The Monster's Daughter

by Michelle Pretorius

  “How do you know the killer didn’t hit her over the head?”

  Koch gave Alet a pitying smile. “The fractured edges are ragged and cross suture lines. Antemortem fractures usually terminate at suture lines.”

  “So the cause of death was fire.”

  Someone dropped something heavy on the floor of the guest room directly above the restaurant. Koch looked up at the ceiling. “Noisy place. I got no sleep from all the comings and goings last night. You’d expect the countryside to be quiet.” He sighed. “No. To answer your question. Cause of death was not fire or smoke inhalation.”

  “Dr. Oosthuizen said—”

  “Never mind what Dr. Oosthuizen said. There was no soot on the back of the tongue or trachea. The victim was definitely dead by the time she was set on fire.”

  “Then what killed her?”

  Koch took a dramatic pause. Alet half expected him to tap his teaspoon against his coffee cup for attention before answering.

  “The hyoid bone had a clean break.”

  A middle-aged couple entered the restaurant. The man was skinny with enormous protruding ears. The woman, presumably his wife, was twice his width. Maria almost bumped into them as she exited the kitchen with a tray full of plates.

  “Môre.”

  “Morning,” the woman said stiffly in a European accent that Alet couldn’t place. The woman glared at her husband. He seemed to shrink back before also muttering a greeting.

  “Any place you like,” Maria said. “I’ll bring coffee now-now.” She navigated her way around the couple, the man obviously waiting on the woman’s decision as to where they would be sitting. Maria unloaded her tray at Alet and Koch’s table. Bacon, fried eggs and boerewors for Koch, oatmeal for Alet.

  Alet waited until Maria was out of earshot before she turned to Koch, who was already scooping egg into his mouth, bits of yolk accumulating at the corners. “What does it mean, the broken hyoid bone?”

  Koch washed his food down with coffee before answering. “The hyoid is a small bone over here.” He held his hand to his throat. “If it’s broken, it usually means the victim was either in a car accident, or died from some form of strangulation.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  Koch looked at her in astonishment. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”

  “I’m putting you on administrative leave pending the ICD investigation, Constable.”

  Mynhardt had called Alet into his office the moment she walked through the station door with Koch. The captain spoke in short, curt sentences, his easy demeanor gone, his face redder than usual.

  Alet took her cap off. “Please, Captain. I know Johannes and I don’t agree on everything, but I’ve helped this investigation.”

  “I don’t like this either, Constable. We need all the help we can get right now.”

  “Then let me stay on.”

  “I can’t ignore everything that’s been going on here, my girl. I took a risk taking you on.”

  “And I’m grateful, Captain. Let me work the charge office, at least.”

  “You have a complaint of excessive force against you, my girl, and Sergeant Mathebe has voiced doubts about your ability to conduct yourself.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  Mynhardt half raised himself off his chair, leaning his arms on the desk. “Now, listen here, Constable.” He dropped his voice, speaking through tight lips, low and urgent. “My gat is on the line here. Out there is a shithouse full of blacks who are the boss of you and me and can’t wait to boot me out. I’m not losing my job because of you. Understand?” Alet nodded. Mynhardt sat back in his chair, pushing paperwork over to her. “Sign here.”

  Alet glanced over the incident report, the role of perpetrator leaving a strangeness on her skin, sticky, like oil on a bird’s wings. The pen dented the paper’s surface as she signed. She pushed it back across the desk, glad to be rid of it.

  “Captain Groenewald from Joubertina called me this morning.” Mynhardt said, his composure restored.

  Alet’s palms were moist against the wooden armrest of her chair. “Did he talk to the suspect?”

  “He denies involvement in the murders.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “Says he found the two victims like that and panicked when you stopped. Thought he might be framed for what happened.”

  “So he attacks me and steals my car. Sure sounds like he’s innocent. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Mynhardt’s lips tightened across his teeth. “I know this is hard, believe me. But the law is on his side.”

  “I risk my neck every day for the law. When will it be on my side?” Alet looked away, crossing her arms. “What’s his name, this innocent bystander?”

