At the same time, the results of the other investigation started streaming in. In the period under investigation, it appeared there had been a significant relocation of people from Hope to places as far afield as the UK and Greece. Human had guessed that this list would be much bigger than the first one. Not simply because people tended to move with greater regularity than be imprisoned, but because the end of the eighties was a tumultuous time in South Africa. Many white people, fearing that minority rule was quickly coming to an end, chose to relocate either overseas or to bigger urban areas, feeling perhaps there was safety in numbers. Of the white people (Human insisted the profile did not include other ethnic groups) that had relocated, there were a possible twenty-eight who matched the profile. These included whole families, as Human, following the original Nieuwoudt profile, believed the likelihood of the killer being married with children could not be absolutely excluded. In fact, it was probably more than likely. Of that twenty-eight, six had relocated overseas. That left twenty-two who had moved to various towns and cities across South Africa. Human now instructed those same detectives to search for similar crimes in the areas the previous search had identified. Anything that matched even loose components of the killer’s modus operandi. There was no guarantee the killer would operate in exactly the same manner. ‘People change over time,’ Human told his detectives. ‘Serial killers are no different.’
As it turned out, the person they were looking for was not on the first list. He had never been imprisoned. And most enigmatically, neither was he on the second list. Because, you see, Daddy Long Legs had never left the vicinity of Hope at all. He had been right there all these years. Gestating. Growing. Changing. Watching. And waiting.
***
So far the killer had successfully evaded capture. But not for long. Later that morning, Human found a lost note, a misfiled addendum to the psychologist report. It was something so inane and bland, that any other detective would have missed it. But not Human. It was a small seed at this stage. But a seed it was. And it had been planted in the fertile mind of one detective Wayne Human. Where it was slowly growing.
In the meantime, the idea of a countdown timer had gone viral. Various versions of the student timer appeared across the Internet. Some with different ‘due dates’; others with more ghoulish interpretations. And ‘creative’ presentations. One website featured a ‘hangman’. Every day that passed, one more aspect of the hangman’s fate was sealed. A rope here. A gallows cross beam there.
The Star newspaper in an effort to do their own, more politically correct, version of the countdown timer, started counting the amount of days since Kobus van Jaarsveld’s disappearance. Underneath the clock, the question ‘When will he be found?’ appeared in blood red Times New Roman.
E-tv was more bold and featured a five minute section of the news every night, dedicated to the Daddy Long Legs investigation. They had revamped the entire studio and had positioned a giant number behind the news anchor, each night counting down the days until the expected discovery of Kobus van Jaarsveld’s body.
In their also-ran manner, the SABC discretely positioned a tiny countdown timer in the bottom right-hand corner of the daily news report.
Human noted that thus far, only he and the UCT group had given the killer an extra day to dump the boy’s body.
Human felt himself grow increasingly agitated. And pressurised. As if to confirm that any hopes of rescuing the boy was hopeless, that morning the profiler from the Investigative Psychology Unit (IPU) showed up.
Whether it was due to its political isolation or the conservative “old school” attitudes that characterised South African policing, the SAPS only began making use of criminal profiling after the country’s first democratic elections. The IPU was officially founded in 1994 by Micki Pistorius, a true legend in the field of South African criminal behavioural analysis, and one of the foremost (and successful) investigators of serial killers in the world. Although she had since left the unit, this elite group of investigators continued to do stellar work and can proudly claim one of the world’s best success rates.
A serious and taciturn man, the bulky and moustached Colonel Jan Potgieter gave precise instructions for the preservation of the crime scene. Human acknowledged these with resignation. Being intimately acquainted with the unit, he respected the work these men and women of this highly specialised division did on a daily basis. Despite his recognition of the inevitability of what was happening, Human couldn’t help feeling dismayed that they had achieved nothing so far. His mood darkened significantly. Colonel Potgieter retired to his quarters, a room he was renting in a nearby house. By now, every single guesthouse and hotel had been fully booked. And private citizens were earning decent money renting out their rooms and, in some cases, their entire homes.
Later that same day, a small group of concerned citizens started camping outside Eighteen Hill Street. During the day, they milled around the entrance to the house, waving placards that said things like ‘Catch the Pervert now!’ and ‘Justice for little Kobus’.
Together with the media contingent that was stationed there, the whole area had become a circus. Some of the residents started selling pancakes, sosaties (kebabs) and boerewors rolls, a uniquely South African take on the hot dog. At least two refreshment stands showed up, selling everything from cold drinks and cigarettes to bubblegum. The dirt road in front of the detective unit, never a major thoroughfare to begin with, now became completely impassable. Human had to park his car almost a block away and trudge half a dusty kilometre to the office every day.
All this merely added to the already crushing weight that Human and his task force experienced.
Every single one of the church services that day mentioned the Daddy Long Legs case. Frenzied prayers were said for little Kobus.
Day five – Zero Day(?)
That morning, there was a palpable shift in the mood of the little town. Human sensed a heightened nervous excitement, mixed uncomfortably with the dread of anticipation. Large groups of teens sporting black clothes, black hair and black nail polish were seen all over town. So-called Goths. One was seen with a t-shirt bearing the legend: WHERE WERE YOU WHEN THEY DISCOVERED KOBUS?
A black circus, Human thought, as he fought his way through the crowds milling outside the detective unit. This morning, the crowd was significantly bigger. And more robust. Several people called out to him. Others grabbed at him. After what seemed like an endless struggle he made it inside. On his desk was a heap of papers. Several requests for interviews from the various agencies and publications. Not today, he thought. Not today.
The phone rang nonstop. Almost every call from a reporter. Could he answer a few questions please? No!
He redirected his calls to a junior detective and instructed him to handle all his calls for the rest of the day. Only calls related to the case were to be directed to his desk.
There was an important matter to deal with. He had called an emergency meeting. And quietly initiated the next phase of the investigation.
He realised they were fast running out of time. Instead of trying to save the life of the boy, they now had to focus on catching the perpetrator. Five days after the disappearance of little Kobus van Jaarsveld, Human gathered his detectives before him. Zero hour was fast approaching. And they had little. Which is to say, nothing.
The instruction was simple. Taking shifts of six hours each, groups of detectives were to watch the established Daddy Long Legs dump sites, around the clock. There had been three known dump sites. One next to the water tower on a hill overlooking Hope. Another some distance outside town following the damaging revelations of the Hope mayor during the eighties. And finally, the most sensational dump site of all, in the veldt that bordered the Hope police station. ‘If he sticks to his modus operandi,’ Human told the detectives, ‘then he will continue using his old dump sites, not only because he finds it convenient, but because he is a narcissist, and it’s a matter of pride. He takes pride in being able to
dump bodies right under the noses of the police and the public.’ The trick was to keep the surveillance secret, although as Human surmised, the killer probably suspected that the dump sites were being watched in any case. While taking great care not to disrupt the workloads he had assigned to various groups, he nominated the detectives responsible for the surveillance and divided them into shifts. The first shift was to start immediately. But first they had to stage their very own programme of subterfuge and deception. Luckily, at this stage, none of the public or the media delegates had bothered to watch the actual dump sites, even though these were public knowledge. Instead they chose to watch the detectives. They had, by this stage, started following all the detectives, not only Human. In order to ensure that their plans did not leak, Human instructed all detectives involved in the surveillance to first travel several kilometres out of town before going to the dump sites. He hoped this little ruse worked. All he needed was a repeat of the eighties debacle when the killer switched dump sites after the foolish ambitions of the mayor back then had resulted in a disastrous leak.
Later that morning, Human learned a disturbing fact. Engelman informed him that the report detailing the internal investigation into the nineteen-ninety theft of the evidence from the Hope police station was missing. He had searched everywhere, but could find nothing. It was almost as if the report had never existed in the first place. Human received the news with a heavy heart. He was starting to form a dark and unpleasant suspicion in his mind. A possibility he simply didn’t want to face. Could it be? Could it possibly be?
His dark musings were interrupted by a hunched and elderly policeman. His wrinkled and doleful face bore the wrinkles and creases of ancient grief, an observation borne out by the watery sorrow that resided in his eyes. Human had seen that look on hundreds of faces through the years. The characteristic look of those who remained behind after the murder of a loved one. The mothers. The wives. The sons. The fathers. Then suddenly he recognised the policeman. It was Inspector Gerhardt van Staden. The policeman who had lost a son to Daddy Long Legs in the eighties. And who had tragically lost a wife to suicide, hardly two days before. Despite his mood, Human walked out from behind his desk to greet the policeman. ‘Inspector Gerhardt van Staden,’ he said, introducing himself.
‘Yes, I know.’ Human warmly shook his hand. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.’ He resisted saying ‘again’. ‘You have my condolences, and those of the entire unit.’
‘Thank you detective.’ The policeman looked down at the ground while he spoke. ‘I just wanted to come here and thank you personally ... for all the wonderful work you’re doing. I know it would have meant so much to Jolene.’ Human nodded. He looked at Human with intensity. ‘I hope you catch this ... this creature,’ he managed, once again averting his eyes.
‘Of course,’ Human replied. ‘I guarantee you that I will, literally, leave no stone unturned.’
‘Thank you, detective.’ He paused. Uncertain. ‘Detective, is it too much to ask ... for an old policeman ... that you share with me the progress you’ve made so far?’
Human was slightly taken aback. Requests like this normally came through official channels. But in compassion for a fellow policeman, he gathered his thoughts quickly, and gave a brief summary of everything they had learned so far. When he was finished van Staden pondered for a moment. ‘And the forensics. Anything useable?’
‘Not yet.’ The old policeman frowned deeply, a faraway look in his eyes. Human thought he heard a little whimper issue from his trembling mouth. ‘Was there anything else, Inspector?’
‘Yes.’ He looked at Human. ‘Have you been able to review the old cases?’
Human hesitated slightly. Why, he couldn’t say. ‘Yes. I’m in the process.’
‘And my son’s case? You learn anything?’
Again Human paused. For a split second he didn’t know whether he should tell the truth or not. ‘Not yet. But I’m working night and day.’
‘Thank you, detective.’ Inspector van Staden smiled thinly. ‘You’re a good man.’
And then he was gone. And Human stood quietly. Staring after the hunched and ancient man. Wondering about the past. And the things he didn’t dare utter.
Later on Human took a drive to the Hope police station where the CSU team was headquartered. There was a restless energy in the air. Everywhere tiny groups of people were engaged in whispered conversations. In other places, people were standing on street corners, staring into the distance. On several locations across Hope he saw people being interviewed by the news teams. Human cursed. The media had created such a hype around this damned countdown timer that the whole town had come to a standstill. Shops were empty. Businesses humming in low gear. The whole town was a tightly wound ball of tension. Everywhere people were waiting. And waiting. And waiting. For the dreaded news. The inevitable discovery. Even though he had given the killer at least another day to dump the boy’s lifeless body, even Human now found himself taken by the hype. Everything in his experience told him it was too soon. And yet, here he was. In a state of heightened anticipation. Expecting the tiny lifeless body to appear at any moment. Expecting the bloated rotting corpse to come waltzing down Wide Street at any minute, shouting ‘Why didn’t you save me, Human? Why?’ Damn. The media was good for nothing.
The CSU guys had lifted a few useable prints from the telephone. In the years since the cellular explosion, usage of public phones had fallen to an all-time low. It was the only reason why Human even suggested lifting prints from the phone. Now came the slow, delicate and tedious task of comparing them to prints in the database. Programmes like CSI had created the false impression that it was a simple matter of lifting a print, scanning it, comparing it to the database and getting a hit. The reality was far more unglamorous. Slow. And human. After running a print against the database, the system would usually return a group of possible matches. Never just one. Depending on the print and other factors, this group could consist of half a dozen. Or several dozen. It was then the task of a fingerprint analyst to do the time-consuming comparison between the lifted print and the group of prints from the database. And humans were humans. Crucial clues could be missed. Mistakes made. Nothing was guaranteed. But Human had faith in his team. As he left the police station, he felt confident the forensics was in good hands.
