by Martin Steyn
“Same?” asked Magson.
She nodded. “And similar to the previous victim. Her hands were probably tied while she was hanged as well. There are no scratch marks on her throat that would indicate that she tried to free herself.”
Zihlangu helped her to remove the girl’s clothes. The white top. Her bra. And the pair of shorts. It was all she was wearing.
Magson looked up, meeting Doctor Killian’s eyes.
“No jewelry. Also the same as the previous victim.”
While the pathologist was sealing and marking the clothes for the forensic laboratory, Magson thought out loud, “So he keeps their panties, jewelry ...” He looked at the tag tied to the girl’s left big toe. WC/11/618/2014. “And shoes. Was the previous one barefoot, too?”
“No. She was wearing her hockey shoes.”
“Hockey shoes?”
“She’d been on her way home after a hockey practice when she disappeared.”
Doctor Killian looked over the body and more photos were taken.
Magson started wondering about Maryke Retief—the probable identity of the girl on the trolley. Fifteen years old, in Grade 10. After school she had gone home and a while later she had visited a friend. Later still she’d walked home again, never reaching her destination.
“Did the previous one also walk home?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
Magson took out his notebook and jotted down a few thoughts. High-school girls on their way home. One from a sports practice. The other from a friend. Someone who was able to look for victims on weekday afternoons. Or at least some weekday afternoons.
Doctor Killian started taking swabs from areas where the killer might possibly have left biological evidence behind, like the breasts, stomach, thighs.
Magson watched the activities, distracted, thinking. Bound. Held captive. Dumped without panties. Which meant there had been some point at which she’d have been naked. Which meant sexual assault was probably a given.
Doctor Killian and Zihlangu each took hold of one of the girl’s legs and moved them apart. She opened a new packet and combed through the girl’s pubic hair.
Magson wondered whether the killer had had the girl dress prior to hanging her. Or had he hanged her naked and dressed her afterwards? Why had he left her with her clothes on? With this degree of decomposition, the suspicion that she was Maryke Retief was mainly due to the clothes in which she had been found.
Doctor Killian swabbed the girl’s rectum and anal canal. “There are definite signs of sexual trauma here. Lacerations consistent with sodomy. Or penetration with an object. It was considerate of him to have her dress again. Her shorts were tight enough to keep the blowflies out. Otherwise, they’d have been here first.” She sealed the final swab in a triangular box.
“Maryke Retief had exceptional eyes.”
Doctor Killian looked up.
“On the missing persons photo,” said Magson. He looked at the girl’s face—what was left. “Bright green. It’s what you notice first.”
“Should I fetch the colposcope, Doctor?”
“Yes, please, Kennedy.” The pathologist took swabs of the exterior vaginal area, and used a speculum to swab internally. Zihlangu returned with the colposcope. Doctor Killian positioned the special microscope and examined the interior of the vagina.
“There are tears in the inner lining. Quite deep inside. Whether due to rage or sadism—he was rough with her.”
Magson turned his attention back to the girl’s face. Taken. Held captive. Used and abused. For how long? A couple of days, at least. She would have cried. Pleaded. Begged.
But it hadn’t made any difference.
And had there really been only one victim before her?
He rubbed his face. This was the last thing he needed right now.
March 11, 2014. Tuesday.
At the kitchen counter, Magson sat watching the early morning scene in the back garden. The day had barely begun and the sun was already poking around everywhere. Two turtle doves perched on the Vibracrete wall, one puffed up with its head tucked in while the other looked around jerkily. The grass on the lawn was too long.
He put a spoonful of Weet-Bix in his mouth. It was not particularly enjoyable, because the milk was a little off. He made a mental note to buy fresh milk.
The back of the barstool cut into his spine and he straightened away from it.
Another hot day was coming. It was supposed to be autumn.
The dove that had been looking around fluttered down to where the yesterday-today-and-tomorrow grew.
Magson doubted whether there could be much for the dove to eat—the summer had simply been too long, too hot.
He took another mouthful. On the cheap plastic clock above the door the thinnest hand ticked ... ticked ... ticked ... The refrigerator started to groan.
The dove in the garden was still seeking something to eat, the other one had flown off.
Magson put the final spoonful in his mouth. When he was finished, he placed the bowl in the sink.
One last look out the window, and there, at last, Emma’s little bird. The Cape robin perched on the edge of the wooden feeding tray, dapper in its gray-and-orange plumage. Below the white band across its head, the black eye glinted straight at him.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
He carried the saucer with mince out the back door. The robin took wing for the white stinkwood tree. Magson scraped half of last night’s leftovers onto the feeding tray. It was just an ordinary piece of timber with a rim. He’d varnished it and nailed a sawn-off branch onto the surface. The workmanship was decidedly rough, but Emma had been delighted, describing it as “rustic.” The robin waited in the tree.
Back in the kitchen Magson paused to look out the window.
The little beak pecked, shook, swallowed.
A smile grazed his lips. Returning the saucer to the fridge, he left the kitchen to change for work.
