The Monster's Daughter

by Michelle Pretorius

  Around Benjamin, all bowed their heads. The dominee gave the congregation a moment to pray silently, to vow to rid their lives of the false gods of their choosing. Sweat beaded on Benjamin’s forehead, the air suddenly stifling. Please, he begged silently. Please, not Tessa. You promised. But God spoke to him. Wipe the earth of abominations, Benjamin, and you shall inherit the power of the kingdom of Heaven. Benjamin grasped the edge of the pew. He had trouble breathing. “Please,” he begged. “Save her. I’ll give you anything else.” A woman with white-blond hair looked over at him, her lips pursed in disapproval. Benjamin put his hand over his mouth. He got up and almost ran down the aisle. The dominee’s raised voice drowned out his hollow footsteps on the polished floor. A young girl looked up at him with pale gray eyes as he struggled to open the heavy door. No. No. No. Benjamin’s heart pounded.

  He broke into the sunlit street and leaned against one of the huge white pillars of the church, crisp spring air filling his lungs, the voice of God silenced by the bustling of the Cape Town morning. Black faces filled the streets outside now, walking with a confidence, even daring, in their step. Sometimes they even ventured inside, to show that they could.

  “He’s not really my cup of tea either.” The bald man closed the door behind him.

  “E-excuse me?” Benjamin tried to regulate his breathing.

  “The dominee. Too much doom and gloom, too many grand gestures. But my wife likes him, thinks he spices things up.” The bald man walked over to him, his hand outstretched. “Nico Koch. You’re the new man, aren’t you? Forgive me. I recognized you from that lecture last year on quadruplex structures and the possible retardation of cell damage.”

  Benjamin took Koch’s hand. “You know my work?”

  “Son, everyone in this field knows your work. Which is a rather small sampling, I’m sorry to say. The university is lucky to have you.”

  “It’s not official yet.”

  “Well, I hear the committee was impressed by your research. Or rather, I told them they should be. Those idiots wouldn’t know the difference between genes and genomes.”

  The pressure in Benjamin’s chest eased. “I’ve been following your work too, Professor Koch. I was hoping that perhaps I could pick your brain about a project I’ve been working on.” He made a dismissive wave with his left hand. “But there will be plenty of time for that,” he said.

  “Well, in any case, it will be nice to have a fellow church man in our midst.” Koch motioned to the imposing building behind them. “Few can reconcile religion with science these days, Dr. Engelman. They do not recognize that God’s hand is in everything. Pity to be so close-minded.”

  Benjamin smiled. “Please, Nico, call me Mike.”

  15

  Wednesday

  DECEMBER 22, 2010

  Alet’s cell rang as she exited the gas-station shop. She balanced the coffee and fast-food bags in one arm and answered, watching Mathebe paying the attendant at the petrol pump, his brow knotted with concentration as he signed the slip and double-checked the numbers.

  “Alet? Mike Engelman.”

  “Mike. Thanks for calling me back. Are you still in Humansdorp?”

  “Ja, but I’ll probably head to Cape Town soon. You must have heard.”

  “I’m sorry about the professor.” Alet didn’t know how to ask Mike without sounding crude, but she had run out of options. “Listen, I know this is a bad time, but I was hoping I could take you up on your offer for help. We found something the professor was researching and I’d like you to take a look at it, see if it has any bearing on the case. You understand what these things mean.”

  “Can you fax it to the university?”

  “I’d rather not. There are some … anomalies the professor found in the DNA evidence, and I’d rather explain it all to you in person.”

  There was a brief silence. “I can drop by this morning on my way back.”

  “Um … thing is, I have to be in Joubertina for a pointing-out.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I have to walk the local police through the crime scene of that hijacking. You know, my face …”

  “Oh. Right. I suppose I can postpone going back for a day.”

