Daddy Long Legs

by Vernon W. Baumann

  Over time, Daddy Long Legs, like so many other twisted characters of history, gained a kind of a cult following. In the late 90’s, a group of disaffected and rebellious youths began dabbling in Satanism. More than a few ‘satanic’ rituals were performed on sites where Daddy Long Legs victims had been dumped. Like so many similar teenage endeavours, the cult was never really authentic. And was ultimately more concerned with making anti-establishment statements than conducting actual forays into the world of the occult. That they chose the notorious Hope killer as their inspiration was an indication, however, of how deeply ingrained the legend had become. At around the same time, a group of Cape Town musicians named their band Daddy Long Legs. They had a minor hit with ‘Your Love is Murder’ but broke up soon afterwards when it was discovered the drummer was sleeping with the other members’ girlfriends. Although he was gone, it appeared as if Daddy Long Legs was here to stay.

  About a year and a half after the death of Ryan Devlin – the killer’s last victim – a few boys, playing on the southern outskirts of town, discovered what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a dismembered child. That the remains were those of a child was easy enough to confirm due to the size of the skeletal bones. The rest was slightly more difficult. The skeleton was crudely dismembered and some major components were missing, not least of all, the skull. The remains were obviously in an advanced state of decomposition and, due to the relatively new and unsophisticated science of DNA analysis at the time, it was quite some time before it was determined that the bones belonged to more than one child. Some of the skeletal remains were (eventually) positively identified as belonging to Benny Boonzaayer. What made the find even more interesting, and enigmatic, was that various items belonging to the other Daddy Long Legs victims were also strewn about the shallow grave. In fact, the site yielded small items that could be traced to almost all of the victims. Amongst the items, there was the asthma inhaler, belonging to Barry Coetzee; a little Saint Christopher medallion belonging to Jason Reed; and a single sock bearing the name of Kiepie Gous. Investigators also found one sneaker belonging to Ryan Devlin. The strange dump site led to a string of new theories and conjectures. It did not, however, lead to the killer himself.

  In the end, Daddy Long Legs cut a murky swathe across the hearts and minds of the people of Hope. It was a dark band of misery, loss and fear. A small town had lost its innocence. And would for evermore bear the scars of his psychopathy. An entire generation of children were forced to grow up before their time, becoming intimately acquainted with the dark spectre of twisted human sexuality.

  The killer, dubbed Daddy Long Legs on that hot spring evening by a couple of pre-adolescent boys, had thankfully departed ... and would be no more.

  That was until...

  An Odd Event

  Before we continue the story, we need to focus on an odd little footnote.

  At around the same time that a group of traumatised boys found the remains of Daddy Long Legs’s last victims, something strange occurred one night at the Hope police station.

  It was around 2am, on a Sunday morning. Although the Hope police force could boast a staff of around 80 people, including administrative and support staff, this particular morning there were only two police officers inside the police station. Two vans, with two policemen each, had responded to two separate calls of domestic disturbance in the township of Steynbrug. Although it was only a few hours before a new business week would begin, it was nothing strange for some members of the Steynbrug community to still be partying it up.

  Neither of the two officers on duty that night could quite agree on the events of that evening. There was a great deal of contradiction and both officers revised their testimonies more than once. Only the following was ever established beyond a shadow of a doubt: around 2am, on the morning of the 4th of February, 1990, some unknown person broke into the forensics room at the Hope police station. This was in the days before all the region’s forensics were centralised at the nearby city of Kimberley. Autopsies were still being conducted on site and all relevant records and samples were stored there too.

  When the police officers had done a proper inspection, it was discovered that the autopsy reports for three of the Daddy Long Legs victims had been stolen as well as some biological samples. Since no copies of the autopsy reports existed elsewhere, the vital information contained in the reports were forever lost to history.

  Fearing a media backlash, the theft was never reported to the press. The two policemen suffered a severe reprimand as well as extensive disciplinary measures. They were, however, not dismissed.

