Daddy Long Legs (20 page)

The next morning, following extensive coverage of the Pill Town Massacre,
Morning Live
, the SABC 2 breakfast show had a veritable scoop. Tony ‘Shanghai’ (so-named for his slight Asian appearance) Mohale, Chief Executive Officer of Africa Investments and Media (AIM) convened a press conference. Dressed in a cream Savile Row suit and speaking in a clipped accent he acquired from spending some twenty years in England while in exile as an ANC member, Shanghai Mohale announced that he was offering R1 million as a reward for the capture of the deviant known as Daddy Long Legs. The reward created a veritable media storm and featured prominently across many of the day’s publications – just like Mohale intended, of course. The reward was hailed as an act of extreme charity and altruism. A concerned citizen who, taking money out of his own pocket, was concerned with one thing only. Bringing a vicious criminal to justice. Of course, as the CEO of AIM, which had controlling shares in several of South Africa’s largest newspapers and owned about half a dozen radio stations, the reward was – in addition to being an act of ‘extreme charity’ – a very calculated and smart media strategy. It not only provided daily fodder for the AIM news organs, but positioned the company at the centre of what was definitely turning out to be the news story of the year.

Besides all the free publicity Mohale was generating, the million rand reward also had another effect. Hoping to claim the award for themselves, literally thousands of people streamed to the little town. Armchair detectives; backyard sleuths; crime hobbyists. They all came. The crazy. The kooky. The greedy. And the curious. They all came. The psychics; the prophets; the mediums. They came too. The million rand reward was a flame. And to the irresistible glow, flocked the moths. In their thousands. Those who could afford it rented entire houses from delighted Hope residents. Those who could afford less, rented rooms. Those who couldn’t afford anything at all slept in their cars or brought tents. The local Northern Cape Co-op made an absolute killing selling one man tents to the hopeful who now trekked to Hope. Due to the limited space available, a makeshift tent town soon arose out of the Karoo dust, to the north of the town, not far from the doomed Pill Town. The chaotic squatter camp, which featured tents, cars and caravans, was soon dubbed Shanghai City. The residents looked at the latest developments with a mixture of disgust and delight, depending on the extent to which they were profiting from the new arrivals. Whatever the case, by the time the town treasurer concluded the tax year by the end of February of the next year, he could report that Hope had experienced the most successful financial year in its entire history.

Human watched these latest developments with a mixture of chagrin and disgust. Sitting in front of the TV at Eighteen Hill Street the next morning, he knew exactly what the so-called act of extreme charity was going to achieve. It was going to make their already difficult job a
helluva
lot harder. The last thing the task group needed was a bunch of greedy amateurs slogging and traipsing through their crime scenes.

Human threw the remote at a detective and told him to switch off the TV. In a moody cloud he returned to his desk to review the items on the day’s agenda.

The most important item was the autopsy report, faxed over from Kimberley. Human scanned through the documents. As he had suspected, death was due to ‘asphyxia due to ligature strangulation’. The boy had a ‘broken hyoid bone’ and there was the characteristic ‘petechial haemorrhaging in the mucosa of the lips and the interior of the mouth’ as well as in the ‘conjuctival surfaces of the eyes.’ The ‘skin of the anterior neck above and below the ligature mark’ showed a straight line of haemorrhaging. The strangulation had been swift and clean. At least the boy had a quick death.

The autopsy also identified a large number of contusions that ranged from the ‘right lateral chin’ to the ‘right and mid-forehead’ and abrasions ‘of the left dorsal wrist’ and the right ‘dorsal forearm’ to the ‘right anterior torso’. The clinical language of the autopsy couldn’t hide a disturbing fact. The little boy had been mercilessly and ceaselessly tortured for the duration of his captivity.

