrow, so be ready for media inquiries.”

“Something to look forward to,” Malmquist said with his usual dry humor. “My only consolation is I know it'll be worse at your end. Good luck, Walther.”

Ekman looked over the memo he'd drafted Saturday. It was already outdated. Sighing, he started to revise it yet again. When he'd finished, he reread it, made new copies, and called Malmer's office.

“Is he in Annika? Yes, I need to see him right away. Okay, I'll be up in fifteen minutes.”

^“
W
hat is it now, Walther?” said Malmer, without bothering to greet him.

Ekman handed him the memo and sat down.

Five minutes later, Malmer looked up, his face drained of color. “What on earth are you going to tell Westberg?”

“The truth. We need a DNA sample from him in case we have his son's body part.”

“There's no way around that?”

“Westberg is an intelligent man. It would be pointless to try to deceive him, especially in view of the press conference I recommend. We'll be very general and not go into details, except to say that a crime has been committed involving Rodger Westberg. I'm going to speak to the father at his office so he can break the news to his wife.”

“You think we should hold a press conference?”

“It's become unavoidable. I believe Grendel will go public. He wants the publicity. We need to do it first.”

“I'll have to speak with the commissioner. If he agrees, we'll both be there, but you'll do most of the talking, of course.”

“Understood,” said Ekman, getting up. If things went wrong, Malmer and the commissioner wanted to be in the background, not out front fielding pointed questions.

“I'll let you know whether the commissioner wants to go ahead. And Walther, for God's sake, be gentle with Westberg.” He paused. “I don't know how you tell a man his son is dead and mutilated. I wouldn't know where to begin.”

“Neither do I,” replied Ekman.

32

Visits

L
ooking up her number, Ekman called Taube. “Has the package gone? Good. Could you please get me a DNA swab kit? Thanks.”

He next called Westberg's office. “It's Walther Ekman. Is Herr Westberg in? He's not free right now? I'd like to meet with him today. Yes, I understand he has a busy schedule. Yes, it's important. All right, I'll be there at two.”

Westberg's secretary was accustomed to running interference. If she'd known why he needed to see Westberg, he'd have gotten in right away. Ekman didn't mind the delay. He would have postponed the meeting forever, if he could have.

It was time to see Edvardsson. He called on her direct line and got her in.

“Malin, it's Walther Ekman. I'd say ‘god morgen,' back, only I'd be lying in my teeth. Yes, I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

As he was getting his hat and coat, Taube knocked and came in with the DNA kit. “Thanks,” he said.

“You're going to get a sample from his relatives for a match?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him. “Would you like me to help with the DNA swab?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Thank you, Fru Taube, but this is something I have to do myself.”

“I understand,” she said, closing the door softly behind her.

T
his time, Ekman was in luck and found a parking space around the corner from the courthouse. He didn't want to deal with the officious parking police again.

Coming into Edvardsson's office, he saw the receptionist had gone out, and knocked on the inner door.

“Come in,” Edvardsson said, getting up from her desk and coming to meet him.

“Walther, you look very tired. Are you all right?”

“I didn't know it showed already. I was fine at breakfast,” he replied with a wry smile.

Sitting beside her on the couch, he handed her his memo. After reading it, she looked up at him.

“That poor man,” she said, shaking her head.

“The son or the father?”

“Both. It's all too horrible. And how dreadful for you, Walther. First, the discovery at your home, and now, having to tell his father,” she said, touching his shoulder.

“I'm seeing Westberg this afternoon to get some DNA. Until there's a match, we can't say for certain it's Rodger Westberg. I've recommended we go public with an announcement about his abduction and possible death. I won't disclose the original letter from Grendel, or other details, especially the mutilation, unless we have to. Does that sound about right, Malin?”

She was thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, it does. We didn't have real proof of a murder before, just suspicions. Now there's clear evidence a terrible crime has actually been committed. If this . . . creature . . . were to go to the media first, it would look like we've been concealing a crime the public has a right to know about. We need to speak to people before then. I'll be there, of course, to help you answer questions.”

“Thanks, Malin. I'm waiting to hear if the commissioner agrees with us. I believe he will.”

“But Walther, what about the other missing men? Could Grendel be involved with those disappearances too? If he is, do you think there could be other . . . packages?” Edvardsson shivered as though she'd felt something cold against her spine.

“We're working on whether the cases could be connected. It's a possibility that might produce new leads. If this maniac's involved in those disappearances, who knows what he'll do next. In any case, I'm not going to say anything about the other men at the conference.” He got up. “I'll let you know when it will be.”

Edvardsson walked with him to the door and, looking up at him, took his hand. “You have to do one of the hardest things imaginable, Walther. But I wouldn't want anyone else to bring such awful news; you're a kind man.”

Ekman just nodded and walked out of her office. He was steeling himself for the Westberg interview that afternoon.

H
e called Jarl Karlsson from the car. “Jarl, it's Walther. I need your advice again. Are you free for lunch? At your place? I was going to buy, but if you're pressed for time I can be there in half an hour. See you then.”

