“Are you going after the dead doctor?”
DeKok looked annoyed.
“Yes, what is it?”
Jan Kuster waved at the notes spread on his desk.
“There’s a patrol car in front of the doctor’s house. As soon as you get there please send them back. Just look at this,” he said sadly, “it is a manpower crisis. I have all these requests for assistance, but nobody left on the shift to send. Those bureaucrats in The Hague had better figure out how to clone cops.” Unsmiling, he looked up.
“There’s one detective left upstairs,” volunteered Vledder. “Perhaps you can use him.”
“Thanks. I’ll check. Don’t forget to send the patrol back.”
The inspectors waved on their way out.
Once outside, Vledder headed for the car, but DeKok held him back.
“Leave the car, perhaps Kuster can use it. He has enough trouble. We can walk it in less time then you can get that thing going.”
Vledder reluctantly complied.
“You’re not quite a marathon walker, you know,” he remarked.
“Dead is dead,” said DeKok. He glanced at Vledder. “Or do you think that by rushing you can bring him back to life?”
Vledder did not respond, but walked ahead of DeKok. The young man always had difficulty controlling his impatience with DeKok’s shuffle. But he had to admit DeKok, thanks to his intimate knowledge of his city, often arrived at his destination before any car or bicycle could.
DeKok lifted his hat to a young heroin whore. In recent months she became a regular in the waiting room at Warmoes Street. She was an anemic looking little woman, who sat quietly. She looked around with dull eyes, waiting to be interrogated or processed. He recalled she was German, but could not remember her name. He turned his head and looked at her thoughtfully as she disappeared around the corner.
She was the symbol of an entire army. The population of addicts increased incrementally. Certainly the Amsterdam Municipal Police could not stem the tide. An enlightened drug policy of the government had succeeded in reducing the number of new addicts by about ninety percent. This percentage, however, was reflective of the Dutch population only. The removal of border restrictions by the EU, coupled with the legalization of drugs in the Netherlands, resulted in a flood of foreigners. They flocked to Dutch population centers such as Amsterdam. Soft drugs were readily available in coffee shops, openly sold from menus.
Hard drugs required more effort, but not much more. Sooner or later, mused DeKok, something must be done to stem the flow of hard drugs and victims of this trade. He smiled wanly. It would be for the new generation of legislators and cops to address. He had not many years remaining until retirement.
DeKok’s progress was deceptive. Vledder waited for him at the corner of Warmoes Street. His face was red.
“We’re on the way to a murder,” he said in a harsh voice. “You do remember?”
DeKok nodded, resigned.
“Right—we have an appointment with a dead doctor.”
When they reached Emperor’s Canal, Vledder glanced at his watch. He had to admit they were there at least five minutes earlier than if they had taken the car. They climbed the bluestone steps. A bored, uniformed constable leaned against a doorpost. When he noticed DeKok, he hastily took a step forward and saluted.
“She’s in the waiting room, sir.”
DeKok looked puzzled.
“Who are you talking about?”
The cleaning woman, I mean the interior caretaker, who discovered the murder. She has a key. When she came around eight o’clock to clean, she noticed the door was unlocked and ajar. The front door is always locked outside of consulting hours. At first she thought it was a burglary. Before she telephoned the police it occurred to her the doctor might have just forgotten to close the door. She went in.”
“That’s when she found him.”
“Yes.”
“You have her name?”
DeKok was pleased to see the constable take a notebook out of his pocket and consult it.
“Anne-Marie Schild, unmarried, age fifty-seven. She’s been working for the doctor ever since he opened his practice here on the canal.”
“Particulars concerning the victim?”
“Haanstra … that’s all I have.”
“Touch anything inside?”
The young constable shook his head.
“I did think about looking for identification on the corpse. But I thought it better to leave it to you. We didn’t have to touch the body. It is clear from a distance he’s history … dead. It isn’t just the scarf around his neck. His tongue is black and it’s hanging out. Not pretty.” He sighed. Then he looked at the inspector with a question in his eyes. “Do you want me to alert anybody for you, sir?”
“No, thank you. Good report. The watch commander is alerting the Herd. He wants you to come right back. He’s stretched pretty thin. He needs you.”
“Very good, sir,” said the constable. He saluted again and walked down the steps to join his even younger colleague, who was guarding the radio in the patrol car.
Before he reached the bottom of the steps, DeKok called him.
“Hey!”
The constable turned around at the foot of the steps and looked up.
“Sir?” he asked.
“What’s with the sirs and the saluting?” demanded DeKok. “You wouldn’t be having fun at my expense?”
The constable looked perplexed.
“No, sir,” he said. “You’re Inspector DeKok.”
He said it as though it explained everything.
DeKok blushed.
“Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” said the constable, who saluted again and walked to the car.
Vledder grinned.
“Your fame is spreading,” he leered.
“Never mind,” grumbled DeKok and turned toward the door.
Suddenly he halted and took a second look at the brass plate next to the door.
