DeKok and the Dead Lovers (Inspector DeKok Investigates)

by A. C. Baantjer

  A dent in the metal radiator showed clearly through the blood and brain tissue. DeKok judged it was where the bullet had ricocheted.

  DeKok knelt down. The man's bloody left hand caught DeKok's interest. Upon closer inspection, he saw what appeared to be a defensive wound. The young victim had held his hand to his face as the killer aimed the weapon at him. DeKok rose to a standing position. His face was without expression, but his eyes looked fiery.

  "It was a cool, calculated execution," he said, unable to keep a slight tremor of emotion out of his voice.

  Vledder nodded in agreement, his face drawn. In spite of all his years in homicide, he was still not used to the sight of sudden death. Deep down he hoped he would never get used to it. He felt strongly he would lose his humanity if he ever got used to it.

  "He didn't have a chance," Vledder said hoarsely.

  The grey sleuth turned toward the uniformed constable in the door opening.

  "Who found him?"

  The constable pointed at the ceiling.

  "The neighbor on the floor above, an elderly gentleman. He was coming down the stairs when he saw the door was open. He called out several times, but there was no answer. There are a lot of break-ins in this area. Robbery was his first thought. He was sure there must have been a robbery. Curiosity made him look closely."

  DeKok nodded to himself.

  "Did you see any signs of a break-in?"

  "Not really, but that means nothing. The doors in these old walk-ups are so rickety you can open them with a paper clip."

  "Who lives here?"

  The young constable took a notebook from his breast pocket and consulted it.

  "A certain Antoinette Graaf. At least that's the name the neighbor has seen on some letters that were delivered. You know how these old buildings work. They were originally single-family residences, but now each floor is rented separately. The tenants share the stairs and the corridors. There's only one mail slot, of course. Whoever gets to it first puts all the letters on a small shelf next to the front door and-"

  l)eKok held up a hand. He knew all about the living arrangements in these old buildings.

  "Is that all you found out?"

  "No, according to the neighbor, the young lady lives here alone. . .no friends, male or female. She's only lived here about five months."

  "How old?"

  "Antoinette?"

  "Yes."

  "The neighbor figures she's in her mid-twenties."

  DeKok pointed over his shoulder at the corpse.

  "And who is he?"

  The constable shrugged his shoulders.

  "The neighbor doesn't know him, never saw him before." He pointed at a small dresser against the wall. "I have not looked, either. I leave that to you. Nothing appears to have been touched. I looked in and called the station."

  DeKok gave him a grim smile.

  "Where's your partner?"

  "Downstairs, in the car. He's not very comfortable around corpses."

  "And you?"

  "I prefer them over the living."

  "Why?"

  "You can turn your back on the dead."

  DeKok squinted at the man. It seemed to him young constables these days possessed a dour cynicism. Yet he liked this man.

  The corners of DeKok's mouth curled into what almost could have been a smile.

  "You'll have to take the risk, you know. You can't live with the dead."

  The man shrugged, either in agreement or disagreement. He stepped aside as the coroner entered the room. Behind the old man towered two morgue attendants who had a rolled-up stretcher between them.

  DeKok approached the coroner, who was treading heavily, as usual. He held out his hand.

  "I'm happy to see you," said DeKok, shaking the old man's hand.

  Dr. Koning removed his old Garibaldi hat.

  "Not I," he said, discontented. "I'm not always happy to see you."

  DeKok ignored the remark and turned toward the corpse.

  "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "A corpse chained to the central heating?"

  Koning slowly shook his head. He pulled up his striped pants and knelt down next to the body. With the back of his right hand he felt the cheeks of the young man and with his left hand he supported himself on the radiator. Slowly he straightened up, knee joints snapping. DeKok hastened to assist him.

  "He is dead," announced the coroner as part of the official process.

  It sounded laconic.

  "How long?" asked DeKok.

