Borkmann's Point (16 page)

Erich Meisse was tall and thin, and baldness had set in early,
making it difficult to estimate his age. Probably no more than
thirty-five, in any case, Van Veeteren thought; they would have
the exact age somewhere if it should prove to be of any importance. Meisse shook hands, gave the detective chief inspector a
broad smile and invited him to take a seat in one of the Kremer
armchairs in front of the French windows.

“Tea or coffee?” he asked.
“Coffee, please,” said Van Veeteren.
The doctor left the room. Van Veeteren sat down and

looked out over the grounds: a large, well-tended and slightly
undulating lawn with gnarled old fruit trees dotting it here and
there, raked gravel paths and solid-looking white-painted
wooden benches. Next to the wall a few little greenhouses; a
gardener or someone of the sort was pushing a wheelbarrow
full of compost or something of the sort, and farther away, to
the left, two nurses dressed in black emerged from a low yellow wooden pavilion with rather a different vehicle, more like
a wagon.
He swallowed.
Two creatures were sitting in the wagon, and it took him

several seconds before it dawned on him that they were, in fact,
two human beings.

“We don’t accept just any patients here,” explained Dr. Meisse.
“We only take the worst cases. We have no illusions about curing anybody; we simply try to give them a reasonably decent
life. Insofar as that’s possible...”

Van Veeteren nodded.
“I understand,” he said. “How many patients do you have?”
“It varies,” said Meisse. “Between twenty-five and thirty,

approximately. Most of them spend the rest of their days here;
that’s the point, really...”
“You’re the last port of call?”
“You could put it like that, yes. We have a philosophy...I
don’t know if you are familiar with Professor Seldon’s ideas?”
Van Veeteren shook his head.
“Ah, well,” said Meisse with a smile, “maybe we can talk
about that some other time. I don’t suppose you’ve come here
to discuss the treatment of severe psychiatric cases.”
“No.” Van Veeteren cleared his throat and took his notebook out of his briefcase. “You were good friends with Maurice
Rühme...even when you were in Aarlach, if I understand
correctly?”
“Yes, I got to know him about...five years ago, more or
less, through my wife. She and Beatrice—Beatrice Linckx, that
is—are old childhood friends, well, school friends, in any case.”
“When did you first meet Maurice Rühme?”
Dr. Meisse pondered a moment.
“I’m not absolutely sure when I was first introduced to him,
but we’d started to meet socially by the winter of 1988–89, in
any case...now and then, at least.”
“Miss Linckx also works out here, is that right?”
“Yes, she’s been with us for six months or so.”
Van Veeteren paused.
“Did you fix this job for her?”
But Dr. Meisse only laughed.
“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t have much influence in
such matters, unfortunately. I put in a good word for her, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
Van Veeteren shrugged but didn’t answer.
“What do you know about Rühme’s cocaine addiction
while he was in Aarlach?”
Meisse turned serious again, and ran his hand over his bald
head.
“Not very much,” he said. “No details. Maurice preferred
not to talk about it. He told me a little bit one night, when we’d
had a fair amount to drink; I think that was the only time it was
ever mentioned. He’d got over it, in any case. I reckoned he
had a right to draw a line underneath it.”
“Were you acquainted with Ernst Simmel and Heinz
Eggers?”
The doctor gave a start.
“With...?The other two? No, of course not. I don’t
understand—”
“And what about Rühme?” asked Van Veeteren, cutting him
short. “Can you see any connection between him and the
other two?”
Dr. Meisse produced a handkerchief and dried his forehead
as he pondered that.
“No,” he said after a while. “I have thought about it, of
course, but I haven’t been able to come up with any link at all.”
Van Veeteren sighed and looked out the window again. He
wondered if there was anything sensible he could ask the
young doctor about as he watched a trio approaching the
building from the direction of the greenhouses. A man and a
woman walked on either side of a hunched figure, supporting
her—for it was a she; he could see that now—with their arms
around her hunched back. She seemed to be dragging her feet
through the gravel, and it sometimes looked as if her helpers
were lifting her up and carrying her. It suddenly dawned on
him that he recognized the man. The tall, thin figure, the thick
dark hair—Dr. Mandrijn, no doubt about it. He watched the
three of them for a bit longer before turning to Dr. Meisse.
“What does Dr. Mandrijn do here?”
“Dr. Mandrijn?”
Van Veeteren pointed.
“Oh, of course, Mandrijn. That’s a relative of his...a
niece, if I remember rightly. Brigitte Kerr. One of our most
recent guests. She arrived only a month or so ago, poor girl—”
“What’s the matter with her?”
The doctor flung out his arms in an apologetic gesture.
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid there are some things I can’t discuss.
Professional secrecy you know, not only—”
“Crap.” Van Veeteren cut him short again. “It’s true that I
don’t have any papers with me, but it will be only a matter of
time if I decide to relieve you of that commitment to secrecy.
May I remind you that this is a murder investigation.”
Meisse hesitated.
“Just give me an indication,” said Van Veeteren. “That will
be sufficient. Are drugs involved, for instance?”
The doctor looked up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” he said. “To a large extent. But she’s not in my group,
so I don’t know all that much about it.”
Van Veeteren said nothing for a while. Then he looked at
his watch and rose to his feet.
“Many thanks for your time,” he said. “I’ll have a word with
Miss Linckx as well. May I just ask you one final question?”
“Of course,” said Meisse, who leaned back in his chair and
smiled again.
Van Veeteren paused for effect.
“Who do you think killed Maurice Rühme?”
The smile vanished.
“What...?” said Meisse. “Who ... ? I’ve no idea, of course.
If I had the slightest idea of who the Axman was, I’d have told
the police long ago, obviously!”
“Obviously,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m sorry I had to take up
so much of your time.”

