DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain

by A. C. Baantjer

  Vledder dismissed DeKok’s musings with a wave of his hand.

  “Can Fat Tom be trusted?”

  DeKok banished all thoughts of witchcraft.

  “Fat Tom has only one child, a little daughter. He’s crazy about his girl. If he swears on her life, then…” He did not finish the sentence. “We can take it at face value that he’s seen Rickie from Apache Alia.” He paused and thought. “It’s just too bad he didn’t walk over and ask about his health.”

  It sounded almost comical.

  “Yes, well, I can understand Tom sort of fleeing Antwerp in a panic,” said Vledder. “He must have thought he’d seen a ghost.”

  DeKok gave his partner a measuring look.

  “Or a banshee?” he asked sarcastically.

  Vledder threw his hands up in the air.

  “But there has to be an explanation.”

  “For what?”

  “Fat Tom seeing Rickie.”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “What explanation do you want?”

  Vledder ran his tongue along his dry lips.

  “Okay, now you’re saying, eh, you mean Tom saw a real, live Rickie?”

  “Yes.”

  Vledder seemed shocked.

  “Fair enough. So who did we bury this morning?”

  DeKok stared at nothing, a mulish look on his face.

  “That question,” he said finally, determined, “we will have to have answered.”

  Commissaris Buitendam looked relaxed. A few days leave had smoothed out some of the worry lines in his face. A faint smile danced around his mouth.

  “You wish to order exhumations?” he exclaimed, amused.

  DeKok nodded.

  “Exhumations,” he repeated. “I want to exhume the bodies that are in the graves at Sorrow Field under the names of Ronald Kruisberg, Hendrik-Jan Assumburg, and Richard Strijdbaar.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I suspect the aforementioned gentleman are still alive.”

  Commissaris Buitendam laughed scornfully.

  “The corpses are walking about?” he mocked.

  DeKok felt the beginning of anger course through his veins. He pressed the nails of his fingers into the palms of his hands to regain control.

  “I was under the impression that request was formulated correctly,” he said, outwardly calm. “I do not maintain that the corpses are alive or any such nonsense. There are reasonable grounds to presume the people buried under those names are, in fact, still alive and walking around above ground.”

  Commissaris Buitendam frowned.

  “Didn’t we have a similar conversation some time ago?” he asked crossly.

  DeKok nodded.

  “The day you went on leave.”

  Buitendam looked pensive.

  “That, as I remember, was about a dead man you thought you had seen alive at a cemetery.”

  DeKok pressed his fingernails deeper into his hands.

  “That was Ronald Kruisberg. And I didn’t think it. I saw him.”

  The commissaris produced a sour smile.

  “And now there are still more dead people making appearances?” he almost jeered.

  DeKok managed to maintain his composure.

  “Hendrik-Jan Assumburg, a disreputable businessman, and Richard Strijdbaar, a well-known underworld figure. According to official reports, both were murdered in Antwerp and buried in Amsterdam. However the day after his death, Assumburg withdrew the entire balance of his account at Ijsselstein Bank. Richard Strijdbaar was seen yesterday around noon.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “I think,” he said, carefully, “the head cashier at the bank, who paid the money to Assumburg, will testify. I’m not so sure about Fat Tom.”

  The commissaris raised his upper lip slightly.

  “Who is Fat Tom?”

  DeKok sighed deeply. He was always amazed that the commissaris knew so little about the neighborhoods in which the police operated on a daily basis.

  “Fat Tom,” he explained patiently, “is the man who recognized Richard Strijdbaar—Rickie from Apache Alia—in Antwerp. Tom is an underworld figure who, if approached officially, will probably deny seeing anything. There’s nothing to be done about that. Career criminals don’t like to go to court, even as witnesses.”

  For a long time Buitendam stared at the wall.

  “Wasn’t Kruisberg also killed in Antwerp?”

  “In a car accident.”

  The commissaris spread the long fingers of his slender hands and placed the tips against each other.

  “And what sort of indications do you have…concerning his life and well-being?”

  “Aside from my own observations, a third party told me yesterday that his wife and son have also seen him alive.”

  “And will they testify?”

  DeKok released the tension in his hands, bent his head, and scratched the back of his neck.

  “I’m afraid they aren’t ready to accept it.”

  “What won’t they accept?”

  “The idea that their husband and father is still alive.”

  The commissaris was taken aback.

  “Why would they deny it?”

  DeKok took a deep breath and thought before he answered.

  “Sometimes death is a real relief, a liberation,” he said slowly and absentmindedly. “And that does not always pertain to just the person dying.”

  “You mean they were happy about his death?”

  DeKok looked up at his chief.

  “I think,” he said solemnly, “neither wants a change in the present situation. You understand? I expect no cooperation in proving Kruisberg is still alive—not from the mother, nor from the son. He is dead to them, and they’re content with it.” He paused, then continued pensively. “All in all I have little chance of obtaining all the evidence we need. Kruisberg, Assumburg, and Strijdbaar will have assumed different identities. If each keeps a low profile, it will be many years before we can make any progress.”

  Buitendam rubbed his chin.