Human read on, as always doing his best to maintain a clinical distance. Sometimes it was harder than others. The autopsy made mention of the large number of burn marks across the body, from cigarette burns to the characteristic marks left by a cattle prod, widely used in the region. The stomach contents indicated the presence of dog food and, disturbingly, human faeces. ‘Jesus.’ Human closed his eyes. Did human cruelty know no boundaries? He sighed, continuing the grim work of working through the death report. Under the heading of external injuries, Human found something interesting and odd. He read the inscription twice just to assure himself that he hadn’t misunderstood the words. Under the heading EXTERNAL EXAMINATION, dealing with oral cavity, he found the following: ‘Trace amounts of hair in oral cavity from equus ferus, or common horse.’

Horse hair in the mouth? What did it mean?

Immediately Human contacted one of the junior detectives and instructed him to compile a list of all the properties that contained horse stables or pastures. Who knew? Maybe this was the break they were hoping for?

Human filed the autopsy, instructing his detectives to study it with great care. Except for the inexplicable incidence of horse hair in the boy’s mouth, the report produced nothing new. It did however confirm the profiler’s worries. The amount and severity of contusions, burns and abrasions and everything else indicated clearly that the killer’s reign of terror was escalating in intensity. As an experienced detective Human knew this meant only one thing. The killer wasn’t only getting crueller. He was going to kill more often. With smaller periods of inactivity. Yes. This meant there was more opportunity for the killer to make mistakes. More opportunity for the police to apprehend him. But for the people – for the children – of Hope ... it was the worst possible news.

With a heavy heart, Human dealt with the other matters in his inbox. The fingerprints from the public phone yielded nothing as expected. It was good. Now Human could assign his CSU guys to more important matters.

In Human’s inbox was also a print-out of an email from ECS-CSIRT (Electronic Communications Security - Computer Security Incident Response Team). It wasn’t good news. They were struggling to produce results. René Matthews had been a busy girl indeed. She had been chatting to ‘friends’ on several servers and networks, most of them international. The success of the ECS-CSIRT line of investigation was all pursuant to issuing successful warrants for access to the various servers. And it was this that was taking time. For now, what had appeared to be one of their best leads was a dead-end. For the time being. It was frustrating.

Human also contacted Colonel Jan Potgieter, the profiler. In his sombre and reserved manner, the profiler informed him that the profile would be ready the following day. Human thanked him and cursed quietly as he replaced the telephone handset. All the time the profiler’s words rang in his mind. ‘It’s just going to get worse.’ On top of all the other obstacles and calamities, the last thing Human needed was a psychopath who was going to start killing with greater frequency. In the eighties, his crimes had been separated by several months. Although at this stage he only had the words of a profiler – and his own suspicions – to confirm his worst fears, Human couldn’t shake the dreaded thought. The killer would strike soon. Very soon. They had a matter of days before another child fell victim to his twisted lust.

Around mid-morning, Human heard voices in the reception area of the detective unit. He stood up and walked to the room. Several detectives were clustered around a pretty young black girl. Petite and lithe, she was dressed professionally in a knee-length gray skirt and a plain black blouse. Shoulder length hair was tied neatly in a bun, skewered into place on top of her head with a porcupine quill. A Coloured uniformed policeman was seated on the edge of the desk. ‘Well, hello there, pretty baby.’ Some of the other detectives snickered. ‘So, did you come all the way from Johannesburg to help us catch our mass murderer?’

The girl bristled visibly at the patronising words. She straightened herself and responded calmly, enunciating each word carefully and deliberately. ‘A mass murderer, sergeant, typically murders a large group of people, during a single event, in usually one location with no cooling-off period. A serial killer, on the other hand,
sergeant
,’ she said, the last word being ejected from her mouth as if it were an unpleasant morsel of food, ‘is defined as a person who has killed three or more people, depending on whose definition you’re referencing, with a distinctive temporal separation of at least a month, motivated by an aberrant psychological motive, usually sexual in nature.’

One of the detectives gave a wolf-whistle, while some of the others laughed at their uniformed colleague. ‘You’ve been served, man.’ One of the detectives exclaimed.