  Dr. Koning looked thoughtfully at the inspector. He took off his pince-nez and cleaned the glasses elaborately with a large silk handkerchief he had pulled from the breast pocket of his old-fashioned tailcoat. Finally he replaced the pince-nez on his nose and put the handkerchief away.

  "The body temperature," he said thoughtfully, "is still rather warm. The radiator behind him emitted a lot of heat, however. That, of course, affects the body temperature." He paused and pursed his lips. "I estimate that death occurred about two or three hours ago. But, DeKok, there's no way of being certain. The body will require more exact tests."

  DeKok smiled to himself. He knew all about the doctor's reluctance to make definitive statements. Usually, though, Koning's preliminary findings agreed with the full autopsy report. The man had years of experience in viewing the dead.

  "Can you say anything else about the time?" DeKok asked in a friendly tone of voice. "I mean, how long has this young man been chained to the radiator?"

  Dr. Koning leaned forward and peered intently at the right wrist of the corpse.

  "It's possible," he concluded slowly, carefully, "he has been there for as long as several days." He placed a hand in the small of his back and, with a small groan, he straightened up. "However," he continued, "the body is in excellent condition. Until he died from the bullet wound, he was physically fine. Someone rubbed his wrist with some kind of grease." He smiled sadly. "Perhaps in a gesture of mercy."

  The eccentric coroner replaced his Garibaldi hat on his head. The felt was green with age. He turned, waved a general farewell, and walked toward the door. Near the door he turned once more.

  "DeKok, no more tonight."

  It sounded like a plea.

  "I can't promise anything," answered DeKok. "Crime respects no one's time."

  "Neither do you," growled Brarn Weelen, DeKok's favorite police photographer, as he squeezed past the morgue attendants who were partially blocking the door opening.

  The photographer looked rushed. Wildly he pulled a chair from the table and placed his aluminum case on it. Ben Kruger, the fingerprint expert, appeared behind him. DeKok smiled. His entire crew was now present. He knew that before he left, the small army of crime scene investigators would descend on the place. But with the assistance of Weelen and Kruger, he and Vledder would have their work done before the rabble arrived. He seldom needed any additional evidence supplied by the CSI. And he could certainly do without the high-ranking officials who usually accompanied the CSI teams. Their only contribution, as far as DeKok was concerned, was to keep the press off his back. They would soon joust for the opportunity to be the police spokesperson.

  Meanwhile, Weelen had assembled his old reliable Hasselblad and approached DeKok.

  "Any special requests?" he asked brusquely.

  The grey sleuth nodded.

  "Apart from the usual, I want some close-ups of the wrist with the handcuffs and that spot of blood and tissue on the radiator-"

  Before DeKok could finish his sentence, Weelen abruptly interrupted and asked, "You want a shot of that half-open drawer in the dresser too?" Then a bit distractedly added, "I want to go home as soon as possible."

  "Why?"

  "My wife and I have been married twenty-seven years today."

  DeKok looked at the photographer thoughtfully.

  While the light of the Hasselblad flashed, DeKok scratched the back of his head, a bit embarras
sed. He always had to make a real effort to remember his wedding day. There was an annual, painful confrontation with his wife, who never forgot an important date.

  Vledder nudged his older colleague. His hand shaking, he pointed at the handcuffs.

  "Those are ours," he said.

  DeKok, still bemused by Weelen's wedding anniversary, responded in a preoccupied manner.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "The handcuffs. I have a pair just like that-police issue.

  "Are you sure? I wouldn't know. I've never used the things."

  The young inspector pulled a set of handcuffs from beneath his jacket.

  "Here, look. They are exactly the same. I bet the key for my handcuffs fits the lock on that one."

  DeKok rubbed his chin.

  "Wait until Weelen is finished with his pictures, then Kruger can dust the cuffs for fingerprints."

  "Then what?"

  DeKok made a resigned gesture.

  "Open them. If it turns out these are really police issue, we have our job cut out for us."

  "Why's that?"

