As Human and the original detective had noted, something odd was happening during this period in the murder spree of Daddy Long Legs. In his notes, Human estimated that this change started occurring around the time that Benny Boonzaayer disappeared, on the 2nd of November, 1987. Human notes that there ‘appears to be a looseness surrounding his Modus operandi. It appears as if the killer was somehow distracted????’ Human writes. ‘In a significant deviation from his MO, the killer stopped sending taunting rhymes to the Hope Gazette following the disappearance of the Boonzaayer boy,’ He continues. Of course, in the mind of Human – and Lerato herself – the single most significant deviation from the killer’s MO relates to the body dumps. None of the bodies of the last three victims were ever discovered. Barring of course, the strange discovery of the skeletal remains and the various items belonging to some of the victims.
Ever since Lerato had read this annotation in Human’s notes, it had intrigued – and bothered – her. Why did the killer vary his MO so profoundly? Why were the bodies of the last three victims never dumped like the previous victims? What was happening in his life? It was, of course, these questions that had led Lerato to this very place. Now, as she stared at the stack of dusty files, she thought of the latest victim. And prayed that her intuition was correct. And that she wasn’t chasing ghosts while a young boy was being violated ... and prepared for death.
Lerato placed her laptop on the desk and opened it. She also opened her handbag and withdrew her spiral notebook. Her notes were a hybrid of paper and pixels. It was the way she preferred to work. She sighed as she contemplated the difficult and tedious work that lay ahead. It was a gargantuan task indeed. Her work was further complicated by the records themselves. Although the files covering that period were profuse and plentiful, the nonsensical filing system meant that she had to continually interrupt her reading and note taking with additional searches in an ever widening collection of records, following obfuscating cross-references and citations. On the little desk provided for her there were now already more than three dozen separate files. And there was no end in sight.
Of course another factor that contributed to Lerato’s headaches was that she wasn’t really sure at all what she was looking for? Was it an illness? Was it a death? Was it both? And of course at the heart of her dilemma was an unformed anxiety that she dare not even consider. Was she even following the correct lead? What if the answer didn’t lie here at all? What if it rested somewhere else entirely? With a ticking clock, this kind of doubt was not a luxury she could afford at this stage.
The third factor that complicated Lerato’s work was a particularly virulent meningitis epidemic that had hit the town of Hope in the late eighties. In June of 1987, a fourteen year-old girl was admitted to the Jan Verster Hope Hospital with extreme headaches, nausea and vomiting, and a raging fever. She was promptly diagnosed with viral meningitis. Less than a week later she was dead. What followed over the course of the next few months was a veritable epidemic. When the outbreak of the virulent meningitis strain was eventually arrested more than a year later, thirty six children had been admitted and treated for the highly dangerous disease. Of those, twelve had died. Of the remaining twenty-four, nine had been treated successfully and recovered quickly. Thirteen however had suffered protracted symptoms and were forced to stay in the hospital for lengthy periods. Another two were relocated to larger medical centres in Kimberley and Cape Town. If Lerato thought the killer’s personal crisis would be clearly visible amongst the records she had made a big mistake.
Up to now, it had taken her almost three days simply to get this far; to learn about the meningitis epidemic ... and to collate the various records. Now she was left with an even bigger task. The records gave only sketchy details regarding the family members of the children struck with the lethal virus. The profile postulated that the killer was in his mid-to-late thirties and that he was a married man. It was a theory that both Lerato and Human supported. Now Lerato would have to compare the meningitis records against that profile. It was information the hospital records simply didn’t contain. Four hours into her day, Lerato sighed with exasperation. She cursed softly. ‘Damn.’ It was as severe a curse word as she would allow herself. She was about to abandon the hospital records room to pursue the information somewhere else, when she saw something that made her pause. In one of the files, she saw the annotation of a nurse. A certain R. Heunis. She quickly flipped through another of the files. Yes. There it was again.
R. Heunis.
She threw the file aside and paged through another. And another. And another.
When she had done, she had discovered notes and comments from the mysterious R. Heunis in about twenty-eight of the meningitis cases. Lerato made the logical assumption. R. Heunis must have been the head nurse or matron.
