Portrait of a Monster: Joran Van Der Sloot, a Murder in Peru, and the Natalee Holloway Mystery (11 page)

The fact that her daughter had missed her flight home didn’t seem to alarm anyone on the island. This was Aruba, a carefree island, where people disappeared on benders and romantic liaisons all the time. Eventually, they always seemed to turn up somewhere. But this sort of irresponsible behavior was totally out of character for Natalee.

Beth’s daughter was punctual and reliable. For her to miss a flight and completely disconnect from friends and family made no sense at all. Natalee was a straight-A student who had just graduated in the top tenth percentile of her class. It was no small feat when the average GPA of her class was 3.875.

Natalee had been selected for early acceptance to the University of Alabama’s School of Medicine and awarded an eight-year academic scholarship that would cover not only her undergraduate work, but all four years of medical school, as well. She knew how to manage her time, and was conscientiously punctual.

She worked part-time after school at an organic market, Harvest Glen, in Birmingham. The mother of one of Natalee’s friends owned the store and also employed autistic adults. Over the months, Natalee had developed a special friendship with some of the employees and took them for outings on her days off. She also volunteered at a local cancer center, and was diligent about her Bible study classes. Once, when she knew she was going to miss an afternoon session at the church, she showed up early in the morning to let the pastor know that she would not be attending that day. Although most teens would have simply called, at best, Natalee took great pride in being responsible and accountable. She was not the type of person who would selfishly disappear and leave others to worry.

Natalee’s mother was becoming more and more frustrated. Nobody was taking her daughter’s disappearance seriously. She couldn’t even file a missing person’s report for at least another hour.

Not wanting to waste additional time, Eric Williams, the DEA agent, suggested the group drive into town to Carlos’n Charlie’s, the bar where the teen was last seen. They located the nightclub on a downtown side street, not far from the harbor. Stepping out of the van into the sticky night air, Beth gazed at the lights reflecting on the water and her worries intensified. How easy it would have been for someone to pull Natalee onto a boat and vanish.

The rowdy, crowded bar yielded no new information. Beth shared Natalee’s picture with patrons but no one remembered seeing her. Hundreds of female tourists passed through the establishment every week, a bouncer told her, and without a photograph of Joran the group had little more than a first name and some very vague descriptions.

At this point, Charles Croes’s name came into the conversation. Croes owned a cell phone rental company, and perhaps with his help, the team would be able to acquire functioning cell phones in case they needed to split up to search the island. Despite the late hour, they managed to reach him, and he accommodated their request. He agreed to meet them in the parking lot of a Valero gas station.

Waiting in the backseat of the van, Beth was still shaken by what she had just seen at Carlos’n Charlie’s. The place had been a madhouse. She saw scantily clad drunken teens grinding against each other on the dance floor. The music was deafening and the smell of marijuana wafted through the air. Imagining Natalee in this place made her feel sick.

The arrival of Charles Croes in his beat-up car puttering into the harshly lit halo of the Valero gas station was a welcome moment. Beth and her friend Jodi climbed into his car. Beth was anxious that no more time be squandered. The two vehicles started back to the Holiday Inn to activate the cell phones. There wasn’t a minute to spare. Even though she had been told she would have to wait until morning to look at casino footage, Beth was unwilling to tolerate any further delays. She was sure Joran had her daughter and she was going to find him and get her back.

Striding up to the reception desk, Beth demanded to speak with the person in charge. She made it clear that she wasn’t going anywhere until someone showed her the tapes. Her persistence paid off and soon she and Jug were escorted upstairs to review the video.

With the footage on the screen, Beth phoned Thomas in Alabama. “Okay, we are looking at the blackjack tables,” she told the teen. “Can you describe this Joran? Where was he sitting?”

Thomas told her to look for the guy with the blue-and-white-striped polo shirt. “There he is!” Beth yelled out, finding a person who met this description.

Hurrying to the lobby, Beth and Jug encountered the Aruban escorts who’d met them at the airport. Earlier Jug had given them several hundred dollars with the hope that the men could use the money to buy information.

