“Yes, my son Ricky … a year and a half ago … killed by drugs.” She sighed deeply. “I was so happy when everything started to go so well for Erik. He stopped using and he was studying hard, partly with the support of Jean-Paul. He seemed to have lit a spark in Erik.”
“You’re talking about Jean-Paul Stappert?”
Her lip quivered.
“That boy … that boy … they killed him, too. It’s just barbaric, bestial.”
DeKok sat down behind his desk. He would have liked to tell her that she was being unfair to animals, but he controlled himself. He understood her feelings and in his heart he agreed with her. He leaned backward in his chair and studied her face. She looked to be around fifty years old, maybe a little younger. She was slender and had a beautiful, oval face with dark, almond-shaped eyes. The eyes were filled with tears.
“You’ve already visited the rooming house?”
Mrs. Bavel lowered her head.
“Yes, Mrs. Lyons called me on the phone early this morning. She told me she had been unable to sleep all night, and couldn’t get up the courage to tell me what had happened.” She fell silent, opened the handbag on her lap, and took a tidy little handkerchief from it. Carefully she dried her eyes. “Mrs. Lyons,” she went on, “has been a big help, a support, the last few months. She kept me informed about what was happening … with Erik.”
DeKok nodded his understanding.
“Did she talk to you about Jean-Paul? I mean, about his death?”
Mrs. Bavel nodded.
“What gets into people? Why kill these two boys?” There was both anger and resignation in her voice. “What is the sense of it?”
“You think the same person killed both boys?” DeKok asked.
Mrs. Bavel looked surprised.
“Isn’t that obvious? They’ve both been strangled.”
DeKok decided to change the subject.
“You had a good relationship with Erik?”
“Of course, why would you ask?”
“I mean, you didn’t just stay in touch through telephone contact with Mina Lyons?”
Mrs. Bavel shook her head.
“Erik came often to Heemstede, especially since Ricky’s death. We developed a real bond, stronger than ever before. I am sure Erik kicked his drug habit because of me. I kept reminding him I didn’t want to loose two sons in such a meaningless way.” More tears welled in her eyes. “Now he’s dead, anyway.” Her face became harder. Her mouth set in a determined expression and she swallowed. She aimed a penetrating look at DeKok. Hate burned through the tears in her eyes.
“You will find him, won’t you? You must find him … the murderer. You hear!? You must find him!”
DeKok rubbed his face. The sudden change of demeanor and tone confused him a bit.
“I … eh, I will do my best.” It sounded like a precautionary excuse. “Of course,” he continued, hesitatingly, “there are no guarantees.”
Her face became softer, milder.
“I understand.” Her tone was more reasonable, more understanding. “I spoke out of anger. This is infuriating, so senseless, so … incomprehensible. It is enraging to a parent. I can’t help dwelling on what was going on in the mind of that killer, that animal.”
DeKok gave her a wan smile.
“That’s only known to the murderer … and to God.”
Mrs. Bavel stared into the distance. She did not react. She seemed to have forgotten her surroundings. The concept of God did not interest her. DeKok pulled his chair closer and leaned forward.
“Are you the only one who grieves for your sons? I mean, are you married, where is the father?”
A sad smile formed around her lips.
“My husband never cared much for Erik or Ricky, not even when they were young. His disappointment always showed. He devoted his love exclusively to his eldest son, Ramon. Ramon is the strongest of his boys. He’s a lot like my husband, steady, domineering, willful. Erik and Ricky were more like me … softer, more sensitive.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And more easily hurt.”
DeKok nodded.
“And that’s why they became addicted.”
It sounded harder then he intended.
Mrs. Bavel looked at the gray sleuth with condemnation in her eyes.
“If you mean, were they spoiled or weak, they were not! Ricky fought long and hard against his addiction. There were periods when he hardly used at all. His struggle ended tragically … like so many. Deep down I think the overdose could have been intentional. He could have seen suicide as a final escape from misery.” She paused. Then she added: “Erik didn’t loose hope—he stayed the course long enough to get free and stay that way.”