  Following an investigation, it was discovered that at least one of the domestic disturbance call-outs had been a ‘false alarm’.

  PART TWO

  Detective Wayne Human

  One

  The thin and bespectacled man drove slowly down Schoeman Street, deep in thought. The Pretoria street was crowded with the usual lunchtime traffic. Buses and taxis. Motorbikes and sedans. Honking and hooting. Rude gestures. Pavements packed with hundreds of pedestrians. And dozens of informal traders.

  It was Monday afternoon in the heart of South Africa’s administrative capitol. And Detective Wayne Human wished he was somewhere else.

  Damn!

  He yanked the wheel of the Toyota Corolla and braked hard to avoid a kombi taxi that had come to a sudden standstill. He cursed again. For a moment he considered jumping out and flashing his police badge at the reckless driver. But he abandoned the thought. It was not in his nature to abuse the privileges of his office.

  Although he had grown up in the massive urban complex of Johannesburg, the non-stop traffic of city life always filled him with a sense of oppressiveness. It was no different in Pretoria. However, at least here in Pretoria the large Jacaranda trees that lined both sides of the street brought a measure of relief. It was November and the distinctive trees had already bloomed into the purple profusion of spring. Detective Human stopped at a red light, enjoying the vista offered by the purple-blossomed trees, a sight as unique to Pretoria as cherry-blossom trees were to New York. The mad honking madness of Schoeman Street soon delivered him from his reverie though. The light had barely turned green and the madmen of Pretoria were telling him, in no uncertain terms, that he was keeping up traffic.

  Doesn’t this ever stop, he wondered to himself as he pulled away and rolled down the busy street. On both sides of him, various government buildings zipped past. The Department of Water and Forestry. The South African Revenue Service. The Department of Education. The offices of the Metropolitan Municipality of Tswane (the name of the large municipality of which Pretoria was a part). The Department of Labour. And the Magistrate’s Office. In a city of civil servants, this was the heart of civil Pretoria. A description that certainly didn’t apply to its drivers, Human thought sardonically.

  Detective Human cut a right and then another, to bring himself into Pretorius Street, one of the capitol’s main arteries. Scanning the street ahead, he pulled into a free parking bay in front of a large nondescript building. The large edifice had every appearance of being a government building yet carried no signage whatever indicating its true purpose. As he often did, he wondered if it was due to security concerns or just plain damn laziness.

  Normally he would park in the basement parking area of the building known as Wachthuis but today he had a busy day ahead of him. As usual, there were not enough hours in the day. He stepped out of the white Corolla, an unmarked police car, and eyed the busy lunchtime traffic with distaste.

  Sighing, Detective Human locked the Corolla and headed for the Wachthuis entrance. Amongst a dozen other police divisions, it was also the headquarters of the national detective services of the South African Police. As usual, the arcade that led to the entrance of the imposing building hosted an incessant flow of people. As he entered the darkened area of the arcade, he caught sight of two burly white men having an animated discussion. Detectives Reyneke and Veldman; both policemen in the same u
nit as Human. Wayne Human passed them and waved a tentative greeting. Detective Reyneke nodded curtly while Veldman ignored him completely. Human hardly took notice. It was nothing new.

  Instead of waiting for the laborious elevator he decided to take the stairs to the sixth floor, home of the elite detective services. The office was the usual bustle of activity. Dozens of people hurried along its dingy corridors. Phones rang. Doors slammed. People shouted. Chairs scraped across tiled floors. At the end of the hallway, Human saw two detectives escort a suspect to one of the interrogation rooms. A black detective, Busi Jali, stopped Human. He vigorously pumped his hand. ‘Hola, my bru, well done, eksê.’ He beamed up at the tall detective.

  ‘Aw, come now, Busi,’ Human said, smiling at the black man, ‘it was all of us. Everyone played a part.’

  ‘Hoa,’ Jali said feigning shock, ‘you’re so modest. Hey?’ Jali spotted someone in the distance. ‘Hey, Lerato’ he said, waving her over enthusiastically, ‘come and congratulate detective Superman here.’