Excited, Lerato charged out of the room, one of the files in her hand. She rushed up to the nearest nursing station, where two nurses were engaged in an animated discussion. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, addressing the elder of the two nurses. ‘I’m looking for a nurse, possibly a head nurse or matron or something.’ She held the open file for the nurse to look. ‘Her name was Heunis.’ The nurse peered at the written comment. ‘Do you know someone like that?’
‘Heunis?’ The nurse wrinkled her nose. ‘Sorry, I don’t know anyone like that. There’s no-one called Heunis that works here.’
Lerato felt her spirits sink. Dammit!
Just then an elderly doctor walked past. ‘Did you say Heunis?’
‘Yes.’ Lerato looked at the aged doctor. He had a curly mop of gray hair and large bushy eyebrows. She showed him the nurse’s handwriting in the file. He placed a pair of bifocals on his nose and studied the file.
‘Yes. Rina Heunis. She was head matron here for, oh my, a very long time.’ He gave Lerato a friendly smile, the perfect picture of the amiable small town doctor from a bygone era. ‘But she’s retired now.’ Lerato looked at him expectantly. ‘Are you looking for her?’
‘Yes. Definitely.’ Lerato’s heart was beating with excitement. If she could track down the head nurse from that period and question her it would save her literally days worth of work. ‘She’s not dead, is she?’ She dreaded the answer.
‘Oh goodness no.’ The doctor laughed heartily. ‘As strong as an ox, that one,’ he said, pointing his bifocals into the air. ‘Give me a second. Her niece works here. I’ll get you her address.
Sister,’ he said turning to the elderly nurse, ‘do you know where Annette is?’
‘Ward B, doctor.’
Five minutes later Lerato was dashing through the halls of the tiny hospital, her heart racing.
The house was tiny but beautifully maintained. The neatly manicured lawn was divided by a quaint cobblestone pathway. Trimmed flower beds circumvented the modest face brick house. A wire fence bordered the property, at the centre of which an old-fashioned gate bore the name RINA HEUNIS. Lerato took time to calm her excited disposition as she opened the little gate and walked along the pathway to the stoep. Typical of houses in a hundred small South African towns, the stoep had a red polished surface and sturdy brick walls upon which were placed a dozen pot plants. The entire scene conveyed a sense of care and diligence. Lerato knocked on the front door. Moments later she heard footsteps, across a wooden floor. ‘Hellooo.’ The voice was cheery and loud. Lerato leaned forward.
‘Mrs Heunis? My name is detective Lerato Mathafeng. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.’
From inside the house, Lerato heard a door chain sliding from its slot. Then the door was unlocked. So much for the cliché of doors never being locked in small towns, Lerato thought. The door opened. A heavy-set woman with an open friendly face and a fading perm in her gray hair stood in the opening. ‘Did you say you’re from the police, dearie?’ She eyed Lerato with good-natured interest.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Lerato extracted her badge from her handbag and flipped it open for the retired nurse to see.
‘Oh my,
I’m not in any trouble, am I?’ She winked at Lerato.
Lerato laughed, feeling some of her edginess slip away. ‘No ma’am. I was simply wondering if you could help us with an investigation.’
Her eyes widened. ‘It’s not about that awful man and the missing boy, is it?’
‘Er ... I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.’
‘No bother.’ She smiled at Lerato. ‘Oh goodness, how terribly rude of me, please come inside.’ She opened the door further and Lerato entered. The house, in a perfect reflection of her yard, was neat and immaculately clean. The retired nurse led Lerato across a creaky wooden floor to her living room. ‘Oh and please call me Rina, will you?’ Lerato smiled and nodded, taking a seat on a beautiful French Mahogany settee. Rina Heunis sat across from Lerato in a matching chair. Between them stood a low coffee table with exquisitely hand-carved legs. A large crocheted doily and a single vase decorated the surface of the table. ‘Now what can I offer you, dearie? Tea or coffee?’
Lerato wanted nothing but thought refusing the old woman’s offer would be rude. ‘I’ll have tea ... Rina.’
She stood. ‘I’ll be right back, darling. You wait just here.’ She disappeared through a doorway. From her seat, Lerato heard her puttering around the kitchen. ‘Did you say your name is Lerato, dearie?’ The woman asked from within the kitchen.
‘Yes ma’am ... erm, yes Rina.’
‘Have you eaten today yet, Lerato? How about some rusks?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
The old woman poked her head through the doorway. ‘The best rusks in town, I guarantee you. Some say old Tienie has the best. But I know for a fact that she buys them from Oom (uncle) Dries in Vanderkloof.’ Rina Heunis smiled at Lerato, winking. ‘Our secret.’ Lerato couldn’t help taking a liking to the affable woman.
A few minutes later she returned to the living room, bearing a tray with a porcelain tea pot and two matching cups and saucers. A third saucer was laden with rusks. Lerato waited patiently while the old woman poured her tea and added the milk and sugar. When both women had a cup and saucer in hand, Rina Heunis sat back in her chair and sighed with contentment. ‘Now ... what can I help you with, child?’
Lerato placed her cup and saucer on the tray and extracted her notebook. ‘I’m investigating a period in the late eighties. A time that spanned early 1987 to mid 1988.’
‘Oh my word, that is indeed a long time ago.’
‘I’m looking at the hospital records for that period. I believe you were the head matron at that time? Do you remember much from those years?’
‘Oh my word, you really are expecting a lot from an old woman. What is it you want to know, Lerato?’
‘I believe there was a particularly bad meningitis epidemic during that period?’
‘Oh yes, terrible. Absolutely terrible. It’s not something you easily forget. Have you ever seen anybody die from meningitis, dearie?’ Lerato shook her head. ‘Well, it’s awful. And it’s even more terrible when it’s a child. You know Lerato,’ Rina Heunis said, placing her cup and saucer on the tray also, ‘someone in my profession unfortunately sees a great deal of death. So much. But I tell you, there is nothing more heart-wrenching than seeing a child die. And during that time, there were so many deaths. Oh Lord, it was just awful.’
‘So you remember the period well?’
‘Oh yes, much better than I would have liked to, believe me. Like I said, it was just terrible. To see those little angels suffer like that. And their families. Horrible.’ Rina sighed dolefully. Lerato said nothing, waiting for the old woman to continue. ‘If I remember correctly, there were almost forty cases altogether. Twelve of the children died in the end. So terrible. I know this because I remembered thinking twelve little angels went straight to heaven, just like our Father’s twelve apostles.’
‘Wow, Rina. I’m impressed. There’s nothing wrong with your memory.’
‘One has to take care of oneself, dearie. Both body and mind.’ She inclined her head towards a small round table next to her chair. On top of it were lying an open magazine and a pen. ‘I try and keep my mind sharp with crossword puzzles.’ She frowned and leaned over peering at the open page of the magazine. ‘By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know a four letter word for –’
Lerato leaned forward and placed a hand on the old woman’s knee. ‘I’m so sorry, Rina. I’m in a bit of a hurry. I was hoping we could get back to the meningitis epidemic.’
‘Oh yes, of course. How inconsiderate of me.’ She creased her nose, looking into empty air. ‘Yes, the epidemic. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. It was, by far, the most traumatic part of my career as a nurse. No doubt.’ She looked at Lerato. ‘Exactly what do you want to know about that time, dearie?’
Lerato consulted her notebook. ‘I’m looking for anything that stood out during that time. We’re looking for maybe a protracted hospital stay ... a lengthy period of illness or trauma. Anytime from before November 1987 to around March or April 1988. Was there any of the meningitis victims who were hospitalised throughout this period. Or maybe someone who died during March or April of 1988.’ Lerato sighed. ‘Look here Rina, right now we’re grabbing at straws. I don’t really know what we’re looking for, to be honest.’ The old lady nodded in sympathy. ‘I’m trying to find anything that stood out above the rest.’ What Lerato couldn’t tell Rina Heunis was that she was looking for something traumatic enough to make a vicious serial killer completely change his established modus operandi. Something so extreme it – possibly – caused him to stop killing altogether. Lerato sighed in exasperation. ‘Was there a family member or loved one whose grief or reaction to the epidemic stood out from the rest? Was there anything out of the ordinary during this time? Anything you can think of?’
Rina Heunis frowned. ‘My child, the entire epidemic was out of the ordinary. And everyone was traumatised. It’s not every day a child dies. Never mind twelve children.’
‘Please, I need you to think. Think hard. Was there anything? Maybe a tiny detail that didn’t seem important at the time?’
