To get back to his old life. His former wife had been killed by a hit-and-run driver. A nasty word. Former. Lots of things had been different formerly.

He lived now in his former house, with his children who were anything but former.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“What kind of a pick did he use, then?” he asked.

Ringmar raised both his hands and shrugged.

“An ice pick?” suggested Halders.

“No,” said Ringmar. “That’s a bit passé nowadays.”

Halders examined the photos on Ringmar’s desk. Sharp colors, shaved scalps, wounds. Not the first time, but the difference now was that the victims were still alive. The most common head in the archives is generally a dead one. Not these, though, he thought. These are talking heads.

“Never mind the damn picks,” he said, looking up. “The important thing is to catch the lunatic, no matter what kind of weapon he uses.”

“But it’s significant,” said Ringmar. “There’s something, something odd about these wounds.”

“Yes, no doubt, but we’ve got to put a stop to it all.”

Ringmar nodded his agreement and continued perusing the photos.

“Do you think it was somebody he knew?” asked Halders.

“That thought had occurred to me,” said Ringmar.

“What about the other two guys? The other two victims?”

“Eh. Saw nothing, heard nothing. A relatively open space. Late. No other witnesses. You know how it is. Had a few, but not completely blotto.”

“And then wham.”

“The same attacker every time. Do you think so too?” asked Ringmar.

“Yes.”

“Mmm.”

“We’d better dig a bit deeper into the victims’ circle of friends and acquaintances,” said Halders.

“They’re all separate circles,” said Ringmar. “They don’t know each other, and they don’t have any friends in common, as far as we’ve been able to find out.”

“OK, so they don’t move in the same circles,” said Halders, “we know that.