Instinctively DeKok felt he had gone too far.
“I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your sons,” he said apologetically. “I don’t have the right to do that. I never knew them and don’t know the circumstances leading to their addiction. Young people often have problems, difficulties, that—”
Mrs. Bavel interrupted. Her eyes spat fire and she screamed.
“But I know,” she cried. She slammed both hands on the desk. She looked like a trapped animal. “Their brother, Ramon, got them hooked. He’s the one who poisoned my two sons, and he did it on purpose. He supplied them with their first heroin … as a test.”
DeKok’s look of astonishment encouraged her to go on.
“Test?” asked Vledder, but DeKok waved him to silence as he held Mrs. Bavel with his eyes.
She nodded vaguely in Vledder’s direction and refocused on DeKok.
“Yes, he made a pact with Erik and Ricky. We never knew until it was too late. They were going to use heroin every day for a week. After a week it would be obvious which one was the strongest—he would be the one who wouldn’t need it anymore. It was a dare between very competitive kids.”
DeKok closed his eyes. Slowly he processed the amazing information.
“Incredible,” he said after a long pause. “Why would anybody propose such a test?”
Mrs. Bavel sighed deeply.
“Ramon passed the test with flying colors. He wasn’t totally focused on his own agenda, even as a child.”
DeKok swallowed.
“But Ricky and Erik became hopelessly addicted.”
She nodded to herself, again drying her eyes with her handkerchief.
“Ramon gloated openly. He never made a secret of it. On the day Ricky died, he and his friends had a party. He called it a victory celebration.” Suddenly she stopped and stared at DeKok with frightened eyes. It seemed as if a terrible thought had formed in her head.
“Ramon,” she took a deep breath. Then, still looking scared, she went on, “Ramon almost choked with anger and disappointment when the family talked about Erik’s success … about how he was staying clean and sober. It went beyond resenting a sibling—he was furious. He acted as though his brother had betrayed him.”
6
Vledder stared at DeKok with a look of total disbelief.
“That, eh, is not a human response. Ramon’s behavior was demonic. It takes a sick, a very sick, brain to hatch a scheme to gain superiority over your siblings by destroying their lives.”
DeKok stared at Vledder without seeing him. He too, found it difficult to accept the concept. He needed time to absorb it. It was simply too bizarre.
“We’ll have to talk to this Ramon,” he said after a long pause.
Vledder was confused.
“Ramon? Why? He cannot be prosecuted for making addicts out of his brothers. We’d have to pick up every user in the country. They will all have tried to get friends or acquaintances to start using. Sometimes it’s co-dependents they want. Sometimes they need to bring new customers to their dealers.”
DeKok shook his head.
“That’s not what I meant at all. I want to check his alibi for the time of the murders.”
“Not really?”
“Yes, is that so strange?”
Vledder swallowed and the
n spoke the obvious.
“You suspect he may be responsible for both murders, that he’s our strangler.”
DeKok nodded emphatically.
“The Bavels of Heemstede are wealthy people. Let’s assume Ramon, the eldest, doesn’t want to share the eventual inheritance. His mother characterizes him as having always had an agenda. He had a perfect motive, don’t you think?” He waved in Vledder’s direction. “Ramon is not only ruthless, he is clever. He thinks up a dare testing their ability to withstand the addiction and it works better than he hopes. Brother Ricky is soon no longer a player … reason for a party, a victory celebration. Erik seems well on the way to his demise … icing on the cake.”
Vledder interrupted.
“But Erik kicked the habit, cleaned up his act and was able to continue his studies.”
DeKok grinned malevolently.
“You see, that was a miscalculation. Hence Ramon’s anger. How did his mother put it: ‘He almost choked with anger and disappointment.’ A means of manipulating his brother, Erik, seems pretty well impossible. There’s only one way out—”
Vledder interrupted again.
