DeKok and Murder by Installment Read online

  “Mother passed away long ago,” he said softly. “She died when I was still very small. I have no conscious memory of her. In fact, I only know her from a photograph. It shows her as a fragile little woman in the doorway of our house.”

  They drove on in silence. DeKok faced forward and slumped back in the seat, his much abused little hat pulled down to his eyes. He glanced out of the window from underneath the brim and recognized the arcade of Town Hall Street. He did not feel comfortable in this new position and pressed himself upright. Then he turned again toward Casper.

  “How old is Marcel?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “Quite a bit older than you.”

  Hoogwoud nodded vaguely.

  “But we get along just fine. He treats me like an adult…not like his kid brother, in case that’s what you’re thinking.”

  DeKok ignored the remark.

  “Does your brother know you walk around with all that money?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  DeKok feigned surprise.

  “And he doesn’t object?”

  Casper Hoogwoud lifted his chin defiantly.

  “It is my money, my behavior, my business. Marcel respects that.”

  DeKok nodded to himself, but he couldn’t think of an explanation for such a large amount of cash. He had still not succeeded in breaking through the stiff reserve of the young man.

  “Shouldn’t Marcel be treated in a hospital?”

  The young man sighed.

  “That would indeed be better for him, but Marcel doesn’t want it. He doesn’t like hospitals, or doctors. He mistrusts what he calls ‘those murderers in white coats.’”

  “Murderers?”

  “One of Marcel’s expressions,” smiled Casper.

  Vledder stopped the car at the side of the road.

  “We’re not there yet, but I have a parking spot here.”

  They exited the car and closed the doors. DeKok pulled up the collar of his raincoat. The evening air was chilly, and it had started to rain.

  When they reached the house, Casper took a key from his pocket and opened the door.

  He preceded the inspectors through a long, wide corridor to a spacious room with a high ceiling. A man reclined on a sofa. His eyes were closed. Casper walked toward him.

  “Marcel, here are two gentlemen from the police.”

  DeKok looked down at the man on the sofa. The expression on his face and the pallor of his skin concerned him. Casper shook the man’s shoulder.

  “Marcel.”

  There was an undertone of fear in his voice. He again took the man by the shoulder and shook more vigorously. DeKok took him by the arm.

  “Leave him,” he said softly.

  The young man looked up at him. There was confusion in his bright blue eyes.

  “Marcel,” he whispered.

  DeKok’s face expressed compassion.

  “Marcel is dead,” he said.

  2

  DeKok pressed his little hat more firmly on his head. The light rain had developed into a full-blown storm. Ghostly shards of clouds chased each other in the pale moonlight. The slender light poles swayed in the wind, and the sound of slate being ripped off a roof echoed around them. Almost crouching against the fury of the storm, DeKok and Vledder reached the VW. The vehicle was rocking on its springs. They hurried inside, but Vledder did not drive away.

  He looked askance at DeKok, who stared somberly through the windshield. The old sleuth tried to grasp what they had learned so far. They had an eighteen-year-old young man with a hundred thousand Euros, at least that much in cocaine, and an obscenely expensive car. The same young man leads them to a richly furnished residence with a dead brother. The combination did not please him.

  “Marcel didn’t look like a homosexual.”

  DeKok looked at Vledder, his thoughts interrupted.

  “Why do you think he was gay?”

  “Well, he had AIDS.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “You need to be mindful of making such blind assumptions, Dick.”

  “Well, I…eh…” stammered Vledder.

  DeKok interrupted rather brusquely.

  “Don’t try to classify people just by their looks. It can’t be done. The most pious looking priest can be a child molester and an effeminate man may very well be happily married with a dozen children. Many ladies are whores and many whores are ladies.” Then he smiled and added, “And some experienced police officers are prone to snap judgments.”

  Vledder had the grace to blush, but did not respond. For awhile the two remained seated, watching the storm. Then Vledder started the engine and pulled carefully away from the curb, avoiding scattered trash cans.

  “You want to go back to the station?”

  “Certainly,” nodded DeKok. “But try to avoid the canals as much as possible. If we do get blown off the road, I’d just as soon stay dry.”

  Vledder laughed, and he did avoid the canals until they reached Rembrandt Square. It looked deserted. The prostitutes and their prospective clients had all been blown inside. They reached the Amstel by way of Half Moon Alley.

  “Are we pursuing this case?” asked Vledder.

  “I don’t think so,” answered DeKok. “Casper will get his day in court for the cocaine. His brother died a natural death.”

  “And that’s it?”

  DeKok made an irritated gesture.

  “I still have the hundred thousand Euros in a plastic bag. I really don’t feel like giving them back to Casper. But, if the judge advocate finds no indication the money has been obtained illegally, we’ll have to return it.”

  Vledder grinned.

  “The judge advocate can also inform the IRS. They’ll be there at the crack of dawn to take possession.”

  “There is always a chance, of course.”

  The young inspector frowned.

  “I still think,” Vledder said thoughtfully, “the money may have come from sort of drug deal, something Casper did just before he was arrested.”

  DeKok nodded slowly.

