Daddy Long Legs (17 page)

Feeling his head thick with the tension of the day, Human decided to call it a day. And head to his room for an early evening. And an early resumption of the next day. The killer hadn’t acted as he had expected him to. But it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t act soon. Human felt that he would. And that soon they would have a lot to deal with. He made his way through the rooms of the house that was home to the detective unit, crammed with desks and scurrying detectives. At the front door he learned that the police had had their hands full that day. They had broken up several fights. At one stage, almost had a riot on their hands. And had arrested more than two dozen people throughout the day. Overnight Hope had become a battle zone. A staging ground for frustrated aggression. And misdirected anger.

Not that any of this seemed to bother the candlelight group that was still camped outside the unit’s headquarters. Huddled together to guard against the cold, they had been in full swing since earlier that evening, belting out one hymn after another, candles fluttering in the wind.

About an hour and two whiskies later, when Human lay his tired head down on the hard guesthouse pillow, he was thankful that the day was over.

On that Wednesday, Human awoke feeling tired and drained. Unrested. The tension from the week-long drama was starting to take its toll on him. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. As if his mind had never shut down at all during the night. As if somebody had switched off the TV but had left the DVD machine playing all night. Looping an insane and never-ending heavy metal concert. Or even worse. A Rihanna special.

For an unknown number of minutes, Human sat up in his bed. A teeming head cradled in tired hopeless hands. He felt incomplete and vacated. As if his centre had shifted hard overnight. Leaving him listing dangerously. Unbalanced. Unfocused. He struggled to order his thoughts. Struggled to plan his day. For a minute or two he contemplated keeling over. And just sleeping in a bit. But he realised luxury and peace was something reserved for someone who didn’t have a heartless killer to catch. That someone was not him. Not today.

He sat alone. In the quiet room. Solitary. Fragile. And distant. And then. He saw her face. The most beautiful face in the whole world. Drifting out of the fog. Reaching out to him. Sasha. The most beautiful name in the world. The most tragic. The most exquisite. The most inspirational. The most tragic. She reached out to him. And touched him lightly on the cheek. He could feel her gentle caress across his burning skin. Could smell the cheap (the most beautiful) perfume she wore. And she lifted his chin. And stared at him with deep hazelnut eyes. Melted him with deep hazelnut eyes. And as she merged with him. As her open mouth dripped beautiful exquisite spittle into his tired empty blood. He knew. That what he did.
Everything
he did. Since that cruel day in the abandoned synagogue. Everything he did. He did for her. He was not merely toiling for a missing boy from Hope. For the family. For a town. And a nation. For all the missing. And all the bereaved. No. He was not merely toiling for them. Everything he did, since that day. Was for her. For Sasha.

And then. Without another word. He rose. And showered. And a few minutes later he was in the office.

Less than an hour later. Nay. Less than forty minutes later. The entire world was turned upside down.

After the tension of the day before, Hope was strangely quiet that morning. And serene. Hordes of outsiders, who had flooded the town during the previous few days, now slowly and without incident, started making their exodus out of Hope. As the morning progressed, the town started gradually emptying out; returning to normal; returning to sanity. Maybe there would be normality after all, the townspeople thought as they watched the strangers go.

On the commons, the Goths took the time to conduct one last ritual – an ode to Hades, the Greek god of the Underworld (to the dark beat of a Marilyn Manson tune). Then they left in one huge convoy.

Could it be true? That the insanity was only temporary. Could it be true? That they would finally have their town back?

Even many of the media delegates packed up. Those who could afford to keep a reporter or a team stationed there, did so. But most of the publications and agencies resigned themselves to the fact that the big story they had sniffed here wasn’t going to materialise. By early morning, about two thirds of the town’s accommodation space was empty.

And then it happened.

