Janwillem De Wetering - The Hollow-Eyed Angel

"Yes," the gentleman whose name the commissaris hadn't quite caught said, "it's about my uncle, who is dead, murdered. And about my serving with the Police Reserve, for quite a few years now, serving the queen, and serving you too in a way. And that a thing like that can happen, in New York, that's terrible, don't you think so, sir?"

The commissaris, chief of detectives, municipal police, Amsterdam, Holland's capital, sighed. Because the gendeman (whose name-he said it again-was Johan Termeer) had added a question mark to his summing-up, an answer would be expected.

The commissaris could just say yes, that it was indeed terrible. That the world is not getting any better. That an uncle goes out for a quiet walk, in Central Park of all places, in New York, richest city in the most powerful country-God help us!-Sunday morning-the sun is shining-kids at play-music-balloons-and, inexplicably, the dear old man dies between the azalea bushes? That's terrible, yessir.

Not a witness anywhere to tell what caused his death. And, 'when his remains are finally found the next day, the entire lower part of uncle's torso has been consumed by beasts or birds or something. The dead body of your Uncle Bert, your only relative on earth, turns up in a goddamn park. Discarded. Robbed. Dismembered. Two loose legs and only the top part of the rest. The loved one's final breath ratded while, on the nearby freshly mown lawn, the Park Stompers struck up their next tune. Complainant Johan Termeer whistled, not unmusically, "When the Saints Go Marching In."

The commissaris frowned. "And the police?"

"The New York Police Department?" complainant asked. Well, the NYPD ignored the matter. They filed away the whole thing-the murder or manslaughter- under "heart attack," if you please.

"Now," complainant said, "if you are police yourself-okay, a Reserve, an unpaid volunteer, auxiliary, even so, that's some sort of cop, right?-does it help? Especially if you are in a faraway country?"

It had taken some time before complainant even learned that Uncle Bert was dead. Complainant heard it later, early the next day. Because of the time difference of six hours. It took a while before it occurred to Charlie, his uncle's neighbor, that he might inform the dead man's only relative that Bert Termeer was no longer with us. Okay, so that relative lived across an ocean but, jeez, what with modern phone connections, satellites and answering machines and so forth, it's no big deal to cross an ocean by voice. "Is it?"

The commissaris put in another frown, indicating that people's proverbial thoughtlessness is, indeed, despicable.

So what do you do? complainant continued.

You hand over your elegant hair-care establishment in Amsterdam's luxury suburb Outfield to partner Peter.

You yourself travel to New York, by the next Royal Dutch Airlines flight. You find the Central Park Precinct and you talk to the desk-sergeant. Okay. You try to talk. Your English could be better.

Does anything happen?

Nothing happens.

You're told this was an accident. Uncle Bert, out for a stroll in Central Park, got hit by a falling branch or something, or a ball, or a rock, right smack in his chest. This didn't kill him, but the heart attack did. Shock or something. That's Mr. Park Cop's verdict.

Jeez!

So what comes next? Flying home comes next.

And in the 707 you begin to think.

You are – right?-yourself Mr. Cop. And America- right?-and Holland, the Netherlands, are friendly countries. Aren't there all kinds of police connections between the two, re drug trafficking and bank fraud and whatnot? So why can't you get some justice going if you now think of the highest office you can reach-reach-ability, that's a factor-and you go and actually see that powerful godlike figure?

Who to use as go-between? How about Adjutant* Grijpstra? Grijpstra is a professional cop, a good guy, he taught you for a year at Police Reserve Evening School where you got your official police diploma.

And so, through the good offices of "Master Steel-brush," as Murder Brigade Detective Grijpstra is known, because of his silver-gray cropped hair, you do manage to enter the antique-looking command post of Amsterdam's chief-detective, and there sits "Mr. Little Old Gentleman," as the commissaris is affectionately referred to within the force, and you are requested to state your case.

So you do that.

"Yes," the commissaris said, trying to enjoy the rare sunlight (Holland being an overcast country) that made the Oriental carpet between him and Johan Termeer glow mysteriously, especially where the orange designs almost touched the carpet's red border. He would have preferred the protection of his sculptured desk, which he had forfeited, because of the supplicant's being a policeman, not a bothersome civilian. The situation, between colleagues so to speak-he agreed with that-required an immediate face-to-face interview. The commissaris's and his visitor's identical leather-upholstered chairs were only separated by an old Chinese table, made from ironwood, a fine colonial piece from the former Dutch East Indies, on loan from the Netherlands Office of State-Owned Art.

The commissaris offered Verkade Assortie cookies from a tin, poured Egberts Gold Label coffee from a silver pot. This was Class A treatment. The visitor should take note.

Be easily approachable, even to lower rank and file, the commissaris instructed himself. An executive officer behaves "like a good father of the family."

In fact, he told himself, he had no time for all this nonsense. He had to go home, to his nice Queens Avenue residence where his wife, Katrien, would have lunch ready, to be served in the back garden: an open-faced beef sandwich, perhaps, a bowl of broth. At his advanced age chicken broth seemed to restore his frail body. He never used to go home for lunch but approaching retirement had weakened his discipline. A few more weeks and he was all done.

Chief-detective, personally in charge of Serious Crime. Renowned master of the famous Murder Brigade. Nice sounds, little substance. A drab little gent in a suit from yesteryear, bought in another epoch, in an expensive Baerle Street Store, where salesmen bowed, might even scrape.

Did anyone still know what bowing and scraping meant?

You had to make your own selection from the racks these days and hearty salesmen slapped your shoulders, even tweaked your buttocks if you gave them half a chance.

"Commissaris?"

He looked up. "Yes, dear boy?"

"Could I have your comments?"

After Reserve Constable Termeer had said he wanted to be addressed as "Jo," the commissaris restated the complaint. "In Central Park, your uncle, Bert Termeer, was found dead last Sunday. Your uncle's neighbor Charlie telephoned to say that something bad had happened. Hearing that your uncle had died of an alleged heart attack in the park, you considered the situation suspicious and took the first plane to Kennedy Airport…"

The commissaris nodded helpfully, his inviting smile showing long yellow mousy teeth. "Is that correct?"

"That's correct, sir."

"Your English was good enough to enable you to understand Charlie's message?"

"Sumzing bat, Unkel det," Jo Termeer said in his best Amsterdam accent. "I watch lots of movies. Det means 'It's all over.'"

"Right," the commissaris said. "So neighbor Charlie knew your telephone number?"

"He found it in Uncle's desk," Jo Termeer said, remembering he was a policeman now, that he had to be precise. "Uncle Bert rented both his work and living space; Charlie was his landlord as well as his neighbor. Charlie had Uncle's keys. There were only the two of them in the whole big building. They needed each other. Uncle ran a mail-order business and Charlie sometimes helped him. Uncle Bert sold books. The building is on Watts Street, Tribeca, New York City."