Grendel's Game (4 page)

“We need to get a team into high gear right away, so if he goes public, we can say we're already on it and didn't want to precipitate a panic. First, we look at unsolved missing-person cases for the last three years. Second, we consult a psychiatrist to build a profile.

“This should be done simultaneously. I have to warn you the search will eat up manpower. We'll be working overtime, too, and this will impact our budget. If this is a hoax, or a publicity stunt by the animal rights people, I think they'll come out of the woodwork soon enough to claim credit.”

“I'll have to speak with the commissioner again about your budget and overtime. Be careful you don't go too much over. And while you're dealing with this,” Malmer added, pointing to the copy of the letter on his desk, “don't forget about Westberg.”

Ekman got to his feet and put a hand on his back, aching from sitting in that damned chair too long.

“We should be able to give you and the commissioner more information soon.”

“I expect you'll have something. Is that understood?”

H
olm was on the phone. Ekman tapped on his desk to get his attention and gestured toward his office. Holm raised two fingers, and continued talking.

When he came in, Ekman said, “We need to look at missing persons, starting with the newest cases, going back, let's say, three years, focusing first on people over sixteen and under sixty.” He paused. “They're probably the tastiest.”

Holm got it and grinned. That was one of the things Ekman liked about him.

“I'll get started now.”

“Enar, no one expects you to do this alone. We've got authorization from on high for a crew and overtime. We have to work fast. This takes priority over whatever they're doing. Draw up a list of six candidates. I'll pick three, plus the two of us, and we'll meet first thing tomorrow.”

In an hour, Holm returned. He'd not only listed six detectives, but what each was working on, and who could take over their cases.

Looking at the list, Ekman said, “You've picked the same people I'd have. Therefore this must be right.” He glanced up at Holm who smiled and left.

Ekman now regretted assigning Rosengren and Alenius to the Westberg case, but it couldn't be helped, he'd already committed himself to Malmer.

Going out of his office ten minutes later, he handed Holm the list. “I've checked three names. Let's plan on the five of us getting together in my conference room at eight tomorrow.”

Holm picked up the phone to make the first call.

8

The Opponent

E
kman looked through his battered address book and found the phone number for Jarl Karlsson, a psychiatrist and longtime friend. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to keep all the numbers on the new smartphone he'd been issued. But modern technology was more trouble than it was worth; he'd have Enar set it up for him.

Two years before, Jarl had proven invaluable in solving the brutal murder of a nine-year-old boy. His profile had helped Ekman narrow the field of suspects to the innocent-seeming killer, a grandfather and music teacher.

This was one of the many cases that had increased Ekman's visibility as a criminal investigator. It was publicity he didn't want, and tried hard to avoid.

^“
J
arl, it's Walther. How are you?”

“Just fine, Walther. I'd be delighted if this were a social call, but should I assume it's not?”

“You're right, unfortunately. Can I come by today? It's urgent.” There was a pause while Karlsson checked his schedule.

“Six this evening is the best I can do I'm afraid. Use the front entrance.”

Karlsson had an office in a small addition to his house with a separate, side entrance for patients. Ekman would be meeting him in the main house.

“Thanks, Jarl. See you then.”

He called Ingbritt to tell her he'd be working late. Over the years, she'd become inured to his frequent late hours.

“Shall I hold dinner for you?”

“Set something aside for me, but you go ahead and eat. I should be home by nine.”

An hour later, looking at the clock, he saw it was almost one and decided to have lunch at a popular Chinese restaurant a few blocks from headquarters. He disliked eating alone, but apart from occasional lunches with Enar, found himself doing it most of the time. Somehow Ekman had grown socially distant from his colleagues; they never got together for a drink after work. Perhaps it was his senior rank, or simply the person he'd become over the years. It was a fact of life he sometimes regretted, but had become used to and made no attempt to change.

As he walked along busy Brannkyrkagatan, the sky was a deepening gray that promised rain, and if it became just a little colder, snow. The restaurant was almost full, but he managed to get a small table near the windows.

After some hesitation, thinking guiltily about his weight, he gave in and ordered half a Peking duck, his favorite Chinese dish. Folding a thin crepe around the sliced meat and scallions, he munched contentedly while looking at passersby. There were Africans and possibly Middle Easterners among them. Some of these foreign-looking people were probably Swedish citizens.

Diversity in Sweden had moved well beyond the international mix of Stockholm, bringing with it cultural changes with which he wasn't entirely comfortable. He knew Gustaf, proud of their family's Swedish heritage, didn't approve of this new world. Just as he hadn't when Ekman had decided not to follow in his footsteps and gave up a boring corporate law practice to join the police.

Past time to drop your father's worn-out prejudices, Ekman, he said to himself. Adjust to the present, or become old and irrelevant. Whoever these people were, they were in his city and he was personally responsible for their safety. Over his years on the force this sense of obligation had come to weigh more heavily on him as violent crime increased.

He'd looked at studies that tried to identify the causes of the increase, but they seemed inconclusive. Perhaps we just have better data, he thought, and nothing has really changed. Yeats's words, “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,” kept running through his mind. He was trying to make the center hold as best he could, while the world shifted rapidly around him.

K
arlsson had a large, rambling house in the country in the exclusive Arboga district, on the opposite side of Weltenborg from Ekman's home. It was thirty minutes down Fahlbergvagen from police headquarters. The house was on a side street, hidden at the end of a long, curving gravel drive, and sheltered by a copse of tall beech trees. The setting sun filtered through the bare branches as Ekman pulled up in front.

