The Midas Murders (2 page)

T
HE FIRST TIMID SNOWFLAKES STARTED
to swirl around six
a.m.

By the time Gino Hilderson started work at eight-thirty, Bruges was sporting its most romantic outfit. He wove his solitary way through the empty snow-covered streets in his enclosed Piaggio motorized three-wheeler. When he reached the Fish Market, he tipped the first garbage can into the raised loader.

Halfway along Blinde Ezel Street, Gino automatically slowed down. At the beginning of the street, there was a bluestone post designed to keep out potential traffic, but a clever driver like himself could easily maneuver the Piaggio between the post and the side wall of the city hall. It saved him five valuable minutes.

In spite of its leisurely pace, the Piaggio still managed a tremendous skid in the snow when Gino hit the brakes. Two yards in front of him there was a man lying face-down on the cobblestones. Gino clambered out and slammed the Piaggio door with a muffled curse, but the man didn't move.

“Too much booze, friend. That's what you get.” The man was wearing a chic camel-colored overcoat and had neatly polished shoes.

Gino forgot his initial irritation and looked the man over. It was a worrying sight. The well-dressed gentleman must have had a serious skinful.

Gino got to his knees and shook the man vigorously by the shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he whispered hoarsely. The man suddenly started to groan.

“Come, friend,” said a relieved Gino. “Stand up. Wait, let me give you a hand.”

Gino worked for the municipality and was sturdily built. He grabbed the man under his arms and dragged him to the wall of the city hall, just beneath the glass display cases with the wedding announcements.

“Feeling a little better?” he asked hopefully.

The man wasn't young. His face was deathly pale. Even his lips were without color. Gino leaned over him and sniffed, expecting alcohol.

“That's what you get, eh, bud,” he said resignedly.

Dietrich Fiedle heard the alien voice through a hollow haze, as if he was under water, registering sounds from above. Gino stared at him, not sure what to do, chewing on a soggy cigarette butt. When the man slumped to one side, he noticed congealed blood on his head, above his left temple.

“Fuck,” he said. “Gimme a sec, mate. I'll be right back.” Gino took to his heels, hared diagonally across Burg Square, and turned into Breidel Street.

There were four public telephones on Market Square. Fortunately, one of them was in working order. The number he called rang six times.

“Hello! Is that 911?” he screamed when Jozef Demedts finally picked up. “There's a guy bleeding to death. You have to send someone right away.”

Demedts carefully positioned his cigarette in a glass ashtray and picked up his ballpoint.

“Can I have your name, please?” he asked, unruffled.

“Gino Hilderson. The man's lying under the Bridge of Sighs in Blinde Ezel Street,” Gino sputtered.

He wasn't aware that Demedts had transferred the call to the police and that a couple of ambulance men were already on their way to a waiting ambulance. Demedts had hit the alarm button when he heard Gino say “bleeding to death.”

“Is the injured party still conscious?”

The duty police officer was listening in via a special emergency line. He contacted a patrol in the vicinity by radio.

“If you ask me, he's on his way out. If you don't get a move on, it'll be too late,” Gino blared.

“Okay, Mr. Hilderson. Go back to the injured party and stay with him. Help is on its way.”

Demedts broke the connection abruptly. The situation seemed serious enough to call in the emergency medical services.

Before going on duty, Dr. Arents of the Mobile Emergency Team had enjoyed a quickie in the supply room with an agile young nurse and was in the best of spirits. The call from Demedts wasn't about to change his mood. He and Ivan Dewilde raced to the garage. Arents felt like a young god. Unlike the poor buggers in white jackets wasting away in sterile hospital rooms, life had treated him kindly. He was young and healthy, and he earned a decent living.

In spite of the absence of traffic, Dewilde switched on the siren. The Renault Espace responded perfectly to the gas pedal and careered irresponsibly down the snow-covered drive.

 

To Gino Hilderson, the minutes seemed like hours. He stood poker-faced beside the victim. There were now no signs of life.

The police van appeared first, hurtling across Burg Square. Officer Bruynooghe directed his colleague to the designated location.

“I think he's snuffed it,” Gino said to Bruynooghe.

Bruynooghe, short but robust, leaned over the victim. He was an experienced officer, twenty-two years on the force, and he could see right away that the street sweeper wasn't exaggerating. He wasted no time and rushed back to the van.

“Officer Bruynooghe here,” he said into his radio. “The victim's unconscious, probably on his way out.”

His voice was calm and relatively emotionless.

“There's an ugly wound above his left temple. Doesn't look like a fall,” he added, throwing in some personal weight.

Duty officer Jean-Marie Vervenne looked at his watch. His shift was up in ten minutes. He considered the possibility of handing the case over to his relief on the next shift. On the other hand, Bruynooghe wasn't the bullshitting type. If criminal intent was involved, he might be regretting those ten minutes for a long time to come.

“Understood, Bruynooghe. I'm on my way.”

The short-of-stature Bruynooghe grinned when his superior broke the connection.

The ambulance cut through the snow like a plow through a rain-drenched field. Jan Decoster held the first-aid box tightly to his chest. He braced himself. In wintry conditions like these, every second counted. Hypothermia could be fatal, even in a minor traffic accident. When they got there, Wim Defruydt parked the ambulance three or four feet from the victim. Decoster grabbed an extra thermal blanket before jumping out. His colleague crouched over the wounded man; when he couldn't find a pulse, he pulled him away from the wall. Decoster removed the thermal blanket from its plastic packaging and wrapped it around the elderly man. In the absence of a doctor, the ambulance man knew there was only one thing he could do. He followed the standard procedure, known as
ABC
in the business: Airways, Breathing, and Circulation. He cleared his airways, administered mouth-to-mouth, and tried to maintain blood circulation with heart massage.

In the meantime, Defruydt had fetched a saline drip from the ambulance and was ready with a tourniquet.

Gino Hilderson watched the scene unfold from a distance. A second siren suddenly interrupted the hush. A Renault Espace with the
MET
team turned onto Burg Square out of Breidel Street. Jean-Marie Vervenne arrived ten seconds later. The tracks left in the snow by the two vehicles were reminiscent of a Mondrian painting.

Decoster immediately made way for Arents, who knelt down at the victim's side. The doctor checked the man's vital functions and continued to administer heart massage. After a minute or two, he called Decoster back.

“Take over.”

Decoster nodded. As far as he was concerned, the man was as dead as a dodo.

Arents threw open his bag, rummaged around between the sterile syringes for twenty seconds, and found what he was looking for.

The six-inch needle made Gino shiver. Arents emptied an ampoule of adrenaline, checked the syringe against the light of a streetlamp (still on because it was a dark, snowy day), leaned over the victim, marked the spot, and drove the needle through the dying German's sternum directly into his heart.

“I wouldn't complain if I were you,” Versavel grinned. “You were the one who asked for more Sunday shifts.”

Van In cleared his throat and lit a cigarette. The suit he was wearing looked like a crumpled rag.

“Which doesn't mean I have to clean up Vervenne's shit,” he rasped. “I didn't sleep a wink last night. And Sundays are supposed to be quiet.”

Versavel stroked his moustache and glared pityingly at Van In. The miffed commissioner crossed to the windowsill and poured himself a mug of coffee.

“Who commits murder on a Sunday morning, for Christ's sake?” Van In grouched.

“He was still alive when they took him to the hospital,” said Versavel dryly. “But according to one of the ambulance men, his condition was critical. Subdural hematomas are often fatal in circumstances like that.”

“Cut the crap, Guido.”

“Fractured skull with internal bleeding. Sorry, Commissioner.”

Versavel sat down at his desk and stretched his legs. In contrast to Van In, he was impeccably dressed.

“And a bloody German,” Van In smirked. “A stroke of luck?”

Versavel refused to react. Everyone knew that Van In hated Germans.

“I'm afraid we're going to have to do something, Commissioner. What if detective Columbo calls and wants the whole story?”

He ducked instinctively when Van In aimed his half-empty mug of coffee at him.

“A waste of coffee,” Van In growled.

Versavel sat upright.

“Has Vervenne written his report?” Van In asked.

“You know Vervenne. A page a day is too much for him. Anyway, I think he's still hanging around Burg Square.”

“Jesus H. What are we getting so worked up about?”

“In that case, you can pour me a coffee as well,” said Versavel, resigned.

“I hope Vervenne contacted the public prosecutor,” said Van In after a minute. “If that German's on his way to Valhalla, they can take over the case.”

“Aren't you curious?”

Van In shook his head. Versavel knew he was faking it.

“Motive might be interesting,” Versavel fished. “It can't have been money. The victim had eight hundred marks and three credit cards in his pocket.”

“Eighty thousand marks would have been better,” Van In responded sarcastically.

Versavel held the mug of steaming coffee to his nose and inhaled the aroma. He was used to the commissioner's moods.

It had started to snow again. It was five after nine and the cars on the street still had their headlights on.

“We've got four officers checking out the neighborhood,” said Versavel, tossing another hook.

“Are you expecting results? Last time I looked, nobody lived on Burg Square.” Van In got to his feet, yawned, and walked to the window. His vision locked on to a plump snowflake swirling slowly to the ground.

“The janitor at city hall said he heard a muffled noise around two-thirty.”

“Did he
see
anything?” Van In lost track of the snowflake and searched for another.

“What do you think? He only got out of bed when he heard the sirens.”

“Not much help then.” Van In started to see double from staring at the snow. He turned, refilled his mug, and tossed in a couple of sugars.

Versavel ostentatiously patted his flat, muscular belly.

“You win, Versavel. Imagine if everyone looked like Mister Universe. What would you do then, kiddo?”

“Would you really like to know?” Versavel sneered.

“Jesus H. Aren't we subtle today!”

Versavel grinned. The commissioner was coming around, albeit slowly. “Some have perfect bodies, others have to use their brains,” Versavel quipped.

That settled it.

“Less of the sweet talk, Guido. Call Vervenne and tell him we're taking over. If we sit around and do nothing, I'll have the chief on my case in the morning.”

“At your command, Commissioner.”

“Did Vervenne have photos taken?” Van In asked as they got into the hospital elevator.

“I called Leo,” Versavel smiled. “With a bit of luck, we'll see him in the cafeteria.”

“Arrogant punk. You knew I would come, didn't you?”

Versavel wisely held his tongue.

“I presume the bloodwork is ready. You don't trudge through the snow in the middle of the night if you've been to the movies. It wouldn't surprise me if our Jerry friend had enjoyed a night on the town.”

The nurse sharing the elevator pulled a doubtful face.

“Intoxication isn't a reason to kill someone,” said Versavel in a neutral tone. He wanted to add that the commissioner would have been long dead had that been the case.

Intensive Care at Saint Jan's was full. Eight nurses and two doctors were doing their best, but they were a poor match for the usual deadly toll claimed by the weekend traffic.

“Police, ma'am,” said Van In, American style, to the dolled-up receptionist at the counter.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Her tone was sprightly and civil. “What can I do for you?”

Versavel hoped Van In would respond to her vague question with equal civility. He saw the commissioner hesitate.

“Might we have a word with the doctor on duty?” he asked.

The girl raised her eyebrows as if Van In had asked for an appointment with God the Father.

“The doctor responsible for the Medical Emergency Team,” Van In added, for clarification.

“Doctor Arents,” said Versavel.

“And tell him it's urgent.”

Medical staff, and doctors in particular, needed to be treated with caution. “Urgent” was a word they usually reserved for themselves. Versavel expected trouble.

The receptionist took a deep breath. Van In enjoyed the sight of her bosom swelling beneath her thin white apron. She stiffened and gritted her teeth. She had recently graduated with a Master's in medicine and had spent the last six months applying for jobs. This was the best she could find. She was overworked and frustrated, and she barely earned enough to live on her own.

“Doctor Arents was called away fifteen minutes ago,” she said with a chiseled smile. “If you'll excuse me, gentlemen.” The receptionist turned and sat down at her computer. She opened a medical file, flattened a crumpled page, and started to type.