Dark Traces

by Martin Steyn

  He pushed the memory away and got out of the Corolla. Boy Kirstein led them to another office, very similar to the first one. The same photos of his family in the same frames. Again Roelof Kirstein was absent.

  “Sit.”

  Magson took a seat, but Menck walked over to the window and peered outside.

  Boy Kirstein stared at his cellphone and sighed. He pressed a button and held it to his ear.

  “Roelf. Where are you?” He nodded. “Okay. Listen, when you’re done, come over here. Mr. Theron phoned. They have a crisis. Sounds like the pump’s motor has burnt out and they have a party on Saturday, so ... Okay.” He ended the call and let his head hang.

  “That was very good, Mr. Kirstein,” said Magson. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

  The man shook his head. “How do you get to the point where you have to deceive your own brother’s son ...”

  Almost three quarters of an hour later, the bakkie finally turned in at the gate and parked next to the building. Magson watched Roelof Kirstein through the dusty window of Boy Kirstein’s office. He was rather scrawny. Hair shaggy and unkempt. As arranged, one of the workers passed on the message to come see his uncle in his office. As soon as he entered, Magson and Menck were at his side.

  “Roelof Kirstein, I’m Warrant Officer Magson and this is Warrant Officer Menck of the Serious Violent Crimes Unit.”

  The young man did not even bother with the identification card. He only stared at his uncle. “Oom Boy?”

  Magson hesitated. It was the empty sound in his voice. The disbelief. The hurt. Exactly how Hannes had sounded that afternoon after Emma’s funeral.

  “We want to talk to you about Maryke Retief.” Menck’s voice.

  “Oom Boy?”

  Hannes. Betrayed by his own father.

  “You can come with us freely,” said Menck, “otherwise we will arrest you.”

  Roelof Kirstein was still staring at his uncle. “I’ll come,” he murmured. He turned around, head down, and started walking out the door.

  Magson became aware of Menck looking at him. “Okay?”

  He nodded.

  They escorted Roelof Kirstein to the Corolla. Magson looked at the bakkie, then at Boy Kirstein. “Would you give us permission to search the bakkie?”

  “Yes.”

  Roelof Kirstein turned his eyes back to his uncle and the older man looked away.

  Menck stayed with him while Magson retrieved latex gloves from the Corolla and walked over to the bakkie. He opened the door. He wouldn’t perform a thorough search, that was for LCRC to conduct later on. But if there was something conspicuous inside the vehicle, he would rather get it now, before Boy Kirstein’s guilt got the better of his judgment.

  The cabin was not messy, but it was dusty, with a fair amount of sand and dirt and pieces of plant material around the pedals. A Crunchie wrapper was crumpled halfway into the ashtray. On the left side of the seat was a clipboard containing names and addresses. One off-white sock lay bunched up on the floor. He opened the glove compartment. There was a camera inside. Looked like a digital one. With a decent zoom lens.

  He retrieved the camera and pressed the power button. The lens extended and the bakkie’s interior appeared on the screen. He scanned the other buttons and pressed the one to show the photos on the memory card. The lens retreated and a girl appeared on the screen. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail and she was wearing a white shirt and tie—a school uniform. She wasn’t looking at the camera. He pressed the triangle pointing to the left. Another photo of the same girl, from further away. Now he could see her skirt as well. She was sitting on the ground. Legs crossed. With a book in her lap. He pressed left. A close-up of her legs. He glanced at the white numbers: 23-04-14. Yesterday. Left. Another close-up of her legs. Left. Left. Eventually there was another girl in a different school uniform. She was standing, a cellphone against her ear, her back to the camera. In the corner the photo counter read 0749.

  Magson got out, raising the camera. “Is this your camera?”

  Roelof Kirstein looked down.

  “The date is April 24, 2014. The time is twelve minutes past two in the afternoon, at the Serious Violent Crimes Unit in Bishop Lavis. Present are Mr. Roelof Kirstein and Warrant Officer Jan Magson.”