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  Alet got into the passenger side of the van. She and Mathebe ate their breakfast in silence, watching the world around them slowly wake up as the sun peeked out over the mountains, the flow of traffic growing denser on the highway with each passing minute. Alet’s pickle fell out of her bun, sauce staining her black T-shirt and jeans. As she tried to clean it up with a napkin, Mathebe reached over and handed her a wet-wipe from the glove compartment.

  “I wanted to let you know that you did good work last night, Constable.”

  Alet looked up in surprise. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  It had taken almost twenty minutes for Wexler to calm down enough to tell them about his history with Trudie. An “associate” of his in London had a nice business going, dealing with unwanted children from Eastern Europe, and he had wanted to expand. When he’d found out that Wexler had contacts in South Africa, he suggested a partnership.

  “Why Unie?” Alet had pressed.

  “Because it’s isolated. Because … she was there,” Wexler answered simply. “We tried again for a little while, but … it wasn’t the same. People change, I suppose.”

  It seemed that it wasn’t just the killer who had carried a torch for Trudie. Once Alet got Wexler talking, he offered information with little resistance. How he’d met Trudie when he was still in his teens and fallen in love. How he’d followed her to Johannesburg when she went searching for her nephew.

  “What was his name?” Mathebe’s pen was poised over his notepad.

  “Jacob.”

  “Jacob Morgan,” Alet said. Wexler nodded. “Also known as Jakob Mens?”

  “Yes.”

  Alet felt a warm glow at the small victory. She had suspected it, but there had been no concrete evidence. “And Tilly?”

  “Took her from the neighbors’ yard in Triomf. Should have seen the state of her.” Wexler shook his head. “All Trudie had wanted was a child. When she couldn’t save Jacob …”

  “Did she know what you were doing? That you got Tilly involved in your … business?”

  “Mathilda figured things out pretty quickly once she started working at Zebra House. She wanted in. Said she needed money. All she ever talked about was getting the hell out of town one day. Never had the guts to actually do it. Shame, really. If she’d known the truth she might have.”

  Mathebe stepped closer to the table. “Did Mrs. Pienaar ever tell you why she decided to come to Unie?”

  “Well, there was the farm. She went on about roots, and belonging. I never saw any of that, though. Poisoned roots, if you ask me. Trudie didn’t have it in her to take what those people were dishing. But she was tired of running.”

  “Running from what, Mr. Wexler?”

  Wexler’s brow knotted. “His name was Ben.”

  Alet caught Mathebe’s eye. His expression betrayed nothing. She turned back to Wexler. “Do you have a last name for Ben?”

  “The only thing she told me was that I’d be dead if he ever got to us. I thought she was off her rocker till the day he found me.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “In Cape Town, few years back. I was on a bender with some of my old mates. Showing them a good time and all. Buggers took off with some slags. Then this bloke corners me out of nowhere.”

  Alet grabbed a chair and sat down, scared that she didn’t hear right. “Are you telling me that you had contact with this Ben?”

  “Scared the piss out of me. Got me by the neck. Couldn’t swallow right a month after.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Her, Trudie. Wanted to know where she was.”

  “And?”

  Wexler sat a little more erect. “I said I didn’t know. He sodded off.”

  “Just like that?”

  Wexler ga
ve her a sardonic smile. “I wasn’t his type, I suppose.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Wexler’s gaze traveled to the ceiling as he remembered. “Tall. Thin. Wanker was right strong. Held me down, sure. Didn’t look like he was trying.”

  “What about his face, his eyes, his hair? Give me something to go on.”

  Wexler crossed his arms, looking at Alet and Mathebe in turn. “Well, honestly, he looked a good lot like Tru.”

  “We have to get a sketch artist in with Wexler. If we release an identikit …” Alet reached for one of the coffee cups perched on the dashboard. She peeled the lid back and sipped carefully, trying not to burn herself. “A man named Ben, no last name, approximately a hundred years old, looks like the murder victim, but taller. The press is going to have a field day.”

  Mathebe returned his take-out container to the bag. “Mrs. Pienaar changed her appearance.”

  Alet nodded. “She looked different in just about every picture. Glasses, wigs, hair dye, makeup, self-tanner, you name it.”

  “The suspect might have changed his appearance too.” Mathebe turned to Alet. “It was your father’s case. He would know what was in the missing Angel Killer case files, the list of suspects. He could—”

  “No.” Alet crossed her arms. “We have Koch’s notes on the Angel case now. Maybe Mike will find something in there.”

  “We could be wrong about your father, Constable.” Mathebe spoke softly, as if calming an upset child. “This case might have nothing to do with his death-squad involvement.”

  “Doesn’t change what he did. What he is.”

  “Mrs. Pienaar deserves justice.”

  “And she’ll get it.” Alet reached for the door handle. “I’ll see you in Joubertina.”

  Mathebe stopped her before she could get out of the car. “Perhaps, Constable, you should ask yourself why it is that you do not want to ask for your father’s help.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Alet closed the door. She walked over to her Toyota a few parking spaces away. She felt irritated as she got onto the highway behind Mathebe, loath to be alone with her thoughts. Was Mathebe right? Was she really so angry with her father that she needed him to be in cahoots with a killer just to prove that she was justified? Maybe he simply couldn’t solve this one case, the most prolific serial killer of his career. He couldn’t have known about the earlier victims. It had taken a modern database and multiple computer searches to connect the dots.

  Mathebe broke away at the exit. Alet eased up on the petrol when she saw Mathebe tapping his brake lights, realizing that she was almost bumper-to-bumper with him at 120 kilometers per hour. Green hills morphed into dry savannah the farther inland they went. The traffic was ungodly on the two-lane highway, and it took them nearly three hours to get to the Joubertina city limits. Captain Groenewald met them at the station. A Sergeant Mazingane was to escort Alet to the crime scene and walk her through the pointing-out. Mathebe stayed behind to interview Ngwenya.

  “I can’t go with, you understand?” Groenewald’s tone was apologetic. “There can be no question of me leading a witness, or being anything but impartial in this case.” Alet nodded. It was standard procedure. The investigating officer could be nowhere near the pointing-out, in case he was accused of intimidation. The whole case could fall apart in court.

  Mazingane pulled over at the rest stop where the Bravermans had been killed. Alet stopped behind the police van. Two other officers were present—to observe, they said.

  “Will you please show us where you stopped your car, Constable Berg?” Mazingane was draped in an air of new authority. At first glance, he looked a little like a young Mathebe, but he wasn’t nearly as careful with his words and actions, his manner verging on insolence every time he addressed her.

  “Over here.” Alet walked about thirty meters past the rest stop’s concrete benches and planted herself in the spot. She looked back at the crime scene: Mazingane writing on his pad, the frowns on the faces of the other two. Everything looked mundane, even innocent, the terror of that evening scrubbed away by the clear day. Around them lay miles of flat dry farmland, the highway trilling with car horns as traffic slowed down as soon as they saw the parked police cars.

  “What did you do once you exited your vehicle?”

  Alet closed her eyes briefly, remembering the sequence of events. “I called to the woman on the ground.”

  “It was dark. How could you see her?”

  “Before. In my headlights.” Alet pointed to Mazingane’s feet. “About there.”

  “What exactly did you say, Constable Berg?”

  “I think I asked if she was okay.”

  “You think?”

  “I did.”

  “Walk us through what happened next.” Mazingane motioned her over.

  “I knelt next to her. I tried to stop the bleeding.”

  “She was alive.”

  “Ja. I heard something behind me. Then Ngwenya hit me.”

  “Show me.”

  “I was here.” Alet crouched down. “He caught me here.” She touched the right side of her face. “I turned. He knocked me down.” Alet fell back, simulating what happened. Something sparked in her memory. She tried to grab on to it, but Mazingane interrupted.

  “Then?”

  “I fired a shot. He ran to my car.”

  Mazingane looked over at the other two officers, a knowing look passing between them. Alet took a deep breath. She hated their judging expressions.

  “You fired again, correct?”

  “Twice.”