  “Thus exhumation?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you hope to find?”

  DeKok gestured vaguely

  “Anything—lead, stones, sand…perhaps even sub-stitute corpses.”

  Vledder gauged the heated face of DeKok and shook his head in commiseration.

  “You did it again?”

  “What?”

  “You were belligerent to the commissaris.”

  DeKok nodded sadly and lowered himself with a sigh into his chair.

  “Believe me, Dick,” he said despondently, “I didn’t want any trouble. I honestly did approach him with a firm resolution to keep my temper.”

  Vledder grinned.

  “But you failed…again.”

  DeKok made an apologetic gesture.

  “I couldn’t help it. His refusal was so blunt and unmotivated that I lost my patience.”

  “No exhumation?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “He even refused to present the proposal to the judge advocate. According to him, exhumation is un-Christian. The dead should be left in peace, he said. He added that the very idea was so disgusting, offensive, and revolting, it should have no part in our investigational methods.”

  Vledder was aghast.

  “He’s crazy.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “I never used the word.”

  Vledder was getting excited; his face turned red.

  “Did you explain everything to him?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “I was as candid and straightforward as possible. I can’t remember a time I’ve ever been this frank with him.” He waved his arms in a helpless gesture. “I feel he has no understanding of the seriousness. He seems to think our work is just one big amusing game of hide-and-seek with life and death.”

  “Sounds like there will be consequences,” Vledder observed.

  “You mean for his refusal to
order exhumation?”

  “No, for playing hide-and-seek with life and death, as you put it.”

  DeKok pulled out his lower lip and let it plop back. He repeated it several times. Vledder was disgusted, but hid it well this time.

  “It would depend upon the motives. Whether it is Kruisberg, Assumburg, or Rickie, I do not know why any of them preferred an official death over an official life. In the end there must have been several interests or considerations influencing the choice they made. Being a corpse is a definitive solution to avoid earthly judges. As I said before, according to the law, prosecution is no longer possible after the death of the suspect.”

  “Surely that’s logical?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “One can be honored posthumously, so it should also be possible to punish posthumously.”

  “Where is the sense in that?”

  “Not for the dead­—but what about the heirs? Say after the death of the suspect a judge imposes an enormous fine or assumes the possessions of the suspect. The

  possessions would have been inherited by their heirs. That has certain consequences. Just think, what if a Dutch judge were to decide William of Orange obtained his possessions by illegal means back in the sixteenth century? Our entire royal family would have to go on welfare.”

  Vledder laughed.

  “That’s silly.”

  “Maybe. That sort of thing has happened often enough in the past. Recently, too…” He did not complete the sentence. The subject slipped his mind and was replaced with the reality of his investigation. He gave Vledder a meditative look. “Since the commissaris has refused the exhumation, we’ll have to get some travel orders.”

  “For Belgium?”

  “Exactly. After all, the official notifications of death originated there.”

  The phone rang. Vledder picked it up, listened for a few minutes, and paled. DeKok watched him intently. Vledder made some notes as he listened and then replaced the receiver.

  “What is it?”

  “They found a man floating in the Rokin Canal, near the Peat Market.”

  DeKok waved the announcement away.

  “It’s nothing to do with us. That’s third district, Lijnbaansgracht station.”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “Young Ronald Kruisberg is there, on the quay. He identified the body as that of his father.”

  13

  DeKok stood on the rounded aft deck of the rusty delivery barge and solemnly watched as two men from the special drown unit fished the corpse from the dark waters. Ice floes complicated their morbid task. Finally they hooked the body and brought it closer to shore. It was only a moment before they brought it up on dry land.

  DeKok wiped the sweat off his forehead. After the notification, he had wanted to walk calmly to the Peat Market, but young Vledder could not stand his ambling pace. He rushed along, the increased tempo pushing DeKok to great exertions.

  DeKok was still panting a little, and pushed his old hat farther back on his head. He made his way back to the shore while the drown-unit people handed the body over to waiting morgue attendants. Carefully they put the body on a stretcher.

  DeKok appeared next to the corpse. He squatted down next to the stretcher. The corpse stank of canal water.

  The gray sleuth studied the dead face. It was familiar. The lines were just a little sharper than he remembered. He felt Vledder’s hot breath on his neck.

  “Is it Kruisberg?”

  DeKok nodded slowly. His eyes were now focused on the large gaping wound on the right side of his forehead, just below the hairline. The water had washed the wound clean. A star-shaped breach in the skull was clearly visible.

  “Deadly,” he stated.

  “The wound?”

  DeKok did not answer. Next to the stretcher he spotted the feet of a man. He looked up and recognized young Ronald Kruisberg. He had not noticed the young man was at the scene. The son was dressed the same as when he had come to the police station, in a heavy coat with a fur collar.

  DeKok rose to his feet, walked toward the young man, and stretched out a hand.

  “My condolences on the death of your father,” he said.

  The young man shook the outstretched hand weakly, without force. He turned his head aside, avoiding the eyes of the inspector.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said softly. “You have to believe me, it wasn’t me.”

  It did not sound very convincing.

  DeKok motioned to Vledder.

