“Just the morbid curiosity of professional mourners. Other than that I met the family of Jean-Paul Stappert for the first time … his mother. She came from Paris. That’s where she lives now.”
“And his father?”
Vledder shook his head.
“Not on paper—the “birth” father was a very seductive French musician. He and Suzanne Stappert lived together for a few years. In her youth she went to Paris to learn French, made her living as an au-pair. She met the musician at a party given by her employers. According to Mother Stappert it was love at first sight.”
DeKok grimaced.
“She should have looked twice.”
Vledder ignored the remark and continued stolidly.
“They lived together in rented rooms in the Latin Quarter, close to the Sorbonne. They lived well and enthusiastically.”
“You made that up.”
“Sort of, but that was the gist of her comments.”
“But that ended when little Jean-Paul presented himself.”
Vledder nodded.
“Exactly. The vivacious and apparently, virile musician, literally vanished into the night. Suzanne went back to Amsterdam to deliver her baby. She registered the infant under her name, since there was no marriage. Suzanne worked long, hard years for her child and she made sure that Jean-Paul, who was named after his father, finished high school. A few months after getting his diploma, he became addicted to heroin. She tried everything to get him into rehabilitation. When she was unable to help him, she could no longer watch her son sink into a morass of misery. She fled to Paris—where she had once been happy.”
DeKok looked absent-minded.
“She told you all that? It sounds like a cheap melodrama.”
Vledder nodded sadly.
“True,” he said, “But that is her story. She confided it to me in a bar near the railroad station. There were a few hours to wait before her train left.”
“How did you get to know her?”
“I happened to see her write her name in the guest book of the chapel and I introduced myself.” Vledder stared into the distance with a vague smile on his lips. “Suzanne is a striking woman. She makes an impression—very intelligent and still quite attractive. I took her to the station and just before the train left she gave me a very sensual kiss.”
DeKok frowned.
“It doesn’t look like her son’s death left much of an impression.”
“There’s an explanation,” answered Vledder. “For her, he died five years ago, when she said goodbye and left for Paris.”
DeKok twiddled his fingers.
“Did she have any theories about her son’s mysterious death? Her greatest fear might have been losing him to an overdose. Drugs did not kill him as she expected ... he was killed in cold blood.” He paused for an answer. But when that was not forthcoming, he added: “You did tell her under what circumstances Jean-Paul came to his end?”
“Certainly.”
“And?”
Vledder hesitated.
“She … she didn’t give the means of his death much weight,” he said slowly. “As far as she was concerned, murder was just one more facet of life. Not much different than dying in an accident, or because of some illness.”
“And you agree with that?”
Vledder shrugged.
“She was right about one thing—the result is always the same … death.”
DeKok snorted.
“How many glasses of cognac did you drink while you were waiting for her train?”
“Two, three …” grinned Vledder.
“Maybe you lost count?”
Vledder shook his head.
“No, really. No more than three. But she captivated me while I drank them. Under different circumstances … with a little more time … I might have fallen in love.”
DeKok analyzed the expression on his colleague’s face—the vague smile, the dreamy look in his blue eyes.
“I’m even prepared to believe that,” he sighed. He snapped his fingers under Vledder’s nose to wake him from his reverie. “Did you see Pa Bavel at the funeral?”
It took a few seconds. Then the vague smile disappeared and Vledder looked more like the alert policeman he was. He shook his head.
“He didn’t make an appearance. At least Mrs. Bavel wasn’t with him. And I didn’t see anybody who looked like your description of the man. Mother Bavel was accompanied by a woman. I thought it might be a sister, there was some resemblance.” He paused before he continued. “I secretly hoped Ramon might show up.”
“But he wasn’t there?”
“He wasn’t there,” agreed Vledder.
“Would you have recognized him?”
“Sure. Before I went to West Garden I called my buddy in Heemstede. He gave me a detailed description.”
“Did he know Ramon has disappeared?”
“Yes, Pa Bavel reported it to the Heemstede police, accompanied by his lawyer. They filed an official missing person report, so the police can put things in motion.”
“And what did the Heemstede police do?”
“Well, according to my buddy, the police there saw no reason to assume that Ramon was a missing person. According to the law, Ramon is an adult, who disappeared on his own accord. Absent any evidence of an accident, the person must have been missing for at least seventy-two hours, before the police can act. Nothing would lead them to believe he was harmed or kidnapped.”
DeKok rubbed his chin.
“I can’t help wondering what sort of game Gerard Van Mechelen, Esquire, is playing. He must have known that a missing person report was ludicrous under the circumstances. He’s after an effect.”
“How is that?”
“Say the Heemstede police take the report at face value. They send out an APB and initiate the official search. Van Mechelen produces Ramon’s letter. In the letter he points the finger at us—says we’re going to arrest him. Bam! Internal affairs is on the case. Instead of investigating the murders, we’re up to our necks just trying to defend ourselves and each other. It’s quite possible, you know, we’re off the case altogether. The Department of Justice has little tolerance for even a suspected transgression by one of us.”
Vledder chewed his lower lip, deep in thought.
“It would probably get us off the case,” he admitted after a long silence. “Perhaps Van Mechelen is trying to get even with us for some perceived slight. I’m not so sure he’s driven by resentment. Perhaps he thinks Ramon might have committed the murders.”
DeKok thought about that.
“If Ramon had been at the funeral this morning, would you have arrested him?”
Vledder’s face froze.
“Absolutely,” he said. “He’d be in custody, even if I had to pull him from his brother’s graveside.”
DeKok shook his head in disapproval.
“One should never interrupt the ceremonies surrounding birth, matrimony, and death,” he said mildly. “Not even with the law on your side.”
The phone rang. Vledder picked it up. His face fell ashen as he replaced the receiver with a shaking hand.
“Mina, Mina Lyons,” he gasped.
“Dead?” asked DeKok.
“Murdered,” nodded Vledder.
14
The rooming house keeper was supine, almost in the center of the spotless, white-marble kitchen floor. The outstretched left arm was at a ninety degrees angle from the body and ended in a clawed hand. Her well-shaped legs were slightly spread and her bare feet were covered with the ugly slippers.
Sadness overcame DeKok as he surveyed the body of the dead woman. His sharp eyes went from the slippers along the faded red housecoat to the sharp face with its tawny skin. He looked at the long, black hair spread out on the cold marble floor, the broken eyes, the half open mouth, the streaked make-up.
He took it all in and, without conscious effort, stored the details in his uniquely photographic memory. He’d honed his ability to recall detail
over the years. He pushed his old, decrepit hat a bit back on his head and scratched his forehead. He was disquieted—something didn’t fit. He’d developed another skill over long years of training and experience. One of the first things he looked for was the anomaly; it was like listening for dissonance. Even the tiniest detail out of place at the scene of a murder jumped out at him. In this case, the corpse itself was out of place in the spotless kitchen. DeKok sensed something less obvious, but not readily apparent.
Vledder knelt next to the head of the deceased and looked closely at the neck.
“Strangled,” he said evenly.
DeKok nodded vaguely. His discomfort was growing. He found it difficult to tear his attention away from the corpse. What could he be missing?
Vledder rose to his feet.
“She didn’t deserve this,” he said somberly. “No, she did not deserve to die like this.”
DeKok grimaced.
“Somebody thought she did.”
Vledder used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his brow. He did not have as much experience as his partner. He was always upset when confronted with violent death. DeKok had often assured him he always would be. Over the years he would simply learn to hide it better.
“Murderers,” observed Vledder, “are strange people.”
“Rarely,” answered DeKok, still staring at the corpse. “They are almost always frighteningly average.”
Vledder pointed at the dead woman.
“The strangulation marks,” he said, “are about identical to those on the boys. The autopsy will determine that definitely, but I’m willing to bet on it.”
DeKok sighed deeply.
Vledder’s face suddenly turned red. With an angry gesture he pointed around the kitchen.
“For heaven’s sake, DeKok,” he exclaimed, “why?” He bit his lower lip. “She was no friend of mine. My only meeting with her was as unpleasant as she could make it. But she was a hardworking woman who tried to make an honest living.”
“Perhaps.”
Vledder looked startled.
“Oh no?” he queried. He waved around. His young face was mottled. “Do you see any wealth? Her kitchen is bare … sterile like an operating theater. I looked in her living room. It’s also spotless, but sparsely furnished … with a few threadbare pieces. A blind horse could do no damage there.”
“What’s your point?”
Vledder snorted.
“If she was a criminal, where’s the money?”
DeKok looked pensive.
“Crime … is not always profitable.”
Bram Weelen, DeKok’s favorite police photographer entered. He smiled at Vledder, then, at DeKok.
“Are you turning over a new leaf?”
“What?” asked DeKok, still fully focused on the corpse.
Weelen put down his heavy equipment case.
“It’s still daylight,” he said, brightly. “The sun is shining. We usually get summoned in the middle of the night.”
DeKok pointed at the dead woman.
“We’ve only known for about fifteen minutes. One of her guests was checking on his mail and found her body. She’s been dead, I think, since last night.”
“Strangled?”
“Yes.”
“Like the two boys?”
DeKok nodded.
“There are some similarities.”
Weelen shook his head.
“So, what is it with this boardinghouse?”
DeKok gave him a wan smile.
“If I knew that maybe we could keep anyone else from being victimized, at least, here.”
“Why don’t you evacuate everybody? Get ’em out and board it up. End of problem.”
DeKok shook his head.
“We’d have to get the building condemned … under what pretense?”
Weelen lifted his aluminum suitcase on the counter next to the sink.
“How should I know?” he growled. “You guys are the heroes. I just take the pictures.”
The old inspector finally turned away from the corpse. In the door opening stood Dr. Koning, the eccentric coroner. Behind him in the corridor was his whole entourage of morgue attendants with a collapsible stretcher and the body bag.
DeKok welcomed the doctor and shook his hand. He liked the old man very much. The two of them formed a sort of tragic-comedic duo, too often confronting violent death.
Dr. Koning lifted his old-fashioned Garibaldi hat and pointed at the corpse.
