Doeke Algra, Waling Wiarda, and Henk Grijpstra looked at de Gier with mutual contempt.
"It Heitelun" Wiarda said solemnly. Doeke bowed his young head. Grijpstra smiled benevolently. Constable First* Class Algra and Chief Wiarda were allowed to leave.
"Murder?" Grijpstra asked, lowering his bulk, neatly covered by a three-piece suit, dark blue offset by thin white stripes, on a rickety chair. "Is that what they were saying?" De Gier shrugged his wide shoulders. "You don't speak Frisian?"
Grijpstra admitted his ignorance in silence.
"Heit means 'father,'" de Gier said. "Never heard a means 'father,'" de Gier said. "Never heard a Frisian suspect cry in his cell? So Heitelan means 'fatherland.' How come you don't understand your own language?"
"Don't be trivial," Grijpstra said. "Who cares about unnecessary details?"
Sergeant de Gier stretched his tall body, arranged his thick curls, and carefully knotted his silk scarf inside the collar of his tailor-made denim jacket. The sergeant had just turned forty; the adjutant had celebrated his fiftieth birthday some years ago. Grijpstra rubbed ash off his knees. "No murder," he prayed aloud. The prayer wouldn't be answered, as he knew; his cynicism was well established by a long career.
"You know what I like about the start of this case?" de Gier asked. "That we don't have to do much for a couple of days. All we do now is wait. I'm getting better at waiting. Will you join me for coffee once we've talked to the doctor?"
Grijpstra nodded. "Somebody will be missing somewhere." "There were some teeth left in the skull," de Gier said. 'Teeth are excellent identification. Fit them into the physical description of the missing person and you know Who is Who."
"And catch the other 'Who,'" the adjutant said.
"The 'Who' who did it," the sergeant said.
But it wasn't quite that simple.
\\\\\ 2 /////
" Haste is a disease," the pathologist said. He resembled a bird, not a nice sort of bird. A picker of corpses, de Gier thought, a neurotic crow, half lame, hopping about at an angle. To keep his balance, the doctor slanted his large, pointed head, while he peered at his visitors.
"So what is it now?" the pathologist asked, studying his watch. "We're about to close here. What do you want to know?"
"Whether you're getting somewhere," Grijpstra said patiently, "with your study of the person burned in the dory."
"That mess you sent in?" the pathologist asked. "It should be here somewhere." His little claw lifted plastic covers. "Burned bones and scorched parts of a skull. A man. Getting along-late fifties, I would say. Five feet nine, if he would stand up straight, but he didn't, it seems. Laborer type? Farmer on an acre and a half? Pushing a wheelbarrow for a living? There are a few inches of spine here and there, rather bent." The doctor gestured desperately, flapping his arms as if he were ready to fly off. "Uneducated guesses, dear sirs. If you want concrete information, you'll have to deliver a concrete corpse."
"Clothes?" de Gier asked. "Shoes?"
The pathologist attempted to straighten his head. "Not my department. I take care of the temporary body. Whatever isn't body has been sent to your lab."
"Teeth?" Grijpstra asked.
"Teeth is body. Over there. In the little bag."
Grijpstra looked. "Could that be gold?"
"A lot of gold," the pathologist said. "Bridges, caps, what have you, but I'm not a dentist, you don't even employ a dentist. You cut costs, you know."
"A permanently bent-over laborer at minimum wages with a golden mouth?"
"Listen here, Adjutant," the pathologist croaked, "don't expect deductions. I'm not paid for deductions, I'm paid for cutting corpses."
De Gier shivered. The remnant of the skull stared at him, for the sockets still existed, surrounded by charred bone, covered with soot. How, the sergeant thought, can someone who isn't there be staring at me?
"Is sir unwell?" the pathologist inquired.
De Gier's hand, covering his mouth, trembled. "I'll never get used to it, never, never. He's gone and he's here, minding my business while I mind his. What's a skull? The head of death? Is death alive?"
"Beg pardon?" the pathologist asked sharply. "Are we philosophizing, perhaps? We're scientists here, I'll have you know. I show you facts: a spine bent by hard labor, expensive artificial dentures glued to rotten roots. I supply debatable data, pulled from test results compared with computerized experience. A dead laborer in his late fifties with gold in his mouth. That's all you'll be getting here. Discuss illusionary reality with representatives of the longhaired disciplines, if you please."
"Doctor," Grijpstra said. "We fight on your side. Now tell us, please, was the subject murdered?"
"Behold"-the pathologist's claw shot up-"a telltale photo."
The photo was a study in gray, spotted in places.
"What do I see?" asked Grypstra complainingly.
"Rear of the skull, my dear ignorant Adjutant," the pathologist said. "As far as it was available of course, for a good deal was burned, but here, see here? A round hole can be observed here, near the edge."
"A bullet hole?" de Gier asked. "Can we have the picture?"
"Don't ask me for conclusions!" the pathologist yelled. "You draw conclusions."
"And I'll take the teeth," Grypstra said. "Do accept our thanks."
"Sure," a laboratory assistant said an hour later. "Could very well be a bullet hole. Entered through the back of the skull and left through an eye socket. Guessing again. We don't mind doing work for you, but you have to bring in more observable objects."
"Small-caliber," said a ballistics expert who had been called into the room, "but that doesn't limit your choice. Even fully automatic assault rifles use point-twenty-two-caliber nowadays. But the subject was shot, I think I can go that far."
"Clothes? Shoes?" the sergeant asked.
"He was dressed," the lab assistant said. "Subject didn't die in his nothings. These ashes, in this here tray, were some textile once, and those ashes, in that there tray, undoubtedly were leather. But what kind of textile and what kind of leather? I wouldn't know."
"And in the other tray?" de Gier asked.
"An orl," the assistant said. "Can't you read? Isn't that what it says?"
"In judo practice," de Gier said, "I've learned some degree of containing my lower feelings, but I have learned more. I know how to break laboratory assistants into little pieces."
The assistant smiled in a servile manner. "That tray contains the remains of a ballpoint pen, Sergeant, low quality, a giveaway, printed with some advertising. The text has been burned off, except the letters forming the word 'orl.'"
De Gier took the tray.
"Now what?" Grijpstra asked in the canteen. He answered his own question. "Now nothing. You're right. We wait." He stirred his coffee slowly. He pointed across de Gier's shoulder. "Look, there goes Jane."
De Gier turned round. His head turned back again. "That wasn't Jane, and you're eating my piece of cake."
"Aren't I clever?" Grijpstra asked. "Every time, I manage to manipulate the other-even when you're the other. And to think that I trained you. It's quite simple, really. Jane is attractive. You're interested in attractive women. When I say 'Jane,' you're bound to stop watching your plate."
"You could have asked for cake if you wanted some," de Gier said. "I would have bought you a piece of cake."
"Ask," Grypstra said, and flicked the word away. "Why take the easy way out? Isn't stealing more intelligent than begging? Are we going to do anything else but wait? What would you like to do? Teeth or the orl?"
De Gier came back with another slice of cake.
"Not that it matters much," Grypstra said. "I always trace clues quicker than you do."