The old retired nurse stood up, visibly stressed by Lerato’s pleas. ‘So much death. So much suffering.’ She paced restlessly. ‘Too much. Too much. And everybody was traumatised.’ Lerato looked at the old woman with concern. Maybe this had been a mistake. ‘None of the children who died were hospitalised for more than a few weeks. And those who recovered ...’ She looked at Lerato with a pained expression. ‘I know this is important. I know. I know. But I just can’t think of anything.’ Lerato’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. But. There’s nothing. Nothing at all.’ Lerato leaned forward and took the old woman’s hands in hers. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear child. I so desperately wish I could help you. I know you’re doing the Lord’s work. But I can’t think of anything.’ Lerato nodded. And spoke tenderly.
‘Don’t worry, Rina. You’ve helped me already,’ she lied, trying to hide her bitter disappointment. ‘Please, don’t stress yourself anymore. You’ve done great.’ Rina Heunis sat down in her chair, deflated.
‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. Really. Believe me.’
‘You have nothing to apologise for. I mean that. Please don’t be so hard on yourself.’ Lerato shoved her notebook into her handbag. ‘Maybe I’m just ... barking up the wrong tree.’ She looked at Rina Heunis pointedly. ‘And I think you’ve just proven that to me.’ She smiled tenderly at the old nurse, feeling her spirits sink into a deep muddy pool. All that time. All that work. For nothing. If this old nurse couldn’t give her something, she doubted she would have any more luck going through more records. It was time that Lerato faced the terrible truth. Her idea and her suspicions had been a monumental waste of time. Somewhere an innocent boy was days away from a horrible death. ‘I want to thank you for your time.’ She smiled wanly, pointing at the rusks. ‘And for Hope’s best rusks. You’ve been most gracious.’ Inhaling deeply, Lerato stood up. She would have to give Detective Human the bad news as
soon as possible. The old woman also rose. She moved forward and took Lerato’s hands.
‘You’re a very bright and dedicated detective, Lerato. I really hope you catch this sick man. What he’s done to those poor boys is horrendous beyond words. He truly is a ...’
And then she stopped. And the blood drained from her face. Lerato looked up, waiting for her to finish her sentence. She was shocked by the woman’s white features. Rina Heunis grabbed Lerato by both shoulders.
‘Oh my God. I remember now.’ Her bottom lip quivered.
‘There was something.’
***
Human was frustrated. Exasperated. Fuming. Most of all he felt like cursing the policeman on the other end of the line. ‘Can I help you?’ The policeman from the Luck police station asked.
‘Of course you can help me,’ Human said, desperately trying to keep his temper under control. ‘I spoke to you five minutes ago.’
After being put on hold for the second time, and being forced to listen to a feed from a local radio station for more than five minutes each time, Human was back where he started. With a very dense policeman who was manning the phones in the Luck police station. The same policeman who had already placed him on hold twice. There was a silence on the other end. ‘I’m sorry detective. Inspector Peterson is not here.’
Human threw the phone down. ‘Goddammit!’
Much had suffered under the ANC government. Plagued by the twin evils of corruption and incompetence, many departments and services had regressed to third world levels. Of course, much had also improved. Human personally felt that policing under the new administration had been modernised and streamlined in many ways. However, when it came to certain small town precincts, these improvements were altogether amiss. Small towns like Luck, a little hamlet some hundred clicks from Hope.
Just like Lerato, Human’s morning had been spent chasing down leads which were by no means certain. In the year-and-a-half before the murder of Paul Walters (Daddy Long Legs’s first victim) twenty-one families had relocated to Hope and the surrounding area. Six of the fathers of those families had since then died. Four more had been admitted to old-age homes. Due to medical and other reasons, a further four had been dismissed as possible suspects. That left seven possible suspects. And therefore seven potential towns whose records Human needed to search individually. It was a tedious and gargantuan task of epic proportions. Simply compiling the list of twenty-one families had required scores of calls to the deeds office; the South African Revenue Service; as well as half a dozen newspapers and police stations across the region. It was mind numbing. It was soul destroying. But every single component was absolutely critical. And vitally important. Human couldn’t afford to miss anything at this stage. However, at the same time he couldn’t afford to waste any time hunting broken leads. And now here he was. With his final list of seven possible suspects. Amongst this final list lurked the demented killer that had been plaguing a town for more than twenty years. Goddammit. Human was sure of it. He would bet his pension on it.
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