The uniformed policeman who had spoken, stood up, rising to his full height, in an attempt to intimidate the girl. He was just about to speak when she neatly interrupted him. ‘And considering that I outrank you, sergeant, I would suggest from now on you refer to me as “sir”,
not
“pretty baby”.’ The policeman looked on, temporarily winded.

Human stepped forward. The detectives in the room, including the uniformed policeman, straightened. The black girl herself stiffened and approached Human, her hand extended in greeting. ‘Detective Human,’ she said shaking Human’s hand formally, ‘My name is Lerato Mathafeng.’ She looked over at the men in the room. ‘I’m here to assist you, sir.’

Her grip was solid and firm. Human nodded. ‘Yes, pleased to meet you detective Mathafeng. Joe Ndabane told me to expect you.’ Human stood for a moment, awkward under the observation of the other policemen in the room. ‘Follow me, please.’ He led her to the filing room that had become his ad hoc office. All eyes were on the pretty young girl as the detectives seated at the clustered desks looked up from their work. At his desk, Human turned and faced her, unsure of what to do with her.

She eased his awkwardness by speaking first. ‘Detective Human, I just want to tell you what an incredible honour this is for me.’ Her words were crisp and without accent, the result of an expensive education, Human guessed. ‘I have been following your career since ... well, since you first became ... famous.’ The last word was spoken with hesitation. ‘In fact, it was because of the ... incredible work you do, that I ... that I decided to enter the South African Police Services in the first place.’ Human nodded, genuinely surprised. ‘I also want to assure you, that I am not here as a mere political appointee. I ... I want to assure you that I intend to work hard and to contribute. I intend to become a valuable and indispensible member of your team.’

‘Yes,’ Human said wryly, ‘well, you can never have too many of those.’

Human’s words made her cast her eyes downward. ‘Yes, sir.’ She took a deep breath and turned her big hazel eyes to Human, a look of steely determination burning on her face. Her full lips pursed into a tight knot. Human stared at her, his heart skipping a beat. There was something there. Something. Something that reminded him of someone. Something that made him think of ... her. He turned his back, hiding the shock on his face. And busied himself collecting a sheaf of papers.

‘Yes, well, I need you to familiarise yourself with the case. In particular, I want you to review the original series of murders, in the eighties.’ He handed her the fat wad of papers. ‘I have a feeling the key to this entire investigation lies buried in the past. I’ve been making notes on the original case files.’ She took the papers with something approaching reverence, nodding enthusiastically. ‘I want you to make copies of these and return them to me immediately.’ Until now his eyes had been averted. He now looked at her again. Feeling a tiny explosion in his gut. ‘There’s a reason why he stopped killing. If we can discover that reason, then maybe we can discover
why
he started again.’ She nodded, never once taking her eyes off Human. ‘I believe our killer is an outwardly respectable member of society, most likely with a family of his own.’ He tried to focus his thoughts, his mind, but instead found a freight train hurtling right through the centre of his being.
Goddammit
. Human pointed at his notes, trying to find any excuse not to look into her eyes. ‘It’s all there.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. ‘In terms of case histories, I believe our killer exhibits similarities to a famous Wichita serial killer known as –’

‘B.T.K’

They spoke the words in exact unison. Human looked up, shocked.

‘Dennis Rader,’ she said, fixing Human with an intense stare, ‘an abbreviation for Bind ... Torture ... Kill. A very good summation of his modus operandi.’ Seeing Human’s forceful look, she averted her eyes, embarrassed. ‘I’ve been following the case as much as possible.’

Human smiled, breaking the intensity. ‘Very perceptive, detective Mathafeng.’ She looked up at Human, glowing under his compliment. Maybe the female detective would turn out to be an asset after all, Human thought. ‘Yes, I believe our killer is very similar to the B.T.K. killer,’ Human continued. ‘He was an extremely organised and efficient killer, as you know. He rose to prominence after he brutally massacred the entire Otero family in seventy-four. He was also famous for sending mocking letters and other items to police, boasting about his murders. He was so totally committed to his ... twisted craft, that he quit his job and began working for the ADT security company, installing alarms in the homes of potential victims.’