DeKok and the Death of a Clown Read online

  Location made the old police station at Warmoes Street the busiest police station in Northern Europe. The hundreds of thousands of visitors to the district created both problems, and opportunities. Crimes ranged from petty and opportunistic to calculated and brutal. Bar patrons complained of watered or spiked drinks. Barkeeps complained of being stiffed. Bar fights erupted in their establishments. Pickpockets (many of them prostitutes) and muggers stalked the unwary. Then there was the occasional murder. But the station did not have a Vice Squad.

  “I also think,” continued DeKok, “we should have a little talk with Maurice, the son.”

  Vledder looked up from his notes.

  “So, you’re determined to pursue the case?”

  DeKok merely nodded and pointed at the list.

  “I would hurry with the telex. Every minute counts.”

  Vledder sighed his acceptance.

  “All right,” he said, “but it’s an odd job for homicide detectives.”

  DeKok ignored the remark. Vledder was just as aware as he was that there was no real Homicide Squad in the Amsterdam Municipal Police. The homicide detail for the entire city of Amsterdam was smaller than that in a single New York police station. Homicide detectives were spread out. He and Vledder were Homicide at Warmoes Street. Additional one- and two-person teams were spread out over half the remaining station houses in the city, and there was a relatively large detail at headquarters to assist individual teams. The rest, such as crime scene investigators, the crime lab, and the various pathological services had to be shared by all the different branches, such as Narcotics and, even, the Traffic Police.

  Fortunately there were few murders in Amsterdam, so it was natural the small homicide teams would do other police work. Vledder had been spoiled, if you could call it that thought DeKok, by a recent string of homicide cases in their jurisdiction. There had been about twenty cases in a relatively short period of time. True, some of the cases had involved multiple victims, but it was still a small number for such a large city, particularly considering its augmented population of more than ten million visitors per year.

  Vledder had just saved his completed report to disk when the phone rang. He picked it up. DeKok watched his face as the young man spoke. Vledder paled. After a while he replaced the receiver.

  “Well, you can forget about vanishing jewelry,” said Vledder.

  “How is that?” asked DeKok, suspecting the answer.

  “We have a dead clown.”

  “A clown? As in a circus clown?”

  “Yes,” answered Vledder, getting out of his chair.

  “Where?” asked DeKok, following his example.

  “At the bottom of Criers’ Tower.”

  2

  They waved goodbye to the watch commander as they exited the station. Outside Vledder hustled toward the car, but DeKok stopped him.

  “We’ll get there more quickly on foot,” said DeKok. “It’s only three alleys away.”

  “Which alleys?”

  DeKok gave him a disapproving look.

  “Old Side’s Arm, Peaceful Citizen, and Watergate. It’s about time,” he chided, “you get more familiar with the immediate area around the station house. Racing around in cars, no wonder you don’t know the shortcuts.”

  Vledder growled.

  “I can never keep all those crazy alleys apart. Some won’t even take two bicycles side by side.”

  He quickly stepped ahead. The gray sleuth followed at a more measured pace in his trademark shuffling gait. It never entered his mind to hurry. In no time at all, his young colleague was fifty feet away. At the entrance of Old Side’s Arm Alley, he waited and beckoned impatiently for DeKok to catch up.

  When DeKok reached him, the old man grinned.

  “A dead clown is a dead clown,” he said calmly. “A police relay team cannot change that.”

  Vledder snorted his disapproval.

  “But you can’t just amble along on your way to a murder.”

  DeKok ambled on, undisturbed.

  Vledder finally adjusted his pace to that of his partner. As usual it was busy in the quarter. A constant stream of prospective customers filed past the windows with soft red and pink lights that highlighted scantily clad women. On certain corners young heroin whores offered their services. Depending on the trade, they were dull-eyed and passive or aggressively bold. The old inspector knew many by name and nickname. He knew their past and present lives. Sadly he could foresee the future. These unfortunate women competed with prostitutes who chose “the life,” selling their bodies to feed addiction. Their abbreviated careers often ended in death by overdose. Many of his colleagues termed these deaths accidental, but DeKok was not so sure. He suspected many simply saw no way out, and opted for the last, lethal, fix.

  It was getting darker and swirls of fog clung to the damp walls of the canals. Soon the canals would refresh themselves. Fresh water from Ijssel Lake would pump into the canal system, flushing the brackish water out to the North Sea.

  DeKok stretched as he turned the last corner. To the left of The Criers’ Tower was a police car, blue lights rotating on the roof. Several uniformed constables stood to the right, in front of the iron fence. One came forward and saluted the two inspectors with a hand to his cap.

  “I have called for the water police and a boat. There’s no other way to reach the victim.”

  “Why is that?”

  The constable gestured.

  “The dead guy is at the bottom of the tower, on a wooden pier, just above the water surface. There are stairs, but the entrance is closed with an iron gate.”

  “How do you know it’s a man?”

  “I climbed the fence.” He gave DeKok a measuring look. “I wouldn’t advise you to try it. It’s a bit of a climb.”

