Human had no idea that – very soon – things were going to get considerably more bizarre.
Day six – Tuesday (minus one day)
Human got an early start on the day. Throughout all this time he had still considered this to be the most likely day on which the body dump would take place. He felt ready. All his senses were heightened. And he experienced a clarity of thought that was refreshing after the tumultuous events of the previous few days. He placed the entire division of detectives on high alert. He instructed them to keep their eyes peeled. To keep their ears open. No event. No observation. Nothing was to be considered too trivial. Or unimportant.
As Human entered the office he learned about the previous evening’s events. About the vandalism. And about the laughable spray paint slogan.
The mood in the town of Hope that morning was very different from the previous day. It was the mood of the child who had learned that the Christmas tree did not reveal the gift he had been craving all year. The dismay of the lover who had just realised his soul mate was maybe not the person for him. It was the aching hangover after a night of egregious drunken revelry. The mood could be summed up in one succinct word. Disappointment.
On Twitter somebody with the handle, @DaddyBongLegs, had tweeted, ‘Thanks for nothing, Daddy!’
Human also learned that over the weekend somebody had begun a Kobus van Jaarsveld page on Facebook. The page immediately attracted a horde of followers. Commiserations and dedications streamed in from all over the world. Not to be outdone, somebody started a Daddy Long Legs page. It was an interesting comment on human nature that the Daddy Long Legs page attracted considerably more followers than Kobus’s page. By a factor of three, in fact. Human dismissed the Facebook pages as the product of bored minds and paid no more attention to the phenomenon. It was a decision that would soon come back to haunt him.
For the remainder of the day Human busied himself trampling through the case files and evidence boxes. He was a little more than halfway through the contents. In the process, he was starting to form a lucid and concrete image of the killer they were dealing with. He was beginning to understand him. He was starting to know him. On an intimate level. As if he had been an old friend. Or, in this case, an old rival. Others may have frowned on Human’s obsessive attention to the details of the original murders. But this was how he worked. This was how achieved results. This was how he performed the Human magic.
Over the course of the morning he received several requests for interviews. Keeping in mind Joe Ndabane’s directive, he announced that he would hold a quick press conference. In the midmorning sun, congregated in front of the detective unit, Human met the press. In the distance, the candlelight vigil group that had been camping out in front of the unit for the last few days as well as several other private citizens looked on with muted interest. He announced that the police were investigating several promising leads. And that they were starting to form a solid picture of whom they were dealing with. He took great care to re-iterate that ‘Zero Day’ had been a media creation from the start and that the investigators never expected any ‘developments’ to take place this early on, Human said, being very careful to phrase his statements as diplomatically as possible. He ended off his press statement with the declaration that there was every reason to believe that little Kobus was still alive. This last statement unleashed a torrent of questions. Human patiently answered the questions. And concluded the conference.
Afterwards he took a quick drive to his CSU team at the police station. In contrast to the heightened anticipation of the previous day, the mood was muted. Disconsolate. And fractured. Sullen groups of people congregated around cars. Around street lamps. Around shop entrances. A large group of Goths milled around an old Volkswagen van, painted black and featuring ornate fantasy-inspired illustrations. They were drinking from quart beer bottles in brown paper bags. It seemed nobody took the effort to remind them that drinking in public was against the law. Elsewhere groups of teens were sleeping off the previous evening’s excitement in cars.
At the police station Human found his CSU team hard at work. They had matched the majority of the prints lifted from the public phone. As expected the prints had produced hits in the extensive database. Once again, as expected these were not the results they were looking for. So far, there had been four hits. These belonged to locals who had been arrested for minor charges like public indecency and theft. The most serious offence had been for assault.
While Human was at the station, he took the time to drop in on Colonel Jan Witbooi, the station commander. Witbooi received Human enthusiastically. And immediately ordered them each a brimming cappuccino. Human wasted no time in enquiring about the strange incident surrounding the nineties theft of items from the evidence room. Witbooi responded with genuine embarrassment and said that, although it had been significantly before his time, it was nonetheless a sensitive issue. And one that filled him with dismay and left him thoroughly mortified. Witbooi told Human that it was, in fact, the theft itself coupled with rapid developments in forensics that had precipitated the relocation of the entire forensics unit to Kimberley. Human asked about the internal investigation. ‘Do you know anything about it? Are you familiar with any of its findings?’
‘Vaguely. If I recall correctly, the investigation team found that although the officers on duty were negligent, they could not be held directly responsible for the theft. Minor disciplinary measures were recommended. I can’t remember what they were or if they were ever implemented.’
‘And you don’t remember who the policemen on duty were ... that night?’
‘No, sorry.’ Witbooi shook his head regretfully. ‘Like I said, before my time.’
‘I see.’ Human leaned forward. ‘You’re aware that files related to the investigation are missing.’
Witbooi cradled his head in his hands. He sighed with exasperation. ‘Yes. Detective Engelman informed me.’ He looked at Human. ‘You must understand ... Wayne. Can I call you Wayne?’ Human nodded. ‘You must understand, this is a ... it’s a bloody embarrassment to me. That something like this could happen in my division. You must understand how I regret it.’ Human could see that the policeman’s dismay was genuine.
‘I understand.’
In the awesome silence that followed, a huge blowfly circled the table, buzzing a lazy refrain. Witbooi’s head snapped back. ‘There is something I remember. Simply because it was so ... so peculiar.’ Human leaned forward in his chair, his interest piqued. ‘I remember something about a number of call-outs that night. All false alarms. As if, well, as if someone was trying to empty the police station that night.’ Human rested his chin on his fist, thoroughly intrigued by the Colonel’s words. Witbooi paused. ‘I mean, that could indicate that ... that it may have been someone from outside ... that it may not have been ...’ He left the sentence hanging. Unfinished. Not saying the obvious thing that was foremost on the minds of the two seasoned policemen. That it was one of their own who had staged the theft. And the far darker implication. The thing that both cops were too afraid to say. At least at this stage.
‘That’s very interesting, very interesting indeed,’ was all that Human managed. He sat back in his chair. ‘Tell me, Colonel, what can you tell me about Inspector van Staden?’
Witbooi scratched his chin. ‘Hmm. Tragic case really. You’re aware that his wife committed suicide, God, just a few days ago.’ The commander stared into the distance. ‘It seems like ages ago, actually. So much has happened in the last few days. Crazy.’ He shook his head as if to clear his mind. ‘Any case, yes, a good officer, really. No complaints. Old school, you know. Not just as a policeman, but also as a person. Decent upstanding. Reliable sort of fellow.’ He frowned as he searched his memory. ‘Of course, as you know, he was struck by tragedy during the eighties. When his son became a victim of uh ... the Hope killer.’
Human nodded. ‘Yes. Terrible situation. And now his wife too.’ He considered his words. Then added, ‘Also a vic
tim of the same madman, as it were.’
‘Yes. He went downhill a bit, after the whole affair.’ Witbooi made the universal sign of drinking, cradling an imaginary bottle and tilting it towards his mouth. ‘Started spending a bit too much time with the bottle, you know.’ Human nodded. ‘We had to schedule a bit of compassionate leave for him after that. But you know, he’s a committed policeman. After a bit of counselling, he was ... well, he was better. But he never really got over it. I don’t expect any father really would ... get over something like that. He was never quite the same.’
‘You knew him back then?’
‘No no no. This was what I learned from the personnel files when I took over. And from speaking to some of the more senior guys.’
Human leaned back and sighed. Then rose. ‘Okay,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Thank you so much for your time, Colonel. I appreciate it.’
Witbooi shook Human’s hand, rising himself. ‘Any time, detective. My door is always open.’
As Human headed out the commander’s office he heard an almighty ruckus. Hurrying to the public service area he was in time to see a group of four officers engaged in a titanic struggle to subdue a large man with tattoos and a blond ponytail. Only when a fifth officer joined the fray were they able to gain control of the situation. In an awkward six-man tango, they herded him off to the prison cells at the back. It seemed, in the hot Karoo sun, the listless mood of the town was turning violent.
Moments later Human was heading back to the detective unit. Everywhere he sensed mute aggression. A brewing dissatisfaction. In his rear-view mirror he saw a group of young people circle each other. A portly youth hurtled a quart bottle at someone. While another tall man ran up and landed a flying kick to the youth’s midriff. Somewhere a police siren wailed loudly. Except for the youth who lay writhing in the street, the group scattered. The Hope killer had singlehandedly turned the town of Hope into a little Afghanistan (with a little help from the media, of course).
At the office, Human quickly busied himself with more reading. He had spent the whole day trying to stay busy. Trying to keep his mind occupied. But it was all to little avail. As much as he tried, he couldn’t focus. Somewhere out there. In the sweltering heat. A little innocent boy was about to lose his life. And have his lifeless body unceremoniously dumped onto the hard soil of a town called Hope.
The day passed in a haze of unfocused, meandering thoughts. And notes and reports read and read again. With little comprehension. On the wall above them the day revolved to a close. With nothing. Human contacted his surveillance teams several times. But they had nothing to report. More than once he considered driving over there. And joining this or that detective. But each time he abandoned the idea. He didn’t want to create a disturbance that could possibly give away anything. And prevent the killer from acting. With each ticking minute adding to his frustration, he nonetheless persevered in his mammoth task of wading through the Daddy Long Legs material. When he found himself again, it was after eight at night. Dammit. He was so sure the killer would strike today. It had been more than a certainty. Yes. It had been a conviction. And now he had to contend himself with the realisation that he had been wrong. And that they would have to wait another day.
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.
Day seven – Wednesday (minus two day)
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 wa
s 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.
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