disorder on my small desk and my service revolver in the middle of that mess.
     I knew I mustn't call her. I knew I shouldn't think about her. She loved her husband, and she was ten years my senior.
     I felt like I'd go crazy by myself. I left my unfinished coffee on the table and went downstairs, to the basement. A spartan little room with whitewashed walls. A bench for sit-ups, a few old fashioned weights, and the sandbags: the heavy bag, the light one and the third, lying on the green plastic matt by the door, filled with sand and gravel.
     A quick warm-up and I attacked the bags. I thrashed at the big one. I hit and kicked it like an angry childâas hard as I could, without any grace or technique. I murdered the bag over and over again, driven by that terrible tension. The feeling passed slowly, as I began to tire myself. After fifteen minutes, soaking in sweat and panting I worked on combinations, using all three bags. A punch to the small one, a knee-high kick to the gravel bag, simultaneously ducking, so the small bag can't hit me as it swings back. I pummeled the heavy bag while I tried to kick backward and catch the small one, which was flapping around. It took a bit of coordination.
     I felt much better, at least half human, when I finally left the bags alone. I sat in the kitchen, showered and dressed in jeans and T-shirt, facing my breakfast. I was better, but I still wondered how long I could live like this.
     I took out my small notebook and opened it without looking at the pages. I already knew what they said by heart. They told me Paul Hogarthy's life. He was fiftyfive, an ex-car mechanic. Divorced with two children, who lived God knows where. His decline in life was classic, with a little jazzing up it could make a nice tragic novel. But I doubt anybody would want to read the true story. Paul Hogarthy was boring. A fat, lazy, alcohol-and-drug-dependent loser who slept in stairways and could fit almost all his possessions in a plastic bagâincluding his gun. It was an old Luger, almost fifty years old, a little rusty, but still a working piece.
     Paul Hogarthy was probably sleeping the sleep of the stupid as a sat in my kitchen. Later they would go back to interrogating him, but it was useless, depressing. Eventually he'd be let out. He wasn't guilty. The miserable son-of-a-bitch didn't kill anybody. He was just shocked to see us; he thought we wanted to hurt him. So he pulled out the old gun. He has no gun license, but that's hardly what you call a capital crime. He hadn't hit Carl, his bullet missed by three feet.
     Or maybe those were all lies. He knew we were cops, he saw the handcuffs or he knew it instinctively somehow, and he wanted to help Frost. Even if he's none too bright, he's street-wise enough to make up a story.
     I almost regretted that I didn't blow him away when I caught him in that stinking staircase. Maybe I had done it the wrong way around, pulling my gun before I woke him up. He had glared at me without understanding. He didn't recognize me, but he didn't move this time. The only miserable satisfaction I got was seeing him numb with dread. If I had stood over him empty handed, maybe he would have reached into the bag again â¦he would have come out with the ancient Luger. I wouldn't have been paralyzed this time. I would have been able to move with deadly force, thanks to these strange feelings of anger. And Captain Ericsson would never interrogate Paul Hogarthy. The man would remain Frost's accomplice forever in our files because the dead keep their secrets. And the truth, that an old bum caused Carl's death, would never come to light. And no one would ever have to wonder whether I was reluctant to shoot.
     Frost didn't have anyone waiting in the staircase for us.
     I looked at my notes
     I knew I mustn't call her. I knew I shouldn't think about her. She loved her husband, and she was ten years my senior.
     I felt like I'd go crazy by myself. I left my unfinished coffee on the table and went downstairs, to the basement. A spartan little room with whitewashed walls. A bench for sit-ups, a few old fashioned weights, and the sandbags: the heavy bag, the light one and the third, lying on the green plastic matt by the door, filled with sand and gravel.
     A quick warm-up and I attacked the bags. I thrashed at the big one. I hit and kicked it like an angry childâas hard as I could, without any grace or technique. I murdered the bag over and over again, driven by that terrible tension. The feeling passed slowly, as I began to tire myself. After fifteen minutes, soaking in sweat and panting I worked on combinations, using all three bags. A punch to the small one, a knee-high kick to the gravel bag, simultaneously ducking, so the small bag can't hit me as it swings back. I pummeled the heavy bag while I tried to kick backward and catch the small one, which was flapping around. It took a bit of coordination.
     I felt much better, at least half human, when I finally left the bags alone. I sat in the kitchen, showered and dressed in jeans and T-shirt, facing my breakfast. I was better, but I still wondered how long I could live like this.
     I took out my small notebook and opened it without looking at the pages. I already knew what they said by heart. They told me Paul Hogarthy's life. He was fiftyfive, an ex-car mechanic. Divorced with two children, who lived God knows where. His decline in life was classic, with a little jazzing up it could make a nice tragic novel. But I doubt anybody would want to read the true story. Paul Hogarthy was boring. A fat, lazy, alcohol-and-drug-dependent loser who slept in stairways and could fit almost all his possessions in a plastic bagâincluding his gun. It was an old Luger, almost fifty years old, a little rusty, but still a working piece.
     Paul Hogarthy was probably sleeping the sleep of the stupid as a sat in my kitchen. Later they would go back to interrogating him, but it was useless, depressing. Eventually he'd be let out. He wasn't guilty. The miserable son-of-a-bitch didn't kill anybody. He was just shocked to see us; he thought we wanted to hurt him. So he pulled out the old gun. He has no gun license, but that's hardly what you call a capital crime. He hadn't hit Carl, his bullet missed by three feet.
     Or maybe those were all lies. He knew we were cops, he saw the handcuffs or he knew it instinctively somehow, and he wanted to help Frost. Even if he's none too bright, he's street-wise enough to make up a story.
     I almost regretted that I didn't blow him away when I caught him in that stinking staircase. Maybe I had done it the wrong way around, pulling my gun before I woke him up. He had glared at me without understanding. He didn't recognize me, but he didn't move this time. The only miserable satisfaction I got was seeing him numb with dread. If I had stood over him empty handed, maybe he would have reached into the bag again â¦he would have come out with the ancient Luger. I wouldn't have been paralyzed this time. I would have been able to move with deadly force, thanks to these strange feelings of anger. And Captain Ericsson would never interrogate Paul Hogarthy. The man would remain Frost's accomplice forever in our files because the dead keep their secrets. And the truth, that an old bum caused Carl's death, would never come to light. And no one would ever have to wonder whether I was reluctant to shoot.
     Frost didn't have anyone waiting in the staircase for us.
     I looked at my notes
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