This place seems to have a remarkable ability to attract people
to it, he thought, after he’d left Dr. Meisse in peace and was
instead looking for Miss Linckx’s office. How many people had
he come across, in fact, with some kind of connection with
this gloomy, isolated institution?

He started counting, but before he’d gone very far, he
bumped into Miss Linckx in the corridor, and decided to abandon that line of thinking until after he had interviewed her.

As he drove out of the parking lot an hour or so later, he was
thinking mostly about what sort of an impression she had
made on him. The beautiful Beatrice Linckx. And if it really
was as she maintained, that her relationship with Maurice
Rühme had truly been based on the strongest and most solid
trinity as she claimed—respect, honesty and love.

In any case, it didn’t sound so silly, he thought, and started
remembering his own broken-down marriage.
But he’d hardly gotten as far as recalling Renate’s name
when he drove into a cloudburst, so he turned his attention to
trying to see through the windshield and stay on the road
instead.
The confession came early in the morning. Apparently, Mr.
Wollner had been waiting in the drizzle outside the police station since before six, but it wasn’t until Miss deWitt, the clerk,
opened up just before seven that he was able to get in.
“What’s it all about?” she asked, after she’d sat him down
on the visitors’ sofa with brown canvas cushions, hung up her
hat and coat and put the kettle on in the canteen.
“I want to confess,” said Mr. Wollner, staring down at the
floor.
Miss deWitt observed him over the top of her frameless
spectacles.
“Confess to what?”
“The murders,” said Mr. Wollner.
Miss deWitt thought for a moment.
“What murders?”
“The ax murders.”
“Oh,” said Miss deWitt. She felt a sudden attack of dizziness that she didn’t think was connected with the menopausal
flushes she’d been suffering from for some time now. She held
on to the table and closed her eyes tightly.
Then she got a grip on herself. None of the police officers
would turn up until about half past seven, she was sure of that.
She eyed the hunched-up figure on the sofa and established
that he didn’t have an ax hidden under his clothes, at least.
Then she came out from behind the counter, put a hand on his
shoulder and asked him to accompany her.
He did as he was bidden without protesting, allowing himself to be led through the narrow corridors and into the innermost of the two cells, the one that could be locked.
“Wait here,” said Miss deWitt. “An officer will come to
interrogate you shortly. Anything you say might be used in evidence against you.”
She wondered why she’d said that last sentence. Mr. Wollner sat on the bench and started wringing his hands, and she
decided to leave him to his fate. She considered phoning
Mooser, who was duty officer, but decided not to. Instead she
made the coffee and waited for Inspector Kropke, who duly
put in an appearance at seven-thirty on the dot.
“The Axman has confessed,” she said.
“What the hell...?” said Kropke.
“I’ve locked him into the cell,” said Miss deWitt.
“What the hell?” repeated Inspector Kropke. “Who...
who is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Miss deWitt. “But I think his name’s
Wollner.”

