Sanderson’s MRI was scheduled for eleven o’clock that morning, to be conducted in a radiology annex near Saint Göran Hospital. The technicians were running behind, but after an aggravating thirty-minute wait a young man stripped Sanderson of his possessions and shoved him into a clattering tube. When the test was done, he was given his clothing along with solemn assurances that the results would soon find his doctor, who in turn would find him.

His morning wasted, Sanderson got dressed and, after a pitched fight with his necktie at the bathroom mirror, decided to walk two blocks to Saint Göran to check on Sergeant Elmander. Of all Sjoberg’s accusations at their last meeting, the thing to strike Sanderson hardest was the idea that he’d not been there to back up a fellow officer in a moment of need. Nearing the hospital he considered buying a takeout meal, recalling that Elmander was mad about some kind of ethnic food. The variety, however, escaped him. Had it been Thai? Chinese perhaps? Sanderson couldn’t remember, and another stitch of worry sank in. Was this how it would be from now on? Every time something didn’t snap into his mind, more anxiety? No, he decided. He would not let that happen.

As luck would have it, he found Elmander sitting up in bed, his wife and son at his side, and his face buried deep in a takeout container of spaghetti. Italian, Sanderson thought.

“Afternoon, Inspector,” said a chipper Elmander.

“Hello, Lars. How are you?”

Elmander gestured to a heavily bandaged leg. “Up and running in a few days, they tell me.”

Elmander and his son began bantering about which of them would now be faster on the soccer pitch, a sparring contest that Sanderson found even more encouraging than the official medical prognosis.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer when you called,” Sanderson said.

“Not to worry, Inspector,” Elmander replied in a mercifully carefree tone. “Blix tells me they’ve bumped you off the case.”

Sanderson nodded.

“Big mistake on the assistant commissioner’s part, if you ask me. Of course, it wouldn’t be his first, eh?”

They exchanged the kind of smile shared between subordinates, but Sanderson was left wondering how much else had made its way to the rumor mill. He supposed that news of his advanced dementia had swept the station by now. They talked for ten more minutes about work and sports, and agreed to meet for a pint at Black and Brown next week.

Sanderson left the room feeling much better than when he’d gone in. He was nearing the elevator when it occurred to him that he should check on their mystery patient, the man who was presumably still in a coma. At the nurse’s station Sanderson pulled his credentials—Sjoberg, by either good grace or gross oversight, had not confiscated them—and a young man directed him to the correct room.