At his ring, the door soon opened on Karlsson's smiling, creased face. He was only a few years older than Ekman, but already looked elderly, with sparse white hair, and stooped shoulders. His clear, light brown eyes, however, were those of a much younger man.

“Come in, come in, Walther,” he said, reaching out to shake Ekman's hand. “It's good to see you.”

Taking Ekman's coat and hat and putting them in a closet by the door, Karlsson asked, “And how are Ingbritt and the family?”

They moved down the wide center hall toward his cluttered, book-lined study on the left.

“Everyone's fine. And Teresia?” he asked, referring to Karlsson's wife. They had no children.

“Very well, thanks. She's at a church meeting this evening and will be sorry to have missed you. Can I get you a drink?” he asked, busying himself at a little bar against the right wall, as Ekman sat down.

“Perhaps a small Renat.” He liked vodka the traditional way, straight and ice cold. Because of his size, he knew from long experience that his blood alcohol level wouldn't rise much from a short drink and the effect would be gone by the time he had to drive home.

“I'll have the same,” said Karlsson, pouring two glasses from the bottle he'd taken from an under-the-counter refrigerator.

After they'd settled in armchairs across from each other with drinks in their hands, Karlsson asked, “So what can I help you with, Walther?”

Ekman reached into his inside jacket pocket and, taking out a folded copy of the letter, handed it to Karlsson.

“This came for me in the morning mail, posted yesterday in town. It had no return address. The original is at the forensics lab.”

Placing his drink on a small side table, Karlsson put on a pair of gold, wire-rimmed glasses. When he finished reading, he looked up at Ekman.

“Strange, and very interesting. You've quite a problem here, Walther.”

“What do you think, Jarl? Is this just a hoax or something much worse?”

“It could be an elaborate joke, and it reads like an animal rights satire. If it's their idea of a prank, it could backfire on them by diverting police from real crimes. In any case, you'll soon know whether this is a publicity stunt, but I don't think it is. You're right to treat this seriously. I think this was written by a very disturbed person.”

“What type of maniac are we dealing with?”

“Let's not call him a ‘maniac.' It oversimplifies. We need to take a nuanced view to try and understand him.”

“So you agree it's a man?”

“Yes,” Karlsson nodded. “It's unlikely this is a woman pretending to be a man. Notice how he compares himself to the ‘Elephant Man'; a woman wouldn't have made that allusion.”

Ekman told him his theories about the writer's age, literacy, and lack of a record.

“Yes, I think you're right about all that. Certainly, he's intelligent. It seems to me he's not going to have a record that would make him easy to find. Let's also assume for now he's somewhere between twenty-five and fifty.”

“Is there anything else you can say?”

“Oh, there's quite a bit more. The letter is revealing. You're dealing with a ‘hollow man,' a psychopath. He feels his emptiness and wants to fill this inner void with some humanity . . . literally.” Karlsson gave Ekman a thin smile.

“He sets himself apart from other humans. He's cleverer than anyone, including the famous Chief Superintendent Ekman.”

“What would he seem like to the casual observer?”

“Or even to those who think they're close to him. Of course, no one is. He's probably single, although he may have casual intimate relationships with women . . . or men. He's isolated inside, always focused only on his own needs. But on the surface, as he's told you, he's ‘charming, handsome,' very likable, and may have friends who think the world of him. This is often typical of the psychopath. He wears what some psychiatrists call ‘the mask of sanity.' ”

“But he has rules about killing . . . no children . . . and how painlessly he does it, or will do it. If he can be believed,” said Ekman.

“He may be trying to throw you off. Psychopaths are typically deceptive and manipulative. So it might be best not to exclude children as possible victims. But perhaps he's telling the truth, because everyone, even a psychopath, will attempt to justify his actions, no matter how terrible. It's part of his rationale for what he's compelled to do by inner drives he doesn't understand and can't control.

“He may boast of not killing children, but again, notice he says he's tempted. As far as painless killing goes, he gives no thought . . . it totally escapes him . . . that there will be an enormous burden of psychological pain for others. He doesn't think about the grief of the families and friends of his victims.

“He justifies his actions as no more immoral than those of any person of normal appetites. Walther, haven't you found that evil often boasts of superior moral virtue? He said he considers himself less a monster than you.”

“Many people think the same,” Ekman said, grinning.

“His letter to you makes this personal in other ways. This is someone who presents himself as a misunderstood Grendel. He's singled you out. That, of course, makes you his Beowulf, though I can't say you look the part.” There was a faint smile on his face.

“He wants to humiliate you personally, not just the police. You've become the opposition. He's not simply warning you, but issuing a direct challenge.” He paused for a moment.

“At the very end of the letter, he says ‘You' are to his taste. That ‘You' could mean people generally, but it could also mean ‘You, Walther Ekman.' ” Karlsson looked at his friend. “You'd make wonderfully hearty meals for several weeks,” he said, straight-facedly.

“You're not serious?” said Ekman, taken aback.

“Unfortunately, I'm quite serious, Walther. This could become extremely personal. You know where to begin looking for him?”

“We're going to check missing-person cases for the last few years for leads. Any suggestions?”

“You're right to think he's already killed. His letter is evidence of a later stage of his disease. He's committed perfect crimes and has never been found out. Now he wants his genius known. More than that, he wants to see if he can be caught. Maybe he even wants to be caught, so he can bask in the notoriety. And he's decided you're the one most likely to catch him.”