Meusse led the way, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, and it wasn’t until he had a double gin and a beer chaser on the table in front of him that he seemed up to discussing his findings. Both Münster and Rooth had been through this many times before and knew there was no point in trying to speed him up—or in interrupting him once he’d got going, come to that. He would answer any questions when he’d said what he had to say; it was as simple as that.
“Well, gentlemen,” he began. “I note that Chief Inspector Van Veeteren is conspicuous by his absence on this occasion. Can’t say I’m surprised. This body you’ve come across is a pretty nasty object. If a mere pathologist might be allowed to express a wish, it would be that you would make an effort to dig them out a bit sooner in future. We are not exactly inspired by dead bodies that have been rotting away for an age…. Three months, four at most, that’s where the limit ought to be set. The fact is that one of my assistants couldn’t cope and let me down this afternoon. Hmm.”
“How old is this one, then?” asked Rooth, trying to put his oar in while Meusse was busy exploring the depths of his beer glass.
“As I said,” he went on, “it’s an unusually unsavory body.”
Unsavory? Münster thought, and recalled how Meusse had once told him how his life had been changed and made more miserable by his less-than-uplifting profession. How he had been impotent by the age of thirty, how his wife had left him when he was thirty-five, how he’d turned vegetarian at forty, and how he’d more or less stopped eating solid food by the time he was fifty…. His own body and its functions had become more and more repulsive as the years went by. Something he could only feel disgust and aversion for, he had confessed to Münster and Van Veeteren one afternoon when, for whatever reason, the drinks had become more numerous than usual.
Perhaps that was nothing to be surprised by, Münster thought. Merely a natural development?
“It is difficult to be specific about the time,” said Meusse, lighting a cigarillo. “I would guess about eight months, but I could easily be wrong by a month or two in either direction. We’ll have the lab report in a week or so. Cause of death will be just as hard to pin down, I fear. The only thing that’s obvious, of course, is that he died some considerable time earlier…. Before he was dumped in the ditch, that is. At least twelve hours, no doubt about that. Maybe as much as twenty-four hours. There is no blood on the carpet, and not much in the body either, come to that. The decapitation and mutilation took place at an earlier stage. The blood had drained away, to put it in simple terms.”
“How did the butchery take place?” Münster asked.
“In an amateurish way,” said Meusse. “An axe, presumably. It doesn’t seem to have been all that sharp, so it probably took quite a while.”
He emptied his glass. Rooth went to get him a refill.
“What I can say about the cause of death is that it was in his head.”
“In his head?” said Rooth.
“In his head, yes,” said Meusse, pointing at his own bald pate to make his meaning clearer. “He might have been shot through the head or killed by that axe, or something else. But the cause of death was a blow to the head. Apart from the mutilations and natural decay, the body is uninjured. Well, I’m ignoring certain secondary effects caused by hungry foxes and crows who managed to get at it in a few places, but even they haven’t caused all that much damage. The carpet and the water in the ditch have had a certain amount of embalming effect. Or delayed the onset of decay at least.”
Münster had picked up his beer glass, but put it back down on the scratched table.
“As for age and distinctive features,” said Meusse, who was unstoppable once he was in his stride, “we can assume he was between fifty-five and sixty, or thereabouts. He would have been five foot nine or five foot ten, slimly built. Well proportioned, I think I can say. No broken arms or legs, no surgical scars. There might have been some other superficial scars, but they have either rotted away or stuck to the carpet. Things were made a bit more difficult by what you might call a symbiosis of death between the body and the carpet. They have sort of fused together here and there, or do you say fused into each other?”
“Holy shit!” said Rooth.
“Precisely,” said Meusse. “Any questions?”
“Are there any distinctive features at all?” Münster asked.
Meusse smiled. His thin lips parted and revealed two rows of unexpectedly white and healthy teeth.
“There is one,” he said, and it was obvious that he was enjoying this. The pleasure of being able to keep them on tenterhooks at least for a second or two. Satisfying his professional honor, Münster thought.
“If the murderer was in fact trying to remove things that would make identification possible,” said Meusse, “he missed one.”
“What was that, then?” wondered Rooth.
“A testicle.”
“Eh?” said Münster.
“He had only one testicle,” explained Meusse.
“Einstein?” said Rooth, looking foolish.
“Hmm,” said Münster. “That will need following up, of course.”
He realized immediately that he had offended the little pathologist by his irony. He coughed and raised his glass, but it was too late.
“As far as the carpet is concerned,” said Meusse curtly, “you’ll have to speak to Van Impe tomorrow. I think I’ll have to go now. Obviously, you will have a written report on your well-polished desks tomorrow morning.”
He emptied his glass and stood up.
“Thank you,” said Rooth.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Meusse. “It would be appreciated if you didn’t call in with another old torso during the next few days.”
He paused in the doorway.
“But if you come across the remaining parts of the one we already have, we shall naturally help you to match them up. We’re always pleased to be of assistance.”
Münster and Rooth stayed put for a few more minutes and finished their beer.
“Why has he only one testicle?” asked Rooth.
“No idea,” said Münster. “Mind you, one’s enough when all’s said and done. I suppose he must have injured the other one. An operation, maybe?”
“Could some animal or other have eaten it? While the body was in the ditch, I mean.”
Münster shrugged.
“Search me. But if Meusse maintains it was missing from the start, no doubt it was.”
Rooth nodded.
“A damned good clue,” he said.
“Yes,” said Münster. “It’s the kind of thing that’s bound to be in all the databases. NB, only has one ball! Do you still think we’ll clear this up inside a week?”
“No,” said Rooth. “Inside a year maybe. Let’s be off.”
They didn’t speak much during the drive back to the police station. One thing was obvious, however: The third man on the list of possible candidates, Piit Choulenz from Hagmerlaan, was presumably on the young side. According to the information they had, he had not yet reached fifty, and even if Meusse was careful to say that he was only guessing, Rooth and Münster both knew that he was rarely wrong. Not even when he was only speculating.
But both Claus Menhevern and Pierre Kohler were possibilities, it seemed. And naturally, they would take one each. They didn’t even need to discuss that.
“Which one would you like?” asked Rooth.
Münster looked at the names.
“Pierre Kohler,” he said. “I suppose we might as well get that sorted out this evening?”
Rooth looked at his watch.
“Absolutely,” he said. “It’s only just turning seven. No self-respecting cop should turn up at home before nine.”
6
When he got there, they were busy packing stuff into the patrol wagons.
“Good evening, Chief Inspector,” said Inspector le Houde. “Is there anything special you want?”