DeKok and Murder by Melody

by A. C. Baantjer

  “And does he know you’re here?”

  Kiliaan seemed to hesitate.

  “That’s hard to say,” he said after along pause. “He may or may not know.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “No.”

  DeKok looked surprised.

  “Then, how can he know?”

  Kiliaan Waardenburg moved uneasily in his chair.

  “Sometimes … it’s like my father is a telepath. It’s a bit of a bore, really. When he reads my thoughts it’s as if I cease to exist as an entity … as if I’m just an extension of him. My mother doesn’t share my concern. We’ve talked about it. She retains her identity within her relationship with my father. Not me, not quite. All I can do is think clearly and concisely when I’m around him.”

  DeKok cocked his head to one side.

  “What does that mean … clearly and concisely.”

  Young Waardenburg stared into the distance.

  “It means to eliminate every bad and sinful thought.”

  “Is that possible?”

  Kiliaan nodded with emphasis.

  “Yes, you can train yourself. First you eliminate all thought. You ban all ideas and empty your mind, then, slowly you fill it up again. While you do that you think only pure thoughts—God, for instance or music.”

  Although the explanation did not satisfy DeKok in the least, he decided to leave the subject of “clear thinking” aside for the moment.

  “Are you following in your father’s footsteps?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Are you going to be a musician, as well?”

  “I play the piano.”

  “Professionally?”

  “Indeed. I’m with the Municipal Symphonic Orchestra.”

  “Your father’s orchestra?”

  Waardenburg sighed.

  “He introduced me. I’m very grateful for that. It’s been a good experience. But I prefer to perform solo. My father and others who would know, say I have talent; they predict a great future for me as a pianist.” He grinned shyly. “Myself, I’m not so sure. I’m more and more drawn to composition.”

  “And what does your father think about that?”

  Kiliaan almost shrugged.

  “Father is not too happy about it. He insists I continue my piano studies.” He paused and looked pensively at his hands. “I don’t understand his aversion,” he continued. “When he was younger, he wrote several compositions himself.”

  “Were they successful?”

  Kiliaan Waardenburg pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.

  “Not really,” he said slowly. “They were not melodic. Father is very staid and dogmatic—also in his music.”

  DeKok listened carefully to Kiliaan’s tone.

  “Is that why he has remained as second fiddle?”

  Kiliaan looked up. For the first time there was a hard look on his face.

  “You are way off base,” he said sharply. “Playing the second violin is not unimportant. On the contrary, only in casual conversation has ‘second fiddle’ become something trivial.”

  It sounded reproving.

  DeKok showed his most endearing smile. There was something likeable about the young man.

  “We digress. You came to talk about the death of Jean-Paul Stappert.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Casually? I mean as just another of your father’s students?”

  Young Waardenburg shook his head.

  “Jean-Paul and I were friends, more or less. We were always discussing music. Jean-Paul was very talented. Music to him was not something that came from outside … not something you learn, but a complete inner life. You see music was part of his being from birth.”

  DeKok rubbed his face with both hands. He was conscious of the enthusiasm in the young man’s voice.

  “You admired Jean-Paul?”

  “Yes, a lot.”

  “Why?’

  Kiliaan Waardenburg made a vague gesture.

  “As I said, he had a unique gift for creating melodies almost effortlessly.” He shook his head sadly. “There are not many truly creative spirits.”

  DeKok nodded to himself.

  “Did Jean-Paul tell you he was going to contact Willy Haarveld?”

  “Yes,” said Kiliaan somberly, lowering his head. “He was actually eager. I told him that Willy was a low-life. My father knows him as well. He’s a swindler.”

  “And did Jean-Paul listen to you?”

  “No,” smiled Kiliaan. “No, Jean-Paul was impervious. ‘Nobody swindles me,’ he said, ‘not any more.’”

  DeKok stared at the ceiling for a while. Thoughtfully he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a little finger.

  “Did you ever visit Jean-Paul in his boardinghouse?”

  His visitor nodded.

  “I’ve been there two, maybe three times.”

  “Did you meet Erik?”

