The First Rule of Survival

by Paul Mendelson

  ‘Off the record?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘And you know it’s him?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Johnnie: I meet them, I know they are guilty. This guy: he thinks he can run me, control my investigation. He did it seven years ago and he’s trying to do it now. He’s got the media lapping up every word he says; he’s going to write a fucking book, for Christ’s sake. The difference is, this time the SAPS guys on the top floor want him to be right. They want to pin this on Marc Steinhauer. For them, that reads well. They want to close down the case and make it go away, and I made my decision. That isn’t going to happen.’

  John Marantz sticks out his bottom lip, nods slowly.

  ‘Who knows about me in your department?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t know. No one.’

  ‘What about your warrant officer? February?’

  ‘He knows we know each other. He’s a sound officer. I think he knows what to ask and what to tell.’

  ‘You have to understand, Vaughn,’ Marantz says, meeting de Vries’ eyes. ‘I have nowhere else to go. This is my home now.’

  ‘No one will know.’

  ‘You talk about trust. When we met I liked you; when we talked I admired you. And then, when you got me out of custody, made serious charges disappear, you came down yourself to the station, drove me home. That bothered me. Made me wonder what was going on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was too much. You could have instructed them to let me out, but you came down, made yourself known, allied yourself to me. It made me wonder why.’

  ‘You’re as paranoid as I am.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘It’s the glue in our friendship.’

  Marantz smiles. ‘You have to promise me one thing,Vaughn. I have to know that I am protected.’

  ‘How protected?’

  ‘I’m an ordinary citizen – not even that. I’m not even a permanent resident yet.’ He shakes his head, sighs. ‘To hell with it. Tell me where I have to go.’

  Vaughn de Vries raises a glass to himself, lets his eyes shut with relief.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Perhaps you should make an appointment?’

  He drives home slowly. It is only three kilometres. He keeps smoking, his elbow out of the open driver’s window. Dusk is falling over Newlands’ leafy side streets, and a fresh breeze is just beginning to shift the hot, smoggy air. De Vries has a feeling building inside him, which he gets only when he thinks he is on the verge of a breakthrough. Occasionally, he wonders who Marantz really is, whether involving him may be his last mistake as a senior officer in the SAPS but, equally, he knows that what this man does releases him to do what he is good at: to hunt down the guilty, to corner them, to make them submit. And there is another thing too. Whoever Marantz is, he is like him. They are both men who have lost everything else in their lives; who are free to act. He realizes, almost for the first time, that this man not only wants him as a friend, but needs him; that in each other they recognize men who seek goals unequivocally.

  He pulls up at the traffic lights on the corner of Rondebosch Common. Ahead of him, he can see silhouettes of runners from the club that uses the Common for circuit training. Next to him, a motorbike pulls up, its motor raucous. De Vries turns and, suddenly, the flash explodes in his face. He ducks, closes his eyes, sees bright fireworks burnt into his retina. Looks up, but away from the window, and accelerates fast, left and away. He looks in his mirror and sees the motorbike still idling at the lights. He pulls up sharply, his breathing fast and short, considers whether to turn and chase the photographer; wonders how he has been followed, and whether the journalist saw him at John Marantz’s house? His heart pounds, hands sweating.

  ‘Fuck,’ he shouts, the short, sharp word reverberating like a gunshot around his car, leaking out of the window into the night air. He looks behind him. The bike is gone. He lets out a quivering breath, starts his car, soberly drives the last few hundred metres to his house, his eyes darting around him, fingers tingling.

  When the doors to the elevator part on the top floor, de Vries finds himself facing Ralph Hopkins, who is waiting there.

  Hopkins beams at him. ‘Good morning, Colonel.’ He tries to slip past de Vries and into the lift, but de Vries blocks him. They wait until the doors close.

  ‘What is this?’ Hopkins says.

  ‘Marc Steinhauer didn’t phone you at midnight, the day before he died.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ Hopkins says soothingly.

