DeKok and the Geese of Death

by A. C. Baantjer

  “I was careless,” admitted DeKok. “I shouldn’t have left that crowbar in plain view. And I should never have interviewed him without cuffs. He smiled briefly. “… sorry I didn’t wait for you.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His heart again beat normally. He smiled again as he looked at Vledder.

  “Maybe now we can remove this credenza thing and the phone from behind my desk. It is too much of a distraction. Put the phone back where it was, on the desk, and give me room.”

  Vledder looked solemn. DeKok gave him a reassuring grin.

  “I know it’s not the fault of the phone. Even though I was fully aware I should never turn my back on Igor, the sound of the phone startled me into making a thoughtless move.”

  Vledder straddled a chair in front of DeKok’s desk.

  “Did he confess?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I think he’d sooner die a slow death.”

  Vledder made an impatient gesture.

  “What he did to you was attempted murder. Isn’t that a kind of confession? At least it proves that Igor Stablinsky is capable of murder … and ready to ambush a victim or anyone who gets in his way.”

  DeKok did not answer at once. He rubbed his hand between his neck and his collar as if to get some air. Absent-mindedly he noticed he was clammy. His underarms were wet with sweat.

  “As evidence in the cases of Mrs. Linshot and Sam Lion, it’s worthless. Even a so-so lawyer would explain the attack on me any number of ways. Igor isn’t dumb and his lawyer is more than competent. Odds are the two of them will manage to concoct something. I wouldn’t be surprised if they come up with an impressive complaint.”

  “Against you?”

  “Yes.”

  “On what grounds?

  “Oh, excessive force, for instance.”

  Vledder looked incredulous.

  “Did you hit him?”

  DeKok laughed.

  “Of course not. I’m smarter than that, I hope. I did not lay a finger on him.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But a complaint like that does not require any basis in truth.”

  Vledder seemed confused.

  “No basis of truth?” he repeated. “But a false accusation is punishable by law.”

  DeKok grinned broadly.

  “Not if the complaint is against a police officer.” It sounded cynical. “I’ve never heard of anyone being convicted for falsely accusing a police officer. That seems to be permissible in Holland.”

  “Did you make Igor angry?”

  DeKok stared into the distance while he let the conversation run through his memory. He had an uncanny ability to recall the words, facial expressions, and gestures of past interviews. Then he shook his head.

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. “At times the conversation was somewhat vehement. We were not exactly exchanging pleasantries, but I don’t think there was real anger involved. Stablinsky feigned anger, maybe.”

  “So?” pressed Vledder.

  “As you know, it’s not always easy to remain completely calm during an interrogation. There are always moments when emotions threaten to get the best of you. It goes with the territory. And Igor Stablinsky is a very clever suspect. That stubborn, stupid denial undermines self-control. Like any interrogator, I grow impatient. Then my temper flares. This time I pursued the line of questioning, because I felt he was coming unglued just enough to confess. Just then the phone started to ring.”

  Vledder gave him a thoughtful look.

  “Who was on the phone?”

  DeKok grimaced.

  “That’s what’s so odd,” he said. “It was a woman, an older woman. She wanted to know if I knew anything about her geese.”

  “Geese?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Who was the woman? Do we have a name?”

  “Yes,” said DeKok, “it was a Mrs. Bildijk.”

  Vledder looked surprised.

  “Bildijk? From along the Amstel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her name and address are in Stablinsky’s agenda.”

  DeKok slapped his forehead.

  “Of course, with all the commotion I did not make the connection right a way. Let’s find out more about the good lady.”

  2

  Both inspectors were seated in the old VW Beetle. Vledder was driving. DeKok sprawled his rangy frame as far as possible in the cramped little passenger seat. They passed the dam, the center of Amsterdam; passed the pier with the excursion boats. They crossed the bridge on the way out of town. A dense, dark gray cloud cover hid the sun. Drizzle started hesitantly and then it began to rain decisively. A layer of small water bubbles began to obscure the greasy windshield. Vledder turned on the windshield wipers.