  “How did he die?”

  The constable grimaced.

  “He has a large knife sticking out of his back.”

  “And you’re certain he’s dead?”

  The constable nodded.

  “Yes, sir. He’s gone cold.”

  DeKok seemed surprised.

  “Cold?” he repeated.

  “I felt for a pulse. Without touching or moving anything, I had to know whether we had a shot at a rescue.”

  DeKok nodded his understanding.

  “You were right. First Aid is the priority.” He looked around. “Who discovered the corpse?”

  The young constable hesitated for a moment.

  “We … eh, we were patrolling along Prince Henry’s Quay when a man waved at us from the edge of the sidewalk.” He looked at his watch. “That was about fifteen minutes ago. We stopped. The man pointed in this direction and said there was dead clown at the bottom of Criers’ Tower. Initially we thought it was some kind of joke … he’d obviously been drinking. Just to be on the safe side, we took a look.”

  “Do you have the name of that man?”

  “No, as I said, we thought he was playing a prank.”

  DeKok walked along the iron fence. The sharp odor of urine overwhelmed his sense of smell. The walls of the old tower had been used as a water closet for centuries.

  The Criers’ Tower, literally, “Tower of Tears,” was built in 1487. It was here women gathered to send their men off to sea for years. Many would never return. The open water of the Zuyder Zee was much closer to the tower in those times. Today bronze plaques commemorate the role of this passage in history. One plaque remembers Henry Hudson, who sailed past the tower aboard his Half Moon in 1609 en route to the New World. The Hudson River bears his name. His expedition was sponsored by the Dutch government, who were looking for a northern route to the East Indies.

  As DeKok grew numb to the reek of urine, he looked up. The top of the fence was rather high, at least nine feet. At the top, the metal bars ended in sharp points against a darkening sky.

  He looked down through the bars. He could barely discern the wooden platform. It was almost completely covered by a glistening white clown costume. A bit above
the waist a large knife was buried into the body, surrounded by a pool of dark blood.

  DeKok stood there and stared.

  The scene fascinated him, the setting surreal. This murderer, he bitterly thought, had a sinister appreciation of the grotesque. A combination of instinct and experience told the inspector he was taking on an unpredictable adversary. This was someone whose psyche demanded more than mere revenge or the gratification of passion. This was an individual for whom dramatic impact was paramount.

  Vledder came to stand next to him and they stared at the corpse together.

  “That’s Pierrot,” said Vledder.

  “But such costumes are not uncommon—maybe, even, available to rent?” DeKok sounded hesitant.

  The young inspector looked serious.

  “No. I mean he is Pierrot,” he clarified with emphasis. “It isn’t just the suit. I’m almost certain he performed in the Variety Revue last year. He is unique in Holland, he fashioned his persona after the original.”

  “Pierrot.”

  Vledder nodded.

  “I don’t know his real name, but that’s his stage name.”

  DeKok waved in the direction of the police cruiser.

  “Why don’t you get on the radio and have headquarters check with the theater. We’ll have his name in a few minutes. Otherwise they can probably locate his manager.”

  Vledder walked away. DeKok was above using the radio himself. He was inflexible regarding modern gadgets, but only too willing to have others use them to achieve results. When it came to technology, DeKok reminded Vledder of a starving vegetarian, confronted with having only ham to eat. The vegetarian would point at the ham and call it salmon. DeKok had the same ability to use technology without acknowledging it as such.

  Meanwhile DeKok took a few steps back. He soaked up every detail of the surroundings. It was his special gift. Nothing escaped him. This combined with a nearly photographic memory contributed to a remarkable degree of effectiveness.

  Just past the iron fence there was a kind of addition to the tower. This section was sealed by a heavy door protected by a second door fashioned of cast-iron bars. To the right of the door was mounted a small, square, white enamel plate with the number “94” painted on it in black letters.

  DeKok walked back to the fence and studied the lock on the gate. It was old, simple in construction, and very rusty—it certainly had not been used in years. He considered for a moment, but decided it was senseless to try and open the lock. He took hold of one of the bars with both hands and pulled hard. There was no give. The gate did not move an inch.

  DeKok reasoned the corpse had not reached the landing stage by way of the street. If the young constable, indeed, found the body cold, death likely occurred elsewhere. The voluminous white costume was visible from any vantage point. Some passerby would have seen it long before cooling occurred. DeKok had learned early in his career it took hours for a corpse to become cold, even in very low temperatures. He objectively speculated about the progress of rigor mortis.

  He needed another look at his victim, whose face was hidden. The man’s chin rested on the wooden deck. A bit of ruffled collar was visible. A patch of bright red hair stuck out of a white silken cap or hood.

  Suddenly DeKok felt the urge to climb the fence, despite his age and 200 pounds. This viewing from a distance irritated him. It left too many questions.

  Vledder returned from the cruiser. He held a notebook in his hand. With a nonchalant gesture he pointed toward the corpse.

  “Pierrot’s real name is Pieter Eikelbos.”