Detective John Joffe had settled in earlier that morning, beginning his shift just after seven. Together with his team, he was responsible for the water tower surveillance site. The tower sat atop a hill overlooking Hope. With the wild growth of bush veldt, and the fairly isolated nature of the spot, it was an ideal dump site. But detective Joffe was tired. After a sleepless night and a persistent scratch in his throat which, he was sure, signalled the onset of flu, he was feeling out of sorts. A little hazy. A little weak. About an hour later he was asleep in the car, parked a discrete distance from the water tower.

About two hours later, Ronelle and Basie Venter passed through the area with their two dogs, Boef (a black Labrador) and Lollie (a Golden Retriever). The Venter couple was glad for the early morning walk. While the crazies from out of town were here, they never felt comfortable walking through their neighbourhood. All those strange people with their facial piercings and black clothing were just a bit too much for the elderly couple who had lived their entire lives in Hope. Now that everybody had departed, their neighbourhood, their streets, belonged to them again. They celebrated the event by taking Boef and Lollie for a walk.

They liked to pass this way, making a short stop at the wild patch beneath the water tower. The area offered a breathtaking view of Hope below. And the dogs loved to explore the dense bush. Like most mornings (when the crazies weren’t here) they climbed on top of a big boulder to enjoy the view while the dogs went off on their own adventures. But this morning, something wasn’t right. The dogs were acting in a peculiar way. They were running around frantically. And they both whined in a way that neither of the Venters had ever heard before. Eventually Lollie ran up to the boulder and barked with urgency. Basie Venter told his wife to wait there while he accompanied the frantic dog. Ronelle watched her burly husband, a retired diesel mechanic, disappear into the dense veldt. Moments later he appeared, eyes huge, every last drop of blood drained from his face. He lifted two shaking hands in the air. Then vomited violently while the dogs ran around barking.

At approximately 9:45am, Ronelle and Basie Venter, from number eighteen Le Roux Street, discovered the corpse of Kobus van Jaarsveld in the shade of the Hope water tower.

Moments later, Detective Human received the call. He felt a cold settle over his body. He had dreaded the call. Had hoped beyond hope (as it were) that they could save the boy. But now that the certainty was here, he felt re-focused. Re-invigorated. It was time to catch a killer. Grabbing every conceivable car, and even an old bicycle in one case, the house quickly emptied as the detectives rushed to the scene.

Minutes later, the Corolla ground to a halt in the dirt road that bypassed the water towers. Human and four other detectives jumped out of the car.

The scene was pure chaos. Human felt his heart sink.

At least two dozen civilians were trudging through the area. Others were standing around in huddled groups, shocked expressions on their faces. Human always marvelled at the lightning efficiency of word-of-mouth communications. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes since the couple had discovered the body. And here they were. Lining up for their little piece of the macabre. Baying for their little snatch of blood sport. Destroying his crime scene. Human ran up to the crowd. In his anger and desperation, he had pulled his gun from his shoulder holster. He now waved it at the crowd as he ran screaming at them. Some recoiled. Others ran for cover. More than one fell flat and disappeared behind a bush here, a boulder there. ‘Get away. Get away, goddammit!’ Human pulled out his badge. ‘This is a crime scene. Get away here.’ Three white police vans pulled up. Groups of uniformed policemen jumped out. Human waved wildly at the policemen. ‘Get these people out of here. Get them out of here.’ Rushing into the bush, the policemen quickly cleared the area, escorting bewildered civilians off the premises. Those who were hiding re-appeared and allowed the policemen to escort them away, sheepish looks on their faces. Soon Human had established control. He cursed loudly as he surveyed the undergrowth, trampled underfoot by dozens of feet. There was no way to know to what extent the crime scene had been compromised. Suddenly he remembered the surveillance shift. He turned to one of his detectives. ‘Who’s on duty here? Who the HELL was supposed to watch this site?’ The detective was so taken aback with the normally mild-mannered policeman’s outburst that he remained quiet. Human looked around with wild rage. He spotted the car. Behind a turn in the dirt road that curled around the hill. Fuelled by fury, he ran over to the car, the startled detective in tow. Inside, blissfully unaware, detective Joffe was still asleep. Human ripped open the car door and grabbed the detective. Joffe awoke with a start, flailing desperately, believing himself under attack. Which, in all reality, he was. In one smooth motion Human pulled him from the car and flung him onto the dirt road. ‘WHAT IN GOD’S NAME ARE YOU DOING?’ Recoiling amidst a flurry of dust, Joffe looked around him with bewilderment. ‘Look what you’ve done, goddammit. Look what you’ve done.’ Joffe looked over at the water tower. His face blanched instantly. He looked at Human with dread, his lips shaking uncontrollably.

