All Kurt Wallander wanted was to eat lunch. He was caught up on his paperwork for once, and, since the spring weather was actually pleasant, he decided to park his car and walk downtown. As he walked, he blinked at the sun and tried to talk himself into having a salad instead of another greasy hamburger. As he was looking at the menu posted in front of a new restaurant, he noticed movement in the window. He looked up to see the reflection of several people running out of the bar across the street; as he turned to see firsthand what was happening, he heard a gunshot. He broke into a run as more people poured out of the bar. He glanced through the window; he could see a man inside, short-haired and muscular, pointing a gun towards the ceiling. The bits of plaster on his shoulder and the floor told Wallander that no one was hurt; the man had only fired a warning shot. Wallander ducked into the door and crept around the bar; crouching, he motioned to a frightened woman to run for the door. The man with the gun was shouting in… German? No, it was English, American English, but he was so angry that Wallander couldn't make out what he was saying. He reached to the small of his back for his gun, only to find that he'd left it locked in his desk back at the Police Station. Shit. Wallander shook his head, and peered around the bar at the gunman. He seemed to favor his right leg, which told Wallander where to hit. I'm too old for this crap, he thought, as he put his head down and rushed at the gunman. Wallander grunted with satisfaction when his strategy worked; he knocked the gunman over, grabbed the weapon, and held it on him while fumbling for his cell phone. "Wallander here. I need someone to come pick up a drunk… Yeah, I know it's early… on Lingsgatan, yes. Thanks." That's what I get for trying to eat a decent lunch for a change.
He focused his attention on the gunman, who seemed calmer now. Wallander asked him, "So, what do you think you're up to, shooting up a bar on such a nice Thursday?"
All he got in return was a blank stare; he remembered that the man had been shouting in English, so he repeated his question as well as he could in English. This time the gunman's eyes flickered – he understood what was said to him – but he made no reply. Wallander nodded. That was fine with him. He didn't want to have a long conversation with this lunatic anyway. The uniformed officers were quick; they arrived at that moment and took the gunman to the car out front. Wallander followed, gesturing to the younger of the two, a woman – They're all so young – "This is his gun. He only shot a hole in the ceiling, I think, but we'd better check it out. Also, I think he's American, so … do you speak English?"
"I do, sir," replied the eager young officer.
"Good, then, you can explain things to him." He watched the marked car pull away, then trudged back to his own car. No lunch today after all.