Magson looked at the “murder mosaic” he had prepared on the wall. He was on the ground floor of the Western Cape Serious Violent Crimes Unit in Bishop Lavis, and this was what passed for decoration in the operational room: maps and photos of murder victims and crime scenes. Menck was sitting on one of the tables, feet dangling, playing with a cigarette—probably longing for the good old days when he’d still been allowed to light it inside.
Magson heard voices and turned around. Captain Kritzinger followed Warrant Officer Kayla Schulenburg into the room. Before this very wall, she’d one day launched into a monologue to no one in particular. In primary school I made a mosaic with squares of paper. My art teacher liked it so much, she took me to the principal. They had it framed and hung it in the foyer at the entrance. She really wanted me to develop my artistic talent. I wonder what she’d say if she saw me today, using that talent to create murder mosaics ... It had made an impression on Magson, the melancholy look in her eyes as she’d stood staring at the wall, and the name “murder mosaic” had stuck.
“Missing Gys already?” asked Menck with a smile and raised eyebrows.
“I don’t know why,” Schulenburg grinned, pulling the curls of her ponytail through her fingers, “but since yesterday things just seem so peaceful.”
“Enjoy it while you can.”
Magson would gladly trade places with Warrant Officer Gys Burger. He would much rather be spending hours in court, testifying in the final throes of a docket—even answering nonsensical questions from the defense—than starting a new one. Especially one like this.
“Okay,” said Kritzinger, “let’s go over everything we know so far. Mags?”
“All right. We have two victims. Doc Killian is convinced that it’s the same killer’s handiwork. The first one was Brackenfell’s docket, but we’ve taken it over now.” He pointed to one of the photos affixed to the wal
l, a girl with dark hair, arched eyebrows and a somewhat mischievous smile. Next to the photo, her name was written in capital letters, a summary of her information below.
“Dominique Gould,” said Magson. “Sixteen. She was on her way home from hockey practice at school when she just disappeared. That was on October 16 last year.”
Magson pointed to the next photo. The slightly lopsided smile sucked dimples into her cheeks. One dark eyebrow was raised higher above the exceptional green eyes. “The second victim is Maryke Retief. Fifteen. She went to visit a friend after school on February 27, and on her way home just disappeared. Both girls were walking.”
He strode over to the enormous map of Cape Town and surrounds. Pointed to one of the two markers. “This is where Dominique was found on October 24.” A piece of string led away from the map to a color photograph of the crime scene, but Magson moved on to the next marker. “Maryke here, Sunday. Dominique went to Brackenfell High and she disappeared in Brackenfell. Her body was dumped near Brackenfell. Maryke lived in Bellville and disappeared in Bellville. Her body was dumped near Durbanville.”
“Much further away,” remarked Schulenburg.
Kritzinger nodded. “Maybe Dominique was discovered too quickly. So he put in more of an effort this time.”
“But then a bird came along and ruined everything,” remarked Menck. Magson noticed that he wasn’t smiling.
“A birdwatcher found her,” said Kritzinger when Schulenburg enquired with her eyebrows.
“Brackenfell, Bellville,” said Magson. “That’s his area.”
“And serial killers find their victims in a comfort zone. An area they know.”
“That’s if he started in Brackenfell,” said Menck. “If Dominique was the first.”
Kritzinger nodded.
“If there were other victims and they were also hanged, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out,” said Schulenburg.
“Sounds like you’re volunteering.” Kritzinger looked at her and she nodded.
“This hanging business is strange.” Menck rolled the cigarette to and fro between his thumb and his index and middle fingers. “It has to mean something.”
“Hanged. Strangled. Stabbed. Shot. Means nothing. Murder is murder,” said Schulenburg in a gruff voice with an exaggerated scowl.
Menck smiled. “Even Gys would have to admit it’s unusual.”
“He hangs them somewhere else,” said Magson. “And then he dumps them with their clothes on, but some articles are missing. They don’t have any jewelry. Dominique always wore her watch. Maryke had a gold chain. And he keeps their panties ...”
“Personal things,” said Kritzinger. “Mementoes.”
“Maryke was dumped without her sandals. Dominique still had her hockey socks and shoes on, but her school and hockey bags were gone.”
“Did he put her socks and shoes back on?” asked Schulenburg. “Or did he never take them off?”
“No, they had been off at some stage,” said Magson. “There are marks on her ankles. She was tied barefoot.”
“So ...” Schulenburg frowned, her head tilted to the left. “He dumps the one without her sandals, but he goes to all the trouble to put the other one’s shoes back on?”
“Maybe he hangs them with their clothes on. Maybe Dominique put her shoes back on after he assaulted her. Maybe Maryke didn’t, or they fell off during the hanging.”
“What about their bras?”
“Both had their bras on.”
Schulenburg’s frown deepened. “Jewelry, panties, but bras he doesn’t keep.”
“He abducts them in the afternoon,” said Magson, “while they’re walking next to the road. He does it in such a way that there are no witnesses. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything.”
“Maybe they knew him,” said Kritzinger. “They got in the car with him because he wasn’t a stranger.”
