Janwillem De Wetering - The Mind-Murders

"A foreigner," Grijpstra said, "we don't want that, a foreign corpse isn't easy to deal with."

Karate smiled helpfully. "He was Dutch, adjutant. The wallet contained a passport. Born in Rotterdam, now residing in Colombia, South America. A businessman. He also carried a hotel key, from Hotel Oberon."

Grijpstra groaned.

"Beautiful," de Gier said. "As I thought. We can link facts already. So our man drops dead into the car of a fellow hotel guest. Continue, constable."

Karate spread bis small hands. "That's about it, sergeant. The corpse was dressed in a well-made suit of good material. Apart from the blood, it looked well-cared for. I don't recall seeing the man in this district."

Grijpstra crossed the quay, studied the green water of the canal for a while, and came back. "Very well, we'll look into this. When did you find the corpse?"

Karate produced his notebook and flipped the pages. "Here, adjutant, 10:04 this morning. The doctor took it away at 10:30, it's 12:30 now, we waited for you."

Grijpstra scribbled in his notebook. De Gier looked at Asta. He remembered Sergeant Jurriaans's tale relayed by Grijpstra. He tried to visualize her as she must have been during that adventurous night but could only see a neatly dressed constable with inordinately sparkly eyes, now smiling politely. "I wish I were a detective," she was saying. "This job is boring, bah, smelly."

De Gier peeked at the bloodstained baggage compartment of the Mercedes. "Smelly? But this is fresh."

Asta peeked too. "The corpse was fine. I meant the chicken remains earlier on. Another complaint we took care of this morning. There's a Chinese in that sidestreet over there who slaughters poultry and dumps the leftovers in the street. The garbage collectors won't pick it up and the stuff rots. The Chinese won't bag it for he says bags are too expensive. Or so he seems to say. I don't speak Chinese."

"Yes," de Gier said.

The girl stood closer. "What will you do now, sergeant? Is this a murder? Is there a killer around? Will you find him?"

"Maybe."

"You will, won't you? I hear you always find the killer."

De Gier returned her smile. "Your informants exaggerated." He looked at Grijpstra. "We've been known to fail." He touched his breast, then patted his other pockets.

The girl took a packet of cigarettes from her bag. "Would you like one?"

"No thank you. I don't smoke."

They had to step aside. Municipal workers were trying to park some road machinery and a sooty tank on wheels approached dangerously. An unmuffied engine started up and heavy drills bit into the tarmac.

Grijpstra shouted into de Gier's ear. "Let's go to the morgue and raise Cardozo. If there's any work he can do it."

De Gier shouted back. "Cardozo is sick, didn't you see the note on your desk just now?"

Grijpstra walked to the car, but had to come back to release de Gier from Asta's smile. He pushed the sergeant into a slow walk. "How sick is Cardozo?"

"Flu, may take a few days."

"Useless fellow. Who'll do the routine? That Boronski has no address here, he probably doesn't even have relatives in the city. If he had he wouldn't be staying in a hotel. We'll have to circulate his photograph, see what we can find out about him. We may have some time-consuming sleuthing to do."

"Yes," de Gier said, "but there's no hope of help in the brigade; it's holiday time and we're short-staffed."

"Get help."

"Yes, adjutant. Do you care where I get it?"

"No."

"Wait for me in the car."

Grijpstra smiled as he saw de Gier walk into a tobacconist's store. It took a while before the sergeant came back, but he wasn't smoking.

"What did you do in there?"

"I phoned, of course. I spoke with Sergeant Jurriaans. We have help. He's lending us Asta. He will order her to go home and change into civilian clothes. We are to pick her up later; I have the address."

Grijpstra snorted. "You pick her up. You're an idiot, Rinus, I warned you. That girl can't be more than twenty-five years old and Jurriaans is my age, in his fifties. She isn't right in the head, neither are you at this particular time. You sure you didn't buy cigarettes in that store?"

"Yes. To the morgue?"

"To the morgue," Grijpstra said cheerfully and grinned at his thoughts. They were in color and three-dimensional. His jealousy evaporated as he contemplated his vision. The central part of it was Asta without any clothes on, kneeling, her left hand held by Grijpstra who was dressed in a long silk robe. His free hand blessed the girl, who, with downcast eyes, demurely accepted the benediction. Her right hand was stretched out in the direction of a reclining naked male body, peacefully asleep on a well-kept lawn. The body carried a noble face with a full mustache and shiny curly hair.

I'm giving her to him, Grijpstra thought, as he took in more details of the vision. The little group was surrounded by orange trees close to a pond where interesting hard-to-define animals cavorted in pure water. The sky was cloudy, but had opened to frame a mysterious faraway figure shrouded in light. That must be God, Grijpstra thought. That's good, that makes me an angel. I don't want to be God, but to be an angel must be all right. They get to do things.

Like giving away, he thought a little later as the Volkswagen found a place in the small courtyard next to the city's morgue, a low building built out of glowing red bricks that belied the cold finality of its contents. It's better to give than to receive. Besides, he thought as he wrung himself out of the compact, I don't want to be hassled by females, no matter how superior they may be. De Gier still likes it. All I want is…

Not quite knowing what he wanted, he didn't finish the thought.

"Gentlemen," the small man said, "your client is waiting for you. He hasn't been in storage for more than five minutes. The doctor is done with him and is now washing his hands."

He restrained Grijpstra who was about to light a cigar. Grijpstra frowned.

The attendant raised his hands in helpless defense.

"Regulations, adjutant. They still apply to the living. The dead are free, they may do as they like in peace. You're welcome to smoke in my office." He opened a door and pointed at a table where a collection of pipes surrounded a full ashtray.

De Gier looked at the neatly labeled drawers of the massive refrigerator in the back of the room.

"Boronski. Here we are." He pulled. The drawer came faster than he expected and the corpse's face, slightly twisted to the side, looked up at him with an expression of furious surrender.

"Easy," Grijpstra said and put an arm around the sergeant's shoulders. "You should remember that nicotine no longer dulls your fears." He swiveled the sergeant's body and walked him away from the extended drawer.

"Can't stand it, can he?" the attendant asked. "I don't blame him. Took me a while to get used to them too, and I've lived with them for a long time. But they're not here, of course. A few will linger for a while. I can feel that, but I talk to them, polite-like, and they go away. There's nothing here for them and most should have better places to go to. I tell them that I'm just a crazy guy who works here, that I mean no harm. They're frightened, you know, whatever they were used to is no longer there. Alive yesterday, dead today, must be a bit of a change."

De Gier's nausea slipped away as he listened to the attendant's quiet voice. The man's beady eyes behind round little glasses seemed unfocused, his trousers were so short that they showed white skin above the crumpled socks, his green coat was partly unbuttoned. He wore a skull cap.

"Jacobs is the name," the small man said. "You won't remember me, sergeant, but I've seen you here before. Don't feel shy about showing your weakness. There's something wrong with the man who has to show his self-control at all times. If you want to know what your corpse died of you better see the doctor before he gets away."