DeKok looked at Vledder.
“That isn’t… Is it?”
The young inspector nodded slowly.
“Manfred Nettelhorst.”
DeKok had lost his desire to see the rest of the exhibition. He looked compassionately at the elderly woman who scurried away, her head bowed.
Rebellion and a sense of disquiet overtook him. His glance passed over the entrances to the other halls, where more objects were displayed. His gaze came to rest on the group of men in the corner. A lively discussion was under way, a wild, gesticulating Manfred Nettelhorst in the center.
The image of the porcine man burned into DeKok’s retina. He would never forget the look on Nettelhorst’s face. DeKok had a near-photographic memory, a curse at times like this. The senior inspector sighed deeply. Slowly the mutinous disquiet ebbed away. With a nonchalant gesture he placed his hat back on his head.
Vledder looked at him.
“We’re leaving?” he questioned.
“Yes.”
“And what about our assignment?”
DeKok growled.
“It no longer interests me.”
He strolled toward the exit.
Vledder shrugged and followed him.
Near the door DeKok nearly bumped into the uniformed guard.
“Oh,” said the man, “there’s a telephone call for you, Inspector.”
“Where?”
The man pointed.
“In the office.”
Without any prompting, Vledder walked away to take the call instead of DeKok. The old-school inspector hated telephones.
“Well, who is it?” DeKok asked the guard.
“The watch commander at Warmoes Street,” the man offered. “He said it was urgent.”
DeKok nodded his understanding and waited patiently for Vledder’s return.
After a few minutes, Vledder came out of the office and walked toward DeKok.
“Well?” prompted DeKok.
“Someone reported finding a young man on Beuning Street,” said Vledder, “handcuffed to a radiator.”
“And?”
“He’s dead.”
“How?”
Vledder swallowed.
“Murdered.”
2
The young man was slumped on the floor, his back to a radiator. His right wrist was handcuffed to a pipe leading into the unit. The awkward position forced that man’s arm up at a slant.
The sight of the corpse was gruesome. Where the nose merged with the face between the eyes was a gaping hole created by a bullet. To the right of the head, blood and brain tissue clung to the radiator where the bullet had exited the skull.
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—”
DeKok 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 Bram 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 embarrassed. 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 Dr. 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.
DeKok and the Dead Lovers Page 2