‘I ... I ... I ...’

Human dropped his head, rubbing his forehead with tense fingers. ‘Detective,’ he said, addressing the policeman behind him, ‘please escort Joffe to one of the police vans.’ He looked at the detective sprawled out in the dust. ‘Detective, you’re officially suspended. I’ll deal with you later.’ And with that he turned. Behind him he heard the disgraced detective jump to his feet and mutter an incoherent explanation. He paid no attention. There were more important things to focus on.

Two uniformed policemen were busy erecting a cordon, stringing the yellow police tape around wooden stakes that had been hammered into the hard soil. A detective waited for Human at the edge of the clearing. He motioned for him. ‘This way, detective.’ Through boulders and clumps of hard yellow grass, he led Human, through the rugged terrain to an area behind a large bush. To the corpse of an eleven-year old boy.

The first thing that struck Human was that the corpse was naked. After his extensive reading of the case files, he knew that the previous bodies had always been fully clothed. The second thing that struck him was the signs of severe abuse. He knelt by the body. The little boy’s body was covered in scores of bruises, contusions, abrasions and burn marks. Around the throat were the characteristic signs of strangulation. Human knew without having to look, that the whites of the eyes would feature petechial haemorrhaging, the tell-tale signs of death by strangulation.  

Human stood up. The dead boy had been dumped with careless indifference. Lying on his back, his right arm was bent under the body in the impossible acrobatics of the dead; a gaping mouth uttered a silent scream at the clear blue skies above. ‘He turned to a detective next to him. ‘Has the profiler been alerted?’

The detective nodded. ‘He’s on his way, sir.’

Further back, on the edge of the clearing, an e-tv van pulled up. A group of men and one woman jumped out and quickly set up their equipment. Moments later, the CSU team also arrived.

Human turned to his detectives. ‘I want nobody touching anything. Do I make myself clear.’ He looked at each detective in turn, ensuring his message was getting through. ‘Until the profiler has been able to process the scene ... and until the photographer has finished, I want everybody to stay away from the body.’ He repeated his question. ‘Do I make myself clear? Those closest to him nodded. Human pointed at the two detectives nearest to him. ‘I want you and you to take a few beacons,’ Human said, referring to the little orange beacons police used to mark crime scene items, ‘and carefully ... and I mean carefully, scout the surrounding area, and mark anything that could be significant.’ He pointed to the cordon. ‘Until the profiler has finished, I want all the rest of you to remain behind that cordon.’ The remaining detectives made their way to the police cordon, some with grudging truculence. Seconds later, to Human’s relief, Colonel Jan Potgieter arrived on the scene. Human led him to the body. The profiler, just like Human, carefully knelt by the body. ‘What do you think?’ Human asked.

Jan Potgieter frowned and exclaimed softly. ‘Interesting,’ was all he said.

Funny, thought Human, it was exactly the same reaction he had had. Human knelt next to the bulky man, feeling embarrassed at the words he was about to utter. ‘I’m sorry to say ... but the scene has been compromised.’ He paused, staring at the dirt beneath. ‘To what extent, I can’t say.’ The profiler nodded but said nothing.

There was a sudden commotion in the veldt around them. Human rose. Angry. Hadn’t he told everybody to stay outside the cordons? Brussouw came tearing through the thick bush. He stopped in front of Human, out of breath. Before the Johannesburg detective could berate his junior, he spoke. ‘Detective Human, there’s been a development.’ He took a moment to catch his breath. ‘You’ve gotta come and see this.’