Styx

by Bavo Dhooge

  Crevits remembered the original interrogation of Karel Rotiers. He and a few of the other cops lurking behind the one-way mirror while Styx came down hard on the guy.

  Rotiers turned the questioning into a vaudeville act, using it as an opportunity to brag about his cocksmanship, and, when Styx asked him straight out if he had any interest in necrophilia, he responded, “No way, man, I don’t need your sloppy seconds.” Styx lost his cool and slammed the playboy up against the wall.

  “You’ve got a hell of a rep around the clubs, asshole,” the cop snarled. “I heard you really made yourself some enemies at the Tantra House. I mean, come on, Karl, an X-Acto knife? Always up for something new, huh, you fucking pervert?”

  Rotiers started to give it right back, but Styx slapped him into silence.

  “Some of the girls call you the Stamper, I hear. What about the Stuffer, you ever get that one? I know you like stuffing it in ’em whenever you get the chance.”

  “I’ll stuff it in your wife,” Rotiers shot back, and by the time they were able to pull Styx off him, Loverboy’s face was a bloody mess.

  Rotiers had spent two days in the hospital and then two more in police custody before they’d let him go for lack of evidence.

  Now Crevits waved a dismissive hand at Delacroix and said, “What are you waiting for, a medal? I want to know if that bastard Rotiers has an alibi for Madeleine Bohy’s murder.”

  “You want me to track down where he was last night, too?”

  “What am I, your guru? A cop’s been murdered, Delacroix. I’m giving you your big chance. Don’t fuck it up.”

  As the rookie was on his way out the door, Crevits called him back a second time. “I want to know where Styx was killed. That photo’s real, but it could have been taken anywhere. I don’t like to think of him lying somewhere, waiting for that sick fuck to come back and, well, you know. Styx had his problems, but he was one of us. We can’t let him end up like those three women.”

  Styx stepped out of the dressing room, his bag in his hand, his top shirt button casually undone, and left the store. The mall was crowded, and hordes of shoppers streamed past him like zombies, unaware of the world around them, their eyes glazed, paying him not the slightest attention. It was ten AM, and a dozen television screens in the window of the electronics shop next door to the H&M caught his attention. The morning news began with a bulletin:

  “Last night in Ostend,” the perfectly dressed blond presenter said, “the notorious Chief Inspector Raphael Styx was murdered. Styx served for sixteen years on the city police, and for the last several months he led the team investigating what have come to be known as the ‘Stuffer’ serial killings. Styx’s body has not yet been recovered, but traces of violence were found earlier this morning in a cabana on the Ostend beach. News of the murder came to light when the Stuffer posted a photograph of Styx’s lifeless body to the police department’s Facebook page.”

  Styx stood there, stunned, as the report continued.

  “Commissioner John Crevits will hold a press conference later today, representing the chief of police, who is out of the country at the moment, but has already expressed his disappointment that his friend and subordinate’s death was reported in the media before Chief Inspector Styx’s family could be officially notified, and emphasized that, in the absence of a body, it is premature to use the word murder in connection with Styx’s death. In fact, the case is being treated at this juncture as a disappearance, although police department insiders who have seen the Facebook photo consider it to constitute undeniable proof that Styx was the victim of a violent attack, and tell us that the department is proceeding on the assumption that Styx was indeed the Stuffer’s fourth victim.”

  Styx stared at the bank of screens. It was one thing for him to know that he was dead. But it was a different game entirely now that the whole city had the news.

  “Commissioner Crevits assures the public that a full investigation is under way, and that the Ostend police will take all possible steps to uncover the truth. He offers his deepest condolences to Chief Inspector Styx’s family in these sad circumstances.”

  Styx’s thoughts turned to Isabelle and Victor. He tried to put himself in their place, but he had absolutely no idea how they would take the news. If the roles were reversed, he knew, and he were to hear that his son had been killed in a car crash, it would tear him apart. Same thing if he opened the door one morning to find a colleague there to deliver the news that Isabelle had been run down on her way to the hospital. He hadn’t been much of a husband in recent years, but she was still his wife.