  DeKok grinned without mirth.

  "I can already see the headlines: `Police involved in murder."'

  Vledder looked up in disbelief.

  "Over a set of handcuffs?"

  DeKok ignored the question. He was not in the mood to explain. In such matters he had no faith in the objectivity of the press.

  Slowly he ambled away from Vledder, approaching the young constable in the door opening.

  "You may leave now," he said amicably. "And of course, thank you for your assistance. Please go by the station and have your report logged with the watch commander. Make sure the name of the neighbor is included."

  "Very good, Inspector."

  DeKok leaned a little closer.

  "What's your name?"

  "Jaap. Jaap Alberts."

  DeKok smiled.

  "We'll meet again. I think I see a future for you in homicide."

  The man left with a happy smile. While DeKok watched him leave, Bram Weelen pushed him out of the way.

  "I'm finished. Tomorrow you'll have the prints on your desk. Early enough?"

  DeKok nodded.

  "Give my regards to your wife."

  He turned toward the dresser, which had been covered by Kruger's grey powder. The dactyloscopist continued his work.

  "Once you've finished here, please check the handcuffs so we can free the young man and have the body transported."

  Kruger nodded, and a few minutes later he walked over to the dead man. He looked at the handcuffs, resigned.

  "You'll get nothing from those," he said regretfully. "They are covered in grease."

  DeKok shrugged.

  "Too bad. Have you found anything else?"

  Kruger gestured around the room.

  "A few nice little prints. As far as I've been able to determine, from different people." He looked at the corpse. "With your permission, I'll take his fingerprints now. I would like to do it before you have him moved. That way I don't have to get up early to do it at the lab."

  DeKok nodded and motioned for Vledder to go ahead.

  The young inspector had been right. His handcuff key fit. In a few seconds he had removed the cuffs from the wrist and from the radiator pipe.

  Together with Kruger he pulled the corpse away from the radiator.

  The fingerprint man knelt down.

  "Good, there's no rigor yet. That makes things a lot easier."

  He used a small rubber roller to ink the victim's fingers and thumbs. Then he used some fingerprint cards to obtain the impressions. His routine went quickly.

  While Kruger finished, DeKok beckoned the morgue attendants. They placed the stretcher next to the victim, unrolled the body bag, and deftly placed the corpse inside and lifted the body onto the stretcher. Just before they zipped it up, DeKok took another close look at the dead man's face. Ignoring the terrible wound in the forehead, he saw a handsome face. The features were somewhat weak, one might say effeminate.

  The attendants secured the body bag to the stretcher and picked it up. They left, swaying slightly.

  Kruger closed his case and wished them a good night.

  "As soon as I have something, I'll call you," he said in parting.

  DeKok waved after him.

  Vledder stood next to his mentor.

  "What else are we going to do?"

  "We wait."

  "Wait?"

  DeKok nodded.

  "Go ahead, close the door. Look through the dresser and see what you can find. It's obvious that it was mainly used as a desk. Look for names, addresses. You may even find the bullet. No telling where it went after hitting the cast-iron radiator."

  While Vledder searched the drawers of the dresser, DeKok sat down on the chair Weelen had used for his case. He leaned back and let his eyes wander over the room.

  Above the radiator was a window with a wide sill. The sill was full of potted plants. Even chained by one wrist, the victim should have been able to throw one of the plants through the window and yell for help.

  Vledder turned away from the dresser.

  "No papers, no bills. Nothing but some letters addressed to Antoinette Graaf. That's all."

  DeKok made a helpless gesture.

  "It can't be helped," he sighed. "See if you can find the bullet."

  On his knees, Vledder began to quarter the room. Within seconds he pulled some tweezers from a pocket to pick up something from the floor. He held it up. A flattened bullet was clamped between the tweezers.

  "You think this may be it?"

  DeKok examined the bullet closely.

  "Did you mark the spot where you found it?"

  Vledder nodded.