The escorts began walking the length of Palm Beach describing Joran to locals. Finally, they found a teenager who knew Joran, and for $100, he gave up his full name and address. He lived with his family on Montanja Street, a back street away from the commercial strip.

To be sure, the Arubans had driven by the house to scout the location. Peering over the gate, they saw a silver Honda parked under a tree. They jotted down the license plate, and presented the information to Beth. The group decided they now had enough information to go to the police. They had a photo, a name, a license plate number, and an address.

Of Aruba’s four police stations, the Noord police station, a friendly looking yellow building with a red tile roof, was closest to the Van der Sloots’ orange stucco home. Thirty minutes of coaxing finally convinced the officers there to accompany them to the Van der Sloots’ address. Beth wasn’t aware that Joran’s father had strong ties to the legal community as a judge in training. Police officers were initially hesitant about rousing him in the middle of the night.

It was around 2:00
A.M.
when Paulus van der Sloot awoke to an incredible commotion. The family dogs were barking. His middle son, Valentijn, was at his bedside and wanted to know what was happening. The blue strobe lights of police cars crisscrossed the walls, and someone was honking a horn. After dressing quickly, Paulus walked down the dirt driveway to the front gate.

Three people were standing at the gate, two uniformed officers and Natalee’s stepfather, Jug Twitty. Behind them were several vehicles, including two police SUVs and a white van carrying a crowd of about ten people.

Paulus didn’t know that two men were also hiding behind his house. Matt Whatley and Ruffner Page Jr., members of what locals would soon call the “Alabama Posse,” were staking out the rear of the property to thwart an escape attempt if indeed Joran was home and tried to flee.

“A girl is missing and your son was the last one seen with her,” one of the officers told Van der Sloot.

“That couldn’t be right,” Paulus insisted, “because he was at the free tournament at the Holiday Inn and I picked him up in front of McDonald’s at eleven o’clock. I’ll go inside and get him.”

Paulus walked around the patio to Joran’s apartment to fetch his sleeping son from his bed. To his surprise, he wasn’t there. Then, he tried calling him using his wife’s mobile phone. Joran answered on the first ring.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m at the Wyndham.” Paulus wasn’t completely surprised. The Wyndham Hotel and Casino was hosting a free Texas hold ’em tournament and his son had wanted to participate.

“You are being sought in connection with a girl who has gone missing,” Paulus told Joran. “There are people and police at the door and they want to talk to you. Stay put. I will meet you at the Wyndham,” he instructed.

Confused, but aware of the severity of the situation, Joran’s dark-haired father, wearing his metal-framed glasses, climbed into one of the police vehicles and the convoy headed back to the Palm Beach strip.

The Wyndham Aruba Resort Spa & Casino was on the southern end of Palm Beach. It catered to an elite clientele, more upscale than the Holiday Inn, the host hotel of the graduating class of 2005 from Mountain Brook, Alabama, those past five days and four nights. After pulling up in front of the massive eighteen-story structure with over four hundred guest rooms, a foot race between Beth Twitty and Joran’s father, Paulus, ensued, with both sprinting from their respective vehicles past the front desk and into the hotel’s glittering Casablanca Casino.

Van der Sloot had the advantage. He knew his way around and headed straight to the rear gaming tables. He wanted to talk to Joran privately before the bristling foreigners were able to locate him. Beth also wanted to be the first to confront the young man and hurried to beat Paulus to her quarry.

Having viewed the casino video footage, she had an idea of what Joran looked like. She thought it bizarre that he would be gambling in a casino after midnight on a school night. The casino was massive. The sounds of laughter and the slot machines ringing reverberated off the walls. The ceiling, sky blue in color, was lit to create a visual effect of perpetual daylight. Beth looked past the dice games and roulette wheels and finally located the poker tables in the rear. When she didn’t see Joran, she began asking the pit bosses if perhaps they could point him out to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Paulus van der Sloot, talking on his cell phone.

His face was growing redder and he was clearly exchanging a few terse words with his son. Hanging up, he told the group that Joran was now at home.