  “Take him to Warmoes Street.”

  Vledder raised his eyebrows.

  “Book him?”

  DeKok hesitated a moment. He could just see over the head of the young man. Suddenly a curtain moved on the second floor of a house along the Peat Market. Then he nodded to himself.

  “Yes, book him on suspicion of murder.”

  Dr. Koning stepped through the circle of curious on-lookers. When he came nearer, he lifted his greenish Garibaldi hat in greeting. DeKok noticed the eccentric coroner was dressed in his usual odd way. He wore a cutaway coat, striped pants, a gray vest, and the inevitable chain for his old-fashioned pince-nez. His only concession to the weather seemed to be a pair of knitted woolen mittens.

  “I’m sorry you had to wait,” said the doctor, “it’s not my habit. But the first reports spoke of an ordinary drowning. It was only later we heard it was a murder.” He waved at the morgue attendants. “Otherwise I would have caught a ride with them.”

  DeKok accepted the explanation with a wide smile. He had known the old, eccentric coroner for years and was very fond of him.

  “There is not much of a rush,” he said resignedly. “I already arrested the probable killer.”

  The doctor’s eyes lit up with wonderment.

  “Already? Even you are usually not that quick. Do you have a confession?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, not yet,” he answered. “But considering the place of the murder, motive, and threats on the suspect’s part, I think we had reasonable grounds for the arrest.”

  Dr. Koning shrugged.

  “I don’t have to teach you your job. You’re old and wise enough. But haste makes waste and the first impression is not always the correct one.”

  It sounded disapproving.

  He walked away from DeKok and went over to the corpse. Kneeling, he peered at the head wound intently and then pointed and looked up at DeKok.

  “Not a first blow.”

  The coroner lifted the victim’s eyelids and studied the pupils. He unbuttoned the heavy overcoat the corpse wore. Taking off one of his mittens, he felt his way with a bare hand between the clothes of the dead man.

  Several minutes later he straightened up with a deep sigh. His old bones creaked. DeKok watched the doctor attentively.

  “The man is dead…I presume?”

  The question had to be asked. In the Netherlands, no person is officially deceased unless confirmed by a qualified medical practitioner.

  Dr. Koning took the handkerchief out of his breast pocket, took off his pince-nez, and began to clean them carefully.

  “Dead? Yes, undoubtedly.”

  It sounded vaguely mocking.

  “Anything special?”

  The coroner replaced his pince-nez and stowed the handkerchief back in his breast pocket.

  “As I said, the most obvious wound was made by the first blow. The first could have been the fatal one, but there were several blows in the same spot.”

  DeKok nodded to himself.

  “Blood must have come from the wound?”

  “Indeed, it must have been quite gruesome.”

  “The weapon?”

  The coroner thought about that.

  “I think,” he said carefully, “it may have been a hammer with a narrow strike surface. There are no widespread cracks. The fractures are rather concentrated. But the autopsy will reveal more details.”

  DeKok looked pensively at the corpse.

  “What else?”
he asked after a long silence.

  Dr. Koning did not answer at once. He concentrated on replacing his woolen mitten while his gaze was on the face of the dead man. Then he looked up.

  “What’s your own opinion?”

  DeKok made an uncertain gesture.

  “I think that the man was, eh, was suddenly attacked here on the Turf Market and then thrown in the water.”

  The coroner shook his head in disapproval.

  “Sloppy,” he reprimanded, “a very careless, premature conclusion.” He pointed at the corpse. “This man has been dead for at least twenty-four hours; however, he’s been in the water less than two hours.”

  “What?”

  The old man nodded mildly.

  “The papers in his wallet are still dry.”

  With a platinum diamond ring, a cheap Japanese wristwatch, some small change, and a black leather wallet in a borrowed plastic bag, DeKok walked back to the Warmoes Street station house.

  He had asked a few uniformed constables to search the Peat Market for traces of blood, but wouldn’t hold his breath for the result. Anyway, he thought, headquarters will send the usual bunch of crime-scene investigators. In any event he felt comfortable with Dr. Koning’s diagnosis. The crime scene was not anywhere near the water. It was just the place the corpse had been dumped.

  After the morgue van and the coroner left, DeKok crossed over to the house where he had seen the curtains move. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. The German shepherd greeted him with an unfriendly growl. Jenny Kelbach was equally antagonistic, but allowed him to inspect the rooms. He took a moment to enjoy the view of Mint Tower, then looked for traces of blood. He did not find any. He also did not find any spots that looked as if they had been cleaned recently.

  After Dr. Koning’s explanation, he had not really expected to find anything in the house. By now he’d concluded the murderer bludgeoned Kruisberg in a place unknown, later transporting the body to the Rokin Canal. The canal just happened to border the Peat Market.

  With the plastic bag dangling from his hand, DeKok walked on. As he walked he silently reviewed the facts he knew, and those he suspected.

  It could mean, he thought, young Kruisberg was actually not guilty of murdering his father. It could also mean the real killer was aware the son had threatened his father. It could explain why the corpse ended up so close to the house Ronny and Jenny shared—another red herring?