Schulenburg walked over to the map. She drew the nail of her index finger back and forth across her lower lip. “They were in different schools, different suburbs. A school friend or teacher doesn’t seem likely.”
“Unless it’s a teacher that transferred from the one school to the other.”
“He’d need a car to transport and dump the bodies,” said Menck. “Which means he has to be able to drive and he needs access to a vehicle.”
“It’s too neat and sophisticated for a teenager anyway,” said Magson. “And he keeps them captive somewhere for a couple of days.”
“If it’s in his home, he lives alone.”
And Magson had recently learned that one who lived alone was more readily drawn to dark thoughts.
Two
March 12, 2014. Wednesday.
The church was filled almost to capacity. There were numerous rows of school children in uniform. The majority had long hair and many of the ponytails were dark brown.
Maryke Retief’s family was seated in the front row. The friend she had visited, too. She and Maryke’s brother weren’t wearing their school uniforms.
Magson and Menck looked for seats at the back. They had come to observe the attendees.
Magson sat down.
The upholstery exhaled under his weight.
He looked up. His face felt too hot and his heart was racing and his palms were moist and cold. He glanced at Menck, but his attention was elsewhere. Magson was struggling to breathe.
“Bathroom,” he whispered to Menck and got up.
He headed for the exit. His vision doubled. The floor was further away than it should’ve been. Cold sweat was dripping down the back of his neck.
The wall. Almost there. He could lean against it to keep upright. Follow it to the door. He pushed it open. It closed behind him. He lurched to the washbasin and planted his hands on the edge. He hung his head.
Just breathe ...
At last he opened his eyes. Looked up. At his face. He looked away.
He will wipe away all tears from their eyes. There will be no more death ... That was what the dominee had said. That day when Magson had sat in the front pew.
He opened the tap and let the cool water pool into his cupped hands. He dipped his face into it. And again.
He was beginning to feel better. His heart had slowed—it was no longer vibrating against his ribcage.
He wiped his face with his handkerchief and looked at the mirror.
... no more crying or pain.
He exited the bathroom. In the church the dominee had begun the service. Magson took a few deep breaths and went back to where Menck was sitting. His heart had picked up speed once more, but he couldn’t get up again—which made it worse. Just breathe. He concentrated on inhaling and exhaling. And after a while, mercifully, it got better.
But his thoughts kept returning to that day when he had been sitting in the front pew of another church. Someone a few rows behind him had had too much deodorant or aftershave on. It had been a masculine fragrance, spicy, too strong. It had been hot in the church. His shirt had clung to him, his jacket locking all the heat inside. Someone had been coughing continually. Beautiful words had come from the minister’s mouth, comforting words, but all he’d been able to think of ...
Everyone was rising now. He realized the organ was playing. Menck held the booklet so he could read the hymn’s lyrics.
Emma had chosen “Ek sien ’n nuwe hemel kom.” I see a new heaven ...
But he hadn’t been able to put voice to the words.
Magson sighed and shook his head. “Houses everywhere you look and nobody saw or heard a thing.”
Propped against the Corolla, Menck lit a John Rolfe and peered up and down the street again.
Magson became aware that he was staring at the house across the road. He couldn’t stop thinking about Maryke Retief’s funeral. He kept seeing her parents after the service, their red eyes, drained faces
, how they accepted the hands offered, thanking another person for being sorry that their daughter had been murdered. Her younger brother standing around in the background like forgotten luggage.
He realized Menck was speaking, “... an explosion. You know how unobservant people are. They’re so focused on their own thing—”
“That’s the whole problem with today’s society. People are just busy with their own lives. A teenage girl is grabbed in broad daylight along a road filled with houses and nobody sees or hears a thing.”
“Well, maybe that’s a clue in itself. Either he knows the victims, or he’s able to gain their trust and lure them into the car willingly. So there is nothing to see or hear.”
“And so they just go with him, without suspecting a thing ...” Magson recalled all the schoolgirls in their navy blazers at the funeral. “Lambs to the slaughter.”
“I don’t know if I’ve told you this before, but Kathy’s cousin studied to be a chef. He visited a factory where they slaughter chickens. He says they hang the chickens by their feet, and as soon as they do that, the chickens stop struggling. They just hang there. And then this conveyor-thing carries them off, upside down, to a V-shaped blade and it slices off their heads. And they just hang there. Calmly. They don’t fight. They don’t struggle.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “It’s rather disturbing. Not enough to stop eating chicken, but still ...”
Magson was still looking at the house. It was the paint that was bothering him—there was too much yellow in the cream. “My mother caught chickens in the yard and chopped off their heads. Later my brother and I did it.”
“Your mother? This is the same woman who taught you to speak such proper Afrikaans.”
“Only mother I had.”
“Hmm, that I would have liked to have seen. So do they really run around? After the head’s off?”
He noticed Menck watching him. “No, man. The one takes hold of the body and the feet. And the other one grabs the head and chops it off.”
“Just like that?”
“Ja. And then you let them bleed out. But you have to make sure to keep hold of the feet, because if they kick you, they can draw blood.”