'Did suspect lie? Tell you it blew down?'
'No, sir.'
'What was de Gier frustrated about?'
'Well…'
'You know?'
'Yes,' Grijpstra said. 'It's the old thing again, his habitual ego problem. Wants to know what really goes on in life. He thought that the journey to New Guinea might help.' Grijpstra chuckled. 'Enlightenment under the banyan tree, sir.'
'Where the shaman held court? Wasn't he initiated there?'
'Seems he flew when under the influence of an ingested plant,' Grijpstra said. 'Hallucinations. Being alone on the island here was supposed to have been the next stage but nothing much happened, except some highs on dope and recorded music.'
'Miles Davis?'
'And Kentucky bourbon sipping whiskey, sir. But nothing to write home about.'
'Classic Miles Davis or the funky electronic music?'
'In between, sir. The new quintet, with Wayne Shorter.'
'Ah yes,' the commissaris said. 'Katrien has those records, she plays them for me sometimes. She has become quite the expert, her ear has widened, she says. She has been religiously studying jazz for years now.'
'Transitions take time, sir.'
'You like that funky stuff, Henk? That way-out percussion and the electric guitars and synthesizers going on and on? You're a sensitive drummer yourself.'
'Acquired taste,' Grijpstra said.
'And you acquired it?'
'Foley and Irving III are exceptionally good, I think, sir. As I was saying. So de Gier combined these highs thinking he'd get a super high…'
'That would set him free? And then nothing happened? He had to scatter firewood, kick women? That's sad… yes…'
'You still there, Henk?'
'Yessir.'
'You do have to find the grave.'
'I don't know how to, sir.'
'Or find Lorraine.'
'You still there, Henk?'
'Yes,' Grijpstra said. 'Yessir. I may have an idea. It'll be easy, all I need is some empty cans…
'Tell me.'
Grijpstra told the commissaris.
'You just thought of that? What triggered it?'
'Hairy Harry, sir. I just saw him toss his Heineken's can overboard, out of the Macho Bandido. Ishmael was telling me yesterday, as we were flying over the area looking for carrion birds, that Hairy Harry and the deputy, Billy Boy, weasel face I call him, go out shooting 'varmints' a lot. That's what they call wildlife. They have good equip- ment, infrared scoped rifles, and they keep killing beautiful birds.'
'Oh dear,' the commissaris said.
'I made some drawings, sir. Golden-eyes, mergansers- have you seen those here, with the russet tufts? And the little puffed-up fellows, buffleheads? And the loons?'
'I was there in the winter, Henk. I did see some ducks, but from a distance. I heard about the loons, eerie laughlike cry, I believe. Don't tell me you have the sheriff and the deputy sheriff shooting endangered species there?'
'Anything that flies,' Grijpstra said. 'Ishmael says there's an eagle missing too. He has been looking for the body. He did find two loons and fifty-two assorted ducks lined up on the rocks. Shot during breeding season.'
'Ah…,' the commissaris said.
'Ishmael,' Grijpstra said, 'says the habit dates back to when poor British folks first settled the area here. Back in England they'd seen rich folks blast away at game all the time, so once they reached the promised land they all bought guns and blasted away too.'
The line was quiet.
'Sir?'
'Hunt the human hunter,' the commissaris said. 'That's what I would like to do if I had my life to live over again. The predator's predator. Now there's a good homemade purpose, Grijpstra. Wouldn't that feel good? Protect the endangered species against the endangering species. To impress our ladies. Care to join me? Fancy coming home to Nellie and when she says, 'How many?' you say, 'Got three of 'em, Nellie.' Wouldn't she be proud?'
'You're kidding, sir.'
'Don't know if I am. Let me know what happens with your cans and things… That'll be on Jeremy's island, you said?… Think a few good thoughts for me there, Henk… There should still be a lot of Jeremy's spirit around on that blessed spot.'
Chapter 15
Grijpstra located the grave and the corpse. He also located Lorraine. He didn't locate grave, corpse, and Lorraine at the same time.
Good luck comes to those who keep trying. The commissaris kept saying so during Grijpstra's long career as an Amsterdam Municipal Police Murder Brigade detective. The commissaris kept saying other things. 'Doing what you're doing now, Adjutant, is your present excuse for being alive.' Grijpstra hadn't quite gotten that at the time but he was encouraged anyway, and pursued his activities, the endless search for the relevant detail that keeps a murder case, or any other pursuit for that matter, up, no matter how tottering. Up and about.
'Glad to see you're up and about, Adjutant,' the commissaris would say when he saw Grijpstra striding through the corridors of headquarters, a case file or object in hand. Once there were two objects: Sten guns, as used by British commandos. The weapons were found held by desiccated hands in an Amsterdam basement. The theory was that the uniformed mummies were the remains of liberation soldiers who shot each other over treasure. No witnesses could be produced. A probable date was set somewhere in the spring of 1945. The bodies were discovered by masons in a next door basement who ran into a bricked-up thruway twenty years later. Grijpstra's theory said that British troops were quartered in a house formerly occupied by German troops, an SS detail, hunting the city for hidden Jews. Whenever Jews were found, treasure showed up too. The SS men hid their loot in the basement. They left it there as they fled. Two British commandos discovered the cache. There seemed to be quite a bit of value in the stacked foreign banknotes and the jars containing jewels. Both soldiers realized simultaneously that all of a treasure is twice as much as half of a treasure. They both carried murderous weapons. They both had itchy trigger fingers.
'Glad to see you up and about, Adjutant,' the commissaris had said briskly. A little later, in his office, he approved of Grijpstra's theory. The soldiers' dried-out corpses were delivered to the British embassy. There was no further action. There was a grim detail, however. The treasure turned out to be worthless.
'Now,' the commissaris had said at the time, 'what if instead of obsolete occupation money and colored glass we had a couple of million dollars here, and what if you and Sergeant de Gier had found those millions? We reflect on facts-long-gone owners, the loot is ofcriminal origin. And what if the society you serve has become chaotic? And what if authority has become corrupt? Would those millions become your ticket to freedom?'
'Would de Gier and I shoot each other?' Grijpstra asked.
The commissaris's phone was ringing. He picked it up, waving his trusted assistant away. 'Yes, Katrien, ofcourse I'll be home. What's for dinner? Kale? Mashed potatoes? No veal croquettes? But you promised.'
It was nice to know, Adjutant Grijpstra would tell Sergeant de Gier, that a man of the commissaris's elevated
