DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain

by A. C. Baantjer

  Slowly DeKok regained his breath.

  “I ran after a man.”

  “What sort of man?”

  “Ronald Kruisberg.”

  Vledder looked a question.

  “No, I meant, is he a fugitive? Are we looking for him?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “He died…two years ago.”

  2

  Vledder used his sleeve to remove a dusting of snow from the windshield of the old VW Beetle. Then he entered the car, started the engine, and drove away. The wipers worked only at slow speed, and the heater was just barely able to defrost the windshield. The rest of the car was like an icebox.

  DeKok sank down in the passenger seat. Despite the frigid temperature in the car, he was reasonably comfortable. He silently blessed his wife, who insisted he wear a hand-knit woolen sweater during any month with an “R” in the name.

  He shook his head in disgust.

  “Two sprints in the last forty-five minutes? I’m getting too old for this stuff.”

  Vledder shrugged.

  “Why didn’t you warn me? Maybe I could have caught him.”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “What should I have done? I can’t imagine calling out loud, ‘There is a dead man standing about…go catch him!’” He snorted. “A remarkable exclamation for a funeral ceremony, don’t you think?” He grinned

  boyishly. “Besides,” he added, “my old mother would never have forgiven me for interrupting a minister during his sermon.”

  The young inspector laughed.

  “Even so, you created enough of a disturbance. I don’t think anybody heard the Our Father.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  Vledder gave him a quick but penetrating look.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Are you sure Ronald Kruisberg is dead?”

  DeKok pressed himself more upright in the seat.

  “Years ago, before your time, when there was no homicide squad at Warmoes Street, I was investigating a fraud case in which Kruisberg was a suspect. He had started a company and sold property in Spain for future vacation homes. When a few of his customers actually took a look in Spain, it turned out the parcels were situated in a remote region. The rough, rocky ground had not the remotest chance of access to water or any other utilities. In fact, there wasn’t even a track, let alone a road, for access. The ground was worthless. He must have cheated hundreds of people.”

  “Did you solve the case?”

  “Oh, yes,” nodded DeKok. “I had a number of conversations with Kruisberg at the time. He was a friendly, pleasant man. But when I finally received permission from the judge advocate to make an arrest, Kruisberg had flown the coop.”

  Vledder nodded wisely.

  “With all the money.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And why do—did—you think he’s dead?”

  DeKok took a deep breath.

  “When he disappeared without a trace, I sent out an APB with a request to arrest him and deliver him to Amsterdam so we could charge him. Nothing turned up. Then, about two years ago, I read an obituary in the paper stating Ronald Kruisberg had been killed in a traffic accident in Belgium. I immediately contacted the registry office, and they confirmed he was registered as deceased.”

  It became clear to Vledder.

  “And so you, of course, cancelled the APB.”

  “Yes, of course. It was of no use. Prosecution, it states in the law, is no longer possible after the death of the suspect.”

  Vledder stopped for a red light. He looked pensive. After the light turned green and he was through the intersection, he spoke again.

  “There’s no chance you made a mistake?”

  DeKok seemed surprised at the question.

  “You mean that the man at the cemetery was not Ronald Kruisberg?”

  “Yes, perhaps you saw someone else, someone who resembles him. Could have been a brother…”

  DeKok rubbed the back of his neck, deep in thought.

  “No,” he said after a long pause. “I have the distinct impression he recognized me as well. It’s hard to make a mistake about that. Besides, if he isn’t Ronald Kruisberg, why would he run away?”

  Vledder smiled.

  “If I saw you run at me, I’d flee, too.”

  DeKok laughed.

  “Do you have a bad conscience?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “You’ve no idea how dangerous you can look.”

  DeKok ignored the remark. Instead he closed his eyes and allowed the scene at the cemetery to replay in his mind.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “that he started to run the moment he realized I had recognized him.”

  Vledder remained silent, a stubborn look on his face. He found it impossible to accept a man rising from the dead. For a while he concentrated on his driving.

  “How long since you last saw Ronald Kruisberg alive?” he asked finally.

  DeKok glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

  “About half an hour ago.”

  “Don’t be smart. I mean before that moment.”

  “About twelve years.”

  Vledder nodded pensively.

  “A man can change his appearance a lot in twelve years’ time.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin.

  “Possibly, but expressions do not change so easily. They give an impression of the individual, a so-called gestalt. That’s the way it is with our Ronald.” He paused. “You know what I can’t help wondering?”

  “No.”

  “Why did he take the risk to attend Assumburg’s funeral? Why chance being recognized?”

  Vledder gave his partner a measured look. He felt DeKok was becoming enamored of the idea that Kruisberg was still alive. If so, DeKok might be tempted to reopen the investigation, an investigation that had nothing to do with homicide. He made a dismissive gesture with one hand.

