Portrait of a Monster: Joran Van Der Sloot, a Murder in Peru, and the Natalee Holloway Mystery (38 page)

“Where do you live?”

“I have been living with my mother and younger brother for the past four months. Before that, I lived with my girlfriend in Thailand.”

Next was a medical examination, standard protocol for suspects in serious crimes. Joran was fingerprinted, and swabbed for gunshot residue, despite no evidence of a gun or gunshot at the crime scene. Blood typing determined Joran was type A, the same as Stephany. A drug test was negative. A tattoo was discovered inked across his left chest. “No Problem,” it read in a bold, black Thai script.

In the afternoon, under police scrutiny, Joran was allowed to e-mail his mother in Aruba about his incarceration. The laptop was then confiscated as evidence and sent for analysis.

That night, shortly before 10:00
P.M.
, Callan attempted to carry on with the interview, but Joran was not cooperative. He answered only a handful of nonchallenging questions before announcing he was too tired and wanted to postpone the deposition until the morning.

Callan thought that Joran was stalling in order to find an aggressive celebrity lawyer to represent him. In the past, lawyers had offered Joran their services pro bono hoping to elevate their visibility with such a high-profile client.

Before agreeing to end the interrogation, the prosecutor asked, “Mr. Van der Sloot, did you participate in the homicide of Stephany Flores?”

“I am very willing to help you,” Joran replied flatly. “But I have not slept in twenty-four hours. I’m tired and I do not wish to continue with this statement.”

After the interview, Joran was taken to a ten-by-thirteen-foot holding cell. He was placed in solitary confinement out of fear for his life, so reviled was he in Peru. His meal preparations were monitored to reduce the risk of poisoning. He ate his meals in the company of homicide detectives, his menu the same as theirs.

At 11:30
A.M.
the next morning Joran and Callan reconvened in Callan’s office. The investigator greeted him with, “Good morning, Señor Van der Sloot. How did you sleep?”

Joran was tired, unshaved, and unbathed.

“Please, have a seat,” the captain directed, gesturing to the metal chair across the desk. Captain Callan was the only member of his team who was authorized to speak directly with Joran.

Joran winced as he lowered himself down, the handcuffs cutting into his wrists.

The Dutchman’s calm demeanor did not surprise Callan. In his career, he was familiar with the hard eyes of murderers. He had interrogated more than fifty of them. Joran had escaped murder charges before and was savvy to the process.

Callan had already developed his strategy for Joran. He knew he loved gambling, so he was going to approach him like a poker player, showing only one card at a time.

“Are you ready to talk?” the captain asked.

“I’m too tired, I just want to sleep,” Joran replied in Spanish.

Callan noted that Joran spoke Spanish very well. He also noticed his collected and observant demeanor.

Callan decided to make his detainee more comfortable. He instructed an officer to remove the handcuffs, which had remained in place for several hours.

Joran stretched his arms vigorously and sank deeper into the metal chair.

“Can I get you a drink? Something to eat? Perhaps a cigarette?”

“Cigarettes! I want a cigarette!” Joran growled.

Callan tossed a pack across the desk. The chain-smoker had not been permitted to light up in his cell, and Callan hoped to put him at ease and gain his confidence with the gesture of kindness.

The captain quietly watched as Joran pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it up, and took a long, deep drag. Several minutes passed with neither man saying a word. Joran reached for the pack and grabbed a second cigarette.

“So, Joran, what do you do for a living?” the captain asked.

“I have a business in Thailand that sells pizzas, bread, and coffee. I have been doing this for two and a half years.”

Callan recalled the previous afternoon’s interview, when Joran had told him he made his living playing poker in tournaments around the world, but was currently unemployed. “And how much do you earn from this business?”

“I make about 20,000 euros [U.S.$27,000],” Joran replied.

“Why did you come to Peru? What was your intention?”

“I wanted to play in the international poker tournament,” Joran explained, dragging on a cigarette.

“How did you get here?”

“By plane via Bogotá, and then Lima. I arrived on May 14.”

“Tell me what you did in Lima from May 14 when you arrived until May 30.”

