Grendel's Game (2 page)

Second, I never treat the young as food, even though their tender flesh is tempting. I push such thoughts into the dimmest recesses of my mind, although you do not.

You are, no doubt, taken aback by this observation; however, a moment's reflection will reveal its truth. The youth of food is prized, even advertised as inducement: “Get your baby back ribs, suckling pig, tender veal, kid, or squab,” young this, and baby that. Their names fill cookbooks and menus. It doesn't bear thinking about.

You protest, how can you take the lives of sentient beings? It seems unnecessary to point out that if food is not vegetable, fruit, or insect, it is sentient, some of it very sentient indeed. Pigs, for example, are known for their high intelligence and emotional sensitivity, as are, to some extent, the apes, dogs, horses, sheep, cattle, goats, birds, deer, elk, moose, bear, raccoons, opossum, squirrels, rats, whales, porpoises, seals, and on and on, that fall into voracious human maws.

All these creatures respond to kindness, and all (perhaps fish and octopi, as well) can suffer, which, as Gandhi said, is much more relevant than whether they can reason as humans do or speak. These few comments should make clear that I am no more a monster than you, and perhaps less of one.

Third, and final observation. Even if you accept my arguments, you still blanch at including humans as acceptable food, though people have considered each other edible on numerous occasions: the Donner party comes to mind, as do tales of shipwrecked mariners, and Leningrad under siege. And there are many other instances, from New Guinea to South America to Jeffrey Dahmer.

But these, you argue, were extraordinary irregularities, done with repugnance under great distress, or reflect the bizarre religious practices of primitive peoples, or the pathology of a madman (which, by the way, I assure you I am not). They are not an everyday, shopping-at-the-super-market sort of thing, which is what you do.

This is a failure to understand my position. People have, from time to time, treated each other as food—and have considered nonhumans as so inferior and disposable they can be consumed without a pang of conscience. I have done the same and will continue to do so, not out of necessity, but like you, for the quite sensible pleasure of a varied and tasty diet. As someone once said, “Chacun à son goût.” You just happen to be mine.

With deep appreciation,
Grendel

Ekman shook his head in disbelief. Either this was just a hoax or the writer was one twisted, arrogant bastard. But he was puzzled. He'd gotten publicity-seeking-crank confessions before to murders, kidnappings, rapes, robberies. They'd all been ongoing cases. This one was different: they had nothing involving cannibalism.

He put the letter down and, opening a desk drawer, removed a pair of white latex evidence gloves. He'd already handled the pages, but didn't want to make matters worse. Pulling the gloves over his meaty hands, he slowly reread the three double-spaced pages on cheap computer paper. It was even more disturbing on a second reading.

Picking up the envelope, Ekman held it near his desk lamp, turning it from side to side: it was unremarkable and had little beyond the obvious to tell him. Postmarked yesterday in Weltenborg, legal size, it was addressed to him in bold, block letters with a black marker.

He replaced the envelope on his desk, removed the gloves, and heaved his 270 pounds out of the oversized brown swivel chair. Its worn leather fitted him perfectly after thirty years of hard use.

Rubbing his chin, he paced up and down his fourth floor corner office. The triple-paned, soundproof windows made the hurrying pedestrians and traffic below seem spectral.

4

Ekman

T
hat morning, Ekman had opened his eyes at five forty-five. Turning in bed, he saw that Ingbritt was up already. It was pitch dark outside as he shuffled in sheepskin slippers to the adjoining bathroom and fumbled for the light switch.

Staring back at him from the mirror were dark brown eyes set in a long, heavy face with deepening furrows from nose to mouth. His expression was somber. You look like you take yourself much too seriously, he thought; lighten up. He attempted a broad smile, but the mirror told him it looked strained and somewhat menacing. Shrugging, he gave it up as pointless.

Sharpening his straight razor on a leather strop, he shaved his graying beard closely so he wouldn't end the day with five o'clock shadow. A blistering needlepoint shower brought him fully awake.

Going to the closet, he selected one of six vested suits: all were solid black worsted. Out of a large, mahogany bureau his parents had given them that had been in the family since his great-grandfather's time, came a folded, starched white shirt, a black tie and socks. From the shoe rack, he took a pair of soft, thick-soled black shoes that helped bear his increasing weight.

Ekman had once overheard colleagues joking that he was always prepared for a funeral. Twenty years ago, he'd dressed in black when Bernt Osterling was killed. His partner of ten years had died trying to stop a robbery while Ekman was on leave. Since then he'd always worn black on duty. It somehow eased the guilt he still felt at not having been there for Bernt. The work is serious, depressing, he told himself; it's never bright and cheerful, why dress as though it is?

As he came downstairs, he could hear pans being shifted on the range. The aroma of cooking sharpened his appetite. This morning there was creamed oatmeal, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast slathered with lingonberry jam—all taken with several cups of strong black coffee. Ingbritt, worried about his weight, had once tried giving him just oatmeal with soy milk, “For your own good Walther,” she'd said; but he'd rebelled. He believed he needed adequate fuel for the long day ahead and shouldn't skimp; calories be damned. Still, he felt guilty about ignoring his expanding waist.

