DeKok and Murder by Melody Page 2

  DeKok studied the boyish face. Still preoccupied by his earlier feelings he wondered whether this youth had felt death imminent. Was he the one who had sent out the distress signals of fear and confusion DeKok had sensed earlier in the evening? With an effort he cleared his mind of such thoughts, focusing on the facts before him. Vledder looked at his partner.

  “Since when do you take off your hat for a junkie?”

  It sounded harsh and mocking. But DeKok knew it was Vledder’s way of dealing with the sadness and depression that overcame him. A sense of futility overwhelms officers confronted daily with violent death.

  “A junkie?” asked DeKok, surprise in his voice. He pointed at the corpse. “He doesn’t look like a junkie to me. He’s washed and shaved and wears clean clothes.”

  “Maybe he’s kicked the habit,” admitted Vledder grudgingly. “But as recently as last year he was a regular in the cells. He did mostly robberies and break-ins, cars and warehouses.”

  DeKok nodded his understanding.

  “You have a name?”

  Vledder took a notebook out of his pocket and rifled through the pages.

  “I’ve got him in here, somewhere. I processed the paperwork a few times when he was picked up.” He grinned. “The last time he broke into a car with a cop standing just across the street.”

  DeKok pointed around the room.

  “Did he live here then?”

  “No.” Vledder shook his head. He was homeless—registered at his parents’ house, but sleeping in some abandoned building on Monk Street.” He suddenly tapped a page. “Here it is, Erik Bavel … twenty-five … born in Heemstede.”

  “Heemstede—that sounds upscale.”

  “Sure,” answered Vledder. “The boy comes from a good family. I met the mother once. She was a real lady. She had come to Warmoes Street to pay her son’s bail. Erik was studying medicine at the time, he was also developing a heroin addiction. Mrs. Bavel was very concerned about Erik. She had lost another son, about a year and a half earlier, also because of drugs.”

  DeKok’s face hardened.

  “Heroin,” he growled grimly. “I’m against the death penalty. But when it comes to merciless dealers who know very well what sort of damage they’re doing … I feel public execution might be a deterrent.”

  Vledder grinned.

  “Careful! That’s politically incorrect. Don’t let them hear you in The Hague.”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders. He leaned closer to the corpse of the young man in the chair. The strangulation marks were clearly visible. It was even possible to detect the individual imprints of the fingers. He had seen the aftermath of strangulations, and knew the pathologist would find broken or crushed cartilage beneath the imprints.

  He straightened out and looked at Vledder.

  “Who discovered him?”

  Vledder pointed a thumb over his shoulder.

  “The boardinghouse keeper—she was raging.”

  “She was naturally upset about the murder!”

  Vledder shook his head. He pointed at the percolator.

  “No, he had been brewing coffee on the sly.”

  “What?” exclaimed DeKok, who was accustomed to peculiar reactions from witnesses. This didn’t register.

  “She forbids it absolutely,” said Vledder gravely. “She doesn’t want any cooking in the rooms. She’s a fanatic on the subject. It uses too much electricity.” He nodded toward the corpse. “She suspected the boy was brewing coffee at night, when he was alone. She had smelled an aroma of it in the corridor. That’s why she went downstairs tonight, in order to catch him red-handed.”

  “And when she saw the percolator she became angry?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her reaction to the dead boy?”

  “She appeared untouched.” Vledder gave a wry smile. “She acted like it was all an imposition, aimed at her personally. She sounded generally bitter, and refused to give any information about anybody else in the house. When I insisted, she slammed the kitchen door in my face.”

  “We’ll see about that,” murmured DeKok.

  Bram Weelen, the photographer, came in.

  “Good grief, DeKok,” he panted, “I was almost in bed. You do pick ungodly hours to summon a person.”

  The old inspector shrugged his shoulders and with an apologetic gesture, he raised both hands.

  “Death,” he said in a sepulchral voice, “often makes its appearance during unholy moments.”

  Bram Weelen placed his aluminum suitcase on the floor, pulled a handkerchief from a pocket, and wiped his forehead. He glanced around the room.

  “Anything special you need here?”

  DeKok pointed at the suitcase that partially covered the book on the floor.

  “Mind the clues.”

  “Clues, clues,” muttered Weelen as he moved the suitcase. “I’ve never yet spoiled any of your evidence.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “All right, all right all ready.”

  DeKok turned around. Dr. Koning, the coroner, stood in the door opening. The old man was dressed in his usual ‘uniform’ of striped trousers, spats, and a swallow-tail coat. In one hand he held his case. In the other was a large Fedora, with a greenish patina, reminiscent of weathered copper. DeKok walked toward the old coroner and welcomed him heartily.

  “Were you sound asleep like our photographer?” he asked, pointing at Weelen.

  Dr. Koning smiled.

  “No, I was on duty tonight, and I have the whole night still before me. From pure boredom I started to read Shakespeare.”

  “What?”

  “MacBeth.”

  DeKok smiled with admiration.

  “Ah, you read real literature.”