  Kiliaan smiled sorrowfully.

  “I had limited contact with him. He was sort of reticent, vague. I never understood how Jean-Paul became friends with him. They had so little in common. Erik did not care for music at all.”

  Vledder, who had kept in the background, taking careful notes and listening intently, suddenly interrupted.

  “So Erik was completely different from Ramon?”

  Kiliaan Gave Vledder a surprised look.

  “Ramon? What’s the matter with Ramon?”

  “You know Ramon?” asked Vledder.

  Kiliaan raised his hands.

  “He’s one of my father’s students, has been for years. He plays the clarinet.”

  “That’s all you know about him?”

  “Yes. We’ve met. He left me cold—he’s several years older, so we didn’t really connect. Anyway, I have very little contact with most of my father’s students. Jean-Paul was an exception.”

  Vledder was relentless.

  “What do you know about Ramon?”

  Waardenburg grimaced.

  “He pays big tuition. According to father he’s from a very rich family.”

  “Do you know the family name?”

  “No.”

  “Bavel.”

  Kiliaan Waardenburg sighed, oblivious.

  “Bavel,” he repeated tonelessly. “Yes, I think that was the name.”

  “He was Erik’s brother,” said Vledder, almost accusing.

  Kiliaan was confused. He looked at Vledder uncertainly.

  “That … eh, I didn’t know that,” he laughed sheepishly. “It’s hard to believe. They don’t look at all alike.”

  Vledder ignored that.

  “How often did Bavel come for lessons?”

  “Erik had lessons a few times a week.”

  “Did he have an appointment on the same day that Jean-Paul was killed?”

  Young Waardenburg did not answer at once. He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. But after a few seconds he

  nodded.

  “Yes, yes, I remember. Ramon also had a study session that day, earlier in the evening.”

  Vledder leaned forward.

  “So, it’s possible that Ramon did not go home afterward, but waited near Emperor’s Canal for Jean-Paul to appear.”

  The young man laughed nervously.

  “I can’t imagine why he would? Jean-Paul did not even know Ramon, as far as I know. I don’t think that they knew each other.”

  Vledder held the visitor’s eyes with his own.

  “But it is possible?”

  Kiliaan Waardenburg sighed again. The questions seemed to irritate him.

  “Sure,” he admitted reluctantly. “Everything’s possible.”

  Vledder leaned even closer.

  “So, Ramon Bavel could have enticed your friend to the side of the canal and, then, he could have strangled him between the parked cars.”

  Kiliaan looked at Vledder with wide-open eyes. He was suddenly very pale.

  “What …
what are you after? What, what do you want?” he stuttered.

  Vledder’s answer was terse.

  “I’m who’s left after a murder and I want the killer,” he said.

  10

  DeKok indicated to Kiliaan he could leave. The young man was visibly shaken. DeKok accompanied him to the door. After that he returned to his desk and shook his head at Vledder.

  “That was a bad interrogation,” he said with disapproval in his voice. “I thought I had taught you better than that.”

  Vledder snorted, not at all contrite. The tension was still evident in his face. His eyes were wild and the large artery in his neck was swollen and visibly throbbing with anger.

  “I’m after the truth,” he said defensively.

  DeKok pointed a finger at his young colleague.

  “No, my boy. Truth is a tricky matter. You’re only looking for the truth according to Vledder. An inspector of police recognizes the distinction. You’ve convinced yourself Ramon is the perp. Along the way you’ve compromised your objectivity. You never gave Kiliaan any space, or even allowed him to think. He couldn’t express his own opinions or feelings. So you succeeded in robbing him of the opportunity to formulate his own arguments. That’s wrong. For a professional it’s almost unforgivable.”

  Vledder sighed deeply.

  “Ramon is the killer,” he said decisively. “Believe me. It went just as I said. He was waiting for Jean-Paul and strangled him. Only after that, did he go to the boardinghouse to take care of Erik.”

  DeKok shook his head sadly.

  “May I reiterate? It was a bad interrogation. This time I restrained myself, because I feel a young person must be allowed to make a mistake, once in a while.”