Everything was served on white china that stood out against the blue linen tablecloth. He ate while browsing through two morning newspapers, first passing several sections to his wife.

Her gray-blue eyes peered at him through bifocals over the tops of their open papers. He seemed engrossed in an article. “Anything?” she inquired.

“The usual,” Ekman replied, meaning the too familiar mix of local scandal, political conniving, and foreign catastrophe that constituted the daily news. Nevertheless, he read it all carefully, consigning the information to the back of his mind before turning to the editorial page.

The
Sydsvenska Nyheter
pilloried Magnus Amdahl, the deputy foreign minister, for trying to cover up involvement in a prostitution scandal similar to an infamous 1970s affair. The justice minster then, Lennart Geijer, had given his name to that one. Ekman thought it typical of sanctimonious politicians to pretend they were immune from human frailties when everyone knew they were among the most susceptible.

“And you?” he asked her.

“Halvorsen has published a new novel. The reviewer thinks it's boring.”

“Is that likely?”

“Frequently,” Ingbritt responded with a slight smile. She had a professional's detached view of the literary world.

“Will your day be interesting?” she asked.

“I hope to God not,” he muttered, folding in half the paper he'd been reading and placing it on top of its similarly creased mate as he pulled himself out of the chair.

The drive in his black Volvo S80 took fifteen minutes down tree-lined Brunnvagen through light traffic. There's little, he thought, more ludicrous than a big man struggling to get out of a tiny car, so the luxury was worth the cost.

Ekman thought about the coming Sunday. He was looking forward to a long planned visit with their son, Erick, an orthopedic surgeon, and the two little granddaughters. It had been almost a month since he and Ingbritt had seen them, although they lived only an hour away on the coast in Halmstad. It had been even longer since they'd visited their daughter, Carla, in Malmö, and he missed the smiling face amd tousled blond hair of his young grandson, Johan.

It's the damned work, Ekman thought. The children have become adults mostly without my help, and the grandchildren barely know me. Thank God for Ingbritt; somehow she still loves me despite everything.

What he couldn't admit, even to himself, was that the real problem wasn't the work, it was his obsession with it.

E
kman pulled up at seven thirty as usual. He waved at the windowed booth housing the underground garage's guard, who raised the red-and-white-striped steel barrier. Parking his car in the center of his assigned space, he thought about taking the elevator to the fourth floor, but resisted the temptation. Ingbritt always urged him to walk up, and while he often ignored her advice, today he took the stairs. He arrived more than a little out of breath.

His thirty-two-year-old assistant, Inspector Enar Holm, was already at his desk in a cubicle outside Ekman's office. He looks more like twenty-two, Ekman thought. He was far too thin, a constant reproach to his own expanding girth. He noted with approval Holm's blue suit, crisp white shirt and sober tie, elegant on his tall, slender frame.

“
God morgen
, Chief. The DC wants to see you right away.”

“I don't suppose he said what it was about?”

Holm shook his head.

Hanging up his coat and hat, Ekman sat down and glanced through the twelve-page draft policy directive from the National Police Board that Holm had placed on his desk. It set out updated instructions for detectives in charge of crime scenes. Inaccurate and tedious, Ekman thought: typical of bureaucrats with too little experience and too much time on their hands.

Putting it to one side, he got up and walked to the two windows looking out on the square just as the old-fashioned mantel clock on the bookcase chimed a quarter to eight. Taking the engraved gold watch inherited from his grandfather from his vest pocket, he clicked open the lid and checked the time. With a grunt of displeasure he went to the clock, opened its beveled glass door and adjusted the minute hand. He knew it was compulsive, but did it anyway.

Sitting down, he opened a desk drawer and took out the needlepoint cushion cover he was working on. Eight years ago, a drunken driver had totaled Ekman's car, confining him to a wheelchair with a broken leg in a hip-length cast. To help pass the time, Ingbritt had given him a needlepoint kit. He'd discovered that stitching while he thought through problems was relaxing and helped him concentrate. Now, his hands automatically began adding a scarlet thread to the half-completed, intricate floral pattern as he weighed several possibilities.

The most likely subject seemed the recent rise in home burglaries. The commissioner must be getting increasing flak about them, he thought. Yesterday's had been at County Councillor Westberg's, in daylight. He'd immediately assigned an inspector to deal with it.

The burglary had been mentioned on the local TV evening news. Politically, this must have been the final straw. He'd probably have to shift senior detectives from more important investigations.

He put the needlepoint back in the drawer, and heading for his meeting, gave the policy memo to Holm.

“They want our thoughts on this, strange as that seems. It should be revised: it's too detailed where it doesn't have to be, and not detailed enough where it needs to be. And try making it more interesting. I'll be with Malmer for who knows how long,” he said with a grimace.

It was only a few minutes from his office to the elevator, then to the fifth floor, and down the beige carpeted hall to the deputy commissioner's office. Annika Dagard, secretary to the commissioner and his deputy, was at her desk between their offices. She lifted a stylishly coiffed gray head from the document she was reading, and smiled as he approached.

“He'll be with you in just a minute,” she said, looking at a light on her telephone console that quickly went out. “There we are, go right in.” It was exactly eight a.m.

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