  ‘No. We know he didn’t call you. We’ve checked his cellphone records.’

  ‘Well, you must be mistaken, because I definitely spoke with Marc that evening.’

  ‘He didn’t call your number on his cellphone. He didn’t stop anywhere, and there is no landline at his Betty’s Bay house.’

  Hopkins watches the lift doors closing behind de Vries.

  ‘I have to go,’ he says. He reaches to press the call button for the elevator, but de Vries stops him, slapping down his arm.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Hopkins says, making a show of rubbing his arm, ‘we’ll speak with your superiors.’

  ‘Fine,’ de Vries says. ‘You can tell them what I want to know.’

  Hopkins looks at de Vries disdainfully. ‘Why would I lie?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I know you are. Someone else called you – perhaps from here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you would have no objection to retrieving the call records for that day from your cellphone, and showing them to me? It’s barely a week ago, so I’m sure they’ll still be there.’

  ‘Definitely not. There could be confidential information contained within those records.’

  ‘What? From some dates and times and numbers?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So, to be clear,’ de Vries says calmly, ‘you refuse to confirm the source of the telephone call you claim to have received at midnight on the ninth of March?’

  ‘On the contrary, I have just confirmed it to you.’

  ‘You have repeated your challenged testimony. You’re a great stickler for proof. Simply extract the call received from your telephone records, via your service provider if necessary, and the matter is closed.’

  ‘I will consider that request, Colonel. Now I have another appointment to attend.’

  ‘What did you tell Marc Steinhauer when you raced into his house? We don’t know that, do we?’

  ‘I made a full statement after the event. If you’d bothered to read—’

  ‘And what you shouted to Marc Steinhauer, just as I was making contact with him – what was it? “Remember your family?” What did that mean?’

  Hopkins steps backwards, flushed. ‘What do you think? I wanted him to focus on his wife and daughters.’

  De Vries steps up to him, his face right in front of Hopkins’, his voice rising.

  ‘Not his family of boys then? Not his prisoners, or the plans he had hatched that could never be talked about?’

  Hopkins’ rosy complexion is bright red now, sweat beads forming on his high forehead.

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.’ He stares at de Vries’ intense expression, sputters, ‘You – you don’t think I . . . ? I have nothing whatsoever to do with this. I am a happily married man.’

  ‘So, according to you, was Marc Steinhauer.’

  ‘My God! My God, when I called you a conspiracy theorist, I realize now that is exactly what you are. Is that it? You find one, desperately confused man is embroiled with paedophiles and abusers, and suddenly everyone you meet is under suspicion. Is that what happens?’ He pulls himself up, begins to strut back and forth, murmuring to himself.

  ‘This isn’t just about one man though,’ de Vries tells him. ‘It’s a conspiracy of powerful, influential, probably rich men, all working together in their evil ring. I will find every last member of this group and I will bring them down, no matter who they think they are.’

  Hopkins is recoiling from de Vries’ ferv
our.

  ‘Good luck, Colonel.’

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ de Vries says, keeping him within striking distance. ‘Why did you lie about being called by Marc Steinhauer?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Was it someone from here, in this building? Is that what it was? They called you to warn you that we were about to arrest Marc Steinhauer, that we had conclusive forensic proof against him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did they want you to warn him?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  De Vries is about to speak again but, at the end of the corridor, a tall figure can be seen, a booming voice heard.

  ‘Colonel de Vries. Come here.’

  De Vries knows the voice. It is General Thulani, Assistant Provincial Commissioner.

  Hopkins brushes past him and punches the call button on the lift. De Vries slowly walks towards Thulani. As he goes, he hears the familiar ‘ting’ of the elevator, and imagines Hopkins stepping into the car, descending to street level, walking away to his wood-panelled office, or his club, or a smart restaurant for a rich lunch.

  Thulani is wearing his full dress uniform: a uniform for funerals and press conferences.

  ‘Come in to my office,’ the man says.

  Vaughn follows him through his anteroom, past his white secretary, and into his cold office.

