O'Neill demonstrated. He held up his arms, fingers pointing at the ceiling, and skipped through the suite.
The commissaris tried to smile. "And Termeer had heart trouble, you said? Open-heart surgery? Of course, that would show on the body."
O'Neill sounded downright angry now. "Jesus F. Christ, didn't we make a mess of it though? A derelict, who'd had recent open-heart surgery? Expensive dentures in nearby bushes? Blatant contradictions. That's what police work is all about, noticing things that don't fit. It's the discrepancies that lead us to truth, right, Sergeant?" He glared. "We would still know nothing if that neighbor hadn't showed…"
It was Hurrell talking now. Somewhat defensive. "Charlie did show and he identified the body as that of Bert Termeer, his tenant, a book dealer."
"We still had it," O'Neill said. "Good thing. Bums' bodies don't stay around for long with our limited morgue space. They get dumped in some mass grave."
"And the Dutch couple," the commissaris said, pronouncing each word with difficulty. "The tourists."
Hurrell found a visiting card among the photographs on the table. He read aloud: "Dr. (Chemistry) Johan Lakmaker…" He read the address: Nieuwegein. "That's the town? 'Nyu-wee-jeen?'"
"But your man wasn't dead when they saw him," O'Neill said. "We have to be clear here. And when he died, much later probably, his death was from shock. The cause could have been that fat branch crashing down. Or a hard object hitting him in the chest: a ball, a rock or something. A Frisbee. The blow wasn't severe. The bruising on the skin in the chest area that remains is slight."
The commissaris tried to keep his eyes wide open. "Shock?"
"Leading to a heart attack," O'Neill said. "It doesn't matter much what the precipitant was because, whatever it was, your man wasn't murdered."
"Roughly robbed, yes," Hurrell said, "but after death. Struck by a branch. Or a random ball. No possible criminal intent here. Just happenstance, Yan, fatally connecting with a heart condition."
"Seventy years old," O'Neill was saying now. "No spring chicken. All that running around the park, and then standing still, posing like some silly statue. Your man was asking for trouble."
"Happenstance," the commissaris repeated. He liked that word.
"You look all worn out," O'Neill said kindly. "We'll leave you our paperwork. It should be self-explanatory. Look it over sometime. No hurry. Here is my card. Phone me if you have questions. Get some sleep first. I'll have you picked up for the lecture tomorrow. It's my pal Russo's show, right? On modes of death or something? Russo will be all gung ho about Maggotmaid again. You will like that."
"Maggotmaid?"
O'Neill raised a joking finger. "Surprise, Yan. You'll find out tomorrow."
Hurrell was doing his heavy breathing again.
"Ball," the commissaris said. "People play ball in your park. Like what kind of ball? Golf?"
"Baseball-softball-volleyball maybe, soccer, lacrosse," O'Neill said. "I used to play that. Used to be an Indian sport. A pretty rough game. They still play lacrosse in the park, Hurrell?"
"Some," Hurrell said. "We don't want them to, but it happens. Ball games are restricted to a few clearly marked areas. Park personnel are supposed to warn offenders. But there are always the assholes."
The commissaris hadn't been able to concentrate. He was feeling nauseous too. So lacrosse was some kind of Indian golf? And there were illegal ball games played in the park? He felt too sick to ask for details.
The commissaris, surprisingly, found himself on his feet, guiding his guests to the suite's door, pumping their hands, thanking them. Excusing himself again for wearing his pajamas and bathrobe.
The burst of energy didn't last. He had trouble making it to his four-poster, where he collapsed, groaned and thrashed about for a while, before getting up to stumble about the suite's bathroom, looking for more medication.
Chapter 5
"I like this little town of Nieuwegein," Adjutant Grijpstra said, after he had switched off the car engine. "How pleasant to get out of Amsterdam sometimes. We can even park here, Rinus. No pollution. Look at those huge trees. If those screeching magpies would shut up it would be real peaceful."
The unmarked police car stood in a private parking lot belonging to a row of new town houses overlooking the river Rhine. The houses showed their forbidding backsides to the detectives, and further hid behind a raised row of new brick planters containing baby evergreen bushes that would grow into more protection later.
Grijpstra read the note Sergeant de Gier passed him. "Lakmaker, Joop and Sara. They're the Central Park witnesses we are after?"
De Gier had given up trying to figure out how to fold the road map. He now flattened it with his fist. In spite of the long drive his mood was still good. He had followed Grijpstra's order: Gridlocked speedways had been avoided. The journey from Amsterdam had followed tree-lined canal quays and dikes twisting along narrow rivers. De Gier had pointed at fishermen in rowboats, sitting quietly behind their rods, at storks and herons planing on breezes, at turning windmills.
"Beautiful," Grijpstra said each time. "Lovely country. Nice spring we're having."
"I don't like this," Grijpstra said now. "Interviewing stale witnesses. How did Lakmaker strike you when you phoned for the appointment?"
"Member of the elderly arrogant class," de Gier said. "Old coot with a university background. Enjoys an ample pension. Addressed me as 'policeman.'"
Grijpstra grinned. "Maybe we'll end up with a cigar each, to put beneath our caps."
"You do the talking," de Gier said. "I'm allergic to their kind."
Grijpstra didn't move yet; they had arrived early.
De Gier looked at the town houses' unfriendly backsides. "Two hundred thousand each?"
Grijpstra thought the town houses would price at three. One hundred thousand extra for the view of the Rhine.
De Gier kept staring while he wondered how the old couple would live, while viewing Holland's widest, most splendid river. So what else do you do? Ignore the aching old body while watching boats sail through your picture windows?
Discipline yourself? One hour of viewing, ten minutes for checking TV GUIDE for nature programs later on? Nap? Dinner? De Gier asked Grijpstra.
"News!" Grijpstra shouted.
"What?"
Grijpstra pointed out that de Gier didn't have to shout in his face. Grijpstra had merely acted out how an elderly couple conducts dialogue. One sees a newscaster clearing his throat and shouts at the other to come watch the news. Or vice versa. Then, while one partner makes hurry-up movements, the other comes hobbling along so that the complete couple can share Worldly Horrors.
De Gier had trouble imagining the scene.
"Sharing of media-fodder," Grijpstra said. He also suggested membership in a chess club or a bird-watching society: Identified species can be crossed off a list. Or visiting even older elderly persons in institutions. The couple might also invent ways to improve life on the planet.
De Gier got it now. He suggested guilt. The old couple analyzes past mistakes. They fantasize about how things could have been better. They prepare for a painless end by studying euthanasia literature supplied by their doctor.
"Read the Rotterdam Times and quote from same?" de Gier asked. He tried to vocalize the Rotterdam Times's style of reporting, hardly opening his lips, keeping his nose closed, expressing wise-ass opinions in the latest cliches.
"Okay, okay," Grijpstra said, "it's still my paper.
Only the Rotterdam Times dares to mention police corruption."
"You subscribe?" de Gier asked.
Grijpstra sometimes read the paper at Cafe Keyzer, Fridays, between mocha cake and espresso.
"The photographs are okay," de Gier said. "Politicians all look like compulsive jerk-offs, schizoid too."