  “Mistake?”

  DeKok nodded as he sank into his chair.

  “What is the net worth of your interrogation? The only concrete fact you got is Ramon had a music lesson on the night of the murders. That’s it! Once you got to that point you should have stopped. It was all downhill from there—everything you forced on Kiliaan afterward was damaging to our investigation.”

  Vledder snorted again.

  “I didn’t force anything on him. I merely described how it had happened.”

  DeKok waved that away.

  “How you think it happened,” he corrected. “As of now we have nothing—no evidence to make your theory reality.” He paused, “I hope Alex Waardenburg knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  DeKok ran his fingers through his hair.

  “If Kiliaan discusses our conversation with his father (or his father uses his “psychic powers”) and the senior Waardenburg then discusses it with Pa Bavel we have a problem. Worse, if anyone discusses it with the press, we’ve had it.” He fell silent. “I can just see the headlines now,” he continued after a while. “Warmoes Street police identify Ramon Bavel as killer. Well, in that case the fecal matter will surely connect with the rotary blades. Everybody will be after your hide, including Schaap. Then you can retire before you take any action against Ramon.”

  Vledder chewed his lower lip. The expression on his face was contrite.

  “You’re right,” he said, “That’s obvious. I never thought about that.”

  DeKok got up and placed a consoling hand on Vledder’s shoulder. He felt Vledder’s anguish. As a young officer he had too often been quick to judge, rushing for an abstract finish line. He carried some bruises on his soul because of it.

  “Don’t let it get you down too much,” he consoled. “I speak from experience in this regard.” Then he grinned brightly. “After all, experience is the name we give to the sum of our mistakes.” The grin changed into a cheerful chuckle. “Come on, we’re off to Utrecht.”

  He turned away and gathered his hat and raincoat from the peg on the wall.

  Vledder hastened after him.

  “Utrecht?” he asked in stunned amazement.

  DeKok nodded.

  “Yes, Utrecht, It’s the domicile of Long Jack, aka Skinny Jack, aka Hague Jack … or just Jaap Santen.”

  As they left the city in their old VW, heavy raindrops made rivulets down the windshield. Vledder activated the wipers and fog lights.

  “What do you want with Jaap Santen, or Long Jack, or whatever his name is?” asked Vledder.

  DeKok smiled.

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “What about?”

  “Destruction.”

  “What is this?” asked Vledder. “Twenty questions?”

  “No, but it’s against the law. Article 350 of the General Code,” lectured DeKok, “to willfully and illegally destroy pillows and mattresses.”

  “There’s no such law,” Vledder had to laugh.

  “No, but there should be. The law actually covers all vandalism, so why not pillows and mattresses?”

  Vledder almost rear-ended another car that suddenly stopped at the intersection with Rose’s Canal.

  “All right, whatever,” Vledder’s tone was sardonic. “But is he, indeed guilty? Long Jack, I mean?”

  “Absolutely—he and his partner, Jan Rouwen both did this. But we don’t have a regular address for Rouwen. He sometimes stays with his old mother in St. Jozef Lane. He frequents the High Catherine Shopping Mall. But Jaap Santen lives in Utrecht, 397 Jan Dijk Street, on the second floor. He is the tall, skinny guy Mina Lyons identified. She swore she would recognize him.”

  Vledder was surprised.

  “How did you figure that out?”

  DeKok did not answer. He slid down in the seat until his eyes were just level with the top of the dashboard. The rhythmic sweeps of the wipers lulled him. He yawned and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

  “I forgot to tell you,” he said finally. “Frans Kruger called me the morning after the murders to say he had been unable to find a single fingerprint in the room occupied by Bavel, not even his or Jean-Paul’s prints.”

  “But they should have been there.”

  “Yes, unless somebody carefully wiped down everything in the room.”

  “Someone wanted to eliminate their own prints.”

  “Clearly.”

  “The killer?”

  DeKok yawned again.

  “Not necessarily. It could have been done by someone who entered the room after Erik’s murder.”

  “But what would be the purpose?”

  DeKok pursed his lips.