  “What’s all this talk about risk?” he asked, irritated. “Why don’t you simply admit you made a mistake? That’s nothing to be ashamed of—it’s only human. It has happened to me, too. Several times I thought I had definitely seen someone, somewhere. But in retrospect it turned out to be a mistake.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my powers of observation,” he said stubbornly.

  Vledder sighed in exasperation.

  “If Ronald Kruisberg is dead,” he said patiently, “he’s dead and therefore was not at the funeral. It’s that simple.”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “Dead or alive—he was there.”

  Vledder tried to stay calm. His annoyance was turning to anger.

  “What utter nonsense.”

  The gray sleuth looked at his young partner. He recognized the symptoms of growing irritation.

  “All right,” he said soothingly. “You’re right. It is nonsense…against all logic, I know that. Dead is dead, and death is irrevocable.” But then he stuck out his chin and a determined look came into his eyes. He slapped a fist on the dashboard. “But I do not suffer from hallucinations. I saw a living Ronald Kruisberg. If Kruisberg has somehow cheated death, I have a long list of people in the bottom drawer of my desk whom he cheated out of hundreds of thousands of euros…although they were still guilders in those days,” he added innocuously. He paused to take a deep breath. Then he continued, “And those people would like to know, even at this late date, what happened to their hard-earned savings.”

  Vledder leaned closer over the steering wheel and remained silent. He realized DeKok had the bit between his teeth and was determined to pursue the case.

  There was less traffic in town, so he was making good progress. It seemed the brutal weather held people prisoner in their houses. That changed when he came close to the station house. A truck was unloading in the middle of the street, causing a long backup. Vledder put the gearshift in neutral and set the hand brake. He turned to face DeKok.

>   “If,” he began carefully, “Ronald Kruisberg is still alive, who’s in his grave?”

  DeKok suddenly looked happier. He slapped his hands together.

  “Dick,” he said with genuine admiration, “that is a very intelligent question.”

  DeKok pushed his chair aside and knelt down behind his desk. He pulled open the bottom drawer. Vledder looked down on him from in front of the desk.

  “What are you doing?”

  DeKok looked up.

  “I’m looking for the old files on Spanish Enterprises.”

  “Kruisberg’s company?”

  DeKok nodded, bending back to his task.

  “I should have turned the files over to archives, but, for one reason or another, I just couldn’t let go of them. I recall a loud conversation with the judge advocate because he was so slow to react. I told him the man was a flight risk…and, sure enough, Kruisberg ran.”

  Vledder nodded his understanding. DeKok had never, in his memory, backed away from speaking his mind. He was sure the “conversation” with the judge advocate would have been heated, to say the least.

  “But isn’t the case too old by now? Surely it must have lapsed after all this time?”

  “As far as the criminal court is concerned, we can’t prosecute Kruisberg for the fraud anymore. But civil actions are still possible.”

  Vledder grinned.

  “But only if Kruisberg is still alive, and still has the money.”

  “Yes, there’s that.”

  Adjutant Kamphuis entered the detective room and steered a course for DeKok’s desk. He tossed a large gray envelope on the desk and then discovered DeKok on the floor behind the desk.

  “An undertaker just delivered this for you,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  Vledder looked curiously at the envelope.

  “What’s that?”

  DeKok came slowly to his feet and opened the envelope.

  “The condolence register from the Assumburg funeral with, I hope, all the names of the interested parties in a legible form.”

  “You asked for that?”

  DeKok smiled mischievously.

  “You don’t think I ran after the man’s hat just for the fun of it, do you?” He handed the book to Vledder. “Make copies of all the pages. Two sets, one set for our colleagues in Antwerp, along with our report on the funeral.”

  “What should I say in the report?”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “‘Assumburg buried without incident.’”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the original register?”

  “Get it back to the undertaker as soon as possible. I only borrowed it for a little while. Then he can hand it to the family…along with his bill, no doubt.”

  Vledder sat down at his desk and leafed through the pages. Suddenly he looked up.

  “He’s here.”

  “Who?”

  “The late Kruisberg; he’s in the book.”

  DeKok quickly walked over to Vledder’s desk.

  “Where?” he demanded.

  The young inspector pointed at a space on the fourth page.

  “Here. Ronald Kruisberg, signed and written in block letters.”

  DeKok peered over Vledder’s shoulder. The name was scribbled untidily, but legibly. He shook his head with amazement.

  “But that can’t be,” he exclaimed. “It’s unbelievable.”

  Vledder had a look of consternation.

  “Why unbelievable?” he asked. “After all, you maintain you saw him. Well, it appears you were right. He signed the register, just like all the other mourners.”

  DeKok sank down in the chair behind his own desk.

  “But don’t you understand?” he asked tiredly. “Ronald Kruisberg is officially dead and buried. He couldn’t possibly use his own name.”

  Vledder tapped the book in front of him.

  “You wouldn’t expect his name here.”