  Mynhardt pulled a file out from under his computer’s keyboard, scanning the first page. “One Joseph Ngwenya. Seems he ran with a gang that is well known in the area. Petty crime, drugs, nothing violent.”

  “In other words, he could walk away.” Alet tried to keep her voice steady. “What happens now?”

  “Now, you go home and wait until you hear from me.”

  “You’re going in uniform?”

  Alet got in the passenger seat of Tilly’s red pickup with the Zebra House decals on the side. “I’m on official business.”

  “Put your seat belt on.”

  “Ja, Ma.”

  Tilly’s chestnut curls cascaded from a ponytail high on her head. Combined with her pearl-buttoned blouse, she looked un​characteristically girly.

  “Is that lipstick?”

  “Ja. So?”

  “Just wondering if you have a skelmpie in Oudtshoorn I don’t know about.”

  “You jealous?” Tilly flipped the air-conditioning dial to high.

  “Been thinking of becoming a nun, actually.”

  Tilly gave her a look.

  “Don’t ask. Just drive.”

  Tilly pulled away from the curb. The dirt road’s bumpy drone quieted down as they took the exit to the highway. Tilly turned the radio on to an Afrikaans station that played hits from the eighties and nineties, reporting on local events with bits of national news thrown in between the weather forecast and Pick n Pay ads. Alet put her cap on the dashboard and played with her braid, humming along to a Roxette song she used to like in high school.

  “Sorry about bursting in last night.” Alet tried to sound casual.

  Tilly bit her bottom lip, the burned-orange lipstick staining her teeth. “No worries.” She moved onto the skirt of the road, pebbles crunching under the wheels of the pickup, as a red Hyundai streaked past, its hazards flashing twice. Tilly made a smooth return to the tarred road, picking up speed, following the car closely. A-ha faded in with “The Sun Always Shines on TV.”

  “Sounded like you and Jeff were going at it.” Alet sensed a shift in Tilly’s demeanor, a subtle hostility as she leaned forward, her shoulders hunching over the wheel.

  “Don’t remember,” Tilly said. She turned the volume up on the radio. A woman droned the news in Afrikaans. Government corruption, as usual, AIDS infecting one in six, robberies, assaults, almost five hundred dead on the roads already this month. The usual buzzwords losing their ability to shock, understanding numbed by too much going wrong and too little being done about it. Everybody called for the government, the police, to take control, when the truth was that nobody had control over anything.

  The red Hyundai was doing close to 135 kilometers an hour in front of them, Tilly’s pickup not too far behind. Green road signs flashed by, counting down kilometers to Oudtshoorn’s city limits. The morning DJ chatted to a caller about her family’s holiday plans.

  “Shit.” Tilly slammed on the brakes.

  Alet’s kneecaps hit the dash hard. Ahead of them the Hyundai’s brake lights flared. She saw Strijdom down the road, his arms extended, signaling the Hyundai to pull over. She released her seat belt in one swoop and ducked her head down.

  “Mind telling me what you’re doing?” T
illy slowed the pickup to a crawl, pressing the window button, opening it halfway.

  “Don’t let him see me.”

  Tilly stopped the truck and leaned over Alet, sticking her face out the window, her elbow digging into Alet’s side. “Hi Hein!”

  Strijdom shouted a distant reply.

  “Tilly, I swear …” Alet whispered.

  Tilly pressed her elbow harder into Alet’s side. “We have Peri-Peri chicken on special this weekend. You and Sussie should stop by. I’ll stick you for pudding.” Strijdom’s muffled “Will do” had Tilly back in her seat and shifting gears again moments later.

  Alet straightened out, venturing a glance through the rear window. Strijdom had his arm on the Hyundai’s roof, his attention on the driver. “Bribe much?”

  “You haven’t answered my question, Alet.”

  Alet sank back in the seat, crossing her arms. “Technically, I’m not supposed to be working.”

  “Technically?”

  “Okay.” Alet sighed. “I’m in deep shit if they catch me.”

  “Then why am I driving you to Oudtshoorn?”

  “Because I don’t like being told what I can and can’t do.”

  Tilly sniggered. “Obsess much?”