  Kirstein was looking down through the glass table, shadows in his eye sockets and grooves in his cheeks. He had not spoken a single word since they left his uncle’s office.

  “Mr. Kirstein,” proceeded Magson, “you have the following rights. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to have an attorney present. If you can’t afford a private attorney, you can apply to the court for a legal aid attorney. Do you understand these rights?”

  He was still looking down. “Yes.”

  Magson slid the first letter, inside its evidence bag, across the table in front of Kirstein.

  The young man looked at it. There was a tiny twitch at his mouth, but nothing further.

  “Do you recognize it?”

  “No.” Softly.

  “What about this one?” Magson placed the latest letter next to the other one.

  “No.”

  “No? Never seen it before?”

  “No.”

  Magson nodded. “So how do you explain your fingerprint in the corner here?” He tapped his index finger on the dirty pink pattern.

  “My fingerprint?” Kirstein’s eyebrows rose and drew closer together.

  “Ja. Your right thumb. You weren’t as careful as you thought.”

  Kirstein said nothing, just looked at the letter.

  There was a knock on the door. Menck peered around the corner and nodded. That meant the search warrant was ready.

  “We’ll talk again later, Mr. Kirstein.”

  They took him down to one of the holding cells on the ground floor. Where he could sit and brood on the evidence against him.

  Bets Lennard first looked at Magson, then at the LCRC technicians in their dark blue overalls, back at Magson, finally put on her spectacles and took her copy of the J51.

  “The warrant only covers Mr. Kirstein’s room,” said Magson. “We won’t search the rest of the house.”

  She looked at him across the top of the spectacles and the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth sank deeper towards her chin. “All you’re doing is upsetting an innocent child’s life.”

  “Will you please open the gate for us, Mrs. Lennard?”

  Her lips pursed into a tight little circle and she shook her head, but she opened the gate.

  “I don’t know what you think Roelf has done.” She led them down the side of the house. “He eats supper at my table.”

  “Do you ever go into his room?”

  “No.” She came to a halt at a dark brown door. “This used to be the domestic’s room. When I still had one living in.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Lennard,” said Magson. “We’ll let you know if there’s anything more.”

  She gave him a look, turned and walked off.

  Magson pulled on his latex gloves, inserted the key into the lock and turned. The door swung open.

  The room was about four by five meters. Its main contents were a bed, single, with blue sheets and duvet, not particularly neatly made, and a dressing table with a computer on top. A door led to a bathroom. Magson was especially interested in the newspaper clippings on the dressing table, but he stood clear so that LCRC could take their photographs first.

  “Mags.”

  He turned around.

  Menck pointed to a frame on the bedside table. Inside was a photo he had seen far too often—in the papers and on the wall in the operational room. A girl with dark brown hair tied back, a lopsided smile and dimples in her cheeks. But it was always the bright green eyes that grabbed the attention.

  Maryke Retief.

  “Make s
ure you get this,” Magson told the photographer.

  The clippings were from Die Burger. Every one about Maryke Retief. The letter her mother had written was here as well. In the left drawer of the dressing table was an assortment of items, from a couple of screwdrivers to batteries, a calculator, notebooks and a few Crunchies. Also a knife, black rubber grip, with a blade measuring about ten centimeters, sharp at the tip, teeth at the hilt. He opened the drawer on the right. And called for the photographer.

  Several sheets containing an alphabet, many of the black letters missing, Letraset printed in the corner. Three pages of the same green handmade paper as those of the letters sent to the Retiefs. A pack of white envelopes. An examination pad. Two latex gloves, the semi-translucent cream-colored kind for sale at pharmacies.

  “Well,” said Menck, “that’s the end of any benefit of the doubt then.”

  “No, he’s definitely our letter writer.”

