Mystery of The White Rose Serial Killer

by Zalman S. Davis

  George heads up to the study, sits behind his desk and waits for the computer to go on. After sometime he goes onto his email and opens the email from Detective Williams.

  Barry Inns

  Barry Inns is the most notorious serial killer in South Africa. He has terrorized the country since the apartheid years. He had murdered 25 people in the period of March and November 1994. These killings were nicknamed the ‘ABC Murders’ after the initials of each town or suburb where these crimes had taken place. Most of the killings were committed in Athlone, Brackenfell and the Cape Flats.

  It was undoubtedly the experience of growing up in the apartheid era that formed or helped turn Inns into a murderer of format. The laws of apartheid made it extremely difficult for families to reside together; with men travelling back and fro from work, and for woman and children to dismal homelands in the corners of South Africa.

  Barry Inns was born in similar circumstances in the 1970’s on the outskirts of Cape Town. But unfortunately not long after his birth, his mother had to give him up for adoption due to the struggle of raising him which consigned Inns to be in a series of local orphanages.

  The South Africa of the apartheid-era did not bother itself really with keeping tabs on the coloured population, so very little of Inns’ early life exists. He was, however, arrested in his early teens for allegedly ‘raping’ a young girl from Athlone. He was found guilty and spent four years in juvenile.

  Remember, Mr. Knox: Inns is a well-organized killer. Be careful.

  Williams

  George stares at the written email and turns the computer off. He sits back in his chair and taps of the desk with his two fingers, nails long and uncut.

  The phone, once again, rings.

  He sighs.

  Who can that be now again? He says out loud and walks back to the lounge. He unhooks the phone and answers.

  “Yes, what do you want now? I got the email,” he says thinking that it might be Detective Williams again.

  Silence breaks out.

  “Mr. Knox, I’m sorry to bother you. This is Mary Molson. I’m a psychiatrist. I hereby bring my sincere condolences upon you on the tremendous amount of pain you have gone through. I have read numerous newspaper articles about the murders of your friends and wife. I, hereby, would like to offer you a few counselling services just to lift some of the pain resting on your shoulders,” she said speaking nonstop, leaving George without a chance to say a word.

  His body was still and stiff.

  “Thank you, miss, I do appreciate your condolences and efforts to help me,” George says while scratching his head out of confusion.

  “I’m going to send you an email with all these details of what I can do to help you. I received your details from your work.”

  George’s mind trailed off into the dark silence where he stood clueless without any words rolling from his tongue. All that he could hear was someone mumbling through the phone – unaware of what the person was actually saying.

  “Mr. Knox, are you there?” Mary asks.

  Suddenly his mind trails back into his body with a feeling of cold icy water being thrown upon him. George snaps back into reality and answers.

  “Hello, yes, I’m still here. Please email me the details to Knox at yahoo dot com,” he says and hangs up.

  George heads to the study. It was here where Anna would also sit for hours and work on her laptop. Before entering, he stares at Anna’s desk. Her desk is empty. Her bubbly personality and friendly laughter was no longer alive, sitting behind the desk. He walks to his desk, turns the desktop computer back on and takes a seat. Once again he logs onto his email account, double clicks on an email before it opens with a letter from Mary Molson.

  Dear Mr. Knox,

  As to our telephonically conversation, I would like to inform you in short of what to expect. This will all help you with anxiety and depression which you – I believe – are now experiencing.

  Psychotherapy is the use of psychological methods, particularly based on personal interaction to help a person like you to overcome their problems. It aims to improve the person’s well-being as well as mental health.

  I will have a few sessions with you where we will discuss how you feel. I know that you have come upon each crime scene and that can leave a huge scar on your well-being. We will need to get that out of your system. I will be able to help you with that.

  Hope to see you soon.

  Yours sincerely

  Mary Molson

  Cape Town Centre of Psychiatric Help

  021 456 7320 (Ext. 008)

  George concentrated on what Mary had written. Before logging out of his email account and shutting down his computer, the doorbell rings. He freezes in the sitting position and slowly pushes himself away from the desk. George gets up, heads downstairs to the front door. Upon reaching the door, no one was in sight. He slowly looks down onto the welcome mat and notices a brown paper packet. Nervously George picks the packet up, tears it open just to find someone’s finger with a silver wedding band on and a letter with a white rose. He freezes. Tears instantly start flowing from his cheeks. It’s his father’s wedding band. The one his beloved mother chose out just days before the big day. The one she got I love you engraved on.

  The note read:

  See what you have done now, George? Now you only receive a finger. Maybe next time a body - maybe more. Follow my direct orders and no one else will get hurt.

  1.Get rid of all communication devices i.e. your cellular phone, telephone, and computers.

  2.Call Detective Williams over to see the package I sent you (destroy the letter first.)

  3.Go to the police station and tell them that you are the mass murderer they are looking for. You also kidnapped Claire. You are the intruder on your wife’s computer.

  4.Last but not least, leave a drop of R 600 000 in a black briefcase in the first trash can by the Waterfront. Everything will then end.

  George tears the letter into small pieces, sticks it into the pocket of his denim jeans. He leaves the finger in the paper packet and the rose on the door mat and walks upstairs. He enters the study and unplugs the desktop computer putting it into an empty book box with Anna’s laptop. George walks downstairs, puts the box in the lounge and walks to the telephone to dial 10111. After a short ring a woman answers.

  “Brackenfell Police, Constable van Wyk speaking. How can I help you?” she asked with a very thick Cape Town coloured accent. George hesitates before answering her.

  “Yes, hi, can I please speak with Detective Williams? It is very urgent - Mr. Knox speaking.”

  She tells George to hold on for a minute for Detective Williams. She is putting him through to his office. The phone rings again.

  “Detective Williams,” he answers the phone.

  George struggles to get words out of his mouth, tears start rolling down his cheeks burning his skin.

  George takes a seat on the coach.

  “Please get over here, detective. I found another package on my doorstep. A brown paper packet with… with a finger – my father’s finger with his wedding band on it – and a white rose,” he mutters while wiping the tears from his now wet face.

  Within a few minutes Detective Williams arrives at his house accompanied by two police officers. He climbs out of a branded police vehicle and walks to the front door with the two uniforms shortly following after.

  George says: “Here, detective!,” he shows down to the paper packet resting on the welcome mat as if it were a Christmas present wrapped up by his mom in the 80’s. Detective Williams puts on his blue gloves takes a photograph with his cellular phone and opens the package - silence. He looks up at George staring him straight in the eyes – a look that could disable and then kill you. A feeling like fire and ice mixed entered his body, pounding him in the core of his stomach.

  George heads down to the bank with his black briefcase to go ask for a business proposal transaction to get money to go pay the go away ransom.

&nb
sp; After hours of standing in the bank talking to five different people as to why George wants the money, he gets the R600 000 - filling in the necessary papers to start his ‘material business’ George walks to the teller and receives the money quickly stuffing it into the briefcase - one hundred and two hundred rand bills.

  George climbs into his car and heads down to the Waterfront. Upon arrival he parks the car near the bay, puts dark sunglasses on his eyes and walks over to the first trash can. Nervously looking around to see if no one is watching him, he drops the briefcase in the bin making dead sure no one is watching him. He knows Barry is watching him from somewhere, so he throws thumbs up sign saying it’s done – the money has been dropped. George then covers the briefcase with old newspapers, banana peels, Coke cans and other rubbish making the trash can look undisturbed. He then walks back to the car constantly looking in all directions if someone is watching him.

  Bloody asshole! George shouts out aloud from the inside of his car, banging up against the steering wheel. Tears prickle down his cheeks leading into his shirt leaving a wet sensation on his dry skin.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. George says, continuing with ranting and raving when someone suddenly knocks on the window – just the person’s stomach is visible.

  George rolls the window down and the person bends over to look him in the eyes – a police officer.

  “Are you okay, sir?” he asks him out of concern. George wipes away the tears from his cheeks and gives a short reply: “Yes, thank you, officer. It’s just a bad day today,” he says and starts the car. The officer nods his head and greets before entering a little restaurant at the foot of the bay.

  George reaches for the cubbyhole in search of a notepad and pen. Feel-feel he finds one and rests it on his lap. He hesitates for a moment and lets the pen sweep over the blank white page.

  I am not guilty. I was forced to do all of this. I had to do this to protect myself and hopefully to save a few innocent lives. Whoever you are reading these, hopefully a police officer, please believe me.

  George Knox.

  After writing the letter, George tears the page off the pad, folds it into a tiny block and places it in the car’s ashtray. With the car still idling, he viciously puts the car in reverse and heads for the police station - Brackenfell Police Station.