  Alet fought the urge to bite the hangnail on her thumb. “I’m not sitting at home.”

  An OUDTSHOORN 10KM sign flashed by. Billboards with advertisements for ostrich farms and tours of the Kango Caves proliferated as they neared the city limits. Alet slouched in her seat, her head leaning against the backrest, her long legs crunched against the dashboard. She closed her eyes for a moment. What the hell are you doing, Berg? She would lose everything if she was caught. There was a fluttering sensation in her stomach, butterflies some would call it. The wings of a million black butterflies.

  “Where do you want me to drop you?” Tilly looked expectantly at Alet.

  Alet hesitated for only a moment before the lights changed. “The police station.”

  The officer behind the Oudtshoorn service desk didn’t look up from the occurrence book when Alet cut to the front of the line. Her name badge read CONST. DLAMINI. Alet stared at the top of her blue porkpie hat for a full minute. “Excuse me?”

  Constable Dlamini eyed Alet, boredom in her expression. “Yes?”

  “I’m Constable Berg from Unie Police. Is Sergeant Maree in?”

  Constable Dlamini pointed with her pen to a door on the opposite side of the charge office. “Through there, on the left.”

  Maree’s door was open. He sat at his desk, eating a sandwich, a half cup of tea at his elbow, a mustard stain on his tie. Alet had only dealt with him over the phone before, but he had always been friendly and helpful. She hoped that she could count on that today.

  “We weren’t expecting you,” he said when she introduced herself. “We’re a little overwhelmed at the moment.”

  “It’s just that I couldn’t find enough on the national database, and it’s urgent. A murder,” she added for effect. “I need information on necklacings in the area. Possibly going back a few years.”

  “How far?”

  “I’m not sure. Ten, twenty years? Maybe more. We need to rule out the possibility of a repeat offender.” Alet smiled, hoping to put him at ease. “Look, point me to a computer. I can find what I need myself.”

  “That won’t work.” Maree’s eyes lingered on his sandwich. “I barely keep up with the new cases coming in. There’s just no time to digitize the old stuff, see?”

  Alet had known it was going to be a long shot.

  “I can show you the archives,” Maree said. “If you don’t mind digging.”

  Alet followed Maree through the station. He took a right at the other end of the charge office and went down a flight of stairs to a room, marked ARGIEF in gold letters. Filing cabinets lined the windowless office. A single bulb illuminated linoleum flooring that probably hadn’t seen a mop since the eighties.

  “The oldest ones are in this corner,” Maree pointed. “1928, I think, and they run from left to right, top to bottom by case number. Eighties should be around here.” He walked to a row of cabinets to the right side of the room, pulled one of the top drawers open, and ran his fingers along the faded brown folders. “Ja, here. See? ’Seventy-seven, so maybe a couple drawers down.”

  “I’ll manage,” Alet smiled. “Dankie.” Her smile faded as Maree left. No keywords, no quick searches. She opened drawers until she found files around the date of the first known necklacing. March 23, 1985. It happened somewhere near Uitenhage, less than an hour from PE. Nowhere near Oudtshoorn or Unie. But 672 people were necklaced in the country in a matter of two years. There had to have been local cases. The killer knew what he was doing. It definitely wasn’t his first time.

  It took Alet over an hour to work her way to 1987, carefully going through each necklacing case’s pathology report to look for victims who had been strangled. Nothing in the files followed that pattern. This was probably a wild-goose chase. Or she was thinking about it wrong. It was easy for crimes to get misidentified, especially back then. The only reason they had found out that the woman on the mountain was strangled was because they had an expert like Koch. Her body had been burned to get rid of evidence. “Dammit.” Alet clenched her fists, irritated by the time she had wasted. She started over, pulling files that involved people killed by fire, or whose bodies were burned, a short stack building next to her. There were no discernible links between the victims or methods as far as she could tell.