  Magson leafed through the exam pad, pointing to where the content of the letters had been composed. It had taken several attempts before Kirstein had been satisfied.

  Menck shook his head. “So much effort and that was the best he could do.”

  “Now if we can just find the panties or jewelry, we’ve got the donner.”

  Menck opened a closet door. Clothes were hanging on the left. On the right were shelves. More clothes. Some folded, others stuffed in.

  “Not exactly neat,” remarked Magson.

  Menck looked through the clothes. “All men’s clothes ... Hey, what do we have here?”

  “What?”

  Magazines. Looked like teen magazines: seventeen.

  “Just the kind of thing I’d expect to find in a grown man’s closet,” said Menck. “Aah, and also ...”

  “Tommy Girl,” said Magson. “But I would be much happier if we could find the panties.”

  They scoured the entire room and the bathroom, but there was neither female underwear nor jewelry, nor any of the victims’ belongings. No rope, either.

  Magson’s tongue found the cavity in his tooth. The letters by themselves were not worth an awful lot. There was nothing on those green pages that proved Maryke’s killer had written it. Nor did the attempts on the exam pad include intimate details. Of course, there was still Kirstein’s car.

  An LCRC technician was dusting the bathroom’s doorframe. Another one started with a wall. If the girls had been here, a fingerprint could be waiting somewhere.

  They would also investigate the computer. There had been no photos of Maryke or Dominique on Kirstein’s camera, but if he was the killer and he had taken photos of them, these might well be on the hard drive.

  Back at the SVC office they fetched Roelof Kirstein from his cell and escorted him to the interrogation room. Magson sat down opposite Kirstein and explained his rights once again, while Menck took up position behind Kirstein.

  “Mr. Kirstein, earlier we talked about these two letters that were sent to Maryke Retief’s house.” Again he placed the two evidence bags containing the letters on the table. “Do you still deny that you wrote these letters?”

  Kirstein looked at the light green pages, but didn’t answer.

  Menck put a box on the table.

  “We searched your room,” said Magson.

  “And just look at all the goodies we found there,” said Menck, lifting the lid. “Let me show you, Warrant Magson.” He began removing evidence bags one by one.

  “Green paper,” said Magson. “Handmade.” He slid the evidence bag containing the sheets next to the letters. “Hmm ... looks exactly the same.”

  Menck placed the Letraset alphabet sheets on the table.

  “Also the same.”

  “And look which letters are missing,” said Menck.

  Magson compared the sheets to the letters. Through the glass he noticed Kirstein’s hands fidgeting in his lap.

  “And perfume,” said Magson, lifting the evidence bag containing the Tommy Girl.

  “I hear the girls quite like it. Especially the teenage girls.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. It’s a fresh, free, energetic, lively fragrance.” Menck looked at Kirstein. “Do you agree?”

  Kirstein’s hands stopped moving. His eyes were large. His mouth opened, but no words were formed.

  Menck turned to Magson. “I think it’s because they’re constantly sniffing the stuff that they come up with these stupid descriptions.”

  “Hmm,” nodded Magson. “Same with wine.”

  “What else have we got? An exam pad. And ...” Menck removed an evidence bag and dangled it in front of Kirstein. It was the one containing the latex gloves. “Do you also hate the powder inside these things? We have to wear them when we’re searching for evidence—we’ve got blue ones—but, man, the powder. The gloves make you sweat and then it mixes with the powder and you end up with this mess underneath your nails.”

  “That’s why you were surprised by the fingerprint,” said Magson.

  Kirstein’s eyes skipped to his and fled again. He was sweating.

  “You did write these letters, didn’t you?”

  Kirstein slowly nodded. “Yes,” he murmured.

  “When was the first time you saw Maryke Retief?”

  “In the paper. After ...”

  “Did you take photos of her at her school?

  “No.”

  “You like taking photos of schoolgirls.”

  Kirstein didn’t answer.

