The Art of Being a Murder Suspect
Tips and tricks for a “person of interest.”
I was once a murder suspect. I lived in Amsterdam in one of those tiny canal apartments with my wife and two children. My elderly neighbor downstairs was found dead (by me) in what had apparently been a violent struggle. He had been complaining to the police for several months that someone was planning to kill him and had even told them he had overheard me planning his death by placing a listening device on his ceiling. He had threatened me and had even threatened to throw boiling water at my children. So clearly, I had a motive.
While they were investigating the crime scene, a detective came upstairs and started asking questions like — “where were you on…”.
I loved it! It had been a dull month, and Henk, my dead neighbor, was becoming a major irritant. I suddenly became the main character in a murder mystery, and Henk was finally out of the way. It was a win-win!
The detective looked unconvinced and asked me to come to the police station the next day. Score! But after he left, I realized I was not a very good murder suspect—or too good. What does that even look like?
The next day, I arrived early at the police station with a big smile on my face. I was going to enjoy this. I wondered if there would be a two-way mirror or a dark room with a harsh light shining in my face. Would they do the bad-cop-good-cop thing? Would they put handcuffs on me? Would I be thrown in holding among whores and thieves?
The Desk Sergeant didn’t know why I was there and asked me to wait. It took an hour before someone told me that the detective on the case was out for the day and to come back after the weekend. The look of disappointment on my face must have confused them.
I was back again early Monday morning after telling my colleagues at work that I was a murder suspect and needed to take time off to assist the police and clear my name. They were impressed. The detective made me wait an hour and seemed surprised I had turned up. While standing in the lobby, he asked me a few basic questions about Henk and thanked me for my cooperation. Desperate, I told him I was planning to leave the country (I wasn’t), so he wished me a happy holiday.
Henk was then about 80 years old. During the Second World War, he was a part of the Black Market in Amsterdam. Amsterdam was occupied by the Germans in 1940. The German Soldiers, Nazis, and Dutch Collaborators were hated by the Dutch. These were the killers of Anne Frank and deported thousands of Jews to Death camps. But none were hated more than the Black Marketeers. People were dying from hunger, and the Black Marketeers would sell essential commodities for exorbitant prices—food for family heirlooms. After the war, the tides turned, and Henk was imprisoned. After leaving prison, he returned to his neighborhood, but his role in the War had not been forgotten. He received many death threats and was beaten up a few times. Such was the hunger winter in Amsterdam.
Years later, and now in old age, dementia was setting in. He began hearing voices in his head, the same voices he had heard in the 1950’s, threatening him. As he could hear us upstairs in our flat, those mumbles translated to death threats in his aging brain. At one point, he could take it no longer and was arrested in the middle of the night while running naked down one of the canals, waving a machete. He was carted off to a mental health institute.
A few days later, a nurse called. Henk had asked if I could go and see him and bring a carton of cigarettes. I thought it tactical to keep on the good side of a man who owned a machete and, in his dementia, was threatening my children. I also wanted to see what was happening, find out if and when he was returning, and ensure the medical team knew what was happening with him.
I had to go through two security doors, which were locked behind me. A young woman frantically asked me if I had seen her boyfriend.
Henk looked very old and frail. He was very apologetic and told me that now that he was on his meds, he was feeling a lot better. I gave him his cigarettes, and we chatted amicably. He had been getting in with the wrong people. Some wayward prostitutes had been taking advantage of him. I felt sorry for him, but that was easy for me to do. I had not lived through the hunger winter.
A few weeks later, Henk was back in his apartment. I could hear him rummaging around and occasionally shouting at someone. Then, a SWAT squad turned up, and ten huge police officers in protective clothing stormed into his apartment. There was a lot of yelling and screaming and things being thrown about. I watched as a diminutive Henk was carted off in the back of a black police van. Apparently, he had escaped from the Mental Health center.
A few weeks later, the doorbell rang. Two policemen were there. They were looking for Henk again and wanted to see if he was home. He had escaped.
Again.
I had heard some noise, the day before, so I suggested he might not open the door for them but would for me. No response, so I looked through his letterbox. I could see him. He was lying on the floor—a step ladder on top of him. The policemen looked and decided to break open the door. It was cramped in the lobby, so I left them to do whatever they needed to do.
His apartment looked like a crime scene. The furniture was broken and overturned. But this had been done by the police raid a few weeks earlier by the SWAT team. Henk had climbed up the ladder to listen to our plotting to kill him and had fallen off.
It was all very sad, but I was also very relieved that it was over. Henk’s behavior was not improving; he was refusing his medication. The safety of my children was was more important than the care of his mental health.
The autopsy concluded that it had been natural causes. The violent crime scene was the result of the police's own actions when arresting Henk.
As a person of interest, next time, I will try to be less enthusiastic. I will “disappear” for a few days and try to be more mysterious. Maybe I will “lawyer up” and refuse to talk. But I guess it would depend on whether I did it or not.
In the end, Henk’s tragic story served as a reminder of the lasting impacts of a tumultuous past and the fragility of mental health. My family and I could finally breathe easy, knowing we were safe from his unpredictable behavior. Though I had been thrust into an unwanted spotlight, the ordeal reinforced my appreciation for the peace and stability of our lives. As we resumed our normalcy, the echoes of Henk’s troubled life faded into the background, a bizarre chapter now closed.