  The large black admin clerk jogged towards Human. ‘Ooooooh.’ She threw her arms around him.’ You! You! You! You are the super detective, né?’ She held him at arm’s length to admire him.

  Wayne Human smiled fondly at Lerato. ‘Really, you do have a sense of the dramatic, don’t you?’

  ‘Eish, broer,(brother)’ Jali said, ‘even the papers are calling you Sherlock Holmes now.’ A beefy white detective with a walrus moustache edged past the group with a hint of irritation. ‘So, broer, some of the guys are meeting at the Horse and Keg later tonight. You gonna make a turn?’

  ‘Oh, Wayne, you must, you must.’ Lerato giggled with excitement. ‘Promise? Hey? You promise?’

  Human drew a hand through his thin wispy hair. ‘Lerato, I’ll ... erm ...I’ll see, okay?’

  ‘Eish, you, you’re such an old man, you.’ Lerato patted him on his shoulder as she ambled away. ‘Sharp, né,’ she said throwing him a thumbs up. ‘You must come tonight.’ She disappeared into one of the dozens of offices lining the long corridor.

  ‘Wayne, well done, broer.’ Jali punched him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you later, né?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Jali walked off, then stopped and turned. ‘Hey, Curry wants to see you, okay.’ Wayne Human nodded, smiling. ‘Get that bastard to give you a raise, eksê.’

  Jay ‘Curry’ Govinda was the divisional head of detective services, and Wayne’s immediate superior. He chuckled. As always, the western swear words in the mouth of an African sounded so incongruous and starling to him. He paused for a moment in thought then headed off to the end of the corridor and Govinda’s office. In the ante-room, Ilse Venter loudly greeted Human. She came out from behind her desk and embraced him. ‘Jou doring,’ she said fondly, speaking in Afrikaans, ‘I heard you got a guilty.’ Ilse was Govinda’s secretary and one of the longest serving members on the sixth floor of the Wachthuis building.

  ‘Yep. Sentencing hearing later this week,’ Human said in faltering Afrikaans.

  Ilse grabbed both Human’s arms in her meaty hands. She looked at him with beaming pride, as if he had been her son and not one of the unit’s top detectives. In many ways, he was. ‘We’re all so proud of you, you know that, Wayne?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Susan told me old Bulldog Brussouw was on fire.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Wayne said with genuine admiration. ‘He didn’t miss a beat.’ Kobus Brussouw was the chief prosecutor for the city of Johannesburg. An old hand who had been one of the few to make a seamless transition into the new ANC dispensation of the post 1994 elections.

  ‘I’m glad. It’s always such a shame when they mess up the hard work we do over here.’ She winked at Human. Then released him and adjusted her blouse. It was back to business. ‘Curry’s expecting you,’ she said resuming her position behind her desk. Ilse’s use of Govinda’s nickname came easily and was without derision. It was true that many of the members of the detective division had nicknames that carried racial connotations. It was a testament to the relative success of South Africa’s political transition that these nicknames existed in an atmosphere of amicability. After decades of forced racial divisions, it seemed few had need of the uptight obsessiveness of modern political correctness. ‘You can go right in.’

  Human headed for Govinda’s door and turned the handle.

  ‘Wayne?’ Human turned to Ilse. ‘Well done, boykie.’ Human winked at her and entered.

  Jay ‘Curry’ Govinda was seated behind his massive desk, scribbling intently. ‘Sit down,’ he said curtly. Wayne seated himself without taking offense at Govinda’s tone. By now he was used to the division head’s brusque and formal nature. Having grown up near destitute in the Johannesburg suburb of Florida, it was the former detective’s no-nonsense nature that had allowed him a swift ascendancy up the ranks of police bureaucracy. Despite his abrupt manner, Human was glad that someone like Govinda was in charge of the division. ‘Has tannie (aunty) Ilse been fawning over you again?’

  Wayne chuckled. ‘Yes, sir. You know her.’

  Govinda continued scribbling without responding. ‘Good work on the Moffat case,’ He said without looking up.