“Busy days, busy days,” he murmured, shaking his head. He looked at DeKok, “Wretched weather affects people, you know … it’s been scientifically established. In Switzerland murder, suicide, and deadly accidents increase during a foehn—hence the term Foehn Disease. It seems the sudden rise in temperature, combined with the wind, creates a …” He stopped when he saw DeKok smile politely. “I know,” added the doctor, “sometimes I rattle on. Well,” he continued briskly, “let’s see what we have here.”
Dr. Koning knelt down next to the dead woman, felt her cheek with the back of his hand and looked at the strangulation marks on the neck. He crawled backward and removed one of the ugly slippers to feel a foot. His old knees creaked as he rose.
“I, eh,” hesitated DeKok, “think it may have happened last night. She’s stiff and she feels cold.”
Dr. Koning looked at him.
“You know I don’t like to make observations before the autopsy,” he censored. “But in this case, you may very well be right. Rigor mortis is complete.” He shook his head. “But I would not depend too much on the body temperature. The cold, marble floor drains all body heat very quickly.” He pursed his lips. “Just an estimate—the time of death was approximately eight to ten hours ago. Not much earlier.”
DeKok was shocked.
“So … this took place sometime in the wee hours this morning.”
Dr. Koning produced an old fashioned watch from his vest pocket and consulted it. Then he put it back with precise gestures and made sure the watch chain was where it was supposed to be.
“Indeed,” he confirmed, “early this morning. Again this was done with bare hands. Your murderer has strong hands and a very powerful grip—maybe, a tennis player.” He took off his pince-nez and, then, looked through it from about a foot away. “We talked about this possibility before.”
DeKok nodded calmly.
“Yes, after the death of that boy, upstairs. And later … when we found the boy at Emperor’s Canal.”
The coroner studied DeKok for at least ten seconds through his hand-held glasses. Then he replaced them on his nose and replaced his big hat. He waved at Vledder and started to leave the kitchen. As he approached the door, he hesitated, then turned around and pointed at the corpse.
“Oh, and, she is dead,” he said. It sounded cynical.
Bram Weelen hunkered down with his Hasselblad in his hands. He started his first series of pictures from close to the ground. When the lights flashed for the third time, Kruger, the fingerprint expert entered. He was huffing and puffing. His face was haggard.
DeKok gave him a searching look.
“Been in a fight?”
Kruger slammed his case down next to that of Weelen.
“I’ve done four burglaries, a robbery, and a disguised suicide today. The day isn’t over yet, but I’m ready to chuck it in.”
DeKok pointed at the surroundings.
“According to Vledder this is a sterile kitchen. You won’t find anything.”
“Anything from the herd?” asked Kruger. The dactyloscopist knew DeKok’s terminology. He also compared the small army that gathered at murder scenes to Woody Herman’s band.
“Not yet,” said DeKok. He made it a policy to leave before the “herd”. The professional crime scene investigators, supplied by headquarters, served their purpose. It was the chief inspectors and higher authorities that accompanied them who were useless. Even the judge-advocate would send at least one representative. DeKok preferred to work with what he called hi
s “own” team of experts. He had worked with Kruger and Weelen for years and knew them as capable and cooperative professionals. He included Vledder as a matter of course. In DeKok’s opinion, that was all he needed. The CSI people could save him and Vledder some time-consuming legwork. DeKok preferred his own, sometimes unorthodox, methods of investigation. Until now he had been very successful.
Vledder walked over.
“You seemed surprised when Dr. Koning told you she’d been dead for only eight or ten hours. Why is it strange that she was killed early this morning, instead of last night?”
DeKok pointed at the corpse.
“The make-up,” he said. “I’ve known Mina Lyons for years and I’ve seen her countless times. Mina wasn’t a woman who used make-up early in the day. Her skin was her best feature—she wore no make-up at all.”
Vledder shrugged.
“Perhaps she was expecting a visitor and she wanted to look good.”
DeKok nodded morosely.
“Yes, Dick, sometimes you make very pertinent observations.”
DeKok had tired feet. With a contorted face he placed both legs on top of his desk. A hellish pain started in his toes and spread the length of his legs. It felt as if a thousand small devils penetrated his muscles with tiny, red-hot pitchforks.
The excruciating sensation affected his mood. He knew what it meant, knew it was completely psychosomatic. No physical cause had ever been diagnosed. The pain always, and only, appeared on certain occasions. It returned when he was in the middle of a case and saw no solution. Just now he had not even a hint of a solution.
He shook his head to clear it. We’re in a dead end, he reflected. The death of Mina Lyons blind-sided him. He saw no way to fit it into the tenuous pattern he’d been developing.
The manner of death was strikingly similar in the case of the boys. There was no doubt about that. But if Mina was involved … how? Why would the killer want her dead? Why wait five days? Was there a closer relationship between Mina Lyons and the boys than just landlord and lodger? If so what sort of relationship could they have had?
No matter how he tortured his brain, he could not find a connecting point, let alone a solution. And the little devils in his legs continued their piercing dance. He leaned forward, pulled his pants legs over his knees, and rubbed both legs vigorously. It gave a brief, momentary relief.
DeKok and Murder by Melody Page 11