  “The Raphael Styx case reopens the debate over the responsibility of social media. It has been confirmed that the Stuffer has posted repeatedly to Facebook, using a variety of accounts. Facebook representatives tell us that steps are being taken to prevent the killer from making any additional postings, but such measures will be difficult to implement. Commissioner Crevits further informs us that the gruesome photograph of what appears to be the body of Chief Inspector Styx will be taken down from the Ostend Police Department’s Facebook page within the hour. We’ll have more on this developing story as—”

  Styx wanted to get a look at the picture, and to check his own Facebook page to see what was posted there. It had taken him a while to make peace with Facebook. He’d opened and scrapped two accounts, but finally acknowledged that it was a necessary evil. He could no longer afford to stay under the radar. People who refused to accept citizenship in the virtual world weren’t just closing themselves off from other people’s awareness. They were erasing themselves. For all practical purposes, they were dead.

  He wondered how many people had already seen the picture of his corpse. If the Stuffer had played his cards right—and Styx knew the serial killer was a hell of a card player—he’d not only posted the photo but tagged it with Styx’s name. Each of his online “friends”—his colleagues, his family, his real friends (as few and far between as they were)—would see his gruesome photograph in their feed:

  Raphael Styx was tagged in Stuffer’s photos.

  Styx felt the life bleed out of him all over again. Life, his life, his life with friends, acquaintances, colleagues, and family, had been brutally torn away from him, without him even getting a vote.

  Was there any chance he might be able to find a way to—?

  No, there was no point speculating. Better to focus on the undeniable truth. For now, at least, he was trapped. He couldn’t run to Crevits, even if he wanted to. The station would be surrounded by media vultures, waiting to pick the bones of this latest sensational story. If they spotted him, the resulting circus would surely throw the Stuffer investigation off the rails.

  He had to think this through.

  The world thought he was dead. Who was he to say otherwise?

  He wasn’t a well-known cop outside the city. Yes, his picture had been in the national papers a few times over the years, but not often and not lately.

  That would change as the story of his murder spread, but for now he was probably fairly safe, especially with a face full of makeup.

  For now, he was not just a zombie but the Invisible Man.

  Inspector Joachim Delacroix was inside the beach cabana where Styx had died, not far from the Venetian Galleries.

  Yellow police tape protected not only the crime scene but also the cabanas to either side from prying eyes, and a pair of patrolmen were stationed on the dike to keep the rubberneckers moving along.

  “Now the fucker’s got his own Facebook page?” one of the detectives marveled.

  “I don’t get it,” sighed Delacroix. “How does a sick bastard like this wind up with friends?”

  “Probably an open profile,” said the detective.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Means anybody can see what he posts, you don’t have to be friends with him.”

  “And who found the page?”

  “Inspector Allaert.”

  “Stany? Where is he now?”r />
  “Clocked out and went home. He was pretty shaken up. He and Styx were friends, one of the few guys Styx really got along with. Been on the force ten years, and he’s managed to keep his nose clean despite Styx’s influence.”

  “You seen the photo?” asked Delacroix. Without realizing it, he’d switched to a more confidential tone.

  “Negative,” the detective said, “and I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “It’s pretty awful.”

  “I’d rather remember Styx the way he was.”

  Delacroix thought, You mean a complete asshole? But what he said was: “We’re not one hundred percent sure he’s dead.”

  Although it was broad daylight outside and the cabana door was open, the interior of the wooden shack was only dimly illuminated. They had found bloodstains on the floor, on the air mattress, and on the walls. DNA testing would take awhile, but Delacroix feared the worst.

  They’d lucked into the cabana when the elderly couple on vacation had shown up this morning, found the lock broken off, and called it in as a burglary—although there’d been nothing there worth stealing.

  If Delacroix closed his eyes, he could still see Styx’s body lying crumpled and lifeless on this floor, his head half-resting on the edge of this air mattress. He could see the three gaping wounds, the blood, Styx’s dead eyes staring off into the Great Nothing.