  ‘Sit down, Colonel.’

  De Vries sits, says nothing; wills himself to calm down, to regain control of his emotions, his frustration.

  ‘What was the cause of that altercation?’Thulani seems to loom over him from his raised, throne-like chair.

  ‘I was asking Mr Hopkins some questions, sir.’

  ‘Controversial questions, it seems. I don’t think that a public corridor is the right place to hold an interview.’

  ‘Mr Hopkins has provided crucial evidence which is not backed up by any facts or records. He is lying. I need to know why.’

  ‘Then you must undertake that enquiry officially.’

  De Vries nods, keeps his head down. After a few moments of silence, he looks up. Thulani is still looking at him. Finally,Thulani says: ‘Aren’t you going to ask me?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What Ralph Hopkins was doing on the top floor? Surely that interests you.’

  ‘I try not to think about what happens on this floor.’

  Thulani laughs tightly. ‘He requested a meeting with me, to discuss what he perceived to be harassment, on your part, of his clients.’

  De Vries shrugs.

  ‘I told him that I did not agree and that this investigation demanded cooperation from everybody, regardless of who they are.’ He looks at de Vries, but sees nothing which suggests approval or gratitude. ‘He also wanted to inform me that Dr Steinhauer wishes to return to his main home in Johannesburg.’

  De Vries sits up. ‘What did you say?’

  Thulani smiles. ‘I told him that as long as he undertook not to leave the country without notifying me, I was content that he should do that.’

  De Vries shouts. ‘What?’

  ‘Colonel . . .’

  He clenches his fists under Thulani’s desk, pushes his tongue hard up against the top of his mouth, ungrits his teeth, says calmly, ‘I think that’s a mistake, sir. Nicholas Steinhauer remains a serious suspect in the imprisonment and abuse of Steven, Bobby and Toby. We should be seeking warrants to search his homes, his office . . . buildings he has used, not letting him travel freely around the country.’

  ‘I disagree. There’s no evidence whatsoever. I’ve read the transcripts of your interview, been reviewing your reports regularly. Coincidence, yes, but that is not sufficient to restrict this man’s freedom of movement.’

  De Vries tightens his fists.

  ‘Furthermore,’ Thulani says, ‘there is no question of further interfering with this man’s freedom. There are no grounds for seeking warrants in relation to Nicholas Steinhauer since there is no evidence. You are out of line, Colonel.’

  ‘This man,’ de Vries says, ‘has played all of us – I suspect me especially – since this whole thing began, and he thinks he’s going to get away with it again.’

  ‘Be careful, Colonel,’Thulani says. ‘You are beginning to sound paranoid. The SAPS cannot be seen to support a vendetta. I was not here seven years ago, but I know that Steinhauer gave you and Brigadier du Toit a rough time in the media. You may think that this is a good opportunity to regain a little pride—’

  ‘That’s not what this is about. He may want you to think that, but it isn’t. If you give this man a chance to escape, he will.’

  ‘Well,’ Thulani says, leaning back, ‘I’ve made my decision. It was taken, as always, as a matter of law. If you need to speak to Dr Steinhauer again, he has told us that he will be moving to his Johannesburg address in a few days’ time. We have no reason to doubt him. If he had not been prepared to face questions, why would he have returned from South America? He is not a flight risk.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ de Vries mutters.

  ‘I think,’ Thulani says slowly, seeming to mull over his words, ‘that if nothing more can be uncovered in this matter – and I read that we have nothing but a dying old man refusing to speak, and half a dozen unidentified fingerprints and DNA samples – you will wrap this investigation up. You, of all people, should know just how busy we all are.’

  De Vries closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

  ‘Those “half a dozen fingerprints” probably belong to half a dozen men who are guilty of illegal imprisonment and sex offences against minors, and who are complicit in murder. Does that mean nothing?’