“I went to the Atlantic City Casino many times and to Larco Marco to go shopping,” Joran explained, misnaming Larcomar, the tri-level complex of stores and restaurants carved into the cliffs overlooking the ocean. “I also did some shopping downtown, and I gambled at the casino in the Marriott Fiesta Hotel across the street from the Atlantic City in Miraflores.”

“Where did you stay? And how much did you pay for your room?”

“I took room number 309 at the Hotel Tac, located across the street from the Wong Supermarket in Miraflores. I paid fifty soles a day for lodging.

“I’m tired,” Joran complained. “Can I sleep now?”

“I hear you are an excellent poker player,” Callan said, smiling. “I also like to play poker. Let me show you my cards.”

Joran perked up at the prospect of a game, completely missing the metaphor.

Callan pulled a large envelope from a desk drawer. One by one, he placed the eight-by-ten color pictures of Stephany Flores’s crime scene on his desk.

Joran sucked on a cigarette, but had no reaction as he gazed at the images of his hotel guest, battered and covered in blood.

“Do you recognize this girl?” Callan prodded.

Joran sat slumped, eyes down to avoid Callan’s stare.

“Look at me. Do you know this girl?”

Joran watched as more photos were spread out, this time including stills from the surveillance camera, some of Joran and Stephany entering Room 309 together, and others of him exiting alone.

Joran smoked and said nothing. He watched the detective walking around his desk to retrieve a bag of evidence from another drawer.

“Perhaps you recognize this?” Callan asked, pulling out a long-sleeved button-down shirt stained with blood. He held the garment close to Joran’s face.

Joran finally reacted, recoiling from the rancid stench. He motioned for the captain to remove the garment.

Callan continued to wave it, the very shirt Stephany Flores had been wearing when discovered by Adeli Marchena, the Hotel Tac’s receptionist.

“Take it away!” Joran implored. The stench, not his remorse, was making him nauseated.

“This is my hand,” Callan announced, returning to his poker metaphor. “You may be good, but I win! Now I will ask you again, Señor Van der Sloot, did you know Stephany Flores?”

Joran admitted he did, staring down at the red tile floor. The admission was also witnessed by a representative from the public ministry, the Dutch translator, Maurice Steins, and Luz Romero, Joran’s third defense attorney in twenty-four hours.

“Now, I ask you again, my friend, to tell me where you were beginning at 6:00
P.M.
on May 29 until 5:00
A.M.
of May 30.”

“On May 29 at 6:00
P.M.
, I went to the Atlantic City Casino to play blackjack and poker. I drank alcohol, pisco sours and whiskey colas. I believe from 6:00
P.M.
until 2:00
A.M.
, I played blackjack and between 2:00
A.M.
and 5:00
A.M.
I played poker.”

“Do you know a man named Elton García?” Callan asked, referring to the Uruguayan poker player who had tried to contact Joran at the hotel the night Stephany’s body was discovered.

“Elton García is a friend of mine,” Joran said. “I met him at the Atlantic City Casino two weeks ago.”

“And Stephany Flores, how did you know her?”

“I also met Stephany at the Atlantic City. I met her on or around May 27. She is an acquaintance. I haven’t known her for that long.”

“Tell us in detail how the crime against Stephany Flores occurred inside Room 309 of the Hotel Tac,” Callan directed.

“On May 30, 2010, at around 2:00
A.M.
, I was playing poker at a table with several people when Stephany approached the table and started to play, as well. I played in her presence for about two or three hours and then around 5:00
A.M.
she mentioned that she wanted to play on the Internet and asked me to go with her.

“We continued to play a little longer at the casino and then we left for the Hotel Tac, where I was staying. We went to her car, which was a black four-by-four, and we arrived at the hotel around 5:30
A.M.
We went to my room and we played poker on my laptop. It was at that moment that I opened my e-mail and I noticed a message saying ‘I am going to kill you,
mongolito,
’ in reference to the Holloway case.

“So I talked about the case with Stephany, and I indicated that five years ago I had been detained as a suspect in connection with the disappearance of this girl,” Joran said. He claimed that Stephany became angered upon learning of his involvement in the case. “After about a half hour of having been in Room 309, during our conversation, Stephany struck me on the left-hand side of my head with her fist. And I impulsively struck her in the face with my right elbow exactly above the nose.