  “Perhaps it was preventive—someone was uncomfortable having us get a good set of what he, or she, thought were the killer’s prints.”

  Vledder fell silent, thinking it over. DeKok’s observations intrigued him. Although he had now worked with the gray sleuth for years, he still found it hard to come to grips with some of his partners confounding statements.

  They drove on in silence for a long while.

  Then DeKok suddenly asked: “Did I ever tell you about Kleutermans?

  “No, who’s he?”

  “He was my mentor when I first started as a young constable.”

  Vledder was intrigued. DeKok seldom talked about his early days, other than in the vaguest of terms.

  “What about him?”

  “I happened to meet him last week,” said DeKok. “He’s long since retired, but in those days he was a giant of man … a man with a natural dominance and respected by every one. He did his duty, walked his beat with an unquenchable joviality. But there was one thing he hated with a passion. He hated writing reports and he hated to give out tickets.”

  “Aha,” said Vledder, “I see, that is where you learned that.”

  “Maybe. But he especially disliked tickets. His motto used to be: ‘A ticket is a defeat.’ He felt that a good policeman never should have to write a ticket. And if, for whatever reason, you have to write a ticket, it’s an admission of failure.”

  “Wow, a strange attitude for a uniformed constable.”

  “Well, that is as may be. But I can assure you that Kleutermans suffered few defeats in his long
career.”

  “I take it, this is leading somewhere?”

  “I was reminded of the time we got a new boss. A brand, spanking new inspector, young and full of ambition. He summoned Kleutermans and told him that he had gone over the records and was amazed to find how few tickets Kleutermans had written. ‘That will have to change,’ he said. ‘You must be stricter. I like solid tickets.’”

  “He was big on fines?”

  “Yes. Anyway, Kleutermans left without saying anything. About a week later he wrote one of his rare tickets. He made out the ticket very carefully. In those days we did not have pre-printed forms, you see. The officer had to write it all out in longhand, almost like a letter. It actually was a mini-report. When he had it all finished, he carefully glued the report to a large paving stone and submitted it to the new boss.”

  “‘What’s the meaning of this?’ the inspector asked. Kleutermans shrugged his shoulders. ‘You said you liked a solid ticket and that’s the largest stone I could find.’”

  Vledder laughed so hard, he almost lost control of the car.

  “Kleutermans also refused,” continued DeKok, “to issue parking tickets. For that we had pre-printed forms. It was therefore a simple, quick thing to do. But Kleutermans decided that the issuing of parking tickets was unworthy of a real policeman. There was no personal contact, you see.”

  “So he was the reason we now have meter maids?”

  “Could be. But one day the same young inspector ordered Kleutermans to ticket a street full of illegally parked cars. He came back, more than an hour later, without having written a single parking ticket. The inspector was as mad as our own commissaris sometimes gets.”

  “Only in your case,” interjected Vledder.

  “Am I telling this story, or are you?”

  “Sorry, go on.”

  “Well, as I said, the inspector was very angry. Kleutermans shrugged his shoulders. ‘I tried,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t get farther than the first car. There was no way I could put a ticket under the wiper. I tried and tried, but the driver had forgotten to shut off the windshield wipers.’”

  Vledder laughed again. They had already crossed the new bridge across the Amstel on the way to Utrecht.

  “It came to mind right away,” said DeKok, “when I met him last week. He was thinner and a little more stooped, but the fiery look in his eyes was the same. ‘Much trouble with corruption, these days?’ he asked. I reacted vaguely. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘that reminds me of the time someone tried to bribe me. It was a bar fight. I finally managed to get the drunk outside. He was the belligerent type, who had pestered other patrons. Once we were in the street he gave me rijksdaalder, two and a half guilders. That was a lot of money in those days, real silver. You could buy a lot with one of those. I took the coin, bent down, and rolled it down the street.’ He grinned like a little boy at the thought. ‘That guy went chasing after it. I’ve never seen a drunk run that hard or fast. Finally he fell right on top of the coin.’ ‘So, no defeat,’ I said. He laughed. ‘Not for me—I didn’t do the belly flop.’”