Ekman pulled up in front of Karlsson's door thirty minutes later. Jarl answered the doorbell.

“I'd have liked to take you up on your lunch offer,” he said, as they walked toward the kitchen, “but I've got a full schedule of patients today.” He looked at his plain, steel watch. “We've got a little over an hour. I've set out some herring and gravlax, and a couple of bottles of Dugges. I hope that will be all right.”

“That sounds fine. Thanks for going to the trouble,” Ekman replied, as they sat down at the large white kitchen table set for two.

“Please help yourself,” Karlsson said, gesturing at the plates of assorted smoked fish, brown bread, fresh dill, mustard, cheeses, and beer. They made sandwiches for themselves and between bites, Ekman brought Karlsson up to date.

“It's become much worse than I would have guessed,” Karlsson said.

“Does that mean you didn't take the cannibalism threat as real?” asked Ekman, surprised.

“Although I believed it was quite real when we spoke, the more I've thought about it, the more the letter began to sound too theatrical. It seemed like a ploy to get your attention, as well as an expression of his own inner needs. But now that he's engaged in mutilation, and flaunts it, I'm not so sure my second thoughts were right after all. Maybe if he wasn't a cannibal when he wrote the letter, he's become fascinated by it, and has moved in that direction.”

“So what do I tell Westberg? That's the main thing I need your help with Jarl. Too many times in thirty years I've had to tell people their family member was dead, but never under such bizarre circumstances.”

“The most intractable problem is that you have no body for his parents to grieve over. There would be some consolation and perhaps closure, if they could just see their son's body. And to make matters worse, you want to take a DNA sample. Westberg will ask what it will be matched against. I think here you must be careful. To tell him the truth would be cruel. I suggest you say you've exhausted the possibilities of finding their son alive, must assume he's dead, and need the DNA for reference when his body is recovered. He'll perhaps say that then he'll continue to hope his son is alive. So I'd be very clear that there's no hope.”

“I agree with everything you've said, but there are two problems. First, the body part.” Ekman couldn't bring himself to say genitals. “It may not be Westberg's, in which case, he could be living. And second, even if it is his, until we hear from forensics, it could have been taken when he was alive. So again, he might not be dead.” Ekman didn't want to imagine what condition Rodger Westberg would be in if this second scenario were true.

“Yes, you're right,” Karlsson replied, his words drawn out. “But since you can't spell all this out for the parents, you should just state his death as fact. I think, like you, that Rodger Westberg is dead. If one of your other possibilities turns out to be correct, you'll have to apologize and say you were too hasty. It's better now to be discreet and kind, and risk their anger later, if you're wrong.”

“I knew speaking with you would help me get my thinking straight. Thanks for your advice, and the good lunch,” Ekman said, getting up. “I won't take any more of your time.”

“You're not taking up my time. I needed the company. Walther, by sending these genitals, and not an ear or finger, he's making this the most personal threat possible. He wants to emasculate you.”

Ekman was very still for a moment. “I thought about that too. I guess I'll just have to wear Kevlar underpants from now on.” His laugh came out as a bark.

Karlsson walked him to the door. “By bringing himself to your doorstep with that special gift, you realize Grendel's coming much nearer?” he said, concern for his friend written on his face.

“Yes, I've thought about that Jarl. I just don't know what to do about it, except to catch the bastard before he gets even closer,” said Ekman, his jaw tight.

Parking on the steep hill near Westberg's office on Yakullsgatan, he angled a front tire against the curb and put on the parking brake. The building entrance was only a few doors away. He took the elevator to the top floor. It was almost two o'clock.

The receptionist recognized him. “You remember where his office is?”

“Yes, thanks,” said Ekman, heading down the hall.

He knocked and entered the huge office with its spectacular city view, as Westberg came forward to meet him.

“Herr Ekman,” he said, shaking his hand. “I hope you've good news for me.” He led Ekman to the sitting area they'd used before.

“Councillor Westberg, I wish with all my heart I had such news. But after exhausting every avenue that could lead to finding your son, I must tell you that we're forced to conclude he's no longer alive.”

Westberg sat very still for a long moment. “But if you haven't found his body, how can you be sure?”

“You're right. Without a body there can't be absolute certainty. But you should know our professional judgment is that there's no realistic likelihood of his being found alive.”

“How am I, how is my wife, going to be able to accept this?” His face had become pale.

“It will be very difficult. But it would be better than clinging to a false hope.”

Westberg had lost his usual composure. He ran his hands through his hair and turned away from Ekman. After a few minutes he turned around, his face wet with tears that he slowly wiped away with a handkerchief.

“Excuse me,” he said getting up, “I need to be alone.”

“There's one very helpful thing you can do right now. When we recover his body, we may need DNA identification,” Ekman said, standing and taking the kit from his pocket.

“Would you please give us a DNA sample by rubbing the inside of your mouth with this swab,” he said, extending the plastic bag to Westberg.