“Murder,” he sighed.
DeKok raised a finger in the air.
“And who helped Erik kick the habit … who offered him moral support? That would be the man who spoiled Ramon’s plans.”
“Jean-Paul Stappert.”
DeKok fell back in his chair.
“Et voilà … we have our motive and our murderer.”
For just a moment Vledder seemed stunned. Then he shook his head.
“I have serious doubts,” he exclaimed angrily. “It’s a slippery slope. Nobody is that ruthless. It is so inhuman, so calculated. You must be criminally insane to conceive of such a plan. As I said, it’s just too demonic.”
DeKok shrugged his shoulders.
“The question remains, exactly how evil is Ramon Bavel?”
It was busy in the Quarter. During holidays and vacation time tourists came from near and far. “Come and see the Red Light District of Amsterdam.” The trade ran into hundreds of millions of dollars. Crowds jostled for position in front of the sex shops, stared at inflatable women surrounded by a forest of dildoes. Fragments of music floated from the bars and a thousand fragrances came from the restaurants. A couple of drunken sailors embraced each other in the middle of the street, each struggling to keep the other from falling down.
DeKok pushed his dilapidated little hat farther back on his head and shrilly whistled a Christmas carol.
Vledder, next to him, had a deep frown on his face. The speculation regarding Ramon Bavel still reverberated in his head. He couldn’t shake it.
At the corner of the Old Church Square a group of wise guys and some of their women had gathered. Their gathering had an air of conspiracy. The news of the two stranglings had spread through the Quarter. The group fell silent as the two inspectors approached.
DeKok unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and pulled down his tie. It was hot in the old city. The heat of the day still clung to the old facades. The water in the canals evaporated, creating a low hanging fog around the quays and around the bridges.
The heart of the district, the so-called Walletjes, was at peak capacity. Business was brisque. Exotic girls from the Far and Near East, especially, found plenty of customers. The customers leaned against trees and walls, each waiting for a turn. As soon as a curtain opened and a customer left, another would enter the room. The curtain would be closed and the girl would ply her trade. So it has gone for ages.
DeKok observed it all philosophically. He knew the district like nobody else. He also knew the business of the Quarter had been going on for hundreds of years and would probably continue for hundreds more. Near a corner of Barns Alley he entered a bar. Vledder followed.
Lowee, generally known as “Little Lowee” throughout the Quarter, greeted his guests with enthusiastic joviality.
“Long time, no see,” exclaimed the diminutive barkeeper. His mousy little face shone with pleasure and goodwill. He considered DeKok his special friend. It was a friendship that DeKok sometimes shamelessly pushed to the limits.
“I sorta thought you guys had amnesia—forgot all about me,” continued Lowee. “I almost was gonna ask about youse at the barn. Maybe youse lost your compass.”
DeKok had to laugh. He closed his eyes for a moment.
“No,” he said, “I’ll always know how to find your place. Even with my eyes closed, I’d just follow the aroma of that special cognac you keep.”
Lowee smiled and watched as Vledder and DeKok hoisted themselves on the bar stools.
“And here you be,” exclaimed the barkeeper, holding up a venerable bottle of cognac. It was an unknown label to Vledder and DeKok, but Lowee assured them that it could compare favorably with any of the better-known brands.
The bottle looked old and dusty and after Lowee broke the seal and removed the stopper, the aroma seemed to spread from the bottle.
With a routine gesture Lowee lined up three large cognac glasses and with bated breath they watched him pour. With silent reverence they contemplated the three filled glasses for a moment. Then DeKok lifted his glass and rocked it slightly while he held it under his nose. A blissful look appeared on his face.
“If it only taste half as good as it smells,” he said. Carefully he took a sip. The other two watched him intently.
DeKok held the liquid in his mouth and then slowly swallowed it. He looked at the glass, held it up against the light.
“Lowee,” he said finally, “this is an embarrassment of riches, a drink worthy of the gods.”
