The Amsterdam Chronicles: Def-Con City Trilogy Part 1

by Brian Christopher

  Boddin added up the receipts on this calculator, wrote down the total on the blue form, double checked it, gathered everything neatly into a folder, and headed for Ribb's office. He was joined by a female clerk as he entered.

  Ribb was on the telephone. "Listen and listen very carefully," he said, doing his best to control his temper. "Check airport security, they could have spotted him. It's possible they could have contacted him for some reason and took him through another door. Maybe he fell asleep on the toilet? Whatever! All I know he's a tall black American, he got on the plane and did not disappear on the flight halfway across the Atlantic. Just find the man," he shouted, and slammed down the phone.

  Boddin, with the female clerk directly behind him, stood in front of his desk.

  "God, give me patience," he moaned, then turned to Boddin. "They're not the worst on the force but they do their best to make my blood boil."

  With a deep sigh, he left his desk to study the markers on the map. Bakker was not an idiot, and in the past had come up with a lot of good suggestions, but was he imagining things? Was he on drugs?

  The clerk passed Boddin and held out the file to Ribb. "The file on the American has just arrived sir."

  He took it, then she left. Ribb observed how Boddin totally failed to notice the clerk brush past him, her breast touching his elbow, and offering him a gentle smile. He removed a photo from the file and studied it while Boddin laid a folder with receipts on the desk, along with the blue form.

  "Receipts for last month. You want to sign?" Boddin said, in a near whisper.

  Ribb, looking more frustrated than ever, went back to his black leather swivel chair. "You mean I have a choice?" He snapped.

  ?Boddin, expressionless and calm as ever, pulled up a seat and settled slowly into it. "I've known you since you joined the force and watched you work your way up the ranks." Boddin said, in a low relaxing tone. "You know when you need a little coaching or personal advice regarding the station I'm always there, even those times when you don't realize you need it yourself. This is one of those moments. What's up?"

  Ribb tried to focus his attention, settled back in his chair and tilted it back. He stared up at the ceiling.

  "I'm used to getting frustrated at criminal cases that do not tie up, and there are times I want to explode because some judge lets the shit of the earth walk free. But days like this bring on total bewilderment - and unmerciful headaches."

  "Okay, so what's the problem?"

  "Bakker's got this idea about the deaths column," Ribb said, still staring at the ceiling. "I think he's either turning neurotic or is on drugs. All the signs are there. Apart from that I sent two baboons to the airport to pick up a guest cop coming to Amsterdam on an exchange program from New York and they lost him before he stepped off the plane." Ribb handed Boddin the photo. "Here, take a look at this."

  Harvey Wall was an African American born to a Afro-Caribbean Jamaican father and Chinese mother. He had high cheekbones and smiling eyes, and looked more like a model than a police officer. He stood six foot in uniform, next to, and smiling down at his captain, who did not look amused.

  "They have also got the same photo. Look at the guy. How could you miss someone built like that," he moaned and slumped back into his chair.

  "Is that all?"

  "Last night," Ribb continued, "my new girlfriend drained me of all my energy, and ten minutes ago she stormed in here to finish me off. And, if that's not enough, I got a call from Bakker, who claims you won't accept his receipts."

  Boddin sat very relaxed, and for what seemed like an eternity to Ribb, finally spoke. "Did you see them?" Boddin asked.

  "I did."

  "And?"

  "Normally he would have to go back to the restaurant to pick up new receipts."

  "That's what I thought, case closed. I'll process them when I get them." Boddin said with a feigned smile.

  "He can't." Ribb replied. "The owner is in jail, and the restaurant has been boarded up, which means you have to accept them."

  "But they are illegible."

  "I don't care. He did pay for food and whatever else and it should be refunded. Deal with it. Make out new receipts yourself if need be."

  "That is neither normal procedure or legal." Boddin said firmly.

  Ribb was not in the mood for an argument. "I don't care. What do you want me to do? Arrest him for not following procedure because of soiled receipts?"

  Boddin got out of the chair and pointed down at the blue form in front of Ribb. "Just sign, please."

  Ribb signed. Boddin left without saying another word.

  Ribb could remember when he used to take on the biggest crimes in Amsterdam, spending months on surveillance, sifting through mountains of information and nothing ever phased him. But these stupid little incidents at the station drove him crazy. What was he turning into? Where had the action gone? It seemed like years since the adrenaline flowed through his veins.

  Although he had control over all the major operations, there was no real fieldwork for him to do and definitely no feeling of an active contribution to crime-fighting. He had become a coordinator, a regulator, and now it had become mundane, and unbelievably boring. How long would this continue? How long could he go on nursing a bunch of overgrown boy scouts?

  Time seemed to pass at a snail's pace as Dop and Kaps continued to wait for their seemingly lost passenger at Schiphol International Airport. At least one hundred and thirty planeloads of travel-weary passengers had passed through the arrivals gates in the last two hours, and Kaps had had enough.

  "Come on," he moaned. "Let's try security."