  “They knew at the theater?”

  Vledder nodded.

  “Oh, yes, he’s been an artist for more than twenty-five years.”

  “He had always been a clown?”

  Vledder shrugged.

  “I didn’t ask that. According to the guy at headquarters, the people at the theater were so shocked he didn’t get much.” He paused. “I also asked about the Water Police boat.”

  “And?”

  “It’s on the way, should be here any minute.”

  Bram Weelen, the police photographer, tapped DeKok on the shoulder. With a stubby index finger he pointed at his watch.

  “What’s up, DeKok? This must be the second time you’ve got me out at a reasonable time of day. Are you changing your lifestyle? No more ungodly hours?” He grinned. “Before long I’ll have a regular nine-to-five job, if you’re not careful.” He looked around. “Where’s the victim?”

  DeKok smiled.

  “You’ll have to meditate on patience. There’s no way to reach it from here with all your paraphernalia … unless you want to climb the fence.”

  Bram looked at the fence with a disapproving look.

  “No thanks. I’m determined to reach a respectable age and collect my pension.” He approached the fence and looked down. With a startled look he turned around.

  “Why, it’s a … a clown.”

  “Pierrot, a. k. a. Pieter Eikelbos,” was the answer.

  The photographer again looked at the small dock.

  “Don’t you guys have a boat?”

  DeKok pointed to a low, gray launch that slowly turned alongside the quay. The Water Police had arrived.

  “Your wish is my command,” joked DeKok. Then he waved around. “If I were you I’d take a few long shots first, as long as there’s just the corpse down there. Before long the place will be crawling. I’d prefer good pictures of the situation as it is now. I want a record of the position of the corpse from here and from the quay.”

  Weelen placed his aluminum suitcase on the street and took out his revered Hasselblad. As he fussed adjusting the lights, he looked up.

  “What’s this about wishes being commands?”

  DeKok laughed. From the corner of his eye he saw the coroner arrive. The old man, Dr. Koning, was, as usual, dressed in an old fashioned tailcoat with striped trousers. He was followed by two morgue attendants with a stretcher. They towered over the old coroner like two Paladins of Death.

  DeKok’s face lit up. He walked toward the old man and shook his hand. Somehow the gray spats and the old, greenish Garibaldi hat went well with the doctor’s outfit. Dr. Koning was a comforting sight.

  DeKok pointed at the launch.

  “We’ll get you aboard. Sorry, there is no other way to reach the corpse.”

  “Is it a drowning?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “The victim is on a small, wooden dock, just above the water line. He has a very large knife in his back.”

  A hefty constable lifted the slight coroner onto the launch. The elderly man crept cautiously along the narrow gangway toward the small foredeck of the launch. DeKok followed. As the launch nudged the dock they remained standing for a while, looking at the corpse. After a few seconds Koning gave the inspector a sober look.

  “I hope,” said the coroner seriously, “that you’ll be able to find the murderer quickly.”

  DeKok was surprised. He had never heard a remark like that from the eccentric doctor.

  “Why … how so?” DeKok asked.

  Dr. Koning removed his hat.

  “Clowns with his talent are a rarity in our small country … too valuable to murder indiscriminately.”

  He placed the Garibaldi hat in DeKok’s hands and stepped onto the dock. Knees cracking, he knelt down next to the corpse.

  The investigation took longer than usual. Such an extended examination was rare. Once he’d finished, at least for the time being, the coroner rose, took off his pince-nez, and started polishing them with a large silk handkerchief he took from his breast pocket.

  “He is dead,” Koning said, as he replaced his glasses and handkerchief.

  DeKok nodded.

  “So I understood,” he said.

  Dr. Koning nodded in the direction of the corpse.

  “He died at least six hours ago, perhaps longer. Rigor is complete.”

  He nodded once more at the corpse and then stretched out a
hand to DeKok, who helped him board the launch.

  “Internal bleeding?” asked DeKok.

  The coroner gestured vaguely.

  “Could be … I postulate internal bleeding may have led to the final demise. But the pathologist can give you a more precise answer after the autopsy.”

  He accepted his hat back from DeKok, placed it on his head, and carefully picked his way to the stern, where the same burly constable helped him back ashore. Once ashore he turned to DeKok.

  “Ever seen a clown with no make-up?” he asked. Then he walked away.

  DeKok pondered the question, but he did not have long. Weelen passed him on the way to the foredeck and Kruger, the dactyloscopist, asked what was expected from him.

  “Everything on that little dock is wet,” he complained, “I can’t get any prints.”

  DeKok made a careless gesture.

  “Then don’t. You’re the expert. Whatever you think …” He did not finish his sentence, but pointed at the corpse. “I would like to have his fingerprints, though,” he concluded.

  Kruger looked at him.

  “Right now?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, you can do it tomorrow, before the autopsy.”

  Kruger gave him a grateful look.

  When Kruger and Weelen had both left, DeKok waved over the morgue attendants.

  “Transport him on his stomach,” he warned. “Make sure to leave the knife in position for the lab.”