“There was blood everywhere. I thought she was passed out. It affected me so much that I grabbed her by the neck with both hands, and I choked her for about two minutes.

“Then at that moment, I thought about what I was doing. I stood up thinking ‘What am I going to do now?’ I had blood on my shirt, and there was blood on the bed. So I took my shirt, and I put it on her face, pressing really hard until I killed Stephany. Then I thought, ‘What am I going to do?’

“I exited the Hotel Tac, but the girl at the reception told me I had to move the car, so I returned to room number 309 and, at first, I thought about fleeing the hotel. I took my bags and I drove the car but I, I don’t remember, I just continued on the street.

“I didn’t know where I was going, but I took a right out of the hotel. I drove for about five minutes, then I dumped the car.

“I took a cab to the Jorge Chávez airport. Then I said to myself ‘Better not take a plane.’ I took a taxi to the bus station. There, I took another taxi, paying the sum of 600 soles toward another city that I don’t remember the name of, and then from there, I used the services of another taxi to the city of Nazca with an individual who drove me for two hours to the following city paying the sum of 100 soles.

“Upon arriving, I struck up a conversation with the driver of the taxi about the homicide of Stephany Flores. And I said, ‘I have committed a homicide. I have murdered a person and I want to exit Peru.’

“And he responded, ‘Wait until we get to the next city.’ And then the driver told me my friends are not here now, perhaps it is better that you take a bus. And then I said, ‘You told me you were going to take me to Arica. Do it, please.’

“To which he said, ‘Just calm down, and let’s go to eat something.’ We went to eat together and then his friends arrived. And he chatted a bit with them and then he came to me and he said that for $1,500 they would take me. And then I responded, okay, but at that moment I only had $500 in cash, so we left and I told them that I was going to get the rest from an ATM.

“And from there, we got in a white vehicle that was like a minivan. But while on the road, the highway police stopped us, asking for documents. After that, the people who I had hired to take me to Arica recommended that I throw away my luggage, so I threw away my beige sports bag, and after that, they told me they were not going to take me to Arica if I didn’t give them the following specific items: one cellular phone, a watch, two bottles of perfume, books, clothing, such as a red T-shirt and a pair of jeans, some designer Lacoste T-shirts, and other regular ones.

“And upon arrival at the border control in Tacna, one of the individuals got out of the vehicle because immigration said that his document, the DNI card, was false, counterfeit. So, he remained there.

“The only ones who crossed the border with me were two Peruvians, the same ones that brought me from Nazca. And so in this manner we arrived in Chile.

“At around 4:00
P.M.
on May 31, 2010, I tried to withdraw money from the ATM in the sum of $1,000, but the machine only allowed me to take out $500. So they asked how I was going to pay the rest and in order to avoid problems with them, I told them I had two watches.

“One of them was a Ferrari brand and valued at around $7,000. So I handed the watch to one of them, but the other one put it away, and I promised that I was going to call them on the following day and send via Western Union the $500.

“So I told the taxi driver that the moment the money arrived, I was going to give him the address where he was to send the watch and then after I got the watch, I was going to give him $500. And after agreeing to that, they both left.

“I took a room at a hotel in the city of Arica. It was small, and I don’t remember the name. And the following day, that is to say, June 1, I spent all day in the city and that same evening, I went to the bus terminal in Arica, where I took a bus to Antofagasta, where I arrived on June 2.

“In that city, I took a plane of the airline PAL to the city of Santiago. When I arrived at 2:00
P.M.
, I went to a place called Vasco da Gama, where I took a shower in a hotel and left my things. And I took a taxi to the city of Santiago.”

In Santiago, he said he met a stranger who invited him to a “
café con
piernas
.”
Cafés con piernas,
literally “coffee with legs,” were unique to Santiago. They were half coffee bars, half strip joints, where women wearing no more than thongs served beverages in an atomosphere of pulsating rock ’n’ roll and darkness, brightened by flickering neon.

“I stayed the night because I was already very drunk,” he explained. “The following day, I left and I was again in Vasco da Gama and while in the cab I saw a picture of myself in a newspaper and how they were looking for a Dutchman who was an assassin.