  "We could have done that an hour ago."

  "Shut up. Just move it."

  Dop had difficulty keeping up with Kaps as he made his way towards the airport security office. First they checked with airline staff to see if Wall had actually been on the plane. Confirmed, but there was no extra information as to where he went after he left the plane.

  They checked customs to see if he had been held for any guns, drugs or whatever he might have been carrying on the flight, he was not. Finally, they were referred to the security department monitoring everything that came and went throughout Schiphol airport on camera.

  The CCTV surveillance room was large and impressive. It consisted of a curved table two meters wide and at least twenty meters long. Five surveillance officers sat behind groups of three monitors directly at eye level while on the wall in front lines of flat screens spanned the width of the room. Above them, hanging from the ceiling were monitors showing arrival and departure times of all flights. Directly behind the surveillance officers three supervisors in enclosed desks monitored flags put on movements of special interest by the first group.

  Dop and Kaps were introduced to one of the supervisors, a tall, thin man in his early forties with deep dark rings under his eyes. He hit a button on his computer and an unmarked DVD popped out of the bay.

  "I copied the CCTV recordings of passengers from that flight you told me about on the phone. They lead out into the arrivals building where you were waiting." He stood up and turned, "follow me."

  In the small darkened editing room was at the rear of the surveillance room, he settled down behind a couple of monitors and slipped the DVD into a player. The monitors lit up automatically.

  "This shows the entrance and exit points and the various arrival and departure halls in Schiphol. This is arrival hall number three," he said, pointing to the monitor on the left. "And I think that looks like your man."

  The supervisor pointed to a tall black male coming out of the arrivals door while Dop and Kaps could clearly be seen concentrating on a number of scantily clad women in the other direction. They watched Wall walk directly up to them, stall for a few seconds within arm's length, shake his head, then carry on walking. Kaps and Dop totally failed to notice him.

  "Oh shit," Kaps moaned.

  "It seems," the supervisor continued, "he went to exchange some money right after this, th
en went for beer. This is a shot about thirty minutes later."

  He typed in a couple of keys and the monitor showed Wall leaning up against a pillar at a coffee bar only twenty meters behind Dop and Kaps whose interest remained on a couple of beautiful women in the direct vicinity.

  "He's not all that difficult to recognize," the supervisor casually remarked. "Don't know how you missed him."

  They watched the tall American pick up his bag and walk away in the opposite direction towards the exit and taxis.

  "What the hell?" Dop said, astonished. "This is criminal."

  "I still don't know how you could have missed him." The supervisor said with a certain undertone.

  "All right," Kaps moaned. "We heard you the first time."

  The supervisor pressed some more keys and another monitor flickered into action in front of them.

  "This is a shot from outside the main building."

  Kaps watched dumbstruck at the sight of Wall getting into a blue Mercedes taxi and driving away. Kaps slammed his fist on the table and jumped up.

  "Why the hell did he do that? He saw us waiting for him. He could have just walked over and we'd have been back at the station hours ago."

  Dop slumped back into the chair. "And I could have been home, putting my feet up. Ribb is going to kill us."

  "But we know where he's going," Kaps said, then took out his mobile. "We'll find him, don't worry, I've got the number to his hotel."

  Kaps dialed the number and a male desk clerk answered.

  "The Alfred hotel, good afternoon, how may I help you?"

  "This is detective Kaps from the Amsterdam police. I am looking for a guest, a fellow police officer who has just arrived from New York, Mr. Harvey Wall."

  "I'm afraid he is not in the hotel at the moment. However, his luggage arrived a while ago," the clerk said.

  "What do you mean only his luggage arrived?" Kaps shouted.

  "Like I said, only his luggage arrived." The clerk replied, trying patiently to explain. "I believe Mr. Wall got out somewhere along the way. He told the driver to drop his luggage off at the hotel. That's all I know."

  "Listen you jerk. The driver..."

  "Thank you for calling. Good day." The clerk abruptly replied, then immediately hung up.

  Dop looked on, waiting for an answer.

  "What did he say?"

  Kaps left the chair and headed for the door. "He got out of the taxi somewhere in the city."

  "We've got to find him before he gets lost." Dop said. "You know what Amsterdam is like for the average tourist. A maze of canals, bridges and streets that all look alike. If you don't know your way around you disappear into a black hole. Besides, if we arrive back at the station without him, Ribb will skin us alive."

  "Lost?" Kaps threw up both hands. "Are you kidding me? He's a detective from New York for Christ's sake."

  Boddin was as usual at his desk, which unlike many of his colleagues, was meticulous. Next to the ruler, which had its place on the very edge, lay an elaborate holder for pens, pencils, scissors and paper clips in various sizes. Behind him, a purposely built rack that seemed to contain every form in every color ever issued by the police in the last hundred years and stacked to the brim. Harry Ribb appeared in front of the desk and took a seat as he was filling in a green form.

  "I'm sorry, Charles. I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that."