  “But we’ll never prove it. That’s the problem. You’re right, though, in the drug trade they don’t deal with checks and credit cards.” He smiled sadly. “Unless you inherit large capital, there’s no honest way to get rich in The Netherlands. There’s no way...certainly not at age eighteen. Besides, who straps money to their waist?”

  “Maybe he did inherit it,” offered Vledder.

  DeKok snorted.

  “His father is a greenskeeper at a golf course. I don’t know exactly what that entails, but it doesn’t seem as though it would make you rich.”

  “What about a sugar daddy?”

  DeKok ignored the suggestion, hating that expression. He pressed himself higher in his seat.

  “Casper Hoogwoud seems to be a nice, charming young man.” His tone changed, becoming more incisive. “But that is a false picture. I sense he’s a devilishly dangerous individual, who has acquired a harsh mentality. He dares to play dangerous games. Tomorrow I’ll have a talk with narcotics. The fact that he doesn’t appear in our records means nothing.”

  “You mean he could have been in the sights of the authorities several times, but there was no proof?” asked Vledder, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Exacto, as Little Lowee likes to say.”

  The VW had reached Dam Square. From the car they could see white caps on the usually placid waters of the Damrak. The tour boats tugged at their moorings. Crewmembers crawled over them, checking the lines and lowering additional old tires over the sides to absorb shock as the boats slammed against each other.

  They entered Warmoes Street. Vledder parked the car in front of the station house with a sigh and shut off the engine.

  The wind practically pushed them through the doors of the station. Just inside they stopped to shake the rain off their coats and DeKok shook out his hat.

  Kuster came from behind the counter. The watch commander seemed agitated.

 
; “Well, for once I don’t blame you for keeping your radio off. There is enough static to blast your ears. Nonetheless I do need you.”

  “What for?”

  “We have a possible murder. I’ve sent a patrol car to the location, but it’s your bailiwick.”

  “Where?”

  “Emperor’s Canal, near Hearts Street. They found a man in front of the door of a lawyer’s office.”

  “Dead?”

  Kuster nodded.

  “Somebody bashed in his skull.”

  When Vledder opened the car door he cursed from the bottom of his heart. His face was red. He sat down and closed the door with a bang.

  “Two corpses in one night…and what a night. It is just too much,” he growled. “We don’t even have time to think!”

  DeKok grinned broadly.

  “And I thought you found police work the best job in the world?”

  The young inspector nodded with vigor.

  “It is.” He started the engine, “It just gives me the jitters when too much comes at me all at once.”

  DeKok’s face was expressionless.

  “Contact some future killers,” he said evenly. “Perhaps they’ll spread out their activities over a more convenient schedule.”

  Vledder did not look pleased.

  “Go fly a kite,” he responded.

  “Not in this weather,” said DeKok amiably as he slid down in the seat. “Just take it easy,” he added. “Dead is dead. We can’t change that and, besides, nobody will hear your siren in this weather.”

  Vledder unwillingly reduced his speed and shut off the siren.

  “I would like to get a little sleep tonight,” he muttered, disgruntled.

  DeKok pushed his hat farther down over his eyes.

  “Youth,” he mused.

  Eventually they reached Emperors Canal. On the bridge to Hearts Street was a patrol car. Vledder passed it and parked on Emperors Canal, under the trees. The storm had not abated.

  A young, uniformed constable approached DeKok. The visor of his cap was pulled down over his eyes.

  “I think it’s him, himself,” he roared above the noise of the storm.

  “Who?”

  “The dead man.”

  DeKok smiled mildly.

  “Do you mind if I say that I don’t understand what you’re talking about?”

  The young constable looked momentarily embarrassed, but then he began to grin.

  “I think,” he said more calmly, “the dead man on the stoop is the lawyer who has his office here. He may have been attacked while he was trying to open the door. His keys are still in his hand.”

  DeKok placed a hand briefly on the constable’s shoulder.

  “That’s a lot clearer,” he praised. “Has the herd been alerted?”

  “Yes, the watch commander told us over the radio.”

  DeKok followed the constable to the house. The doorway was recessed and there was a small portico at the top of the stoop. The legs of the dead man protruded from the niche, wet with rain. With a flashlight in one hand, DeKok kneeled next to the corpse. He discovered a deep, gaping wound on the back of the head. Dark red clots of blood and other matter stuck to the hairs at the nape of the neck.

  Vledder leaned closer.

  “Attacked from the back.”

  DeKok nodded slowly.

  Next to the head of the dead man was a pair of spectacles with expensive, gold frames. One lens was broken. The victim clenched a leather case in his right fist. Some keys protruded from the case.

  DeKok’s knees creaked as he rose. With the flashlight he looked at the inner walls of the doorway.

  “A single blow,” he murmured.

  “What was that?” asked Vledder.

  “The first blow was the only one the killer delivered. If he

  had struck more than once, there would have been blood on the walls.” He handed the flashlight to Vledder. “Take a good look yourself. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

  While Vledder looked closely at the walls, DeKok looked down upon the dead man. He estimated him to be about fifty years old. And he won’t get any older, he thought. The man was dressed in an expensive, dark-blue suit. DeKok could just see a pearl-gray necktie and diamond stick pin. There was no overcoat.

  The old inspector beckoned to the young constable.

  “Try the hoods of some of the parked cars. Maybe there’s one that is still warm.”

  “The victim’s car?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Yes. And write down the make, model, and registration of all cars that are still warm.”

  The constable disappeared in the rain.

  Vledder tapped DeKok on the shoulder.

  “You’re right. There is no blood spatter and the door hasn’t been touched—no signs of anyone breaking in.” He aimed the beam of the flashlight at the imposing brass nameplate next to the door. “J. O. B. Abbenes, Attorney-at-Law, Solicitor-Barrister,” he read out loud. He aimed the beam at the victim. “You think it’s him?”

  “It seems likely. As soon as Weelen has taken his pictures, we can see if there are any papers on him.”

  “Abbenes…ever heard of him?”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Vledder smirked.

  “J. O. B.,” he said. “What kind of parents would call their son Job?”

  DeKok gave him a chiding look.

  “The Biblical Job was a very devout man.”

  “But he lived on a manure pile.”

  DeKok ignored the remark. The car from the dactyloscopic service pulled up. In the distance they heard the siren and saw the lights of an ambulance. Before long the thundering herd, DeKok’s special name for the small army of specialists and crime scene investigators, would arrive. DeKok always tried to get away before that happened. He liked to talk to Weelen, the photographer; Kruger, the fingerprint expert; and the coroner. But the rest, especially the high-ranking officers who always gathered at a murder scene, left him cold. He still clung to his old habits when a photographer, a coroner, and, sometimes, a fingerprint expert were usually the only help a homicide investigator would have. After they did their work, he was on his own. He still was not sure all the modern assistance of crime labs, profilers, and sterile CSIs was any help. Murder, he felt, was a very personal thing. Murder involved people, not machines or analytical technology. He had always been able to solve all of his cases without this so-called assistance.

  Vledder pointed at the corpse.

  “Why would a man go to his office at this time of night in this weather?”

  “That, Dick, is exactly what I would like to know.”

  This time, DeKok had been unable to escape before the full herd arrived. He sat down in the patrol car until they left. Vledder gave the instructions to Bram Weelen, the photographer. The coroner was a young man, obviously new to the job. Since he was not old Dr. Koning, DeKok had not bothered with him either. Kruger took one look at the crime scene and told Vledder he could do no good with all the brick and rainwater all over the place. He waved at DeKok from the patrol car as he hastily left. The high-ranking officers took a quick look at the scene, also retreating to their cars. Only four or five crime scene investigators, impressive in their white suits, spent another half hour looking for things that weren’t there.

  When everybody, except the morgue attendants, had left, DeKok finally emerged from the patrol car and kneeled once more next to the corpse. He retrieved a wallet and a pocket agenda from the corpse. These he handed to Vledder. Then he pried the key case from between the fingers of the dead man. He straightened up and nodded at the morgue attendants who were patiently waiting in their van.

  The storm seemed to have increased in ferocity. DeKok pressed his little hat firmer on his head and looked at the elm trees swaying in the wind.

  Vledder watched as the morgue attendants placed the corpse on a stretcher and hastily fastened the belts to keep it in place. They did not bot
her with a sheet or a body bag. They just wanted to get out of the rain as soon as possible.

  DeKok watched as they struggled with the stretcher in the wind, finally shoving it into the back of the van. They slammed the doors and got into the cabin. When the red taillight disappeared, DeKok turned to Vledder.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He looked up at the trees. “I don’t trust those old trees in this kind of weather.”

  At Warmoes Street, Jan Kuster had been replaced by Meindert Post, the Urker watch commander. He looked at the clock.

  “You guys are pretty late,” he roared. Post always seemed to talk at the top of his voice.

  DeKok shrugged.

  “It didn’t go smoothly.”

  Post grinned. He knew what that meant.

  “Did Kuster leave any notes about the previous case?”

  “Of course, what do you think? You’re asking about the cocaine possession?”

  “Yes, the suspect is Casper Hoogwoud.”

  Post checked the records.

  “That’s right. But I don’t know what happened to him.”

  DeKok waved at the door.

  “His brother passed away. We left him at home.”

  “And what do you want me to do about him now?” asked Meindert Post.

  “Whatever you do in a situation like this. It’s not our case. Narcotics will probably contact you. We have a homicide on our hands.”

  “Easy for you,” mocked Post.

  “We’ll give you a report about the murder before we leave. We still have to write it up.”

  “You mean, Vledder has to write it up,” said Post, “I know the last time you wrote a report. I still have it. It’s handwritten and the paper has yellowed over time.”

  DeKok turned on his heels.

  Vledder grinned at Post and followed his partner up the stairs.

  In the deserted detective room, DeKok fell into his chair with a sigh. He tossed his hat in the direction of the peg on the wall but missed as usual. Vledder handed him the items taken from the corpse, went over to his own desk, and switched on his computer.

  “Is the name good?” he asked.

  DeKok nodded, taking a driver’s license out of the wallet.

  “His full name is Jacob Otto Bernard Abbenes. His residence is at Minerva Lane 783 in Amsterdam.”