Grendel's Game (5 page)

“It feels right. The person you've described has killed before, and is rubbing our . . . my . . . face in it, because we haven't had any idea what's been happening. He's had to tell us point-blank to wake us up.”

“You said the letter was posted in town, but he may have done this on purpose to trick you. This person lives to deceive and is very experienced, very good at it. He could be anywhere. Perhaps Stockholm, Malmö, or Göteborg. The anonymity of a large city would suit him, and also offer a wider choice of victims. You'll have a hard time finding him at the outset. I hate to say this, but you may have to wait for him to act. When he does, he may get careless . . . perhaps on purpose . . . just to see if you can recognize the trail he's left you.”

“It's all a game to him.”

“Yes, and he's invited you to play, Walther. But I've no doubt you'll win.”

“I wish I felt your confidence, Jarl.”

“This is an awful business and will probably get worse. What a fearful waste of human life and energy,” Karlsson said, his face drawn.

“I know it's getting late, but would you please write all this up and e-mail it to me tonight so I can have it for an early morning meeting? And attach an invoice. Don't shake your head no. You've earned it,” Ekman said, as they stood. He gripped Karlsson's hand.

“When we get him, your help will be remembered, publicly.”

“Actually, I'd prefer if we kept my involvement strictly confidential. My patients might get a bit nervous,” Karlsson said with a brief grin, handing the letter back.

Walking Ekman to the door, he helped him on with his coat.

“Let me know if I can be of any further help. Good luck. And be careful.” His face was serious as the door closed.

On the drive home, taking the E4 bypass part of the way to save time, Ekman went over their conversation. He felt more confident now that he had a clearer picture of his opponent. The ball is in my court; let's see if we can send it back at him.

His jaw had set so tight without his realizing it that his teeth had begun to ache. Relax Ekman, he said to himself, you've done this many times before. But not with such a maniac, or should I say, “very disturbed person.”

It was eight forty when Ekman got home. The light from the tall front windows of the stone house he'd grown up in, and his parents had given him and Ingbritt, was welcoming and warm in the chilly night. It was the place he felt most comfortable and had always loved; he couldn't imagine living anywhere else. He pressed the garage door opener and drove into the brightly lit, oversized space. Ingbritt's smaller, blue Volvo S40 was on the right.

Coming through the connecting door to the house and peering into the kitchen, he saw the table set with two places. Ingbritt had waited dinner for him anyway.

“You should have eaten,” he protested as he entered the kitchen, giving her a kiss.

“I wanted to have dinner with you. It's too lonely eating by myself.”

He washed up in the half bath off the hall, and going back into the cheerful, yellow curtained kitchen, sat down at the white birch table.

Ingbritt served an appetizer of sweet, pickled herring with dark bread, while Ekman poured a Renat for each of them from the bottle he kept in the freezer.

“
Skål,
” he said, as their glasses clinked. Neither spoke for a few minutes.

“Well,” Ingbritt broke the silence, “aren't you going to tell me why you're late?”

Ekman paused and chewed before answering.

“We're beginning a rather strange case. It may even involve cannibalism, believe it or not. I'd rather not talk about it now, over dinner,” he said, grinning.

Ingbritt frowned. He usually liked to share details of his cases.

Seeing her expression, he said, “Maybe later, when there's more to tell. For now there's just a weird letter and a lot of blind conjectures. No real facts.” He didn't want to alarm her about a possible personal threat.

“What's the main course? It smells wonderful,” he said, changing the subject.

She went to the oven and brought out one of his favorite dishes she'd been keeping warm: pork with brown beans, and a side of mashed rutabaga.

“This deserves a good accompaniment,” he said, and going to the refrigerator, took out two bottles of Dugges Ale.

Ingbritt didn't press Ekman for details, at least for now.

After dinner, Ekman said good night as he hugged her. “I'll be up in a little while.”

“Don't stay up too late, Walther. You know how cranky you get without enough sleep,” she said, as she headed to the stairs.

Low bookcases lined two of the deep ochre, white-trimmed walls of his study hung with his framed needlepoint covers and a collection of antique maps. Ekman paced up and down the bright Persian rug covering the wide-planked, oak floor.

He mentally summarized the conversation with Karlsson. So, Jarl thinks this madman views me as his Beowulf. This is all very grim, but that's really funny. He smiled tightly. If he sees me that way, he's the only one in the world who does. The legendary Grendel was sword-proof, but if it comes to that, let's hope this one isn't bullet-proof.

He went to the heavy, metal gun safe required by law that was bolted to the left wall, and taking out his key case, unlocked it. On the top shelf, above the rack supporting his father's rifle and two shotguns, was a steel box he carried to his desk. Opening it, he took out his pistol, a Sig Sauer P239 Tactical. Ekman hadn't worn a gun in more than five years, although it was mandated. He qualified annually, however, and prided himself on being an excellent shot.

He weighed the gun in his hands and then going back to the safe removed a leather belt-clip holster. Checking the pistol's well-oiled slide, he took the eight-round, 9-millimeter magazine from the box, snapped it into place, and making sure the safety was on, slipped the gun into the holster.

He relocked the safe, and not wanting Ingbritt to see him in the morning with the pistol, he went out to the garage. Opening the car's glove compartment, he put the gun inside and locked the car. Before heading to bed, he checked the doors to make certain they were secure.

That night Ekman didn't fall asleep right away, as he usually did. He turned from side to side, his mind churning as he went over all that had happened. It was midnight before he drifted into a troubled sleep.