  “Any chance it might have been Photoshopped?” asked Paul Breton, who was there representing the Public Prosecution Service.

  “Honestly? I don’t think so,” said Delacroix. “I don’t see this guy faking a picture. Why bother?”

  “So you didn’t know Styx well, huh?” asked Breton.

  “I didn’t know him long,” Delacroix admitted.

  “He used to be one of the best.”

  “Used to be?”

  “Long time ago.”

  Hard to imagine, thought Delacroix.

  “Then he started spending a little too much time in bars with the scum he was supposed to be putting behind bars.”

  “I’ve only been here a year.”

  “Yeah, one of the best I’ve ever seen. But he turned into a real shitheel. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Delacroix had no trouble believing it. Maybe it was precisely because he’d barely known Styx that Delacroix found the idea of his death so easy to absorb. He wasn’t distracted by personal considerations. He had to admit—to himself, although he wouldn’t say this to Crevits or Breton—that he didn’t care for the chief inspector any more than the chief inspector had cared for him. The guy had been totally corrupt. Delacroix wasn’t happy the man was dead, but he saw Styx as the Stuffer’s fourth victim and nothing more.

  That thing Crevits had said, about Styx knowing he, Delacroix, was a good cop? Delacroix didn’t believe a word of it. It was just one of Crevits’s tricks. Even if it was true, he really didn’t give a shit about Styx’s opinion of him. Styx might have been a good cop, once upon a time, but he was a bad man—and Delacroix would rather be a good man and a lousy cop than a good cop and a lousy man.

  Breton put his phone away. “First report from the lab,” he said. “It looks like it could be Styx’s blood, but they’re not ready to say for sure without running some more tests.”

  “I wonder how he wound up here,” said Delacroix.

  “I wonder where he is right now.”

  “Who, the Stuffer?”

  “No, Styx. Imagine he turns up tomorrow on the dike. Statue number four. Jesus, I don’t want to think about it.”

  “We have to find him,” said Delacroix.

  “What happened with that guy yesterday? Guy who found the third victim? Styx was waiting for word about him—what was his name again, Spilliaert?”

  Delacroix shook his head. “We haven’t caught up with him yet.”

  He followed Breton out of the cabana. They were momentarily blinded by the sunshine. Before them, the beach was already crowded with day trippers.

  “We finally had the owner let us into the apartment,” Delacroix continued, “but there was nothing there. We’ve got a team watching the place around the clock, but he hasn’t shown up.”

  “What else is happening?” asked Breton, who seemed more interested in the case than the usual civil servant.

  “We’re questioning the owner, Sam Borremans. We checked him out, and he’s clean. No record.”

  “And?”

  “He says Spilliaert’s been living there for a year, but he only saw him one time, the day they signed the lease. Their only contact since then is the monthly rent payment.”

  “Automatic bill pay? Then we can find out more from the bank, can’t we?”

  “No, Styx already looked into that. Spilliaert paid in cash; stuck a wad of bills in an envelope once a month and pushed it through Borremans’s mail slot. Always paid on time, never complained about the plumbing, so Borremans never had any reason to see him again.

  “The whole thing sounds fishy to me.”

  “Indeed,” Delacroix nodded.

  “Would Borremans recognize him if he did see him again?”

  “He’s not sure. And we’ve tried to check into Spilliaert’s background, but there’s nothing. He’s not registered with the city. No passport, no identity card, no driver’s license, no health insurance. He’s a ghost.”

  “What kind of country is this when any asshole without ID can rent an apartment on the Belgian coast?” Breton asked.

  Despite himself, Delacroix thought of the many immigrants he’d met over the year since he’d arrived in Ostend, a shocking number of them smuggled in illegally in shipboard containers. He was one of the fortunate ones: thanks to his parents, he was a Belgian citizen, complete with passport and papers.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “we put Borremans with a police artist and got a sketch. It’s not much, but it’s not nothing. We’ve sent copies around to every police department in the country. And by this afternoon they’ll start running be-on-the-lookout announcements on TV and radio.”