Outside, the sun was dropping towards a western decline. And the mood was becoming more and more sombre. And tense. In the windows of several businesses and on the doorsteps of others, he now spotted candle-lit altars and dedications to the missing boy, most featuring a picture of beaming Kobus van Jaarsveld. As the day resolved itself into dusk. As the day darkened. So did the mood of Hope. An eerie and total silence settled over the town. Houses were darkened. TV sets and radios switched off. When people appeared in the streets, they were almost always in groups. Almost always silent. Morbid. Expectant. Human saw something else as well. Something so bizarre and eerie. It made him think of the movie, The Body Snatchers. Everywhere groups of people were sitting in cars. Literally scores of cars. Silent. Staring. Unblinking. Expressionless. These were the people who had come from outside. Not knowing what to do with themselves. They sat in their cars. The silent groups. And waited. The media had made such a spectacle of this day that the people now gathered into the little town, couldn’t possibly imagine that the body would not be discovered. It had to be. The TV said so.
By the time Human reached the police station it was almost dark. Outside in the dirt road, the crowd was singing hymns. And bearing candles. Somehow Human found the scene unsettling. The town was infused with such a sense of tense anticipation that the scene appeared more like a lynching than a candlelight vigil. As if to confirm his disquiet, when he climbed out of the car, somebody shouted at him, ‘Where’s the body, detective?’ Where’s the body?’
Howling dogs baying for blood, Human thought as he entered Eighteen Hill Street. He made a note to stay inside for the rest of the day. He wanted none of the madness of the
world outside. He switched on the TV and kept it on mute. The networks had made a great deal of the so-called Zero Day. Both e-Channel News Africa and SABC International had paraded a series of experts and ‘insiders’ who provided ‘insight’ into both the killer and the events now unfolding in Hope. At one stage, ECNA had featured a psychic who, with great fanfare, made a prediction that little Kobus would be found in a nearby town, licking an ice cream. Human wondered if she knew the network was making fun of her, displaying her like a carnival side-show while they were waiting for real news. As the day drew to a close and it became patently obvious that the mangled body of Kobus van Jaarsveld would not be discovered, SABC International shifted focus and, subtly, removed the Zero Day title from the screen. They made no reference to the fact that their prediction had proved hopelessly inaccurate. ECNA, on the other hand, in keeping with their brash commercialism, started a negative countdown. The following day, Tuesday, would be negative one day, -1.
It was a spectacle. A Circus Ludicrous. Human switched off the TV and focused on the heap of case files that lay on his desk.
The town of Hope entered a restless and agitated night. The candlelight vigil outside the detective unit eventually fizzled out around 1am. Sometime later, Human retired to the guesthouse where he was staying.
With too much energy and no spectacle upon which to heap it, the evening slowly unravelled. At least two dozen fights were reported across the town. And several businesses and cars were vandalised. A group of drunken students had hung up one of their friends from a street lamp, helplessly suspended in his sleeping bag. In possibly the most telling incident of the night, somebody had sprayed DADDY LONG LEGS WAS HER on the N12 entrance to Hope. When Human heard about the vandalism, he suspected that the hilarious slogan was more the result of insufficient spray paint than insufficient education. The slogan was immediately picked up and became a symbol of the ridiculous spectacle that had sprung up around the disappearance of Kobus van Jaarsveld. Later that Tuesday evening, someone had added an ‘E’ to the end of ‘HER’, in a slightly different shade. But it was too late. By the next day the slogan was already appearing on t-shirts across South Africa. Human just watched all of it with jaded astonishment. How absurd could things still get?
Daddy Long Legs Page 14