The Amsterdam Chronicles: Def-Con City Trilogy Part 1

by Brian Christopher

  An hour later Harry Ribb stared at the front page of the Telegraaf that lay spread out on his desk. A pencil drawing of Raemon Dort lying in the bathtub covered nearly a quarter of the page. It was an inadequate description of Dort's situation, so it must have been the cleaning lady. The woman was so traumatized by the whole incident she obviously was unable to describe the scene precisely. If one of his officers had leaked the information, the detail would have been near to perfect or an actual photo taken by someone's mobile.

  He scanned the article to see if his name was mentioned, there was no sign of it. It was Saturday morning and the Telegraaf had the scoop, the rest had to follow suit. Radio and TV stations were calling the press officer since the publication of the early edition at five o'clock this morning, it was going to be a long day.

  Ellen Klein had been the press officer for the last three years. If she had not been happily married with two boys, a set of twins aged eight, he would have tried to start a relationship with her after his divorce. But that was one rule Harry never broke. He would never break up a marriage or a relationship. Harry did not envy her job right now, but he knew she liked to be in the limelight. Ellen could handle a barrage of questions with ease and confidence, even when she did not have all the information herself. Ribb always refused to be interviewed.

  Soon the rest of the print media would publish their own take on the death of Raemon Dort. This will keep the story in the limelight for at least a week before they move on to something new. A bomb blast in the Middle East killing thirty to forty people would now only warrant a small column on the front page or even two columns on the second page. Only the death of a national leader or something similar would keep Raemon Dort off the front pages.

 

  Detective Bakker, who looked more unkempt than ever, sat across from Ribb.

  "We worked all night with the forensics team going through the apartments, and had at least thirty men knocking on doors and asking questions. So far, we have come across nothing suspicious. Any word from the pathologist?"

  "Not yet," Ribb said, glancing at his email to see if anything had arrived from Conver. "So we cannot say the deaths were malicious until tests are complete. I don't want to start to panic in the city and I want those questions asked quietly.

  "Of course." Bakker replied.

  Harry noticed him slowly slumping into the chair.

  "Also, try to keep any details of these deaths from the press as long as possible. Let them have as much time as possible with Dort's death. It will give us more room to move."

  "It's difficult bringing in forensics and keeping it quiet," Bakker finally said, as he rubbed his tired eyes.

  "Do your best," Ribb replied, and turned his attention back to the files lying in front of him. Without another word, Bakker got up and left the office.

  Corso was at Bakker's desk looking through his papers. Bakker told him what had been going on that night.

  "Where is your Yankee friend," Corso asked.

  "He's not my friend."

  "Well, you were just about hand-in-hand going out the door last time."

  "The chief asked me to take him for a cup of coffee and explain the basics of our working procedures. He's going to be properly worked in on Monday when he finally starts duty."

  "You realize you are going to be babysitting this guy."

  "I have no idea what Ribb has planned, he could even go to another station in the city like that Danish cop we had last year."

  "He was specialized in working with prostitutes and human trafficking, they didn't put him in the Wallen for nothing. What did this guy do back in the States, homicide?"

  "I think so."

  "So that means he will be working in your division."

  "I suppose."

  "I'm glad I'm just uniform and cruise the streets. As long as he stays out of my way I don't care where he works," Corso said, then got up and reached for his jacket, and left.

  When Harry Ribb's telephone rang this time, he was little surprised to see it was Sietske. Probably calling to gloat about his scoop, although that would be out of character.

  "Good morning, Sietske. Great article, but not exactly correct as far as I can see."

  "Want to fill me in on the rest?"

  "You know I can't do that."

  "All right, then maybe you can tell me something about the four deaths from the Bilderdijkstraaat to the van Baerlestraat."

  Another cat out of the bag, Harry thought. He knew it was going to be difficult to keep that one quiet anyway. Sealing off apartments, forensic teams dressed in white bodysuits going in and out and detectives knocking on everyone's doors along those streets, Harry realized it was just wishful thinking.

  "I'm sorry Sietske, I cannot give you any information about that either."

  "Four deaths in what is basically one street is not something you can sweep under a carpet."

  "How did you hear about this anyway?"

  "You know I cannot give you any information on my sources Harry." Sietske said, sounding as if he really enjoyed saying that. "But I'll give you this one. A cousin of my wife is a postman and noticed a number of apartments on the streets he delivers to were sealed off. But he also couldn't help notice the forensics people crawling all over them. I think four scenes like this in one street would get some attention, don't you?"

  "Okay, fair enough, you're right. I can't say much because we don't know all the details ourselves. Yes, there are four deaths that have occurred on a two and a half kilometer stretch, but we are not sure as to how it happened. At first it seemed like a regular heart attack or at least a heart related ailment, but it turns out there is a lot more to it than that. Forensics are working round the clock and the pathologist is cracking his brain on this, believe me."

  "Would you mind keeping this from the rest of the press till Monday?"

  "Sorry Sietske, I can't promise you anything. If the rest of the media hear about this than there is nothing I can do about it.

  "Okay, I understand. Thanks anyway."

  "What I can say is that you are the only journalist who has called me about it, so I think you've got a head start on the rest."

  "True, we could put it on the website right now, or tomorrow, Sunday. But I'd prefer to run it on Monday in the regular press."

  "That's where the money is, right?"

  "Selling newspapers is always important, that's the way it is."

  "Well I wish I could give you more information, but unfortunately that is not the case."

  "Thanks anyway Harry," Sietske said, and hung up.

  Harry Ribb looked up at the map of Amsterdam on the wall and the long black line he had drawn. There were no answers as to what was happening. Everything was a mystery. There were no sign of break-ins, no unusual prints or suspect DNA. Crime as he knew it, guns, knives, fights, poisons or violence in general seemed like a piece of cake compared to this.

  Never had he had so many suspect deaths on his hands and no clues as to what exactly how they happened.

  Chapter Eighteen