  ‘It means a great deal. But how many more murderers and rapists are still free because we do not have the resources to track them down? Do you know how many cases most officers have on their books? You live a charmed life here, Colonel. While you spend considerable time and resources on the death of these three white children, there are ten times as many every single day on the mortuary tables of the Western Cape: poor and black and coloured and just as mourned by their families as your three victims.’ He takes a breath. ‘There will be no end to this list, and getting stuck on one case for however many years it is, does no one, least of all yourself, any favours whatsoever.’

  De Vries stays sitting upright, his jaw clenched. He can feel the pulse in his neck throbbing and he is sure that Thulani is observing it now, knowing how easy it is to rile him. A steely calm comes over de Vries’ brain, if not his body.

  ‘I will,’ he starts, ‘begin to conclude my inquiry, sir. Perhaps by the end of the week?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘Then I will find a man who thinks that it is possible. That is what will happen.’

  Don February finds de Vries leaving the building at noon. De Vries opens his mouth to speak but instead the Noon Day Gun sounds on Signal Hill, echoes around the City Bowl and back from the sheer flat face of Table Mountain.

  ‘Where’s that hamburger place you took me to?’

  ‘Top of Long Street.’

  ‘I’m going there.’ De Vries waits to cross the street.

  ‘Dr Matimba says that she will look for us,’ Don tells him, ‘for references to Johannes Dyk and also Nicholas Steinhauer. We are lucky. She says that she will make this a chapter in her paper.’

  ‘That and Steinhauer’s new book. No cloud without a silver lining.’

  ‘I am sure she does not mean—’

  ‘Forget it. If she finds what we need, I don’t care.’ He strides into the road, stops midway to wait for a speeding Mercedes, hears his cellphone ring and runs to the other side. ‘Ja?’

  ‘It’s John. I have the information you want.’

  De Vries turns his back on the SAPS building. ‘What’s there?’

  ‘I’m driving home. I don’t know.’

  ‘How do I see it?’

  ‘I’ll sort it out; email it to you.’

 
‘Good. How long will that take?’

  ‘Maybe an hour. I’ll try to send you what you want and not the rest of the rubbish.’

  De Vries gives him a private email address and hangs up. He looks back across the road and sees that Don is still standing there, watching him. He waves, and strides up the hill and across town.

  Yvonne Matimba says, ‘In relation to Valkenberg and St Magdelene’s Hospital, I can’t find any references to Nicholas Steinhauer whatsoever. Johannes Dyk, yes. He was at Valkenberg at the time Hubert Steinhauer was running whatever experiments he was involved in when he was suspended.’

  ‘They worked together?’

  ‘It seems so. Most of the records, as I told you, are incomplete. It looks like someone has deliberately removed files.’

  ‘When did Dyk stop working at Valkenberg?’

  ‘Only a few months after Steinhauer had resigned. The news item I found was that Johannes Dyk had retired after thirty-five years, the last fifteen spent at Valkenberg East.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘From what I can see, Dyk specialized in brain formation in young children. He wrote several academic papers concerning the influence on children of their parents, their peer-group – perhaps at school – and external forces, such as deprivation, family strife, or abuse. He was one of the first experts to suggest that children were far less influenced by their parents and far more vulnerable to influence from their peer-groups and siblings.’

  Don shudders. ‘Maybe this is what he witnessed Nicholas Steinhauer doing; helped him to do it.’

  ‘We can only guess as to the workings of the human mind.’

  Don shakes his head slowly. ‘My guesses are still way out.’

  De Vries stares at the names of some 370 private patients and former patients of Dr Nicholas Steinhauer. He has burning indigestion from the burger he has wolfed down at lunchtime, no antacid pills in his desk drawers; a feeling of deterioration and humiliation about his physical state.

  Getting up from the café table, surrounded by students, walking downhill, feeling the flesh on his chest jog up and down like breasts and, above all, seeing the look on the faces of the people in the streets, he has realized that, despite his height and weight, he has no presence. As a young officer, he would walk the streets of the city and people would part to let him through. Now, it is he who dodges and dribbles his way around the populace. It makes him feel weak.