DeKok and the Geese of Death

by A. C. Baantjer

  Uncle Immanuel made a sad gesture.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Anyway, the marriage did not last long … about three years. Then Iwert died. Isolde has lived there alone since his death.”

  “But with old Willem, until recently.”

  “Indeed, Iwert is the one who hired him.”

  DeKok held his head at an angle.

  “Do Ilja’s children know the background of their aunt?”

  Immanuel reached for his glass and shook his head.

  “Of course not. It would only burden them. Anyway what’s the use of raking up the past? We’ve always remained silent about Isolde’s lascivious behavior.”

  The men fell silent. DeKok sipped from his wine. The luscious bouquet seemed to sharpen his thought processes. He gestured around the comfortable den.

  “You want to leave here?”

  “Yes,” answered Immanuel. His voice was melancholy. “Several times now, I’ve seen Isolde’s whelp slink around the house. It’s not that I’m afraid to confront him. But I certainly wouldn’t turn my back on him, not even for a moment. I’d be an easy target.”

  “Isolde’s whelp?” asked DeKok. “What do you mean … a son?”

  The old man waved a trembling arm.

  “Igor.”

  17

  DeKok closed his eyes for a moment, as he processed the shattering news. With a resolute gesture he lifted his glass and drained it in one long swallow. Then he stood up and with a reassuring gesture, placed both hands on the old man’s shoulders.

  “Wait before you sell the house,” he said urgently. “I’d encourage you to delay any decision, if only for a few days. You wouldn’t want to live only with regrets. Old trees don’t transplant easily.” He gave Immanuel an encouraging grin. “Take care of yourself and don’t let anybody inside … even your nearest and dearest.” He looked deep into the old man’s eyes. “Now let us out quickly,” he added.

  Creaking, Uncle Immanuel stood up. He indicated the decanter. “There’s plenty of Burgundy left.” It sounded like a subdued protest.

  DeKok shook his head.

  “Not this time … we’ll be back one of these days.”

  As soon as the heavy door was closed and locked behind them, DeKok walked quickly to the old VW. Vledder followed a bit slower, deep in thought. DeKok urged him on.

  “Come on,” he urged his harried junior. “How much speed can you get from this wreck?”

  “Depends what you need,” answered Vledder, obviously confused by DeKok’s haste and urgency.

  DeKok pointed at the car.

  “I need speed,” barked DeKok. “To Happy Lake … and don’t spare this old war horse.”

  The car roared through the night. The chassis groaned and the engine whined in protest. A number of unidentifiable parts rattled. Vledder held the steering wheel solidly in both hands. Apparently the poor old car hadn’t had a front-end alignment in recent memory. His glance roamed constantly between the road, the dashboard, both mirrors, and the rest of the late-night traffic. Despite flooring the VW, other vehicles easily overtook the hard-working vehicle.

  Finally Vledder decided that the car would probably hold together for a while and he relaxed just a little. He still had to shout to be heard over the surrounding noise.

  “Igor is Isolde’s son?” he questioned. “It’s incredible.”

  “Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” DeKok roared back. “I can’t believe I’ve been that stupid. I noticed the likeness between Isolde and Igor during my very first meetings. I just ignored it. When her name wasn’t listed with those of Igor’s victims, but separately, it should have rung a bell.”

  “I don’t think it’s Iwert’s child,” said Vledder, not as loud, but still loud enough to overcome the peripheral noise. “Willem said they had no children.”

  “The father must be the itinerant musician. Remember when Immanuel told us Isolde was missing for five years? He mentioned her having roamed Europe with this foreign violinist.”

  “So, his name must have also been Stablinsky.”

  “Yes, and it raises the possibility Isolde and Stablinsky were married.”

  “Well, had Isolde been unmarried at the time of Igor’s birth, the child would have received his mother’s last name. That’s what happens in Holland and it’s also usual in most other European countries.”

  “So Igor can inherit?”

  “Certainly, if he’s a lawful child.”

  For a moment it looked as if Vledder would lose control of the speeding vehicle. Quickly he regained control.