  “Yes,” nodded the doctor, “it puts me to sleep.”

  DeKok shook his head with mild disapproval. He liked Shakespeare; he could not imagine how anyone could find it boring.

  Dr. Koning approached the corpse. He placed one hand against the cheek of the victim. Then he pulled up the eyelids. The pupil did not react.

  DeKok kept his eyes on the coroner.

  “How long has he been dead?”

  Dr. Koning did not answer. He straightened up and replaced his hat on his head. He took a small silk handkerchief from a breast pocket and started to clean his lorgnette.

  “You know very well, DeKok,” he began, “there is little to say about the exact time of death at this point. But the boy is still warm. Based on that, I would venture to say that death may have occurred not too long ago­—maybe an hour.” He put the handkerchief back in its pocket and replaced the lorgnette. “Did you see the striations?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was done by powerful hands … somebody who has developed a very strong grip. The murderer could be a tennis player, for instance.”

  DeKok nodded thoughtfully.

  “I’ll keep a look-out for him.”

  The coroner smiled primly.

  “It could have been a ‘her’ as well, you know.”

  He waved a farewell and went to the door. DeKok called him back.

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

  Dr. Koning returned to the chair and bent his head slightly in DeKok’s direction. The gray eyes behind the lorgnette sparkled mischievously.

  “I know what you mean,” he said, pointing at the corpse. “He is dead.”

  Only now was Erik Bavel officially a corpse.

  “Thank you, doctor,” said DeKok.

  Bram Weelen came to stand next to DeKok, his Hasselblad in hand. Together they watched the eccentric coroner leave. The photographer nudged DeKok.

  “I’ve made all the usual pictures, overall and detail shots of the room and the corpse. When I leave I’ll take a shot of the building facade. But that’s it, as far as I can tell, unless you can think of anything else.”

  DeKok thought for a moment.

  “Try to get a shot of the face that I can use for identification purpo
ses. I mean, not something that looks obviously dead. I might need it. Then, as far as I’m concerned, you can go back to bed.”

  “You don’t want the pictures first thing in the morning?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “Tomorrow afternoon is soon enough.” He smiled. “And give my best regards to your wife.”

  As Weelen made his last pictures, Fred Kruger entered. The dactyloscopist had helped with crime scene investigation for many years. He was close to retirement. He nodded toward DeKok and looked around the room.

  “This is all?” he asked in a surprised tone of voice.

  “What do you mean?” asked DeKok.

  Kruger waved around, indicating the room.

  “Everything is so … eh, orderly. There is no chaos, no damage. Nothing was pulled apart. Even the victim looks neat and tidy.” He grinned for just a moment. “You could almost call it a tidy murder.”

  “A murder is never tidy,” DeKok said stoically.

  Kruger leaned over the victim.

  “Do you know yet, who it is?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Erik Bavel, twenty-five, a boy from a good background. Vledder knew him as a heroin addict. He’d processed this youngster a few times.”

  The fingerprint expert showed doubt on his face.

  “Doesn’t look like a junkie.”

  “I said the same thing,” smiled DeKok. “That’s one of the reasons I want you take his prints. I’d prefer now, but you can also do it tomorrow, before the autopsy. I’ve had some bad experiences with addicts. And with heroin you encounter the strangest scenarios. I’d like to be on the safe side … don’t want any surprises.”

  “Regarding the identity?’

  “Exactly.”

  Kruger nodded his understanding.

  “I’d better do it now.”

  Bram Weelen took the flash mechanism off his camera and packed the rest of equipment away in his aluminum suitcase. There was a contented look on his face as he winked at DeKok and disappeared.

  Kruger knelt next to the chair with the corpse. He placed his case on the floor, removing a small ink roller. He held the right hand of the victim, bent the thumb slightly, and quickly rolled the ink across the inside of the thumb.

  Then he took out a metal holder and inserted a blank card into it. With a practiced movement he took the fingerprint of the inked digit. DeKok leaned forward as he and his fingerprint man studied the imprint. It was a perfect impression. The loops and swirls were perfect.

  Kruger put the card aside and proceeded to repeat the operation on the other fingers of the corpse. DeKok watched with admiration. It was not as simple as it might seem to get useful prints of a corpse.

  “You need help?”

  Kruger shook his head.

  “It’s a piece of cake. There is no rigor yet. As a matter of fact, I think he’s still warm. The fingers are supple enough.” He looked around, a mild accusation in his eyes. “Besides, I’m not exactly doing this for the first time.”

  DeKok smiled. The old man’s pride was justified. He turned around and went over to Vledder, who was sitting at the small desk near the windows. He placed a hand on Vledder’s shoulder.

  “Found anything?”

  Vledder pointed at a large pad of graph paper. It was in the middle of the desk, centered on a rubber desk pad. The paper was well used; only a quarter of the sheets remained of an inch-thick pad. The top sheet was blank, except for the faintly blue, pre-printed grid. There were also vague impressions of lines and dashes, presumably made on the previous sheet before it was torn off the pad.