9

The Search Begins

W
ednesday, October 12.
An early blast of Arctic air had left three inches of snow during the night. It promised a hard winter. The snow had stopped falling, and was covered with a glistening ice crust. Ekman could hear the wind, still rising and falling, when he woke.

Looking out through the kitchen windows at the snow glinting in the early morning sun, Ingbritt said, “It's beautiful, isn't it, Walther?” turning to pour him more coffee.

“Not if you have to drive in it,” he grumbled. “I'd better leave early.”

Stepping out of the garage, he inhaled deeply. The air was cold and crisp. It smelled clean. He grinned in sheer animal pleasure at it.

A
silver Volvo sedan was parked three houses up the street from Ekman's. Its windows were filmed over, but a space had been cleared in the windshield. Grendel sat huddled in a heavy parka, watching as Ekman's car pulled out. He started the engine, and slowly pulled away from the curb, keeping six car lengths behind. Soon, very soon, Ekman would have that self-satisfied grin wiped from his fat face forever. He could hardly wait.

T
he road had already been plowed by the time Ekman left, fifteen minutes earlier than usual, and the drive in presented no problems. When he pulled into his space at seven fifteen, he took the gun out of the glove compartment and slipped it into his coat pocket. Upstairs, he was surprised to find Holm hadn't come in yet. He was usually the first to arrive.

Ekman put the gun in a desk drawer, locked it, and booting up the computer, checked his e-mail for the profile Karlsson had promised. It was there and ran to ten pages of analysis. Jarl had included classic case histories of similar, violent psychopaths.

He printed out a copy. A cover note with the profile said an invoice would follow. Ekman grunted. He guessed he'd never see one, but would pester Karlsson until he gave up and presented a bill.

Knocking first, Holm came in. “Sorry I'm late. Some minor car trouble.”

“Enar, here's Karlsson's profile of our man. Please run off extra copies and also make more of the letter,” he said, handing them to Holm. “I'll distribute them at the meeting. Don't say anything to the team before then.”

At eight, when Ekman opened the side door to his conference room, he found the four others already there.

“God morgen. Thanks for being so prompt,” he said, taking his seat at the head of the rectangular table and placing the packages of handouts in front of him. Everyone knew if they weren't on time, the chief would give the offender one of his famous scowls. It was worth avoiding.

Ekman looked around the table. Holm was seated on his right. Next to him was Alrik Rapp, forty, the senior inspector of the group, his bullet head covered by close-cropped, bristling gray hair: most people's image of a tough cop.

On Ekman's left was Mats Bergfalk, thirty-four, trim and fit, a handsome, blond-haired man who had transferred in from Stockholm six months earlier. He was wearing a burgundy jacket with an open-collared, bright lime shirt, the type of work clothes Ekman couldn't stand. Bergfalk had a somewhat feminine manner that made Ekman suspect he was gay. He tried not to let it prejudice him because Mats was quite competent, even if he also seemed color blind.

The only woman in the group, Gerdi Vinter, sat next to Mats. Just over thirty, she was a recently promoted inspector, grudgingly acknowledged by her male colleagues as unusually capable. She was short, with a plain, round face emphasized by black hair pulled back tightly and a refusal to wear makeup.

“I know you're all wondering why I asked you to meet,” Ekman began. “We're starting a rather strange investigation. You're the most qualified detectives we have, and that's why you're here.” He paused, looking around the table at each of them. “We'll be working as a team. I'll coordinate and Enar will assist me. It will require a great deal of research and it will be tedious, but I know each of you will persist. In the end I think we'll find the answers we need.”

He handed the packages to the three new team members, gave one to Holm and kept the rest for himself.

“Please first read the letter on top. I received it yesterday. It came in a plain envelope addressed to me. The originals are at forensics. Under the letter is a proposed psychological profile of the writer.”

For the next fifteen minutes everyone, including Ekman, read the documents. When the last person, Rapp, looked up, Ekman went on.

“Tell me what your impressions are, and please be frank. No comments are out of line now, or in the future.” Ekman meant it. His experience working with a team had proven to him that the group was more insightful than any single person, himself included.

Rapp spoke first, his deep baritone edged with doubt. “Chief, maybe this letter is for real. You've already gone to a lot of trouble over it. But I'm not so sure this isn't just a joke.”

“That was also my first reaction,” replied Ekman.

Bergfalk interjected, “Alrik may be right, but can we take the chance?”

“That was my second reaction,” said Ekman.

Holm added, “Since I saw the letter yesterday, I've gone over this in my mind many times, and like the chief, I think we have to treat this as serious.”

Ekman turned to Gerdi Vinter who had been staring at the ceiling, drumming a finger on the table. “What do you think, Gerdi?”

“I'm not sure. The letter, taken with the profile, which is very well reasoned, sounds . . . how shall I put it . . . too pat. It feels to me like a prank by someone who may be an animal rights activist. But I don't think it's the work of an organization. They might at first think it would be fun to have us running around in circles, going nowhere, but in the end it would become bad PR, too risky for them.”

“So, what would you do?” Ekman asked in a neutral voice.

“I'd take this in stages. First, I'd look at recent missing-person cases for evidence they might be related to the letter's threat, let's say over the last few years. If nothing appears likely, I'd stop, and wait to see if there's a second letter that might give us more to go on.”

“Why do you think there'll be another letter?”

“Because whoever sent this one is looking for attention and will try to get even more by sending a second one.”

Ekman nodded in agreement. She'd confirmed his feeling that she was quite astute.

“I don't think we should just take it for granted that he's got no criminal or mental hospital record. The profile indicates he probably doesn't, but we need to make sure,” Rapp said.