  1988, 1989. Nothing. She checked her watch. She was supposed to meet Tilly in an hour at the shopping center across the street. She decided to work her way back from 1985, just in case. An unsolved case from 1976 caught her attention. Strangulation. A local schoolteacher’s body was set on fire and abandoned in an isolated area. No suspects. Alet went back further. Another case in 1972. Strangulation and the partially burned body of a secretary in a cornfield. Alet paused. Both victims were female, both blond. If it was the same guy and he was, say, in his teens, during the ’72 murder, he would be in his fifties now, maybe even older. She thought of Wexler. He could easily have carried a woman up that mountain.

  Alet took the two files and made her way back to Maree’s office. She found him hunched over his keyboard, a stack of SAP 5’s next to him. She put the two files on his desk, her eyes briefly resting on his name tag, and smiled. “I know you’re busy, Kallie, but I need your help.” She leaned on the desk. “I’d really appreciate it.”

  Maree nodded. A light pink hue spread across his youthful cheeks. “What do you need?”

  “Could you let me know if you happen to come across any cases that are similar to these?”

  Maree studied the case files she placed in front of him, making flustered eye contact.

  “I need to ask one more favor. I feel so stupid.” Alet peered at him from beneath her lashes. “Thing is, I’m also in town to follow up on a lead. You won’t believe this, but I forgot the file and I need to go over something quickly. My captain will kak himself if I have to come back again.”

  “Ja. Sure, hey.” Maree’s blush extended all the way to his ears. “What’s the name?”

  “Joseph Ngwenya.” Alet smiled. “You’re really helping me out, hey.”

  Maree hunched over, his fingers pounding the keyboard. “Got it.”

  The printer on his desk sputtered to life. Alet grabbed the warm pages as they dropped into the tray. “I owe you a drink, Kallie.”

  Alet scanned the red tables of the Wimpy, finding only averted eyes or the undisguised stares of children between cardboard cutouts of burgers and milk shakes. She sat down at an open table near the door and ordered a sandwich and coffee. Ngwenya’s file only confirmed what Mynhardt had told her. Drug running, gang activity. Hijacking and murder would have been an escalation. She flipped the page stopping on the known-associates list. There were a few interesting names among Ngwenya’s friends, one of them, a Gareth Skosana, with a rap sheet as long as her arm.

&nbs
p; “Get what you came for?” Tilly sat down opposite her.

  “Maybe.”

  Tilly reached for Alet’s coffee and poured milk in.

  “That’s mine and I like it black.”

  “Order another one. I can barely keep my eyes open. My bags have bags.”

  Alet put the file down, suddenly in a better mood. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Pile it on.”

  “Can I borrow your pickup when we get back?”

  Tilly stirred sweetener in the coffee. “Fine. I’m having an early night anyway. Fill up the tank when you’re done.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing in the wee hours instead of sleeping, or do I have to beat it out of you?”

  “Ooh. Police brutality.”

  “What’s one more charge? Talk.”

  “What do you want to know, Officer?”

  “You and Jeff. Last night. Out with it.” Tilly’s shoulders rose and she opened her mouth to speak, but Alet cut her off. “Don’t give me that kak of ‘I can’t remember.’ ”

  Tilly put her coffee cup down suddenly. Liquid sloshed into the saucer. “It’s private, Alet. Please, just leave it alone.”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “I don’t pry into your business. I’ve never asked what you did to get stuck here even though everybody’s—” Tilly stopped suddenly.

  Alet eyed her for a moment. “So the whole town knows. Big fokken surprise. Who was it? Strijdom? You know what, doesn’t matter.”

  Tilly looked out the window. She rested her head on her hand. Alet’s cell broke the uncomfortable silence, Unie Police Station’s number on the screen. “Time to face the music,” Alet muttered before answering. “Hallo?”

  “Alet?” Mynhardt sounded apologetic. “We are looking for Mathilda Pienaar. Is she with you?”

  “Ja. Why?”

  “That’s good.”

  Alet said nothing as Mynhardt spoke. Her eyes traced Tilly’s short fingers on the red tabletop, the way her curls flattened against her other palm. She tried to remember the childlike petulance on Tilly’s face, the dreamy way she looked out the window in an attempt to give Alet privacy. It would all change now, Alet thought. As soon as she put the phone down and started talking, Tilly would change forever.