  Menck moved the box to the floor, pulled out the chair and sat down. He took a deep breath. “There’s just something about schoolgirls. Young and pretty and they look so innocent in their school uniform. But then you notice the short dress. The legs perfectly tanned. The skin so smooth.”

  Magson watched as Kirstein swallowed, the tip of his tongue slipping across his lower lip.

  “A white shirt. And these days they wear it as tightly as they can get away with. Sometimes you can just about make out the bra. Dark brown ponytail down her back, maybe a braid.”

  Kirstein sat very still. He stared at the evidence bags on the table, but he was listening.

  “I can understand that you enjoy looking. All fathers look when they pick up their children at school.”

  “And if you take photos,” said Magson, “you can look for longer.”

  “The problem is,” Menck grimaced, “how long is looking enough? A man wants to touch as well. Feel that soft skin. Smell the perfume.”

  “But they don’t want to.”

  Kirstein’s lips pressed more tightly together.

  “They don’t want to,” Magson repeated.

  “They tempt you,” said Menck. “Tease you with their short dresses. Their tanned legs. Their dark hair. They sit and smile, but they won’t let you touch them.”

  Kirstein opened his mouth. “I only take photos.”

  “How long can photos be enough? How long can the sock in the bakkie be enough?”

  “I ... only take photos.”

  “What about 2011, Mr. Kirstein?” asked Magson. “When you exposed yourself to a schoolgirl?”

  Kirstein dropped his head further, slipped the tip of his left index finger between his lips. “It was one time.”

  “One time. I’d like to believe you, but that’s what people always say when they get caught.”

  Menck nodded. “It’s true. It was always the first time. Even when we have his record and we know he’s done it four times already.”

  Magson watched Kirstein for a while. With his weak chin and drooping shoulders he didn’t look particularly intimidating, but when you took a look at photos of serial killers there were few who appeared anything but average. Besides, this might very well be why he had the urge to control and torture his victims.

  “But maybe you are telling the truth,” said Magson.
>
  Kirstein looked at him.

  “Maybe it was only that one time. But then you saw Maryke Retief.” He placed a color photograph of her on top of the evidence bag containing one of the letters.

  Kirstein looked at the photo. He scratched his cheek, then his eyebrow, his forehead.

  “Maryke, you were so beautiful,” said Magson, watching Kirstein. “So beautiful.”

  “She was,” said Menck.

  “The most beautiful eyes.”

  “You could barely look away.”

  “I had to have you.”

  “I can understand that,” said Menck. “A girl like that. You see her and you just want her. You look at her. You look at her photos. And you just want her.”

  “I had to have you.”

  “You can’t help it. Look at her. Of course you had to have her. But she didn’t want to. Maybe she thought she was too good for you. Maybe she looked right through you. So what else could you do?”

  “You watched her,” said Magson. “You saw her walking alone.”

  “You couldn’t help it. She refused to understand. And you had to have her.”

  “So you took her.”

  “I didn’t,” said Kirstein, softly. He was still scratching above his temple, looking at the photo.

  “You just wanted to have her,” said Menck.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh, come on, Mr. Kirstein!” Magson grabbed the letter. “Here it is! ‘I made you a part of me’! ’now you are mine for Always’!”

  “I just wanted to—”

  The door opened.

  At first Magson just stared at Captain Kritzinger. A man pushed past him. Fine suit and tie. Curly brown hair. Dark eyes with a hard look.

  “I’m Adolf Bressler, Roelof Kirstein’s attorney. This interrogation is over until I have consulted with my client.”

  “Mr. Kirstein didn’t ask for an attorney,” said Magson.

  “Robert Kirstein hired me. Come, Roelf.”

  Kirstein looked at him, rose and left the interrogation room with the attorney.

  Magson watched him leave and hit the wall. “What the hell was that, Captain! He was on the verge of saying something!”

  “I delayed as long as I could, Mags. He threatened and insisted on coming along.”