Unspoken

this time of year. Anyone who had to be outdoors was in a hurry to go back inside as fast as possible. People hunched their shoulders beneath the wind and rain, not even bothering to glance up at each other. We ought to hibernate, like bears , thought Knutas. This month is just a transitional period and nothing more .
    The summer seemed long gone. Back then the island had looked entirely different. Each summer Gotland was invaded by hundreds of thousands of visitors who came to enjoy the unique nature, the sand beaches, and the medieval city of Visby. Of course the island needed tourists, but the visitors also meant a great deal of work for the police. Hordes of teenagers came to Visby to party at the numerous pubs. Problems with alcohol and drugs increased dramatically.
    But this past summer all of that had been overshadowed by a serial killer who had ravaged the island, terrifying both tourists and Gotlanders alike. The police had worked under great pressure, and the enormous scrutiny from the media hadn’t made their job any easier.
    Afterward Knutas was unhappy about the way things had turned out. He brooded over the fact that the police hadn’t seen the connection between the victims earlier and prevented the lives of more young women from being sacrificed.
    He and his family had taken a five-week vacation, but when he went back to work, he felt anything but rested.
    So far the fall had been uneventful, and that was exactly what he needed.
    He had been standing outside the door, ringing the bell for almost five minutes. Surely Flash couldn’t be such a sound sleeper? Now he kept his finger pressed on the shiny button, but no one responded inside the apartment.
    He leaned down with some difficulty and shouted through the mail slot, “Flash! Flash! Open up, damn it!”
    With a sigh he leaned against the door and lit a cigarette, even though he knew that the neighbor lady would complain if she happened to come past.
    It was almost a week since he and Flash had met at Östercentrum; he hadn’t seen him since. That wasn’t like him. They should have at least run into each other at the bus station or at the Domus mall, if nowhere else.
    He took one last drag on his cigarette and rang the neighbor’s bell.
    “Who is it?” squeaked a feeble voice.
    “I’m pals with Flash . . . Henry Dahlström next door. I want to ask you a question.”
    The door opened a crack and an old woman peered at him from behind a thick safety chain.
    “What’s it about?”
    “Have you seen Henry lately?”
    “Has something happened?” An inquisitive glint appeared in her eyes.
    “No, no, I don’t think so. I’m just wondering where he is.”
    “I haven’t heard a sound since all that racket last weekend. There was a terrible uproar. I suppose it was a drunken party, as usual,” she snapped, giving him an accusatory look.
    “Do you know if anyone else has a key to his apartment?”
    “The building superintendents have keys to all the apartments. One of them lives in the building across the way. You can go over there and ask him. His name is Andersson.”
    When the building superintendent let him into the apartment, they found a chaos of pulled-out drawers, cupboards that had been emptied of their contents, and overturned furniture. Papers, books, clothes, and other junk had been scattered everywhere. In the kitchen the floor was littered with leftover food, cigarette butts, liquor bottles, and other garbage. The room smelled of old beer, cigarette smoke, and fried fish. Someone had also tossed the sofa cushions and bed linens around.
    Both men stood in the middle of the living room, their mouths agape. Words came haltingly from the lips of Andersson.
    “What the hell happened here?”
    He opened the patio door and looked out.
    “Nobody out there, either. There’s only one other place to look.”
    They went downstairs to the basement. Along one side of the deserted corridor was a row of doors labeled with various signs: “Laundry Room,” “Baby Buggies,” “Bicycles.” In the middle were the usual basement storerooms with chicken-wire doors. At the far end was an unmarked door.
    From the darkroom issued a rotten odor that made their stomachs turn over. The stench just about knocked them to the floor. Andersson switched on the light, and the sight was appalling. On the floor lay Henry Dahlström, drenched in his own blood. He was lying on his stomach, face to the floor. The back of his head was smashed in, with