  Boddin glanced up for a second then continued to fill in the form. "You let that sort of nonsense nitty-gritty get under your skin." Boddin said, in a quiet, relaxed monotone voice; the same voice that drove many of his co-workers to despair.

  "You should learn to relax, keep your work under control, and at a distance. Don't let it get too personal. The worst you can do is let the insignificant pile up on you. Concentrate on the things that matter. The rest is, believe me, irrelevant."

  Ribb knew he was right. He could never handle the little stuff; that was Boddin's specialty. "There's something I always wanted to ask you," Ribb finally said.

  Boddin, in his usual manner, stopped writing, put his pen to one side, and looked up.

  "Do you like doing the administration, the paperwork, chasing after everyone, checking receipts?"

  Boddin immediately took up his pen once again and went back to filling in the forms. "I don't mind. It's a job. I put in a good day's work," he said, sounding totally uninterested.

  "And the only thing you look forward to at the end of the day is your pension," Ribb replied.

  Boddin stopped writing, laid his pen down once again and stared directly at Ribb.

  "There's nothing wrong with that."

  "No, but it's a fact, right?"

  "Not the way I look at it."

  "But it is true." Ribb said, pressing his point.

  "I am looking forward to a pleasant retirement, yes."

  "Charles, have you ever wondered why you never made promotion?"

  Boddin packed the papers in front of him into a neat bundle, took a medium-sized paperclip out of its little compartment, attached it to the papers, then dropped them into the outbox.

  "It never really bothered me."

  Ribb leaned towards him, pointing his finger. "That's it. Nothing bothers you. Nothing gets you going. You couldn't care whether you had a job here or the tax office or social welfare. You've got no drive."

  Boddin grabbed another bunch of neatly stacked envelopes, stood up, and was about to walk away, hesitated, then turned to Ribb.

  "Do I need it in my line of work?"

  "No, but..." Suddenly, Ribb was out of words.

  Boddin walked away.

  Ribb realized he had once again gone too far. Talking to Boddin like that was a mistake. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. When would he learn to be more diplomatic. Once again, he felt he was the wrong man in the wrong job.

  ?At lunchtime, the station canteen was typically full. There was seating for roughly sixty men and women at a time, who usually gathered in their own groups. Uniform sat with uniform, detectives with their own.

  ?After filling his tray with the usual mundane food, a hotdog with a layer of mustard, and a cup of coffee, Ribb looked around for a place to sit. Most senior officers never dined in their canteens. Meals were usually brought to their offices, or they lunched outside. The idea was to create a distance of command, which many believed created more respect. The lower ranks would not look up to a senior officer who lunched with the regulars. Ribb never cared for that type of protocol. For him, it was out-dated and an insult to the people you worked with.

  He looked around, searching, and found the table he was looking for at the back - away from others in the quietest area of the canteen.

  "Mind if I sit down?"

  Boddin was surprised when he looked up and saw Ribb beckoning to a stool opposite him. Without waiting for an answer, Ribb sat down. Boddin gently wiped his mouth with a paper napkin then continued to cut into the schnitzel on his plate.

  "I want to apologize for what I said earlier." Ribb said. "I'm not in a position to tell you what you should or should not do with your life."

  With the precision of a surgeon Boddin cut the schnitzel into little squares, then put down his knife and fork.

  "Listen Harry," he said, in a relaxed deep tone. "No need to apologize. You are just doing your job. But I enjoy my work. For most people, it would be boring, dull, but I like it. It suits my way of life. And when I look at the rest of the guys, even you, I'm a happy man."

  Ribb shook his head. "I don't get it. You could have a lot more going for you. You could have had my job. You've got the intelligence, and more."

  Boddin stared at him blankly, then leaned towards Ribb. "Let's weigh up the balance, okay? You've got a broken marriage, a fourteen-year-old daughter who needs a lot of attention, a new girlfriend who seemingly needs even more attention, and a station demanding constant nursing that has you frustrated as hell. Comparing all that to my life I don't think I've too much to worry about."

  R
ibb shook his head in disbelief. "You don't miss much, do you."

  "It's part of my job. I like to keep my finger on the pulse."

  "Yeah, while I'm getting a heart attack trying to keep everything up and running."

  "I remember you telling me once the only ambition you had after spending so many years in the field was to take charge of the station, and get everything running the way you wanted it, like a well-oiled machine."

  Ribb was about to give Boddin a reply when his mobile rang. He took a quick glance at the caller - the city pathologist. He pressed the answer button. Boddin went immediately back to eating his schnitzel.

  "Jim, what's up?" Ribb asked.

  In the mortuary Jim Conver, the city pathologist for the last nine years, stood over a female body laid out on the stainless steel table. Her chest cavity was wide open, and on the small tray next to her lay her heart.

  "I'm working on a young female that supposedly died of natural causes. But the more I look into this it does not seem to be so natural. Can you come over?"

  "I'm just in the middle of lunch. Give me half an hour." Ribb replied.

  Chapter Five