CHAPTER 1

"I found the old man dead ... stiff as a salted ... eh, dead. He just fell over when I touched him. It was creepy ... like moving through a nightmare. I just couldn't believe he was gone."

His face twitching, the young man gestured spasmodically with both hands, as if groping for something just out of reach.

"It was eerie," he went on. "I've always been afraid somebody would die right in front of me someday."

Inspector DeKok of the Amsterdam Municipal Police (Homicide) looked at Igor Stablinsky. There was an ironic smile around his mouth as he shook his head.

"I don't get a sense of fear from you," said DeKok.

The young man hesitated. His tongue licked his dry lips and a deep furrow appeared in his forehead.

"You don't get how this could be traumatic?" asked Igor, uncertain about his own credibility. There was a hint of the martyr in his expression and in his voice.

DeKok looked at him evenly. Suddenly the old sleuth's craggy face lost all expression.

"You are hardly traumatized, Igor," he said with a cynical undertone. "No, you are a cool one. You planned to crack Samuel Lion's head open; you had just the right weapon, your crowbar. You had no worries — didn't hesitate for more than a moment. Come on, the old man was dozing in his chair. His back was toward you, Igor. Even had he been awake, he wouldn't have had any warning. He was too deaf to hear you."

Igor Stablinsky leapt out of his chair.

"I didn't kill him," he shrilled. He leaned toward DeKok, his eyes bulging, the cords of his neck constricted. "You hear me? Are you listening? I didn't kill him! Not me! The old man was already dead when I came in."

DeKok regarded him with a mild smile. He was well aware, from previous interrogations, how tenacious Igor Stablinsky could be. Regardless of how damning the evidence, Stablinsky protested his innocence. If the vehemence of his lies convinced no one else, it strengthened his resolve.

DeKok sighed.

"How many more times are you going to burden me with your version of the facts," he asked wearily. "Ten times? Twenty times? It is so tiresome, and I am so very tired. How about telling me the truth, just this one time?"

Igor Stablinsky pressed his lips together so as to avoid saying another word.

"It's the truth," he hissed finally.

A slight pause, then he continued in a calmer, almost normal, tone of voice.

"The absolute, unaltered truth. I found the old man as stiff as a salted cod ... as I said."

He fell back into his chair.

"What do you want to hear from me?" he asked defiantly. "A lie? You really want me to tell you I spilled the old guy's brains? Why? Why should I incriminate myself? For the further glory of Inspector DeKok?"

The old inspector sighed. His facial expression, like his posture, sagged a little.

"My glory, as you call it, has nothing to do with it. Look around you — this look like a celebrity tea?" Stablinsky bent close over DeKok's desk.

"Just what is in it for you?" he demanded.

DeKok did not take his eyes from his opponent.

"Aside from protecting the public, I'm here to serve justice."

The young man gave the inspector a mocking look.

"Justice ... for who?"

DeKok did not answer. He rubbed his lined face with a flat hand while he looked at Stablinsky through spread fingers. He knew this guy was thirty-five years old, but the suspect looked considerably younger. He was almost handsome. The slightly hooked, sharply delineated nose suited the pale narrow face with its slightly protruding cheekbones. But his gray-blue, alert eyes stood a little too close together. Deep set and hooded, they gave a strange expression to the face. The look reminded one of a vulture, closely observing the death throws of its prey.

With another sigh DeKok opened one of the drawers in his desk and took out a blue painted crowbar. It was contained in a narrow bag of clear plastic. The open end of the bag was tied off with a piece of string. The knot of the string was sealed with a piece of lead on which the Shield of the City of Amsterdam was impressed by special pliers. This method of containment maintained the chain of custody. It protected material evidence from incidental fingerprints, as well as preventing interference with any foreign matter on the object.

He placed the covered crowbar on the desk in front of him. He used a pencil to point at a few gray hairs and some blood on the surface of the tool.

"Look, Igor," he said patiently. "The blood evidence alone will leave no doubt old Sam was killed with this crowbar." He cocked his head and one eyebrow at the suspect. "The crowbar is yours, is it not, Igor," he added.

The young man closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them slowly.

"Not my property," he growled. "I have never seen the crowbar before. How many times do I have to repeat myself?"

DeKok sighed again, as if bored. He searched in a stack of reports on the corner of his desk.

"Here," he continued, unperturbed. "I have a statement from a Mrs. Brooyman, Samuel Lion's housekeeper. According to her statement she was in bed in the room next door and thought she heard a thud. Startled, she rose immediately, and threw on a robe. When she opened the door of the living room she saw you bending over Samuel Lion's body. You looked up, paused for a moment, and then fled through the open window."

Stablinsky shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm sure that's correct," he said. "You don't have to rehash it. I know about that statement. I even admitted I was there."

DeKok did not break stride. He continued, ignoring the interruption.

"In light of our previous experiences with you and the clever manipulations of your lawyer, we made absolutely sure to get a positive identification from the line-up. The witness picked you out of four different groups of men, all your size and build. That's four lineups."

There was a hint of admiration in DeKok's voice as he glanced from the report to the suspect.

"Mrs. Brooyman was positive ... adamant. She swore a mistake was out of the question — she would recognize you out of thousands."

Stablinsky fidgeted in his chair, but DeKok ignored it.

"And I'm not surprised," he said, "... once somebody has seen that vulture face of yours, they're not likely to forget it."

Suddenly an angry light sparked in Stablinsky's eyes.

"That's an insult, DeKok," he spat out. "I don't have to take it! There's no need to get personal. What's my face got to do with it? You don't hear me saying your face belongs on some punchy, over-the-hill boxer ... some sleep-deprived geezer who's on a perpetual binge."

The inspector laughed heartily.

"You're right, Igor," he admitted. "I'm sorry. There was no need to get personal. 'Vulture face' is such an unrefined term. Maybe it was a cheap shot." He made an apologetic gesture. "But you have only yourself to blame. Your insistent denial is enough to try the patience of a saint. I have never claimed saintliness. You can keep on saying that white is black, or vice versa, but repeating a lie doesn't make it true. I just want to talk to you, Igor. But your attitude makes it impossible to have a normal conversation."

DeKok paused and put the report back on the stack.

"Personally," he went on in a reasonable tone of voice, "I'm...