  DeKok seemed fascinated by the movement of the wipers. Their slow sweeping motion was mesmerizing. It seemed to soothe him. He shoved his dilapidated little hat deeper over his eyes and sank further into the seat, until he was almost sitting on his back. The knees of his lanky legs braced him against the dashboard.

  Vledder looked aside.

  “What’s going to happen with Stablinsky,” he inquired.

  DeKok shook his head as if to clear it, banishing the lull of the rain and the hum of the engine. There wouldn’t be time for a nap—he sat up, straightening his large frame.

  “Tomorrow morning he’ll be officially charged by the judge advocate.”

  “You think they’ll even get a conviction?”

  “Sure. All his denials aren’t going to do him any good. The evidence is circumstantial, but there is plenty of it.”

  “That assault on you? I noticed you left it out and I wanted to ask you about that.”

  He did not answer at once.

  Vledder usually took care of all the paperwork concerning their investigations. DeKok had always refused to use a typewriter. He was momentarily vindicated when the last remaining typewriter was relegated to a dank corner in the basement of Warmoes Street. But the advent of computers failed to change DeKok. If anything, the senior inspector grew even more reluctant to use a keyboard. In the beginning of his career all reports were written with pen and ink. The mechanization of the process made it all too hasty. Deliberation and hard work were paramount, so far as he was concerned. Vledder went with the flow. He had worked out a special template for writing reports. He could put out almost any report in a minimum of time by using prepared paragraphs and sub-routines he had stored in the memory of his computer. DeKok could care less how Vledder did it. He refused to acquaint himself with all those electronic aids; however, he was quick enough to accept the benefits of the shortcuts Vledder had developed. He no longer insisted on laboring over his reports, handwriting them in pen and ink. He gave his thoughts, verbally, or in the form of cryptic notes to Vledder. He hid a sly smile when the bureaucracy applauded “his” reports.

  “Well,” repeated Vledder, “why would you leave it out of the report?”

  “I decided it was a ‘non-event’—irrelevant to the case.”

  “You have to be kidding. You almost ended up with that crowbar buried in your skull.” Vledder tried to disguise his aggravation.

  DeKok shrugged.

  “It was my own fault. I should never have given him an opening.”

  “Right,” said Vledder sarcastically. “You happen to walk in front of a loaded gun. Of course, the shooter chooses to pull the trigger as you pass by. He gets off the hook, because why? Because you put yourself in his sights?”

  DeKok shrugged, deciding to ignore the hint of sarcasm Vledder certainly had not meant.

  “I left the crowbar where he could grab it and then turned away.”

  “But that’s my point,” said Vledder, exasperation in his voice. “He made a choice. He surely did not have license to break your head. That’s pure nonsense. If he had done it to me, I would have …”

  DeKok interrupted him with a gesture. Carefully he fished a peppermint out of a breast pocket and studied it. Then he spoke.

&nb
sp; “I knew Igor Stablinsky had killed at least twice with a crowbar,” he explained patiently. “Please keep in mind that neither victim was able to look at him. I am a senior inspector here. In spite of my years on the force, I turned my back on a predator who ambushes his prey. Not to mention his weapon of choice sat there, just within his reach. For someone experienced, it was just idiotic. And I do not want anyone to suffer for my stupidity.”

  Vledder gave the steering wheel an angry slap.

  “That’s convoluted reasoning, if I ever heard it.”

  “You think so?”

  The younger inspector nodded vehemently.

  “Totally insane. Your judgment may have faltered, but the responsibility isn’t yours. He chose to grab the crowbar … with every intention of killing you.”

  DeKok rubbed the back of his neck and popped the peppermint into his mouth. He chewed for a while before he answered.