  The impressions in the paper created a crazy quilt of undecipherable images. Vledder pointed at the pad.

  “What could he have been using this for? Graph paper?” He repeated the words several times. “I searched, but this is the only graph paper in the room.”

  “No graphs on the used sheets?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “I searched through the text books and his notes. Everything else is on yellow and white legal pads. He had no graph paper anywhere else.”

  DeKok pulled on his lower lip and let it plop back.

  “That’s strange,” he said slowly. He looked at the pad on the desk. Then he decided, “Let’s take it with us. Perhaps they can do something with it in the lab.” He shook his head and sighed deeply. “You know, Dick, I have a premonition the death of this young man is just the beginning. I think there are more nasty surprises in store. I wouldn’t be sur—“ He stopped suddenly and turned around to face a constable as he entered the room with a heavy step.

  “They’re asking if you’re about finished here.”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Dispatch, they just called me on the radio.”

  DeKok sounded annoyed.

  “What’s so important?”

  “There’s another corpse.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s on Emperor’s Canal, at the edge of the water, between parked cars. Officers are already there to protect the crime scene.”

  “Why? What sort of crime?”

  “It was a strangulation, That’s all we know.”

  DeKok stared at the constable for a moment.

  “And they called you?” he finally asked.

  “Yessir, they want you over there as soon as possible.”

  3

  There was little space between the parked cars at the canal’s edge. They were parked diagonally with the left front tires up against a low, steel railing. Amsterdam had finally mounted these railings to reduce the number of cars that daily wound up in the canals. They weren’t very effective, but had reduced the number of cars that went for a swim to about one a day.

  DeKok played his flashlight along the sides of the cars. On the car to his right there were definite streaks in the grime on the doors. The grime had been wiped in a slight curve. The victim, concluded DeKok, must have fallen against the car and then slid down to the ground. He knelt next to the corpse and turned the flashlight on the face. The man looked familiar. He thought he had met him once, spoken to him. He searched his memory, but recognition eluded him.

  He turned the head of the corpse to one side and looked at the strangulation marks in the neck. They were almost identical to the marks on Erik Bavel’s neck. With difficulty he straightened out in the narrow space. His old knees creaked with the strain. From an upright position he again played the flashlight over the dead face. Then he squeezed away from between the cars and gave the flashlight to Vledder.

  “Go take a look,” he said. “I think I recognize him.”

  The young inspector in turn, squeezed between the cars. He was back a few seconds later. He was pale and looked confused. He pointed behind him.

  “It’s another junkie.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yes,” nodded Vledder, “Jean-Paul Stappert. Until a year or so ago, he was in the cells at least once a month.”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “He looked familiar.”

  “You should have recognized him,” Vledder gloated. “But you never want anything to do with drug crimes. You’re too good for that.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, I’m not too good, just too impatient.” He sounded apologetic. “I’ve actually tried dealing with addicts on occasion. But they are such stupid suspects. There’s no way you can have a real conversation with an addict. Most aren’t alive anymore … they merely exist. Mentally they’re already dead, unreachable.”

  “That’s why you leave it to the younger men,” accused Vledder.

  DeKok did not answer. As a young inspector he had been saddled with the less pleasant jobs. It was only fair the current generation do the same. With a wry smile he realized he had just classified murders as a more pleasant aspect of the job. He suppressed the thought.

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Stappert?”

  “Yes,” said DeKok, irritation in his voice. “Who else a
re we talking about?”

  Vledder made an unsure gesture.

  “An addict ... a rabbit. Not really a criminal, although he committed a number of stupid burglaries to get the money for the dope. Items from cars and so on.”

  “Like the last one he doesn’t look like a junkie.”

  Vledder shook his head, a puzzled look on his face.

  “You’re right. It surprised me … just like Erik Bavel.”

  “Why is that?”

  Vledder spread wide his hands. He was looking for words.

  “It’s just like—like they’ve been transformed. They’re like fresh laundry, washed, rinsed, and pressed. I hesitate to use the term born again, but something happened to them, something redeeming.”

  He gestured again behind him.

  “I know,” he continued, “these two used for years. But looking carefully at their arms, there are no recent tracks and no scars.”

  “They could both have changed spots,” said DeKok. “Addicts shoot up almost anywhere, even between the toes.”

  “Perhaps,” answered Vledder, “but I have a feeling that we won’t find any puncture marks anywhere else, either.” He paused. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “these men appear clean.” He paused again and then shook his head once more. “You’d almost think there’s some nut going around strangling junkies who kicked the habit.”

  “I hope not,” grimaced DeKok.

  “Yes,” agreed Vledder, “it reeks of bad horror movies.”

  DeKok bit down on his lower lip. Vledder’s reasoning had interested him, but it had not warmed him. The cold of night was seeping into his bones. Chill vapors rose from the water in the canal. He shivered. He pulled up the collar of his raincoat and thought.

  He looked around. All was quiet on the canal. Across the water, a few rats rustled between the parked cars. In the distance a late trolley screeched through a curve.

  DeKok sighed deeply.