“J. E. Haanstra,” he read out loud, “consultation hours from ten until noon.” He turned to Vledder, his face even. “Where do you think the doctor will hold his consultations tomorrow, heaven or hell?”
“Hell,” said Vledder without hesitation. “It’s more than likely his destination.”
“Why?”
Vledder looked serious.
“Be honest, DeKok. If you were God, would you allow people in your heaven?”
The gray sleuth did not answer. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Vledder followed.
While the younger inspector interviewed a hysterical charwoman, DeKok let his sharp gaze drift around the consultation room. He took it all in with photographic precision, the brown leather examination couch, the antique scales, an oaken measuring stick, and the dead doctor in his chair behind the desk.
The young constable was right. It was a specter from a nightmare. The swollen face, protruding tongue, and bulging eyes offered a gruesome sight. The doctor’s face was forever frozen in terror.
DeKok shook his head in despair. As with Marlies van Haesbergen, he felt a sense of guilt. Should he have been able to prevent this? His mind accepted his limitations. Dutch law had not left him any other choice. But his heart told him he had failed these two people.
Vledder entered the room.
“I’ve sent the poor woman home,” he said. “She’s confused and upset. She’s known the doctor since he was a baby. She was a housekeeper in his parents’ home.”
“Did she add anything to her account?”
“No, she told me the same thing she told the constable. She did suggest the doctor must have been killed by someone who had an appointment outside of surgery hours.”
“Why did she say that?”
“He’s still wearing his white coat. The charwoman said he hated the white coat, called it his uniform. He always took it off as soon as possible. He preferred casual clothes.”
DeKok pointed at
the file box on the desk.
“Take that with you, when we leave. Meanwhile, look around and see if you can find the patient card for Vreeden.”
“It isn’t there?”
“No,” said DeKok grimly. “It wasn’t in there this afternoon.” He pointed at the wastepaper basket next to the desk. “Check that out, as well. If I’m right, you’ll find a torn up card with an inkblot over my name.”
Vledder nodded to himself and made some entries in his notebook. Then he took a good look at the corpse.
“Not a flattering pose—in fact, that’s what you call macabre.”
“He struggled.”
“How can you tell?”
“He’s no longer seated in the chair. He’s hanging in it. I think there must have been a short struggle. When the strangler approached him from the back, the doctor must have tried to get up.”
“And then sank back down.”
“Precisely.”
Vledder made some more notes and then looked at his partner.
“Do you have any idea why he was killed?”
DeKok nodded slowly.
“Yes, I know.”
“You know?” Vledder inquired with surprise.
“Yes.”
Vledder grinned uncertainly.
“Would you mind telling me—” he stopped short. Dr. Koning suddenly appeared in the door opening. The morgue attendants stood behind him looking like bodyguards, the stretcher upright between them.
DeKok walked over to the old doctor.
“You’re first again.”
Dr. Koning smiled wryly.
“My parents were grocers. They taught me to take care of my best clients.” He walked around DeKok and approached the chair with the victim. With his hands in his pockets he looked for a long time.
“Has he been photographed?”
“No.”
Dr. Koning leaned over the victim and closed the eyes. He gave DeKok a slight smile.
“Why should we scare the poor photographer with that frightful stare? Even with closed eyes he’s pretty repulsive.”
Dr. Koning went through his usual ritual with his pince-nez. After he had cleaned it to his satisfaction, he looked at DeKok.
“By the way … he’s dead.”
DeKok shrugged.
“I suspected it.”
The coroner hesitated for a moment. There was a pensive look in his eyes.
“You had, I believe, a previous strangulation—the elderly woman from a few days ago. Wasn’t she also strangled with a scarf?”
“Indeed.”
Dr. Koning nodded to himself.
“I thought as much.” He paused. “Although I don’t like to jump to conclusions, you’d be well advised to look for the same person. The modus operandi are identical. The pathologist will confirm it, but it might give you a head start, so to speak.”
“Thank you, doctor,” said DeKok, always grateful for whatever morsel of knowledge the old coroner chose to share. The man must have seen more corpses than just about anybody else in Amsterdam, with the possible exception of some funeral parlor operators. The thought prompted him to ask a question.
“Aside from personal reasons, why would someone want to kill a doctor?”
Koning’s response was tongue-in-cheek.
“Perhaps he made the wrong diagnosis,” he smiled. “An occupational hazard.”
“Has it ever happened to you?”
“You mean, that I declared somebody dead, while he was still alive?”
“It could happen.”
Dr. Koning shook his head. He threw another pensive look in the direction of the corpse. Then he lifted his old Garibaldi hat in respect and left the room. DeKok suddenly realized that the old man had not lifted his hat when he first saw the corpse. He usually did that. Was it just an oversight at the end of a long, tiring day? While DeKok debated silently, Bram Weelen stormed into the room.
The photographer placed his aluminum suitcase on the floor. He spoke to DeKok over his shoulder.
“What do you want?”
“What do you mean … what do I want?”
“What kind of pictures, of course,” said Bram, lifting the Hasselblad from its foam rubber nest.
