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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.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œEveryone’s fine. And Teresia?” he asked, referring to Karlsson’s wife. They had no children.
    â€œVery 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.
    â€œPerhaps 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œStrange, and very interesting. You’ve quite a problem here, Walther.”
    â€œWhat do you think, Jarl? Is this just a hoax or something much worse?”
    â€œIt 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.”
    â€œWhat type of maniac are we dealing with?”
    â€œLet’s not call him a ‘maniac.’ It oversimplifies. We need to take a nuanced view to try and understand him.”
    â€œSo you agree it’s a man?”
    â€œYes,” 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