  "It must have ricocheted off the radiator to the left. Put it in an evidence bag. Now if we can find the weapon itself, we've just about solved the case," he mocked.

  DeKok remained silent for a while.

  "What else was in the dresser?"

  Vledder shook his head.

  "I found dishes, cutlery, a few mismatched glasses, and a pile of tattered panties. . .no papers, except for the letters."

  "Nothing that points to the young man?"

  "Nothing."

  DeKok stood up and looked pensively around.

  "What time is it?"

  Vledder looked at his wristwatch without pointing out the obvious. DeKok carried a perfectly good watch on a chain.

  "Almost ten thirty."

  "Right. Why don't you follow I)r. Koning and his people to the morgue. Ask to search the body for papers. To tell you the truth, I forgot all about it. If he does have any papers on him, at least we'll know who he is. I can't think why I overlooked that."

  Vledder nodded.

  "All right, then what?"

  "Go back to the station."

  "And you?"

  DeKok grinned.

  "As I said, my job is to wait."

  After his partner left, DeKok sat down again. There was something strange about this case. There were some details he did not like in the murder scene, like dissonant chords in a concerto.

  Suddenly the door of the room opened. A young woman stood in the door opening. DeKok estimated her to be about twenty-five years old. She wore a long purple jacket, white slacks, and red boots.

  Surprised, she whirled around.

  "What? What are you doing here?" Her voice became shriller. "Who are you?" Suddenly her eyes locked on the radiator.

  "Where's Robert?"

  DeKok stood up and walked closer.

  "You asked four questions," he said calmly. "Before I can truthfully answer them, I have one question: Who are you?"

  "Me?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm Antoinette Graaf."

  3

  After a slight hesitation, DeKok entered the small interrogation room and seated himself at the table across from her.

  "I'd like to talk to you," he said affably.

  She rose from her cha
ir and looked at him angrily. Her eyes spat fire and she banged both fists on the table.

  "You had nie locked up!" she screamed. "Downstairs, in a dirty, grimy cell. The air reeks of urine and sweat."

  DeKok made an apologetic gesture.

  "I know," he admitted resignedly, "the cells in Warmoes Street Station are not exactly luxury accommodations."

  Antoinette Graaf shook her head vehemently.

  "You can't keep me. I've done nothing. You don't have the right to lock nle up."

  DeKok nodded calmly.

  "I do have that right. The law gives me the right to detain you, take away your freedom." He cocked his head at her. "But you do not have the right to restrict anyone's liberty, and that is why I reserved a cell for you."

  Antoinette pressed her lips together and sat down.

  "I can't stay here," she exploded finally.

  "I understand that."

  She snorted contemptuously.

  "You understand nothing, nothing whatsoever." She stood up again and leaned forward with both hands on the table. It was an angry, aggressive attitude. "What have you done with Robert?"

  DeKok lowered his head. Despite his promise to answer her questions, he had not done so. He had introduced himself as a police inspector. That was all. He had consciously said nothing about the true reason for his presence, or the fate of the young man.

  "What have you done with Robert?" she screamed.

  DeKok looked up at her. For some time he had been wondering to what extent the young woman was involved in the gruesome murder.

  "Did you throw him in a cell as well?"

  There was sarcasm in her voice.

  Slowly DeKok shook his head.

  "Robert is dead," he said evenly.

  Antoinette swallowed. Her eyes enlarged, growing wild and scared at once.

  "Dead?" she repeated, not comprehending.

  DeKok nodded.

  "Somebody was unfriendly enough to shoot a bullet through his head." He paused briefly. "While," he continued, "he was powerless. He had no chance to escape, because he was handcuffed to the central heating."

  "You're lying."

  Her voice screeched through the small room.

  DeKok shrugged.

  "How would it make sense," he asked coldly, "for me to lie about a death?"

  Antoinette look at him in disbelief. It lasted several seconds. Finally the awful truth penetrated her anger. She sank down in the chair and covered her face with both hands.