  “If Igor can inherit …” he yelled after a long pause, “what inheritance would there be for Ivo and Irmgard? Is it all the same inheritance?”

  “If it’s true.”

  “What’s true?”

  DeKok shook his head while he grabbed the ceiling strap. The car was leaning in the long curve of a ramp.

  “What’s true?” repeated Vledder after he had safely regained the new roadway.

  “I’m not so sure Irmgard and Ivo are after the inheritance.”

  “Then it must have just been Izaak. We have evidence. He already hired a killer.”

  “Yes, Igor Stablinsky.”

  At the volume DeKok was using, the name sounded like a curse.

  “Too many questions,” yelled Vledder. “After five years Isolde came back alone, and she moved into Happy Lake. Where was the child? When did he surface? How? And what happened to Igor’s father?”

  DeKok did not answer. He agreed with Vledder, there were too many questions. Irritated, he looked aside.

  “Can’t you go faster?” yelled DeKok.

  Vledder kept all his attention focused on the road; they were getting into a more densely populated area.

  “What’s the matter? You have a death wish?” snarled Vledder.

  DeKok ran ahead.

  The gate was half open, but he did not allow himself time to wait for it to fully open, so the car could pass. He sprinted down the gravel path. A sickly odor reached his nostrils. Out of the corner of one eye he saw that the heap of dead geese still had not been removed. He was too focused on his goal to get angry about it. He ran up to the mansion and climbed the steps at almost the same speed. He banged with a full fist on the door. Vledder breathed down his neck.

  “There is a door bell,” observed Vledder.

  DeKok did not hear him. Without let-up he banged on the door with both fists. Lights came on in the house. It took almost another minute before the door opened. Irmgard appeared in the door opening … a pale, frightened face above a red peignoir.

  “DeKok!” she said, distressed.

  DeKok passed her by. Then he turned back.

  “Where’s Ivo?”

  Irmgard pointed hesitantly at a door.

  “In his room … I think.”

  DeKok ran to the indicated door and threw it open.

  On the doorstep he stopped.

  Ivo Bildijk’s corpse leaned sideways in a deep, comfortable easy chair.

  DeKok came closer and looked at the corpse. From just below the hairline of the slicked-down blond hair, a line of coagulated blood ran down next to his left ear. A small puddle of blood had formed on the flowery carpet. Ivo’s clear blue eyes were wide open. They looked larger than in life and frightened, as if trying to understand what had happened. His killer had struck a single, powerful blow from the back. Again the victim had been unaware of the murderer’s approach.

  Behind DeKok, Irmgard screamed.

  DeKok observed the experts moving about in the room. Despite the gruesome circumstances, he was strangely content. At last he had his ‘own’ team around him. He had liked Tees, the dactyloscopist from the Twenty-third Precinct. He’d even found the coroner from Oldkerk, Dr. Han, a sympathetic young man. In DeKok’s perception, however, they were strangers … not the group of people he had worked with for years. He had quietly pulled some strings to work with Bram Weelen, the photographer, and Frans Kruger, the fingerp
rint expert. Also present was old Dr. Koning and his own team of paramedics. As far as DeKok was concerned, those three and Vledder formed the only team he needed. There was no confusion about who did what, or what jurisdiction prevailed. Regardless of its location, the crime scene was now the sole responsibility of Warmoes Street Station, in casu, DeKok. Once he finished, the inevitable technical team could do what they wanted. At least it would be a team supplied by headquarters, not the Twenty-third Precinct.

  DeKok reflected as he watched. How many cases had he handled? It must be at least a hundred by now. His was a strange occupation. He hadn’t originally been assigned to homicide detail. His first stint was as a uniformed constable. Afterward he had become part of the so-called “Flying Squad,” which was solely instituted to handle murders. Until that time there had not been a sufficient number of murders in Amsterdam to worry about a special homicide division. Now the Amsterdam Homicide Division had members spread out over the various precincts.