  “If I provide an opportunity for a thief to steal from me, I bear some of the responsibility. I gave Stablinsky the opportunity to act, knowing perfectly well he would leap at the chance.” He sighed deeply. “At best it was blatant thoughtlessness on my part.”

  Vledder would not let up.

  “Nonsense,” he said. “That’s not a reasonable argument. That says we would have to keep all criminals forever behind bars. Setting them free would give them the opportunity to commit additional criminal acts.”

  DeKok nodded thoughtfully.

  “There’s something in what you say. No doubt, as far as certain criminals are concerned, everyone in the justice system should be more aware of his responsibilities. For instance: the lives of many innocent victims could be spared if it were harder for convicted murderers to get parole, or light sentences.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, yes. There are many examples of that. I remember Jan Vries, for instance. He was convicted for a serial armed robbery. After he was set free, he murdered an entire family …

  mother, father, and three children. When they returned him to the sanitarium, he held up his hand and spread his fingers. ‘Five murders because you swore I was sane again,’ he told the psychiatrist.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” answered DeKok who was getting wound up. “Oh, we’re quick to give stiff sentences to thieves, swindlers, and the like. I recently read about some cases in America. Some bookkeeper or other had embezzled a large amount from a company. He got twelve years and a fine in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. The same judge later sentenced a guy to eighteen months for killing his wife. You see the white-collar thief is locked away for twelve years so he cannot steal again any time soon. But the murderer is free to kill again after just eighteen months. In a topsy-turvy system, crimes against property are treated as more heinous than those that destroy human life. You tell me if that’s not creating opportunities.”

  Vledder growled and remained silent.

  They eventually reached the outskirts of town and followed the left bank of the river Amstel. Amsterdam was named after a dam that had been built on the river some twelve hundred years earlier. They passed a stretch of condemned houseboats that blighted the landscape and obscured the view. But after a bend in the river, they saw the landscape in its somber splendor. The heavy rainfall of the last few days had swollen the river to the point that a slight breeze threw ripples and wavelets over the banks. A number of windmills were visible that took full advantage of the light breeze and were engaged in bringing the water down to a more manageable level. DeKok’s mood turned pensive. He reflected ruefully that there were probably some enormous steam and electrical pumps engaged in the task of the windmills. Sooner or later all the windmills would disappear from this landscape.

  His thoughts drifted back to Stablinsky. He felt the case was not yet closed. He was almost certain his path would cross Stablinsky’s again, perhaps soon. The sound of the crowbar hitting his desk echoed in his mind.

  His usually friendly face changed into a mask of steel. He pressed his lips together into a narrow line. Stablinsky would never get a second shot, he decided, grimly.

  He looked at Vledder who clearly was still occupied with his thoughts on crime and punishment.

  “Do you remember if Mrs. Bildijk’s name and address appeared in Igor’s agenda in the same group with those of the two victims?”

  Vledder shook his head without taking his eyes off the road.

  “No, she was mentioned on a different page, in a different color ink. Somehow I got the impression he entered her particular name and address in the agenda when he first started to use it. Perhaps she was an early target. What I’m saying is he intended her as a victim prior to making the rest of the list. Like the others, though, Mrs. Bildijk is practically defenseless. She’s an invalid, who uses a wheelchair. She seems to be a rich and, above all, an eccentric old lady.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Vledder smirked.

  “I’ve known it for a while. As soon as we obtained Igor’s notebook, her name was the first we investigated. I also checked with the local police station. She lives in the Twenty-third Precinct.”

  “And?”

  “They recognized her name. As a matter of fact they know her very well. She’s one of their favorite cranks. She often calls just to complain.”

  “What about?”

  “Mostly she gripes about inadequate surveillance. The Twenty-third isn’t vigilant enough for her. She insists a patrol car stop by her property at least five times per night.”

  “That’s a bit excessive, isn’t it?”

  Vledder nodded.