With a happy grin, Lowee lifted his own glass and Vledder followed suit.
“And here’s hoping you gonna enjoy for a long time,” said Lowee.
“Amen,” said Vledder.
For a long time they basked in silence.
When DeKok finally put his empty glass back on the counter, he sighed.
“You know, Lowee,” he said thoughtfully, “if people would take more time out to enjoy a really great glass of cognac from time to time, maybe they would hate less, be less greedy, and would be less murderous.”
The small barkeeper stared at him, the bottle in his hand for a refill.
“A beautiful thought,” he said dreamily, “yeah, a nice senniment.”
DeKok stared at his empty glass.
“I’m saddled with two murders. That’s why—”
“I knows,” answered Lowee, nodding in sympathy. “I gotta ear full ‘bout dem two guys from Aunt Mina.” Lowee followed the practice of the Quarter where all long-time residents were, sooner or later, referred to as “Aunt” or “Uncle.”
“Yes,” DeKok sighed.
“There’s all kinda buzz,” volunteered Lowee.
DeKok gave a questioning look.
“Talk?”
“Yeah, rumors on the street.”
“What sort of rumors?”
“They says it’s da mafia thassa behind it.”
“Mafia? What kind of mafia. We don’t have any mafia in Holland.”
Lowee pointed a thumb over his shoulder and winked.
“Da dope mafia, dem big guys. Dem that control the supplies—coke, Big H.”
DeKok looked pensive.
“These guys were clean, so, what would traffickers have to do with the murders?”
Little Lowee shrugged his shoulders in an apologetic gesture.
“I just tell whadda whispers is,” he almost stammered. “Word on da street is dem guys was knocked off because they wasn’t using.”
“What?”
Lowee nodded his head emphatically.
“Dem killings is a sorta warnings, to make sure dem other junks don’t do quit. Da dope mafia don’t likes to loose customers, you see.”
DeKok looked angry.
“That’s the purest tripe. With all the money they make, why kill two ex-users as an example of …” He did not finish the sentence. “Who has been spreading
this nonsense?”
Little Lowee grinned.
“That I dunno,” he answered. “Somebody tole me. I also knows there’s a couple help groups inna panic.”
“Help groups? What are you talking about?”
“You knows, Salvation Army and some more of dem do-gooders that wanna help da people get clean and sober.”
“But why would they be in a panic?”
“They done heard, of course, what happens to dem guys. They’re gettin’ afraid nobody will come for help, no more.”
DeKok shook his head in resignation. He knew how devastating results of such rumors can be. On the street, particularly, among the addicts, it would gain strength with every repetition. As long as people believed it and repeated it, the message would become the truth.
He paused before his next question. It was a matter of nailing the real perpetrator of the killings as soon as possible. Only that way would the rumors be stilled. He looked at Little Lowee.
“Did you know those two boys?”
“Yep.”
“Both?”
Lowee shrugged his narrow shoulders.
“They come in some time. But I never got close to da one from Heemstede. Too rich for me. He was sorta quiet like, anyway. I took more to da udder one. Jean-Paul. He wassa fun guy, cheerful like, you knows. I usta call ’im Mister Melody.”
“Why Mister Melody?”
“Well, Jean-Paul had a head full of tunes, you knows. Not dem poplar hits, or anything you heard before. Nossir. Brand new music … nice music. Coulda been poplar.”
“So, what did he do with the music?”
Lowee spread his hands.
“Nuthin, just nuthin. He just haddem in his head, you knows. He was real musical too, you knows. Was long time I seen a talent show where this guy moves his hand over half empty glasses and makes music. So, one day, I set up a row of beer glasses for Jean-Paul.”
“And?”
There was sincere admiration on Lowee’s face.
“He tries a few times. Fills some of them glasses, pours out a little of another, and then he starts to play. A wonnerful melody.” He hesitated a moment. “Dint take him longer than ten minutes.”
DeKok and Murder by Melody Page 5
