December 2024
Jurriaan
JURRIAAN SQUIRMED UNDER the steady gaze of Brigadier Terpstra. The detective looked nothing like nice Surveillant Meyer in Amsterdam. For one thing, he had a long creased face and droopy eyelids that made him look like a bloodhound. For another thing, he didn’t wear a uniform. Jurriaan knew from TV that detectives dressed in plain clothes. His clothes were plain all right: a baggy brown suit, a brown knitted tie, and brown lace-up shoes.
Jurriaan could remember little about his mother’s disappearance. Willem had said that Jurriaan’s subconscious had suppressed the memories. He might never get them back. It was the mind’s way of protecting itself from pain.
He scratched his ankle, pulled up his socks, crossed and uncrossed his legs. He sat on the end of the sofa by the hearth, and Willem sat on the other end. He could hear the wind moaning in the chimney.
Terpstra said, “There’s no need to be nervous, Jurriaan. It’s all right if you don’t know an answer or have forgotten. Do you have any questions?”
Jurriaan pointed at the other detective, whose face was round and smooth. “What’s he doing?”
“Detective Rijkaard will take notes on his iPad.”
“Why?”
“Because my memory is terrible. I hope yours is better than mine,” Terpstra said. “When did you see your mother for the last time?”
“I don’t remember.”
“No problem, Jurriaan. Now, think carefully. Did you see her the morning she disappeared?”
Willem had told him what to say.
“I think she was gone when I came downstairs.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I forget.” Jurriaan adjusted his glasses.
“What do you remember about that day?”
“We looked for her.”
“Where did you look?”
“Outside. In the woods, I guess.”
Terpstra raised an eyebrow and exchanged frustrated glances with his partner. Jurriaan relaxed a bit. He was used to getting those kinds of looks from people. From a lot of people. The detectives thought he was dumb, but for once it didn’t bother him, because maybe they would stop asking questions.
“Describe your relationship with your mother.”
Jurriaan scrunched his forehead. Now who was dumb? “I’m her son.”
A smile flashed on Rijkaard’s face, fast as lightening. Terpstra raised his eyebrows. “I meant, did you get along with your mother?”
“Oh yes. I was her favorite,” he blurted out before remembering that Willem had told him not to volunteer information. Was Willem angry? He peered first at Terpstra’s serious face and then at Rijkaard’s amused one. He didn’t glance at Willem because he was supposed to pretend he wasn’t in the room, but of course he knew he was there, and that knowledge gave him courage.
“Why do you think you were her favorite?” Terpstra asked.
“Because she told me. Can I go now?”
“Soon. I have a few more questions. Then you can go.”
Jurriaan eyed the detective with the sad bloodhound face and the detective with the moon face. “Okay.”
He worried that they might ask him if he had gone fishing in a boat while visiting Wexalia. Willem had said that it was important to say no if the detectives asked, although he hadn’t explained why. But the detectives didn’t mention a boat. Jurriaan was relieved because he wasn’t very good at telling lies.