  He looked at Ivo Bildijk and thought about the conversations he had had with the deceased. This time his crafty eloquence had not saved him. Was he the victim of his own almost slavish dedication to his Aunt Isolde? Was there someone who saw the closeness between Ivo and his aunt as a danger? Who was the unknown high-stakes player to whom their liaison was such a threat?

  Bram Weelen approached him. The cheerful photographer was in a bad mood. He looked tired, pale with red-rimmed eyes.”

  “That’s the third time this week I’ve been called out of bed,” he said grumpily. He waved with a hand that held a light meter. “This is getting to be carnage—where’s the end of it? Anyway how many Bildijk friends and relatives could there be?”

  “I’m afraid this is not the last Bildijk to be a target,” shrugged DeKok.

  “Perhaps you should evacuate them, put them in protective custody. That way they’ll have to stop killing each other.”

  “And you won’t be called out of your bed anymore,” smiled DeKok.

  “No rest for the weary,” grumbled Weelen. “They’ll just call me for something else.”

  “There’s always that,” agreed DeKok.

  Bram Weelen took the flash attachment from his camera and re-packed his suitcase.

  “Do you insist on having these pictures in the morning?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “Take your time. Get a few hours sleep, first. You look like you can use it.”

  “You ain’t kidding,” said Weelen with a grateful look. He picked up his suitcase and waved vaguely at the rest of the room. He left.

  Dr. Koning patted DeKok on the arm.

  “The man is dead,” he announced.

  “Thank you, doctor,” replied DeKok formally.

  The aged coroner lifted his greenish Garibaldi head in farewell and, nodding to his assistants, left the room.

  After a confirming look at DeKok, who nodded, the morgue attendants approached the corpse. Carefully they lifted the corpse out of the chair and into the body bag. They closed the bag and lifted it onto the stretcher. Once they fastened a few straps, they too, left.

  Then DeKok approached Vledder, who was talking to Kruger. DeKok wanted to say something about the geese, still neglected on the lawn. Penny appeared in the door opening, catching his attention. Her bare feet were visible below a soft pink nightgown. She placed her index finger over her lips in the universal sign for silence and then beckoned to DeKok.

  DeKok walked softly to the door. She took his hand and pulled him into the corridor. Toward the end in a type of niche, she stopped and looked at DeKok with big, serious eyes.

  “I’ve seen him, Mr. DeKok,” she whispered.

  “Who, Penny?”

  She pointed down the corridor.

  “The man who beat Uncle Ivo.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The little one nodded vigorously.

  “I saw him go into Uncle Ivo’s room.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  Penny shook her head. Her blonde tresses danced around her face.

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  DeKok leaned closer to her.

  “Why don’t you just stay in bed at night, like your brothers. What can you possibly do at night?”

  The little girl gave him a beaming smile. Her whole face lit up.

  “I look,” she said, “I look at Aunt Isolde when she walks and thinks nobody can see her.”

  “Walks?”

  Penny nodded her head. The tresses again danced around her face.

  “Yes, with her cane.”

  18

  Commissaris Buitendam, the tall aristocratic chief of Warmoes Street Station, motioned with a graceful, well-manicured hand toward the chair in front of his desk.

  “Sit down, DeKok,” he said with a voice full of portent. “It’s my task to … eh, I have a … I must give you some … ah, some less than pleasant news.”

  DeKok remained standing.

  “I’m listening,” he replied curtly.

  Buitendam cleared his throat.

  “I have to … we must put a stop to your investigations concerning Happy Lake. I, that is, the head of detectives at the Twenty-third Precinct will be in charge going forward. He is a chief inspector, after all.”

  DeKok had expected anything, but this.

  “You’re taking me off the case? After you forced it on me?”

  Buitendam nodded.

  “Three murders in three days, all three happening practically under your eyes … I cannot condone that type of performance. I … eh, I cannot defend it.”

  DeKok gestured vehemently.

  “You have nothing to condone,” he screamed. “There’s nothing to defend. I have done the best I could and more.”

  The commissaris made soothing motions with one hand, while the other hand was held up in a defensive gesture.

  “We feel the latter is open to interpretation. As a matter of fact, there’s some doubt whether your best is good enough. As you will recall, you took on this case with a great deal of reluctance. Your attitude is reflected in the results to date.”

  With heroic effort DeKok managed to abate the fury that seemed about to posses him.

  “Vledder and I have been on the case practically night and day. We left no stone unturned. It is a very complicated case. The motives of those involved are convoluted, to say the least.”

  “At Happy Lake,” interrupted the commissaris, “they are not all so pleased with your performance, either. We discussed their displeasure on an earlier occasion.”

  “And who are they,” demanded DeKok, a dangerous light in his eyes.

  “Isolde Bildijk … she’s approached the judge advocate with a pressing request to take you off the case. Mr. Schaap is very sympathetic to Mrs. Bildijk’s feelings and opinions. He feels more could …”

  It was DeKok’s turn to interrupt.

  “Mr. Schaap,” he said with contempt in his voice. “I’ve never met a judge advocate who’s as sheepish as that one.”

  Since “schaap” is the Dutch word for sheep, DeKok’s barb hit hard. The commissaris started to grow splotchy again.”

  “Again, DeKok, I forbid you to speak like that about a judicial authority.”

  DeKok barked a short, derisive laugh.

  “In your heart you know I’m right,” he said angrily. “He’s a worthless … judicial authority, ha, more like a waste of space.”

  Commissaris Buitendam stood up and pointed at the door. His composure gone, his skin had fully reddened.

  “OUT!” he roared.

  DeKok stayed where he was and stubbornly shook his head.

  “And I’ve had enough of that, too. That is not the way a good chief, a leader, ends a conversation.” He sighed deeply, gathering himself. “I know,” he continued reasonably. “I’m not very subservient, never have been. I like to be independent … self-sufficiency has always served me well, so it is difficult for me to depend on anybody. But I do have a request: give me twelve ho
urs.”

  “No.”

  “Twelve hours.”

  “No.”

  For a few seconds DeKok gave the commissaris a hard, considering look. He had known the chief for years. They had never been friends. Their way of looking at life, their opinions were too far apart. It was not common knowledge, but they had been at the police academy together. Buitendam, primarily a political animal, had quickly risen along the hierarchical ladder. DeKok, a hands-on cop, was stuck in his rank as Inspector. He would never rise higher. Despite their many differences, there was a certain mutual respect, even a certain amount of affection between the two men.

  “Twelve hours,” repeated DeKok, “and I’ll give you the solution of this mystery, dead geese and all.”

  DeKok felt a strange inner tension. He could not afford any more mistakes, mishaps, or missed communications. The twelve hours he had finally wrested away from Buitendam was the home stretch, his drop deadline. The commissaris would not have the fortitude to resist the diminutive, but powerful, Judge Advocate Schaap any further. If the commissaris were to give in, DeKok would be dismissed from a case for the first time in his long career. He could not conceive of anything more humiliating.

  DeKok looked at his watch. More than an hour and a half ago, he and Vledder had taken up their more or less strategic position. With distaste he picked up the cell phone that Vledder had provided. It doubled as a walkie-talkie, one of a set of four. Vledder had patiently set the instrument for walkie-talkie mode only. He replaced the tiny beep with a vibrating warning. All DeKok had to do was listen, or press a button when he wanted to speak. Apart from Vledder’s phone, two additional units went to young Sergeants Elsberg and Brink. They were posted, each in his own car, on the road to Happy Lake. One was on the road leading to Amsterdam, the other, on the road leading to Oldkerk. The gate had been propped open.

  Irmgard’s bedroom offered few options for hiding. Vledder and DeKok were underneath the high, old-fashioned bed. DeKok glanced at Vledder and heard steady, unhurried breathing. Vledder was tense, but relaxed. The room had been left almost dark, but there was enough light to distinguish furniture and colors. A bright red nightgown, belonging to Irmgard, had been draped over a chair; the hem was just visible next to one of the legs. They had an unobstructed view of the door.