  The Moffat case had been a veritable media sensation –and the division’s biggest success story to date. Two of South Africa’s biggest philanthropists – and both major players in the oscillating politics of the ANC – John and Lydia Moffat had been found brutally murdered in their plush Bryanston home a few months earlier. Facing a great deal of politics and much criticism from the media, Human had soon identified the son as the major suspect. After authorising a dragnet that almost cost him his job, he had discovered a vital piece of forensic evidence just in time to prevent Michael Moffat from fleeing the country. It had turned the shy Human into a media darling and had solidified the reputation of the entire detective division – at a time when it had been facing mounting opposition.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Finally, Govinda looked up at Human. ‘How’s the rest of your case load?’

  Human nodded in contemplation. ‘Good. I’m interviewing a witness later today.’

  ‘No. You’re going to have to cancel.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got a team from Special Assignment coming to do an interview with you.’ Govinda looked at his watch. ‘In about half an hour.’

  Human felt his spirits sink. But he remained stone-faced and didn’t voice his feelings. He spent a moment digesting the information. Trying to re-schedule the busy day that lay ahead. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Govinda carried on scribbling. You realise how important this media attention is, right?’

  Detective Wayne Human thought that even the cleaning staff must have known how important ‘this media attention’ was. In the politically charged world of civil service South Africa, it was difficult not to be.

  A few years back, the government had created a new investigative arm, known as the Scorpions. Staffed by some of South Africa’s premier investigators, this new division was meant to mirror the FBI in scope and ability. The Scorpions had achieved spectacular successes in its short history, and under the direction of a wily and media-savvy chief, had become the darling of the South African press. In a country where the police were often accused of being corrupt and incompetent, the Scorpions had become a thorn in the side of the National Police Commissioner. The primary reason, of course, was that the Scorpions reported directly to the National Prosecuting Authority, and were thus not a division of the South African Police Services. That the senior positions in the Scorpions were largely occupied by detectives from the old Apartheid regime, further inflamed the political infighting. It was for this reason that Wayne Human was of such importance. About a year ago, the Director for Priority Crime Investigation – in charge of the Wachthuis division - established its own unit, tasked with high profile cases, as a counter against the media success of the Scorpions. Under the leadership of Detective Wayne Human, the Mo
ffat case had been its first notable success.

  ‘Yes, sir. I know.’

  Govinda had obviously noted something in Human’s tone, because he looked up, carefully studying his prize detective. ‘I know you don’t like this media bullshit, Detective Human. Believe me, I detest having to kiss the arse of every reporter that walks through our doors, but it’s something we have to do. This comes straight from the top.’ He gave Human an icy stare. ‘And I mean, straight from the top.’ Human knew exactly what Curry Govinda meant. Rumours had been circulating lately that the Police Commissioner himself was about to be investigated by the Scorpions. If it were true, it would be a political earthquake. And would have ramifications far beyond the top structures of the police. ‘Besides, we all have to look good. The FIFA World Cup is coming up in less than two years. All eyes are gonna be on us.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I understand.’ Human bowed his head in acquiescence. ‘Will the interview be conducted here at Wachthuis?’

  ‘Yes. Ilse will let you know when they arrive. Keep your cell phone at hand.’

  Human nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He stared at the shiny scalp of the division head as he continued scribbling feverishly.

  The top cop stopped and looked at Human with puzzlement. ‘That’s all, detective.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Human said, rising from the chair. ‘Thank you.’ He was halfway out the door when Govinda called him back.

  ‘You’re doing good work, detective. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  After confirming with tannie Ilse, Wayne headed for his own office at the other end of the sixth floor. Saintes van Wyk, Human’s partner, was sitting behind his desk. The Coloured detective jumped up and walked towards Human with outstretched arms. ‘My ma se kind,’ he said jovially, using a Coloured term of endearment (my mother’s child) and embraced him. ‘Well done, my bru, well done.’ He punched the detective softly on the jaw. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make the trial. You know this place.’