  “Any other leads?”

  “We know Styx was tight with Gino Tersago, so we’ll pull him in for questioning, but I don’t expect he’ll have anything useful to tell us. Tersago and Karel Rotiers are all we’ve really got. We’re looking for Rotiers, see if he’s got an alibi for the third murder and for last night.”

  “You think Spilliaert may have some connection to the Stuffer?”

  Delacroix suddenly realized that the man from the public prosecutor’s office was grilling him. But this was his case now. He had to prove himself. He didn’t want to give too much away.

  “Well?” Breton said with a hint of impatience.

  “You figure Spilliaert is the Stuffer, then?”

  “I’m wondering what your thoughts are.”

  Delacroix shrugged.

  “Goddammit, you’re going to have to do a lot more than shrug your shoulders to solve this case, Delacroix.”

  The man from the PPS stalked away across the sand and clambered up the first stairway to the dike. Delacroix followed behind him.

  He wasn’t really dressed for the beach. His Italian loafers, crafted from fine camel-colored leather, filled with sand, and before he reached the stairs he was mopping sweat from his forehead with the white silk pocket square from the breast pocket of his azure suit coat.

  Despite the uncomfortable perspiration, Joachim Delacroix felt truly excited for the first time since he’d landed in Ostend a year ago.

  His own case.

  A chance to prove himself.

  This was what he’d been waiting for.

  His new life was beginning at last.

  Styx wasn’t just suffering a midlife crisis. This was a life crisis: he was dead. After the shock he’d received outside the H&M, he’d drifted out into the streets, lost in his own thoughts and eventually in the city, which was as decayed as he was.

  He tried to return to the Hofstraat, where the Stuffer maintained his pied-à-terre under the name Spilliaert, but on arrival sa
w that another detective had the place staked out. Stany Allaert, an honest cop he’d known for almost the entirety of Allaert’s career, was fairly well concealed in a doorway across the street from the building, and Styx had sniffed him out in time to back away unseen. He didn’t go far, though.

  Concealed in a doorway only three doors down from Stany Allaert, Styx kept a close watch on the fifth-floor window across the street.

  You in there, Stuffer? Is anybody home?

  There was no hint of movement behind the curtains.

  Or are you out here on the streets, looking for me?

  He would have loved to see the expression on the serial killer’s face when he realized Victim #4 had gone for a little stroll.

  How do you like me now, you fuck?

  He could have waited all day and all night, if he had to. But it was too risky for him to stay where he was. Allaert wasn’t the only cop who had the Hofstraat building under surveillance. One by one, Styx spotted a whole team stationed around the neighborhood.

  What he wanted to do was go home and see his family, but that was impossible. And trying to talk with John Crevits was also out of the question. To Isabelle and Victor and John, he was dead, and he had to go on being dead, at least for now.

  So he roamed through the city, along the Visserskaai and up the Vindictivelaan, keeping to the shadows as best he could, until at last he found himself in the Hippodroomwijk, where the annual Belle Époque festival was in full swing.

  “Of course,” Styx muttered, remembering the tableau he’d witnessed that morning in the station hall.

  Styx lost himself in the masses of people milling through the streets. He felt comfortably anonymous in the crowd; if he had a heart rate anymore, it would have slowed to normal. He shuffled past stands selling old costume jewelry, watches, toys, postcards from the time of James Ensor, and other trinkets. Many of the vendors were decked out in period costumes.

  He pulled up before one of the stands, this one offering a panoply of books and vinyl records. Propped up in the center of the display was a signed copy of Marvin Gaye’s In Our Lifetime. He remembered that album, released just before Gaye moved into promoter Freddy Cousaert’s apartment in the Kemmelbergstraat, right here in Ostend, in 1981. Cousaert had helped the American soul singer kick his cocaine addiction, and urban legend had it that the rhythm on Gaye’s comeback single, “Sexual Healing,” had been inspired by the sound of the waves on the Ostend beach.