After thinking it over, Kropke decided that it would be best to
wait for one of the DCIs to appear, and so it was twenty minutes to nine before the first interrogation of the presumed
murderer could take place. Those present, apart from Kropke
and the chief of police, were Inspector Moerk and Constable
Mooser.

To be on the safe side, they recorded the proceedings on
two tape recorders, partly with an eye to possible requirements
if the case eventually went to court, and partly so that the two
experts who had been called in from outside, Van Veeteren and
Münster, could be sure of an opportunity to form a correct
opinion of the circumstances.

Bausen:
Your full name, please.
Wollner:
Peter Matthias Wollner.
Bausen:
Born?
Wollner: February
_{15, 1936. Bausen:
Address?}

Wollner:
Morgenstraat 16.
Bausen:
Kaalbringen?
Wollner:
Ye s.
Bausen:
Are you married?
Wollner: No.
Bausen:
Everything you say may be used in evidence

against you. You have the right to remain
silent if you wish. Would you like a solicitor to
be present?

Wollner:
No.
Bausen:
Wollner:
Bausen:

Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:

Bausen:
Why have you come here?
To confess to the murders.
The murders of Heinz Eggers, Ernst Simmel
and Maurice Rühme?
Ye s.
Tell us how you did it.
I killed them with my ax.
What kind of ax was it?
I’ve had it for several years. A butcher’s tool,
I think.
Can you describe it?
Wollner:

Bausen:
Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:
Bausen:
Kropke:
Bausen:

Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:

Moerk:
Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:

Kropke:
Wollner:
Moerk:
Wollner:
Moerk:
Sharp. Quite light. The blade went in very
easily.
Where did you get hold of it?
Bought it when I was abroad four or five years
ago.
Where?
Italy. I can’t remember what the town was
called.
Why did you murder Eggers, Simmel and
Rühme?
No reply.
Why don’t you answer the question?
No reply.
Can you give us more details of how you
went about it?
Which one?
Maurice Rühme, for instance.
I rang the bell and he opened the door...I
killed him.
Why?
That’s why I went there.
Describe exactly what you did.
I said I’d hurt my back. Dropped my watch on
the floor. As I couldn’t bend down to pick it
up, the doctor did it for me...I hit him with
the ax on the back of his head.
Were you acquainted with Dr. Rühme?
I was a patient of his.
Did he know you were coming?
Ye s.
Are you saying that he received patients at his
home at that time of night?
Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:

Bausen:
Wollner:
Kropke:

Wollner:
Bausen:
Moerk:
Wollner:
Bausen:

Moerk:
Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:
Kropke:

Bausen:
I had to push.
What was Rühme wearing?
Polo shirt ...grayish-green. Black trousers,
dark-colored socks...
What time was it?
About eleven.
What was Ernst Simmel wearing when you
killed him?
White shirt and tie. Jacket and trousers.
Brown shoes, I think. It was dark.
That’s right, dammit...What do you think,
Moerk?
I find it difficult to believe you, Mr. Wollner.
Why did you do it?
I’m prepared to take my punishment.
Pause. Short break in the tape.
You claim that you killed three people, Mr.
Wollner. Now you’d damn well better tell me
why! We have better things to do than sit here
listening to self-punishing types who crave a
little attention.
But...
I killed them because they were evil people.
Evil?
Evil people.
Was that the only reason?
It’s reason enough.
Why those particular three?
No answer.
What were you wearing that evening when
you killed Ernst Simmel?
Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:

Moerk:
What was I wearing?
Yes. How were you dressed?
I can’t really remember...Hat and coat, I
think.
And when you killed Rühme?

Wollner:
Tracksuit.
Bausen:
Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:

Bausen:
Why did you leave the ax in Dr. Rühme’s body?
He was the last.
The last? Aren’t there any more evil people?
Not as far as I’m concerned. I’m prepared to
take my punishment.
You’re not thinking of murdering anybody
else?

Wollner:
No.
Kropke:
Wollner:
Bausen:
Wollner:
Moerk:
Wollner:
Kropke:
Wollner: