by Deon Meyer
“Indeed,” said Bart de Wit.
“Damn right,” said Nougat O’Grady.
“But you’re also forced to work within the confines of the regulations if you take over the investigation. If Military Intelligence pulls strings, you’ll have to cooperate. And as long as I share information, you can’t stop me carrying on the investigation.”
De Wit said nothing. Finger and mole met again.
“I suggest a partnership. A working relationship.”
“And you call the shots?” Nougat, snorting.
“Nobody calls the shots. We just do what we have to do—and share the information.”
“I don’t trust you.”
Van Heerden made a gesture that implied it didn’t bother him.
A silence fell.
“Where were you?” Hope asked when he eventually opened the door. “I don’t know how to handle the calls. A man phoned to say someone was coming to attack us, and the media, the Argus and eTV, want information and —”
“Take it easy,” he said. “I had to negotiate with Murder and Robbery.”
“A man phoned. He said Smit was De Jager.”
“Rupert de Jager,” said Van Heerden.
“You knew?”
“The call that came in when Military Intelligence was here —”
“Military Intelligence?”
“The two clowns, black and white.”
“They were from Military Intelligence?”
“Yes. The call was from a Mrs. Carolina de Jager of Springfontein in the Free State. Rupert was her son.”
“Good gracious.”
“It seems as if it all goes back to 1976. And the Defence Force.”
“The man who phoned also spoke about ’seventy-six. He said the murderer was a Schlebusch who was with them.”
“Schlebusch,” he said, rolling the name on his tongue.
“Bushy,” she said. “That’s what he called him. Do you know about him?”
“No. It’s new. What else did the man say?”
She looked at the paper in front of her. “I didn’t handle it well, Van Heerden. I had to lie because he assumed we already knew a lot of stuff. He said Schlebusch is dangerous. He’s going to shoot us. He has an M16.”
He absorbed the information. “Does he know where Schlebusch is?”
“No, but he said Schlebusch would find us. He’s scared.”
“Did he tell you what happened in ’seventy-six?”
“No.”
“What else did he say?”
“Schlebusch… he said Schlebusch likes killing.”
He looked at her. Realized she wasn’t up to this kind of thing. She was afraid.
“What else?”
“That was all. And then the Argus phoned and eTV.”
“We’ll have to hold a news conference.”
The telephone rang again.
“Now you must answer.”
“You must go to Bloemfontein.”
“Bloemfontein?”
“Hope, you’re repeating everything I say.”
She looked frowningly at him for a moment and then she laughed self-consciously. Tension breaker.
“You’re right.”
“You must fetch Mrs. Carolina de Jager.”
He picked up the receiver.
“Van Heerden.”
“I know who the murderer is,” a woman’s voice said.
“We would welcome the information.”
“Satanists,” the woman said. “They’re everywhere.”
“Thank you,” he said, and replaced the receiver. “Another crazy,” he said to Hope.
“We’ve uncovered something nasty,” she said, her face worried.
“We’re going to solve it.”
“And the police are going to help us?”
“We’re going to share information.”
“Did you tell them everything?”
“Almost. Simply said that we suspect it has to do with the Defence Force and something that happened years ago.”
“Shouldn’t we hand the case to them?”
“Are you scared, Hope?”
“Of course I’m scared. This case is getting bigger and bigger. And now we’re getting threats from a man who is going to kill us. Because he enjoys it.”
“You’ll learn. There are always a thousand stories about something like this. And most of them are pure sh—nonsense.”
“I still think we should hand it to the police.”
“No,” he said.
She looked pleadingly at him.
“Hope, nothing will happen. You’ll see.”
He arranged for an answering machine to take messages, upset with himself that he hadn’t thought of it before. He tore a piece of paper off the writing pad, made notes of the new information, tried to arrange it in sequence, listened to callers who were acting out their minor delusions, waited for the answering machine to appear.
“I can get a flight to Bloemfontein early tomorrow morning and be back by late afternoon,” Hope came in to report. He gave her Carolina de Jager’s phone number, asked her to arrange it all.
The answering machine was delivered, and the technician helped him to install it. The number of calls decreased, but he knew they would increase when bored children came home from school.
Marie’s head appeared again after a soft, scared knock. “There’s an American who wants to talk to you.”
“Send him in.”
An American? He shook his head, drew another square on his notepad. The whole world was in on the deal. Hell, the newspaper article had worked…
Marie opened the door. “Mr. Powell,” she said, and wanted to close the door behind her.
“Call Hope,” he said quickly, and extended his hand. “Van Heerden.”
“Luke Powell,” said the American in a heavy accent. He was black and middle-aged, slightly overweight, with a soft, round face and eyes that wanted to laugh.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Powell?”
“No, sir, it’s what I can do for you.”
“Please take a seat,” he said, indicating one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. “And I must apologize for the fact that I have to answer the telephone.”
“No sweat. Have to do your job.” The wide mouth smiling broadly to reveal flawless white teeth.
Hope opened the door and he introduced her to Powell. She sat down, her arms folded, body language indicating that she didn’t want to be there.
“I’m with the U.S. Consulate,” said Powell. “Economic adviser. After we heard about this on the radio, I thought I’d, you know, pop in to offer our cooperation. You know, with dollars being involved and all.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Van Heerden.
The broad smile again. “It’s our absolute pleasure.”
Van Heerden smiled back. “So you have some interesting information for us about the origin of the dollars?”
“Oh, no, I was hoping you could tell me. The radio news was pretty brief, you know, just that quite a few dollars could be involved in this thing. But if you guys point us in the right direction, I could pass the information along to… I don’t know, whoever can help. That’s one thing we do have… resources.”
“Tell me, Mr. Powell, what does an American economic adviser do in South Africa?”
Smile, self-deprecating, hands that showed the work wasn’t important. “Oh, you know, talk to business people mostly, lots of folks want to trade with the US of A… Help them with the paperwork, identify opportunities. Our government is totally committed to the development of the new South Africa. And then, of course, our own companies back home, they want to enter your market…”
“I was referring to your real job,” said Van Heerden, his smile genuine, enjoying it.
“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”
“My problem, Mr. Powell, is that I don’t know enough about the American intelligence community to be able to guess accurately to which arm you belon
g. But I would say possibly CIA. Or perhaps one of the military groups—you have so many…”
Hope’s mouth was slightly open in disbelief.
“Lordy,” said Powell, “is that what you think?” Amused, sincere. He’s good, Van Heerden thought, and wondered whether they had sent a black man so that he could be more or less invisible here. With that accent?
“Yes, sir, that would be my best shot.”
“Wait till I tell the wife about that one, Mr. van Hieden. Nope, I’m a pretty ordinary minor government official doing a pretty ordinary job. I guess you-all shouldn’t believe all that stuff on television. Lordy, is that really what you think?”
He saw Hope hanging on the man’s words, ready to believe.
“Seeing that you’re so honest with us, Mr. Powell, I’ll level with you, too. The funny thing about this case is that we had almost nothing to go on. And I mean really nothing. Just a tiny piece of paper that Forensics believed was used years ago to wrap dollars. And a huge walk-in safe and a false identity document and a man starting a business years ago with more cash than can be explained. And that was it.”
Powell nodded, listening intently.
“We were at a dead end. There was nowhere to go. So we asked the press for help and built a story that was nothing more than conjecture, fiction if you want, loosely based on one of quite a few possibilities.”
“Is that right?”
“And you know what happened? All hell broke loose. We had calls from all over the country, we’ve had the most interesting people walking in, and suddenly more pieces of the puzzle than we could’ve hoped for fell into our laps. If you’ll pardon the expression, it was like opening a can of worms.”
“Well, there you go,” said Powell, still the minor government official.
“And, I must add, forty-eight hours ago I thought this case couldn’t be solved. Hell, six hours ago I thought it was dead as a doornail. But now, Mr. Powell, the case has blown wide open. It seems to me that not only will we solve it, but a great many people will be embarrassed by it.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir, it sure is,” said Van Heerden, a slight American accent creeping into his voice. He couldn’t help it; he remembered the time in Quantico, the overwhelming, contagious accents. “And now you have to ask yourself, do you and those who employ you want to be embarrassed as well?”
Powell took a deep breath, the smile intact, calm, unworried. “Well, sir, I’m grateful to you for sharing that with me, but I’m just…”
“A minor government official?”
“Absolutely.” The smile still broad and open.
“But should you care to share what you know, the damage could be minimized, of course. Contained, I believe, would be the right word.”
“Mr. van Hieden, sir, let me say that if I’m ever in the position to supply you with any information whatsoever, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to share it with you.” Powell put a hand in his jacket pocket, took out a card. “Unfortunately, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. But should you change your mind about my employment and need information, be sure to call me.” He put the card down in front of Van Heerden and stood up. “It’s been a pleasure, sir, madam.”
And when they had shaken hands and Powell had closed the door behind him, Hope Beneke slowly blew out her breath and said, “Fuck it!” and amazement spread across her face at the feat of saying the word.
“Is that right?” said Van Heerden in a broad American accent, and they laughed, deep and relieved, a moment of calm in a stormy sea.
The phone rang.
32.
Among the heartbreaking reports of killings from virtually all over the country, I found the trail of the Masking Tape Murderer.
Not immediately, but slowly, with orderly hard work, lists and flow charts and notes and graphs and a total, overruling obsession.
The documents arrived one after another, from detectives in cities, from small towns in the country, all with precisely the same theme: a yearning to catch the sick soul, to trap the perpetrator of abhorrent crimes, the same mandate to empower, the same unconditional offer of assistance to solve and close the dormant, dust-gathering files.
In those weeks I discovered the soul of a policeman, the hunting instinct, the personal involvement of a hunter with his prey. Because each file spoke of dedication, of passion, every packet had a letter enclosed in which I was begged to use the new criminological knowledge, to share, so that they could still the pain of an unsolved murder, the gnawing realization that he was still out there, carrying out his deadly calling.
It was in those weeks that I discovered my true vocation, experienced my initiation into the brotherhood, alone in an office in the maze of the university’s corridors. In those weeks I lost Wendy and found myself: I truly smelled blood for the first time and could not resist the odor.
Of the unbelievable eighty-seven responses that I received from all over the country, only nine were indisputably applicable, with another four or five possibilities. The rest were the crimes of other serial killers who had plagued our country for the past twenty years.
Naturally there was the temptation to establish a sort of national register of mass murder (how far ahead of my time I would’ve been!) but my obsession was too overwhelming, my debt of honor to Baby Marnewick too heavy a yoke.
And when all the information had been processed onto a huge chart that covered one wall of my office, the murder route of Masking Tape had been mapped. It was a chronicle, a casebook study of the rise, apprenticeship, and eventual coming-of-age of a serial killer who had drawn his trail of bloody destruction across the South African landscape.
And he was a miner.
His journey started in 1974 in the Free State gold-mining town of Virginia, with the assault and rape of a fourteen-year-old black schoolgirl who survived the knife wounds in her breasts by sheer willpower after she had been found with her hands tied behind her back with masking tape in an open stretch of veld. His first initiatory deed? Or were there others before that—clumsy, unreported attempts? Or was that the first time he used masking tape? The dossier mentioned that the victim could give no description of the rapist. Didn’t want to?
In the same year, a fifteen-year-old white schoolgirl, again from Virginia, was found next to the road, hands bound with masking tape, seventeen knife wounds in her breasts, with one nipple cut off. The police combed the black township and the black mine-workers’ compound, interrogated any number of black suspects, the connection between the two victims clear. No arrests were made.
Blyvooruitzicht on the West Rand, 1975: A twenty-two-year-old secretary at a legal firm, slight and pretty, finished her work and went home. No one ever saw her alive again. The following afternoon at 12:22 they kicked in the door of her small flat because they were suspicious. They found her in the only bedroom, hands and feet bound with masking tape, multiple stab wounds in the breasts, both nipples clumsily removed, a teddy bear on her face. (That, said the Quantico model, was a sign that the murderer was ashamed of his deed, that he didn’t want to see her eyes.)
December 16, 1975: Carletonville. A black farmhand discovered the naked body of a twenty-one-year-old waitress at 6:30 in the morning at the side of the tarred road to Rysmierbult. Masking tape, stab wounds in the chest, nipples removed. Where had she been murdered? There were no signs of a struggle where she was found, no trail of blood. No arrests.
March 9, 1976: A thirty-four-year-old prostitute was found in her flat in Welkom. The amount of blood in the room was frightening—one of the knife wounds had sliced through her aorta, which spouted a fountain of blood against the walls, over the furniture and the floor, flushing out her life. She had struggled: there was skin under her nails and she had bruises on her face. She was probably dead before he could use the masking tape, but it was found where it had rolled under a coffee table. Nipples sliced, knife wounds, and, for the first time, horrifying postmortem mutilation of
the vagina.
Rage.
No fingerprints on the roll of masking tape.
Then, in 1979, after three years of silence, the death of Baby Marnewick. For the first time a victim in the kneeling position; semen found for the first time.
Where had he been for three years? After the acceleration between ’75 and ’76, the increasing aggression, the periods between the murders becoming briefer? Serial killers didn’t simply disappear of their own free will. They never stopped, they were moths around the flame of self-destruction, closer and closer, crazier and crazier, until they were burned out, usually in the white flame of justice.
The answer, the FBI said, is very often a jail sentence. Because where there is the smoke of serial murder, there is a fire that sparks off other crimes—even minor acts of white-collar theft, arson occasionally, indecent assault and rape or attempted rape. All the studies indicated that a silence of months or years that disturbed a killer’s demonic tempo was, in 80 percent of the cases, due to a jail sentence for another crime.
Three murders in 1980: In March at Sishen, a twenty-three-year-old housewife, kneeling, multiple knife wounds, nipples removed, masking tape around the ankles and wrists.
June, in Durban: A thirty-one-year-old cosmetic sales rep in her hotel room. Exactly the same modus operandi.
August in Thabazimbi: A twenty-three-year-old unemployed single woman, possibly a prostitute or a call girl, found in her small home, five days after someone had used the whole terrifying ritual to humiliate and murder her.
And after that, nothing.
The bloody trail ended sharply and suddenly, as if Masking Tape had disappeared off the face of the earth. Dead? Jail sentence again? It made no sense.
For a week I stared at the monster on my wall. The flow chart was there, the map, the notes in the margin, the main suspects—not a single duplication. The list of similarities and differences was there, as well as the gaps.
The trail was there, sharp and clear, but there was no indication of identity. The murderer of Baby Marnewick had a trail now, a history. But, as yet, no name.