DeKok did not answer, but waited until Weelen stood up and faced him.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked DeKok. His tone was prickly. “Are you in a hurry again? Last time I hardly saw you. You flew in and out like a shadow.”
Bram looked apologetic.
“I want to run over to the hospital. My eldest daughter delivered a baby yesterday. It wasn’t an easy delivery. There were some complications.” His face lit up and he grinned from ear to ear. “But it’s a wonder of a boy! He weighed in at seven pounds, three ounces. He’s always hungry and has lungs of leather.” He patted DeKok on the shoulder. “And I tell you something else, they named him after me.”
DeKok smiled.
“Congratulations. Now you’re a role model.”
Weelen spread both arms, his precious Hasselblad hanging precariously from the tips of his fingers.
“Don’t you think it’s wonderful?”
DeKok nodded.
“How’s your daughter?”
“Good, we think she can come home tomorrow.”
DeKok looked at the corpse.
“I just want a few pictures. His face … the scarf … the knot … the way he’s hanging in the chair. After that, you may leave, as far as I’m concerned.”
Weelen gave him a grateful look and went to work.
Before Bram had his first exposure, Kruger came in. He looked around. His face was somber.
“My luck with prints has gone from bad to worse lately,” he said unhappily. “It’s an epidemic—every criminal is wearing gloves. It’s because all those idiotic detective novels—”
He was interrupted by a triumphant yell from Vledder. With a wide card in his hand, he crawled away from the desk. He stood up and walked over to DeKok.
“Found it! It wasn’t in the trash; it was under the desk, near the wall. It must have fallen during the struggle and slid across the wooden floor under the desk.”
DeKok took the card and studied it. It was the same kind of card the doctor had begun for him. In the block under “Name”, the letters K. Ko. appeared.
Vledder looked over DeKok’s shoulder.
“Karl Koperman.”
18
It was well after midnight when they returned to the station house. After the morgue attendants had taken the corpse away, Ben Kruger had taken his time. Obsessed by the desire to find usable prints, he had just about covered the entire consultation room in gray aluminum powder. As he started toward the waiting room, DeKok had resolutely sent him away, suitcase and all. At just about that time the Herd and the rest of the CSI team arrived. Vledder and DeKok had left almost on Kruger’s heels.
Exhausted, DeKok sank down in the chair behind his desk. His face was drawn, the features skewed with pain. He lifted his legs to rest them on the desktop.
“Kruger is taking it over the top, these days,” he grumbled. “He was ready to dust everything including the ceiling fan. Fingerprints are his whole world.”
Vledder did not react. He waved a plastic bag around. In it was the scarf from the second strangling.
“When are we going to arrest him?”
Listlessly, DeKok looked up.
“Who?”
The young inspector beheld his older colleague in utter amazement.
“Handsome Karl,” he exclaimed, irritation in his voice. “Karl Koperman. It’s clear as day he presented himself as a patient, to gain access to the doctor. Then he strangled him.”
DeKok did not move.
“You mean,” he murmured, “because of that card with K. Ko?”
“Yes, what else?”
DeKok closed his eyes, as if asking for patience.
“What else?” asked DeKok.
“I mean,” said Vledder impatiently, “we know the detai
ls of his attempted strangling of Fat Nellie. We know someone succeeded in strangling Marlies van Haesbergen with a scarf. You have as much evidence as you need for probable cause.”
“You think so?”
“Of course, and anybody would agree with me. What else do you want?”
“Nothing else … just to catch the real killer.”
Vledder’s face turned red.
“The real killer,” he repeated with a sneer. He pointed at the plastic bag. “Handsome Karl is the real killer.”
DeKok pulled out his lower lip and let it plop back. He did it again. When he tried to do it once more, he stopped, because Vledder interrupted him.
“Stop it,” cried Vledder. “Enough is enough. What about the real killer?”
DeKok looked at his partner through half-closed eyes.
“Why,” he said reasonably, “should K. Ko have to mean Karl Koperman?” His eyes closed almost completely. “It could just as easily mean Kees Koster, or Krelis Kolenshouwer, need I go on? A smart lawyer, certainly a man like Meturovski, sweeps evidence like that off the table. He’ll enjoy the joke, and the court will not be able to stop him.” He paused a moment. A twinkle appeared in his eyes as he opened them all the way. “A self-respecting defense council could use the K. Ko to Karl’s benefit.”
Vledder was stunned.
“What are you saying?”
DeKok took his legs off the desk and stood up. He perfectly imitated the stance and gestures of a barrister pleading a case in court.
“What man, your honors,” he declaimed with just the right degree of drama, “what man plans a murder and hands his intended victim an opportunity to write, or begin to write, what will become an engraved invitation to the police? I ask you, your honors, would we expect even the stupidest criminal to participate in his own demise?”
Vledder pointed at the floor.
“The card was on the floor—the murderer did not mean it to be found.”
DeKok nodded resignedly.
“Think about it.”
The young inspector shook his head.
“I’m done,” he growled obstreperously. “We’ll never unravel it.”
DeKok and Variations on Murder Page 13