  DeKok scratched the back of his head.

  “Not the name Kruisberg,” he said shakily. “My hope was to find any unusual name to offer a clue for our colleagues in Antwerp. After I saw him, I also hoped, of course, I might discover the alias he is now using. But that was simply an afterthought.”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “Perhaps there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Could be Kruisberg has lived a normal life for the last twelve years, using his own name. Perhaps you overlooked something at the time.”

  “How and what?”

  Vledder shrugged.

  “How should I know? Perhaps the obituary was about somebody else with the same name. Could you have asked for the wrong Kruisberg at the registry?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I’m not that senile,” he said sharply. “But it is an idea. Tomorrow we go to the registry office, together. You can look over my shoulder while I recheck everything carefully. There should also be a death certificate from a physician, or perhaps an autopsy report. It could nullify the cause of death as a car accident.”

  The phone on DeKok’s desk rang. Vledder answered it, as usual. DeKok hardly ever answered his own phone. Vledder’s face froze.

  “What is it?” asked DeKok.

  Vledder replaced the receiver.

  “Guess who’s downstairs and wants to come up?”

  “Who?”

  “Kruisberg.”

  3

  The young man who entered the detective room was big, wide, and strong. The heavy, fur-collared coat accentuated his forceful build.

  When he approached DeKok’s desk, he took off his Russian-style fur hat and raked his fingers through his blond hair.

  There was a smile on his face.

  “You’re Inspector DeKok?”

  The old detective nodded.

  “With a kay-oh-kay,” he said, almost automatically. With a grandiose gesture he offered his visitor a chair. Meanwhile, his sharp gaze roamed over the young man’s face. He searched for a resemblance, but could not

  find it.

  “You, eh, you’re Ronald Kruisberg?”

  “Ronald Kruisberg,” the young man confirmed.

  DeKok recognized him vaguely as one of the attendees around the gravesite.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Married?”

  The young man smiled.

  “I have a girlfriend.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “On the old Peat Market, looking over Mint Tower.”

  “Together with your girlfriend?”

  Kruisberg looked amused, the beginning of a smile on his face.

  “Surely that’s not against the law?”

  DeKok grimaced.

  “Those are the norms of this modern age,” he said somberly. “My old mother would have condemned it.”

  The young man laughed.

  “My mother thinks it’s just fine.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And your father?”

  Kruisberg lowered his head.

  “Father is dead. Two years ago he was killed in a car accident.”

  DeKok cocked his head.

  “You have fond memories of your father?”

  The young man shrugged.

  “Hardly. I almost never saw him; he was always on the road, due to his business. Usually he was abroad.” There was a self-conscious grin on his mouth. “He did not spend a lot of time with me.”

  He sounded bitter.

  DeKok pulled out his lower lip and let it plop back. It was one of his more annoying, disgusting habits.

  “This morning you were at a funeral at Sorrow Field?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you signed the condolence register?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Kruisberg looked surprised.

  “The undertaker held the book out to me and gave me a pen. He told me to also write my na
me in block letters.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “I meant, why did you attend the funeral of a gentleman by the name of Hendrik-Jan Assumburg?”

  “Mr. Assumburg is…was my uncle. He was married to my mother’s youngest sister.”

  DeKok nodded and glanced at Vledder, who un-obtrusively was taking everything down in his own peculiar shorthand.

  “You kept in close contact with him?”

  Ronald Kruisberg shook his head.

  “No, I usually saw Uncle Henry only on birthdays. To me he always seemed remote, a somewhat private person. He had very little contact with the family and people in general. I was under the impression my Aunt Evelyn was not really happy with him.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin.

  “Have you any idea why your uncle was murdered in Belgium?”

  Kruisberg made a helpless gesture.

  “The family doesn’t have a clue.”

  “What did your uncle do for a living?”

  “He was a businessman.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “That covers a multitude of possibilities.”

  Ronald Kruisberg suddenly looked sad.

  “I think,” he said evenly, “he was involved in the same type of nefarious activities as my father.”

  DeKok feigned surprise.

  “Your father was involved in nefarious activities?”

  The young man nodded slowly.

  “So I presume. I do remember moving a lot when I was young because there were always people pursuing us for money. I had the distinct impression my father cheated people.”

  DeKok spread his hand, imitating the preacher at the funeral.

  “De mortuis nil nisi bene,” he said out loud. “Or in more common Dutch, speak no ill of the dead.”

  Ronald Kruisberg stared in the distance.

  DeKok leaned comfortably back in his chair and paused for several seconds. Then he pulled himself up and leaned forward. He looked significantly at the large clock on the wall.

  “You’ve been sitting there for almost half an hour,” his voice reflecting pure wonderment, “and I still don’t know the reason for your visit.”

  Ronald Kruisberg looked at his interrogator. The simple amiability had been wiped off his face. There were hard lines around his mouth as he glared at DeKok.