Janwillem De Wetering - The Hollow-Eyed Angel

De Gier argued that Bert Termeer-according to Bieber and to Sara Lakmaker, who had only met Termeer briefly, and to Antonio, partner of de Gier's Horatio Street landlord, Freddie-was a charismatic figure, a latter-day prophet. Prophets, by definition, spend their time and energy trying to share uncommon and beneficial insights. They may use odd methods.

"Tell me about Antonio," the commissaris said.

De Gier reported. "He sails model boats in Central Park, sir. He has seen old Termeer stand still and jump about. 'The prophet' impressed him. There has even been some interchange. Antonio is New Age. He likes to be told what to do by Higher Spirits, then 'he grows and he shares."'

"You're being facetious? Aren't you always looking for teachers yourself?"

De Gier drank more juice.

"Good," the commissaris said. "Let me have your thoughts. What else does Grijpstra's report tell you?"

So far so good, de Gier argued, but Bert Termeer could, according to Bieber, be someone who had an unhealthy interest in little kids, a pedophile.

"Because the man sold pictures of Greek child wrestlers and homely bathroom scenes? Shouldn't we take note that Grijpstra checked for a record?"

Grijpstra had found no record but that didn't keep de Gier from defending his proposition. Old Termeer lived alone, and the connection with landlady and travel companion Carolien seemed like an early LAT-living apart together-relationship, so popular nowadays, preferred by couples who share abstract, but no carnal, interests. Jo Termeer had described Carolien as an attractive woman who liked to prance about in French underwear, was intelligent, a good travel companion, with a sense of humor. Bert Termeer still wasn't sharing his nights with her.

"Are you a pedophile?" the commissaris asked.

De Gier saw the point. Just living alone didn't necessarily indicate a sexual aberration. "But Bert Termeer did sell pedophilic literature, sir. And he did not live alone.

There was the little live-in helpless nephew."

The commissaris nodded.

What Bert Termeer really liked was sexual play with little kids, de Gier proposed.

Not being checked by objections, de Gier now suggested uncle had abused nephew. He also suggested revenge, more than thirty years later. Jo Termeer falls into uncle's hands at age eight; nephew rips uncle to pieces after nephew turns forty.

"Raccoons did the ripping, Sergeant."

Yes, de Gier said, recalling the horrifying photograph of Termeer's remains.

"And then this murdering nephew bothers me?" the commissaris said. "And his former teacher Grijpstra? He alerts his own superiors, skilled criminal investigators?" The commissaris remembered sending his assistants to Crailo Golf Club. "Well, fairly skilled, in my case anyway…"

De Gier also remembered the golf expedition. He mentioned Baldert bothering the Crailo Rijkspohtie lieutenant, and later Grijpstra and himself De Gier evoked an image of Baldert pathetically offering his wrists, begging for handcuffs.

The commissaris was rearranging his kiwi slices. "You see an analogy?"

Possibly. Both Baldert and young Termeer, de Gier now argued, were appalled at their own misdeeds, craved punishment, but had been too clever for their own good.

The commissaris nodded. So much for motive.

"The nephew has reasons to murder the uncle. You have thought about opportunity, have you?"

Was Jo Termeer in Central Park when his uncle died? Something for Grijpstra to check, de Gier said as he made a note on his napkin. He excused himself and walked over to the buffet to hunt for more juices. He selected apple and cranberry this time, carried back two tall glasses. He also found some yogurt.

The commissaris commiserated when de Gier could not eat the yogurt. "Poor fellow. What did you do last night, Rinus?"

De Gier looked pained. "What didn't I do last night?"

"With the police lady?"

"Not with the police lady, sir."

"But you were with her all night, weren't you?"

De Gier's mouth, in spite of all the healthy liquids he kept imbibing, stayed dry. He smacked his parched lips. "Yessir, I was. We tried, but then we didn't." He stared at his juice. "We fell asleep."

"And this morning?" the commissaris asked.

"She had left, sir."

"No note?"

"A pot of coffee."

"Stale?"

"Well yes," de Gier said, "she had to go work. I slept in."

"Dear me," the commissaris said.

The commissaris was glad, he told de Gier, that he had spent his virile years in a different, more fearless, period. "The years of breasts and penises," the commissaris whispered pleasurably, as he closed his eyes, enjoying numerous visions.

"You're feeling better, sir?" de Gier asked unhappily.

The commissaris apologized.

De Gier busied himself sipping alternate juices.

"U.S. immigration stamps all foreign passports," the commissaris said briskly. "Your suspect told me he had been here twice, once as a member of a guided tour group, once to investigate the alleged murder. If there are more stamps he will have to explain them. What makes you think that Jo was here in New York when old Termeer was killed?"

De Gier hesitated. Then he mentioned Road Warrior, a movie character. According to policewoman Maggie, a Road Warrior look-alike participated in the Central Park contest the Sunday Bert Termeer died.

"I'm not familiar with the character, Sergeant."

"He is an avenger, sir."

"Tell me the movie." The commissaris smiled. "You're good at that. Remember the movies you told me when I was ill for a month? Every Tuesday and Thursday evenings. And when I saw them myself later they weren't anywhere near as good as you told them."

Chief O'Neill was on his way so there was no time for much detail. De Gier sketched the plot. Civilization, after a catastrophic global war, has come to an end. Homo sapiens is an endangered species. Somehow the Australian desert has escaped devastation in the atomic mayhem. Two small bands of desperados roam endless sand- and rockscapes in leftover automobiles.

One band is good. One band is bad.

In a conflict over the last supply of gasoline the good guys are losing to the bad guys.

Mel Gibson plays a lone warrior, detached, independent, driving a battered racing car, manned by himself and a feral dog, and revenging the atrocities committed by the bad guys on the good guys.

Jo Termeer had told de Gier that he liked "Australian futuristic bizarre action movies."

"But he didn't specify this particular Road Warrior movie, did he?"

De Gier made another note on his napkin.

"What are you writing, Sergeant?"

"Reminding myself to tell Grijpstra to investigate Termeer's interest in The Road Warrior, sir."

"Is this independent, detached Road Warrior character gay?" the commissaris asked.

Maggie had told de Gier about a previous Road Warrior movie entided Mad Max, in which the same character appears as a heterosexual male whose wife and child are killed by bad gay guys. In the second episode of the saga, the one de Gier had seen, Road Warrior is too detached to show any interest in sex whatsoever. He does, however, get the eye from a woman dressed in white, but she dies.

"Bad gay guys figure in both movies, sir," de Gier said, "and Road Warrior manages to kill most of the fuckers. Sorry, sir."

The commissaris, tearing the skin of a mandarin, said "Aha, aha."

"It all fits," de Gier said triumphantly.

"If," the commissaris said, "Jo was in Central Park, and dressed up as this Road Warrior. This actor Mel Gibson is handsome?"

"Yes," de Gier said.

"Well, so is Jo Termeer. Black leather, I suppose? Boots? That sort of thing? Outfit all roughed up? Some dangerous-looking weaponry?"

"A riot gun."

The commissaris drank his coffee. "I could think of another more likely suspect, Sergeant. I think you could too."