  “You were aiming at the fugitive.”

  Alet bit the inside of her cheek. “I couldn’t see him.”

  Pop. Pop. The sound of the gunshots reverberated in her mind. Pop. Ngwenya running, the car starting. Pop. Pop. Two shots, drowning another noise. Alet replayed the memory. Pop. Pop. She looked back at the picnic table, the patch of trees farther down the road where they discovered Mr. Braverman’s body. She had been focused on Ngwenya. Her face was throbbing, the taste of blood. Pop. Pop.

  “There was somebody else here.”

  “Mr. Braverman?”

  “No. I heard a noise.”

  “What noise?”

  “I think there was a car by those trees there. It drove away when I fired.”

  Mazingane glared at her. “This was not in your statement.”

  “I was trying to stop the suspect. I didn’t remember it till now.”

  “Didn’t remember it, or made it up?”

  Alet locked eyes with Mazingane. “There was another car here, hidden behind the trees. I think it was the Bravermans’ car. The baby must have been in the back. Don’t you see?” She took a few steps toward the trees. “Ngwenya’s buddies killed Mr. Braverman over there by the car. Mrs. Braverman tried to run, but Ngwenya caught up to her and killed her here. When I stopped, Ngwenya hid behind the picnic table. He must have thought he could deal with me too, but he didn’t plan on me having a gun. The others abandoned him when they heard the shots.” Mazingane showed no reaction. She went on. “Look, Captain Groenewald said there was another set of tracks. Was it by those trees?”

  Mazingane didn’t look up from his notepad. “Anyone can use this rest stop. We have no evidence except your new testimony that those tracks were left at the same time that the Bravermans were killed.”

  “There should have been forensic evidence of more than one attacker. If you processed the scene properly.” Alet turned her palms up when Mazingane didn’t respond. “Well?”

  Mazingane’s mouth curled up in one corner. “There was,” he said.

  Unie was languid in the afternoon heat. Alet stopped at the grocery store. There was no food at the flat and she was starving. She scoured the shelves, settling on a loaf of bread, a tin of apricot jam, a six-pack of Black Labels and a hand full of Wilson Toffees. She handed the toffees out to the little ones hanging around outside. When she looked up, Mynhardt was leaning against her car, which was p
arked halfway down the block.

  Alet walked over, dreading what was coming. “Captain?”

  “You are supposed to be on holiday.”

  “Ja, I … I had the pointing-out this morning, so I thought I’d stop at home.”

  “Your dad said you are planning on leaving for good.” Mynhardt didn’t take his eyes off her. “Is that so?”

  Alet felt a stubbornness rise in her. “I don’t know, Captain. I don’t always have to do what my dad says, you know?” Mynhardt nodded to someone behind her. She turned to see Strijdom at the store’s entrance. “Is there a problem?”

  Mynhardt stepped close enough that she could smell his breath. She turned her head away. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into the flesh. Alet thought about hitting him with the six-pack, but it would be a waste of beer.

  “I’d listen if I were you,” Mynhardt said.

  “Is that a threat, Captain?” Alet defiantly met his eyes.

  “Make of it what you want, my girl.” Mynhardt let go of her arm. He knocked her groceries out of her hand like a spiteful child and walked away.

  Strijdom followed, a wry smile on his face. “Watch it,” he said as he walked past her. He ran his hand over his brush cut, scanning the street to see if anyone was watching.

  “Fokkers,” Alet muttered under her breath as she picked up her bag, her anger seething at the thought that either of them called himself police. More like uniformed gangsters. If Wexler wouldn’t testify, she had to find another way to prove they were dirty.

  Mathebe knocked on her flat’s door around four o’clock. “There is rain coming,” he said when she opened the door for him. Alet sniffed the air, realizing that she had forgotten what rain smelled like. She left the door open and made room for him among the folders and photographs laid out all over her couch. Mathebe’s eyes darted over the disarray. Alet put her half-drunk beer back in the fridge.

  “Coffee?”