Tempers were running high as they all climbed into their vehicles and returned to the Van der Sloot residence. At 3:00
A.M.
, the police car carrying Paulus van der Sloot pulled up in front of the family’s ranch house. Joran and his friend, Deepak, were standing in the street, leaning on Deepak’s silver Honda.

“Why didn’t you stay at the Wyndham?” Paulus asked his son.

“I misunderstood,” Joran said, matter-of-factly.

Joran then digressed, mentioning that some of the neighbors had come outside and complained about how loud he and Deepak were playing the car’s radio while they were waiting for him. Paulus couldn’t understand why Joran wasn’t taking the unfolding events more seriously. Hadn’t he just told him that police wanted to talk to him about a missing girl who had last been seen in his company?

If Joran was at all concerned, he certainly didn’t show it. If anything he looked smug and amused when the white van filled with burly Southerners all but emptied, with Jug, his friends, and Lilly, the chaperone, among those prepared to confront him. The police officers got out of their vehicles but did not approach, remaining propped against their squad cars. Beth and her friend Jodi arrived in the car with Charles Croes. He jumped out and joined the assembly in the driveway.

Beth and Jodi heeded the advice of DEA agent Eric Williams to remain in the car, despite Beth’s overwhelming desire to be closer to the action.

Paulus van der Sloot noticed the ID tag hanging around Williams’s neck. Williams identified himself as a federal agent working with United States law enforcement, although according to Paulus’s account, Charles Croes took the lead.

Beth stared out the car window, unable to hear what was being said. She trusted that Jug and the other men would be able to get this rat bastard kid to talk.

At first, there was some confusion as to the identity of the missing girl. For a brief moment, the name Kathleen was being tossed around. However, after Joran was shown a photo of Natalee, he recognized the blonde, particularly her mouth and eyes. “Yes, that’s the girl I made out with last night,” he said.

In a flowing narrative, one that would later be transcribed in an official police report, Joran described what he claimed were the events of the previous night in graphic detail. He said he met Natalee at the Excelsior Casino, and then hooked up with her again later at Carlos’n Charlie’s where he did body shots out of her navel.

“She laid down on the bar, placed a Jell-O shot in her navel, and told me to drink it. Which I did.”

Joran explained that he was with his two friends, Deepak, who was now standing beside him in the driveway, and Deepak’s younger brother, Satish. He said he bought Natalee a shot of 151 rum and that she chased it down with a swallow of his whiskey and cola.

When the bar closed at 1:00
A.M.
, Natalee wasn’t ready to call it a night. “She was drunk,” Joran said.

Before continuing with his story, Joran stopped, looked around at the men gathered in front of him, and asked if Natalee’s parents were among the group.

“I’m Natalee’s stepfather,” Jug declared.

Joran asked that Jug Twitty be moved out of earshot before he continued his story.

Reluctantly, Jug returned to the car where his wife was waiting. He found her talking on her cell phone with Natalee’s classmates back in Alabama. A number of the students had gathered at the home of one of their friends in Mountain Brook and were communicating with Beth via speakerphone. To add to the rudimentary conference call, every few minutes one of the airport handlers would break from the group on the driveway to report to Beth what Joran was saying. Beth was relating that information to Natalee’s friends.

So far, the Alabama teens on the phone agreed with Beth’s spot-on description of Joran. This was definitely the person with Natalee when she drove away from Carlos’n Charlie’s. Now, the question was, what had he done with their friend?

Beth and Jug watched anxiously as Joran detailed his night with Natalee to the collection of interested parties: the two friends from Alabama whose daughters were safely home; the chaperone who had agreed to stay behind; the helpful stranger with the complimentary cell phones; the two airport support personnel; the travel agent and dear friend of Beth’s; and the vacationing DEA agent. Beth couldn’t hear what Joran was saying. But the smirk on his face was infuriating. Her daughter was missing and he seemed amused. His arrogance disturbed her greatly.

By the way he and his friend were dressed, she was having a hard time believing that they had visited casinos that night. They were both in shorts and T-shirts, no more stylish than gym clothes. Beth had heard that Joran was tall, but he was much taller than she had imagined.