Paint the town red

Chapter XXII

It was a pretty quiet Tuesday, it already seemed to me that the patrolmen and officers had much less work than usual. Logan informed us that the club had agreed to provide records during the day, so in the morning we had a report waiting for us in the office on only three out of four places. It wouldn't be superfluous to say that both the camera recordings and the Internet activity that our interviewees talked about played into their hands and provided an ironclad alibi. The guy who said he was at the club the night of the first murder called the station and asked about the tape. "I know I'm not guilty of anything, but I want to hear it from you, too, to be completely calm," he said during our last conversation on the phone. I promised to inform him of this as soon as we received the recording, in order to at least calm him, but such an excessive desire to "whiten himself" from this young man raises suspicions.

Speaking of the last guy we didn't catch at his place of residence, he called at lunch and promised to come down to the station for a chat on Wednesday at 10:00 a.m. Judging by his voice, he didn't really understand what was going to be discussed, but that's understandable – you're not expected to talk to a detective every day. So we arranged a meeting and warned him about the possible consequences of not showing up. And, importantly, he had an accent – just what the seller of the "burner phone" mentioned.

It was Wednesday morning, and Max and I were sitting in the office drinking coffee from a brand-new vending machine that we were finally getting for the precinct. We were waiting for de Vries to come, but it was already 10 a.m., and he still wasn't here. Without thinking twice, we agreed that if he didn't show up before 11 a.m., then one of us would call him, and the other would go to his house at that time.

In order not to waste time, we started adding data from interviews and videos to the case, because every detail is important. But no one canceled the law of meanness, and as soon as we got into work, one of the officers knocked on the door of the office.

"A young man came to you for interrogation."

"For questioning, these are different things."

"Whatever, he's here."

"Let him in."

Max and I exchanged glances, and it seemed to me that he was a little annoyed by this news. It can be understood – you just got to work and immediately your plans are disrupted by someone who should've come much earlier. For some reason, annoyed Max seemed funny to me, so while we were alone, I blew him a kiss. It seemed to confuse him, which made me laugh softly.

Soon there was a second knock on the door, and we said in chorus: "Come in", and then we both laughed. We put the documents in our desk drawers, and a mid-sized young man entered the office - the last of five people to match our profiler's portrait.

The guy greeted us, and I told him to sit on a chair at my desk. He sat down, and although he tried to pretend that he was completely calm, his anxiety was felt from afar. And his "unnoticeable" microgestures gave him away.

I offered him water, but he refused, so I asked him to start questioning, which he nodded in agreement. Max and I had agreed beforehand that I would ask questions, and he would write everything down - teamwork, so to speak. But to be safe, we have a tape recorder at the moments like this – it's impossible to manage to record everything that is said.

"So, first, state your name."

"My name is Nyck de Vries."

"Date of birth?"

"February 6, 1995."

"You have an interesting accent. Where are you from?"

"I'm from the Netherlands."