The Fourth Figure (14 page)

“Do you realize that your silence probably cost the lives of eight people?” Van In sensed a fit of temper coming on. Was there any end to this madness?

“My job was to chart the different sects, Commissioner, and try to determine if a crime was in preparation. State Security inspectors don't have the authority to arrest people. All I can do is observe and report back to my superiors.”

“Why didn't you bring us up to speed?”

“Because my case officer didn't think it was opportune. He wanted to know first if the Trui Andries killing had anything to do with satanism. That's why I wanted to get close to the investigation. If I'd known that you were following a similar line of approach, I would have revealed my true identity immediately.”

Her self-confidence was returning, albeit slowly. The scores were one-all, and the ball was in his court.

“So what were you doing yesterday at the Iron Virgin?”

“Observing, Commissioner. I go there at least twice a week.”

Van In sighed. The fact that she was right only made things worse. When he'd called Beekman the night before, the prosecutor had warned him not to be in too much of a hurry to intervene.

“Did you have any form of contact with Trui Andries in the last few weeks?”

“We spoke twice.”

“About the letter.”

Saartje nodded. She had to admit that it was partly her fault that things had gotten out of hand. The investigation into the satanic sects was her first big job. She'd thought herself superior to local police, looked down on them as dumb and naïve, and she'd clearly let them feel it. “Miss Andries told me the letter was a mistake, that she no longer wanted to have anything to do with it.”

“And you didn't believe her.”

“No,” said Saartje. “I thought she was scared.”

“Did she give a reason for her sudden turnabout?”

“She said she was seeing a psychiatrist and that the doctor had told her she'd imagined it all.”

“Do you have a name for the doctor?”

Saartje shook her head. “She didn't mention it.”

Van In took a pen and twirled it through his fingers. Squabbling was pointless. He needed information, and it was possible at least that Saartje Maes had discovered something that might help his inquiry.

“How many satanist sects did you manage to chart?”

“Four,” said Saartje.

“Did the names Jonathan Leman, Jasper Simons, Richard Coleyn, or Venex ever come up in conversation?”

“No,” she said, sure of her answer.

A knock came at the door. Inspector Pattyn waited patiently for Van In to say “come in.”

“There's a problem with Coleyn,” he said, coming straight to the point. “They had to cuff him to a radiator. He's causing a riot.”

Saartje Maes's confession had distracted Van In so much that he had completely forgotten giving orders for Coleyn to be brought to the station.

“Sort it out,” Van In snapped.

“He says the waiting room's driving him crazy. He insists we leave the door open. If you ask me, the guy's got claustrophobia.”

“Put him in a cell for an hour or two and let him cool off. I don't have time for him right now.”

Pattyn turned and headed for the door. Just as he was about to close it behind him, Van In called him back.

“By the way, Pattyn. Is the broom closet free?”

“I think so.”

The broom closet was a tiny room on the first floor, six feet by ten and without windows. Architects were prone to the odd mistake now and then, especially when it came to public commissions. Who cared? Belgians were creative enough to find a solution for any problem.

“Good, then I'll question him there,” said Van In.

Pattyn raised his eyebrows, thinking that sometimes Van In made no sense at all. First he sided with a guttersnipe who deserved a kick in the ass; now he was deciding to use an interrogation technique that Amnesty International would describe as barbaric.

Van In understood the skepticism in the inspector's face. “Eight people died, Pattyn. I don't have time to piss around.”

Pattyn straightened. “Anything else, Commissioner?”

Van In peered at the pile of police reports taking up more than half his desk. There was indeed something else. “I gave orders last night for Muylle's garage to be searched. Did anyone find the time?”

Pattyn nodded. The report was somewhere in the middle of the pile, but it didn't seem appropriate to respond to the commissioner's question with a search. “There were signs of breaking and entering on the door, and the lock had clearly been forced. One of the neighbors also said he heard a strange noise that Friday night.”

Pattyn's summary confirmed the misgivings that had plagued Van In since his encounter with Muylle. It was highly unlikely that Muylle would force open the door to his own garage.

“Shit,” said Van In, kicking his desk out of pure frustration, bruising his big toe in the process. The string of expletives that followed was enough to shock both Saartje
and
Guido.

“I think you can go now, Inspector Pattyn,” said Guido. He was familiar with the commissioner's moods. Van In could rant and rave at times, and his fits of temper were nothing short of legendary. Hannelore knew all about it.

The second Pattyn closed the door, Van In called Beekman.

“Commissioner Van In here. It's about Muylle. I think we've got the wrong man.” Van In explained the new situation, keeping it as short as possible.

Beekman was calm and professional, as anyone would expect a magistrate to be. “I'll inform the examining magistrate that there are new elements in the investigation.” Beekman looked at his watch. It was ten forty-five. Muylle was scheduled to appear in front of the examining magistrate in forty-five minutes. He had no reason for concern. The correct procedures had been followed. It was only when Van In then suggested that the examining magistrate might be persuaded to issue a warrant for the arrest of Richard Coleyn that his tone suddenly changed.

“I presume you have sound reasons for such a request, Commissioner.”

Van In's instincts were faultless. Muylle was a mere metalworker, but Richard Coleyn was the son of a respected doctor. That made all the difference, even for a modern prosecutor like Beekman.

“Coleyn is the only one who can tell us more about the relationship between Trui Andries, Jasper Simons, and Jonathan Leman.”

A moment's silence followed as Beekman searched for an elegant way to change Van In's mind.

“Are they involved in the shooting?”

The minister of justice had called him half an hour ago. The prosecutor general was planning to retire in six months and Beekman was in line for his job if …

“There's a connection,” said Van In, and he didn't have to be a fortune-teller to know how Beekman would react.

“Do you have hard evidence?”

Van In could have said:
Prosecutor Beekman, yesterday you gave me carte blanche on the shooting incident and now you're backtracking like a timid teenager on his first date.
But he didn't. “I'm convinced Coleyn knows more than he's been willing to divulge thus far.”

Beekman weighed the pros and cons. Muylle's arrest was a mistake, and he would be held responsible, but the press wouldn't punish him for it. On the contrary, they would praise him for his bold and energetic approach. Van In, on the other hand, was far from incompetent. It wouldn't be the first time that his unorthodox methods had produced results. He opted for a compromise.

“You've got forty-eight hours, Van In.”

“And you'll take care of the arrest warrant?”

A five-second silence predicted the answer. “I said you've got forty-eight hours, Commissioner. Call me if you make any progress.”

“We'll manage just fine, sir. We'll be in touch.” Van In hung up the phone and scratched behind his left ear.

Guido realized immediately that something wasn't right. “The broom closet?” he asked.

“Unless you can think of something smaller, Guido.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” asked Saartje as Van In and Guido got up and headed toward the door. The black widow now seemed more like a harmless daddy longlegs. “Do you have a file on Trui Andries?” she asked.

Those who knew Van In were aware that he never bore a grudge. “I still have to type it up,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “You would be doing us an enormous favor …”

She nodded enthusiastically. “And the poison killings?”

Van In looked at Guido. The sergeant didn't say a word.

“I think we can leave those old cases for the time being, Miss Maes.”

Saartje beamed with joy, threw her arms around Van In's neck, and gave him a kiss. Van In felt a bit like a grandfather with a beautiful granddaughter. At least that's what he told himself.

11

Three chairs and an old-fashioned metal desk with a typewriter that had seen better days were the sole contents of the broom closet. The door was ajar, for the time being at least. The entire picture had something Hitchcockian about it, a sense of menace, the feeling that something dramatic was about to happen.

“Do you think this is the right approach, Pieter?”

Van In was reminded of Room 101 in George Orwell's
1984
. It had been a while since he'd read the book, but he'd never forgotten the cage with the rats and the terror it generated.

“Psychiatrists claim that you can cure people of their phobias by confronting them with them,” he said.

“We're about to find out,” Guido agreed.

What was Van In supposed to do? Admit he was at his wits' end, that the case had outsmarted him? He felt like an Internet surfer who had consulted a hundred sites but had learned nothing. Times were changing at a pace he couldn't keep up with. Unlike the old days, modern suspects rarely admitted they'd done anything wrong. They lied and deceived to their hearts' content. It was the price society had to pay for a judicial system that forced suspects to cheat if they wanted to avoid being brought to justice. Honesty had become a sign of weakness that was punished without mercy. Perhaps modern satanism had a similar philosophy at its core? Perhaps there was a sort of connecting thread that snapped every time the knot unraveled and the way out of the labyrinth came into view, such that those who wanted to find the truth were doomed to wander forever in caves of darkness as sightless seers.

Van In had been suffering more from cheerless thoughts of late. He knew that these days you had to be able to relativize, let things go, glide off you like Teflon. Those who refused to accept the status quo were immediately labeled as right wing or stupid. Van In wondered which of the two labels he feared the most.

Two burly police officers dragged Richard Coleyn to the door of the broom closet. They had probably told him what to expect in advance, given the fight he put up. He was like a man possessed, and his appearance confirmed the comparison: hollow chest, poorly shaved, and dull, greasy skin with blackheads and pimples in profusion.

“I want a lawyer,” he screamed. “You have no right to lock me up.”

His screams echoed down the icy corridor. Prisoners didn't have rights. Corridors could lead anywhere. Van In signaled to the officers that they could bring Coleyn in. They succeeded, although not without a struggle. Van In then gave them the key, ordering them to lock the door and to open it only on his personal request.

Richard Coleyn turned white as a sheet. He tried to get out, to push his way past the officers at the door, but they closed it in his face. He started to tug on the door handle like a madman. When that also failed to get him anywhere, he started to kick the lower panel of the door. This wasn't the first time the broom closet had been used for interrogations, as the black smudges on the door testified.

Van In sat down at the metal desk and lit a cigarette. Guido remained standing, in case Coleyn tried something he might regret. They had agreed in advance that the commissioner would ask the questions.

“We can be out of here soon,” said Van In. “It all depends on you. I've got all the time in the world.”

“My father will haul you before the courts,” Coleyn screeched.

“I thought your father had rejected you.”

“You have no right to lock me up.”

Coleyn turned. His entire body was trembling, and the empty look in his eyes reflected the desperation raging through his guts like a wildcat, its razor-sharp teeth biting into every nerve.

“You told us that already, Mr. Coleyn. I suggest you take a seat. Otherwise I'll be forced to have you immobilized.”

Guido produced a pair of handcuffs and dangled them in front of Coleyn like a skilled inquisitor. “The commissioner means it,” he whispered. “He's capable of leaving you here for a couple of hours if need be. He has time, and so do I.”

Coleyn stared at Guido in disbelief. “I thought you were the commissioner.”

Creating confusion was perhaps the most powerful weapon police officers had at their disposal. It could throw a suspect off balance, and like in judo, such were the moments that often determined who won the fight.

“What makes you say that, Mr. Coleyn? I'm Sergeant Guido and this is Commissioner Van In.”

“But …”

“No buts, Mr. Coleyn. Take a seat and let's not waste any more time on trivial details, for Christ's sake.”

Van In pointed at the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He felt like a lion tamer, only without the whip. When Coleyn finally sat down, Guido returned the cuffs to his pocket. He had to admit that the way Van In managed to impose his will on the boy was inspiring.

They say journalists are a lazy bunch because they don't always react to every anonymous telephone caller promising them the latest scoop immediately. Bert Vonck had just finished a tedious interview and was treating himself to a well-earned cup of coffee. When the telephone rang, he didn't budge. When it rang a second time immediately afterward, he answered.

“Hello, Mr. Vonck?”

“Speaking,” said the journalist.

“I think I have a scoop for you.”

Bert Vonck lit a cigarette, wedged the receiver between his cheek and his shoulder, and pressed the start button on the tape recorder attached to the phone. “I'm all ears.”

As the conversation proceeded, Vonck puffed at his cigarette with steadily increasing fascination. If what the caller was saying was true, then every newspaper editor in chief—he meant the ones who paid big money for sensational news—would welcome him with open arms. He might even be able to buy that sports car he'd been dreaming of.

“Are you saying Jonathan Leman killed Trui Andries?” said Van In.

The limited space and the absence of an easy exit were beginning to serve their purpose. Richard was nervous, sweating like a pig, constantly looking over his shoulder.

“Isn't that what you claim, Mr. Coleyn?”

Richard nodded. The tiny room seemed to be getting smaller by the minute. They couldn't do this to him. He tried to avoid the commissioner's steely gaze as he struggled to formulate a response.

“Jonathan couldn't stand the idea that Trui and Jasper were planning to get married. He …”

He stopped breathing as if his lungs had collapsed. His eyes were motionless, like marbles, glassy and vacant. He gasped for air. Guido had seen this situation coming and had brought a paper bag with him, which he held over Richard's mouth. The boy seemed familiar with the procedure and gulped at the low-oxygen air. Van In waited patiently for the crisis to subside.

As the instinct to breathe won out over the call of unconsciousness, it had dawned on Coleyn that they weren't going to let him go until he'd told them what they wanted to hear. “Jonathan is an orphan,” he whispered. “He's never known true love. Trui felt sorry for him, and when he turned eighteen and was released from the orphanage, she took care of him.”

Van In nodded. The details squared with the information he had picked up on Jonathan. “And you got to know him through Jasper.”

Richard crushed the paper bag. “Jasper was obsessed with Satan. He was hunting high and low for adepts, focusing on people who longed for some kind of spiritual anchor. Jonathan was easy prey.”

“Did Jasper recruit in the Iron Virgin?”

“Among other places.”

Van In glanced at Guido. Coleyn's story sounded logical enough, but it didn't line up with the version they'd heard from Jasper's parents. Doctor Coleyn also held a different opinion. According to them, Jasper was an antisatanist, determined to destroy evil in its every incarnation.

“And was it there that you met?”

Richard nodded. “Jasper and I went to school together. I bumped into him a couple of years ago in the Iron Virgin. When I told him that my dating service was on the skids, he suggested we join forces.”

“So you became a member of his satanic fraternity?”

Richard shook his head. The end of this trial was slowly coming into view. He closed his eyes tight and tried to picture himself walking along an empty beach. “Jasper was a drug dealer, and for two years I was his runner.”

Van In tried to draw a link between Coleyn's statement and the information he had gathered the week before. Trui Andries knew Jonathan Leman from the time she worked in the orphanage. Jasper Simons had come up with the idea of starting a satanic sect as a cover for his drug business, and Richard Coleyn had become his sidekick for lack of money.

“Did Trui Andries know what was going on?”

Richard blinked. It was time for the most important part of his story. “Trui was madly in love with Jasper. She wanted to save him, whatever the cost.”

Richard's speech was getting faster and his breathing more agitated. “She tried to share his delusions at first. Out of love. Then …”

Anxiety took hold once again. Guido stepped forward and flattened the paper bag with the palm of his hand, but Richard brushed him away.

“She started to study satanism. She read book after book, determined to convince him how wrong he was. He turned his back on the drug trade three months ago. They were planning to get married, live a normal life, but Jonathan couldn't deal with it.”

Richard took a deep breath and looked up at Van In and Guido. The tiny hairs on his cheeks glistened like a cornfield in the sun. “He told whoever would listen that he would enter a monastery if Trui and Jasper got married. Trui was the only girlfriend he'd ever had. It drove him crazy to think he couldn't be with her.”

“Just like Jasper.”

“Jasper's different,” said Richard. “He was born with problems. Half his family is in psychiatric care. That was his future too, and he knew it.”

Van In stood, walked to the door, and asked the officer on guard to open it. Guido stroked his mustache, happy the nasty business was finally over.

The open door had the expected calming effect. Richard even smiled. Van In returned to the desk. If Coleyn was telling the truth, then they were on the wrong track. There was a serious chance that the death of Trui Andries and the bloodbath at Saint Jacob's Church were unconnected.

“One more question, Mr. Coleyn.”

If Trui Andries's murder and the mass killing had nothing to do with each other, then they had wasted a lot of precious time.

“You claim that Jasper Simons was a regular at the Iron Virgin. How come nobody there had ever heard of him?”

Richard didn't have to search long for an answer. He took a deep breath and stared at the open door. “Jasper used a pseudonym. He called himself Venex.”

Adjutant Delrue punched in the number of Prosecutor Beekman. It wasn't something he did every day. The federal police preferred to manage their own affairs.

“Beekman speaking.” The public prosecutor had just finished a cheese sandwich and was washing down his frugal lunch with a glass of mineral water.

“Good afternoon, sir. I'm sorry to disturb you, but …”

Beekman listened with increasing amazement to the adjutant's story. “Are you sure your informant is reliable?”

“Operation Snow White has been running for the best part of six months now, sir. We've known our suspect must have been getting help from someone in the police, and the details we received from our informant make perfect sense.”

Beekman closed his eyes tight. The headlines weren't difficult to imagine. “Thanks for the call, Adjutant. You did the right thing.”

Delrue sensed that something wasn't right. With twenty years of service behind him he could tell when a magistrate was planning a cover-up.

“If you want us to proceed, we'll need a search warrant,” said Delrue, his tone formal.

Beekman fiddled a cigarette from a crushed pack he kept in the top drawer of his desk for emergencies. His wife was a militant member of the antismoking lobby. He knew what the punishment would be if she caught him: two weeks on the sofa and a couple of showers every day until she was sure every trace of the toxin had vanished. Fortunately he had married into money. He expected to inherit a major fortune when his in-laws kicked the bucket. A person had to have
something
to look forward to.

“I'll discuss the matter with the examining magistrate right away, Adjutant. I'll call you back later today.”

Beekman hung up the phone, lit his crooked cigarette, and hurried outside. He hated anonymous informants. In the past, he'd paid no attention to them, didn't have to, but now the public insisted that every clue should be thoroughly investigated, no stone left unturned. In spite of the separation of powers, magistrates were still appointed by politicians, and politicians had to listen to the man in the street.

The atmosphere in Room 204 was heavy, dejected. Van In was staring at the ceiling, his office chair in relax position, smoking one cigarette after the other. Guido was reading police reports and hoping to discover new evidence. Saartje Maes tapped listlessly at her computer keyboard.

“Why did that madman leave his car at the station in Blankenberge? That's what I want to know,” said Van In.

Beekman had insisted that the police knock on some doors in the neighborhood, but it hadn't helped. No one remembered the driver of the gray Fiat, and the ticket clerk in the station declared that only four people had taken the five past one train that day: an elderly couple and two teenage girls. The service was reduced in the winter months to a couple of trains per hour, so he couldn't have been mistaken.

Guido perched his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. He understood that Van In had released Richard Coleyn against his better judgment, but it wasn't the end of the world. Detective work could be a painful process, and the disappointments were often more frequent than the moments of euphoria.