  “The comissaris of that precinct definitely saw it that way. But I wouldn’t underestimate her tenacity. In addition to the nagging, she threatened to inform some highly placed officials. The local commissaris finally buckled. He promised a patrol car would check at least four times per night.”

  “And that stopped the complaints?”

  “Yes and no. One time a car drove by only three times. Sure enough, she was on the phone first thing the next morning. It appeared the old lady stayed awake at night to keep a record each time she saw (or didn’t see) a patrol car.”

  DeKok laughed.

  “But why?”

  Vledder shrugged.

  “Mrs. Bildijk is convinced someone is after her life as well as her possessions. She’s also upset about the lack of attention shown by the local station. She wanted a ‘real’ inspector to look after her interests.” He glanced at DeKok. “That’s why she called you, I think.”

  DeKok shoved his hat as far back on his head as it would go, without falling off. He opened the glove compartment and found a long-forgotten toffee. As he slowly unwrapped the sweet he spoke.

  “She picked a particularly unfortunate time to call.”

  They continued in silence, only broken by the rough sound of the engine and sucking noises made by DeKok as he savored his aged toffee.

  Suddenly DeKok looked around and gently poked Vledder in the side.

  “Are you sleeping with your eyes wide open?”

  Vledder looked confused.

  “How’s that?”

  DeKok gestured at the landscape.

  “We’re way past the outskirts of Amsterdam. You simply passed the Bildijk property. Straight ahead are the first houses of Oldkerk.”

  They parked the police VW on a narrow shoulder, got out and proceeded on foot. The wind and rain were reaching gale force. DeKok pulled up the collar of his raincoat and pulled his hat deeper over his eyes.

  ‘Happy Lake’ was written in gilded letters above the wrought-iron gate. The gate was painted black and securely anchored to two tall, brick pillars. A high wrought-iron fence extended from the pillars in both directions. The visual impact was institutional and forbidding.

  Behind the gate a gravel path meandered across the manicured lawn, disappearing between tall hedges of purple rhododendron.

  DeKok looked at the heavy steel bolts that secured the gate and realized the
gate was not locked. He pushed against one half of the gate, gradually applying more force. Slowly the gate opened. At least one rusty hinge screeched ominously.

  As if in answer to the noise, two gaggles of white geese instantly appeared from between the hedges. They spread their wings at a dead run, as if to take flight. They stretched their long necks, uttering hostile hissing sounds.

  For a moment DeKok seemed perplexed. Then he hastily backed out of the gate, pulling it shut as he went.

  Vledder stepped aside and laughed.

  “Afraid of birds?” he asked mockingly.

  “Yes,” answered DeKok curtly. “Those birds can kill a man.”

  “Really?” Vledder was skeptical.

  DeKok did not respond, but watched an elderly man who had appeared behind the geese. He was wearing wooden shoes and carried a long stick. When he came nearer he threatened the geese with the stick. They dispersed from the gate. The hissing stopped, but the birds fixed their little eyes on the intruders, remaining fully alert.

  “Whadda you want?”

  There was a sullen tone in the old man’s hoarse voice.

  DeKok flashed his most winning smile.

  “My name is DeKok,” he said pleasantly. “DeKok with …

  eh kay-oh-kay.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Vledder. “This is my colleague, Vledder. We’re police officers from Warmoes Street Station.”

  “Police?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Mrs. Bildijk called us on the phone. She wanted to talk.” With a hesitant gesture he pointed at the two flocks of birds, silent participants in the conversation. “About, eh … about her geese.”

  The man rubbed his nose with the back of hand and snorted.

  “Damn geese,” he growled, disdain in his voice. “They’re filthy, rotten beasts, all of them. If you don’t use a stick to keep them from you, they’ll tear the clothes right off you. They try to trip you, you know. And once they have you on the ground, watch out! If they hit you with their beaks at the end of those long necks, it’s like being hit with hammers. Besides, nobody can train them. But she wanted geese.”