  With his car parked in the parking lot in front of the police station, George slowly climbs out and stares at the brown brick building with its blue palisade fence and South African flag flapping in the wind. Two uniforms are casually sitting outside talking about politics while sipping away on a Starbucks coffee. George pulls his nerves together and walks straight into the building, heading directly to the information desk. Constable van Niekerk, a coloured woman showing off her gold teeth and hands fully furnished with rings greets him.

  “Morning, Mr. Knox,” she says recognizing him.

  George simply nods his head and gives a little smirk of a smile before informing her of his visit.

  “I would like to hand myself over to you today for the murder of my wife, Anna, the kidnapping of Claire and the murder which took place,” he nervously says while sweat drips from his forehead. Constable van Niekerk stares at him out of pure shock before calling someone on the telephone. It’s not before long when Detective Williams arrives by the information desk with five uniforms – four men and one woman.

  “Mr. Knox, this is very brave of you to do. I applaud you. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do might be used against you in a court of law. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you,” he says while a uniform places a pair of cold black handcuffs on George’s sweaty palms. My fundamental right to freedom has been taken away from me, ripped from my being, he says to himself without any words rolling from his tongue.

  The police officer leads George to a room near the holding cells where he lays his fingers down on an inkpad and onto their detainee form. A paper gets filled in of what George’s crimes are – three murders, a kidnapping and lying to the police.

  “Get undressed,” the officer instructs him.

  George gets undressed and hands him an orange jumpsuit with black circled writing reading: Correctional Services. He gets dressed. The officer cuffs him again and lets him stand by a white wall with a height ruler. Flashing lights from the camera nearly blinds him. After the booking procedure, George gets lead to a holding cell packed with other inmates.

  “Yo, what are you in for?” an obese coloured man covered in green home-made or rather prison-made tattoos asks George.

  George stares at him with fear. Other inmates stick their arms through the prison bars like octopus tentacles. The door slides open.

  “Get back!” the officer orders the inmates.

  George walks in and the door slides closed. He gets instructed to stick his bound hands through a flap in the door and the officer removes the cuffs. Slowly he turns around rubbing his now aching wrists, looking the inmates in their eyes. He’s the only white inmate. Hungry, they stare at him eager for his white blood.

  Chapter 11

  Court And Pollsmoor

  George keeps staring at his shaking hands. His eyes are red from little sleep. His mind is buried with thoughts of what is going to happen next. He stands up from the cement bunk and walks to the barred window. Upon looking out the window, a white cloud hovers over tall buildings in the distance and cars are hooting at passer-bys. He opens the window a notch just to get a whiff of fresh air. The smell of freshly cut grass penetrates his nostrils. Slowly, George walks back to where he was sitting when a bold skinny guy approached him. Half limping he sits beside him.

  “You will be fine, dude,” he assures him making it nearly impossible for George to hear what he is saying. A mouth with barely any teeth is like a tradition in Cape Town. Every second coloured male and female have a toothless mouth.

  A sound of clinging keys slowly makes its way up the corridor to the holding cells of the police station. A female uniform approaches the cells accompanied by a rather large African male.

  “Everyone, stand back,” she orders.

  She gently slips the thick key into the door lock. With two turns the door is unlocked and she slides it open. The male uniform firmly holding his gun hugging his right side watches the inmates with a fine eye.

  “Everyone, line up behind each other. Its court today,” the female instructs them with a harsh voice.

  After lining up, the inmates slowly move out to the back of the police station. With George’s eyes locked on the two uniforms, he makes his way to second in line from right at the back.

  “Hey, stay in line,” the man orders him with a raspy voice.

  The inmates arrive at the Cape Town High Court in the back of a police truck. All six of the inmates get loaded off by the court’s holding cells of which are underground with tiny white burglar barred windows floating above ground. “It’s time. Get out,” an officer instructs them.

  One by one they climb out of the truck walking straight down a corridor into a steel door. George and his fellow inmates enter and the door gets shut air tight behind them. The thought crosses his mind that today he will go to jail for something he didn’t really do.

  The flashing lights of cameras catches his eye as he walks down the brown wooden staircase with his hands bound in front of him whilst entering the packed court room. Everywhere is media – The Star, Beeld, Volksblad, The Cape Times, The Daily Sun, and SABC News – and people of the community – African National Congress, Democratic Alliance members, and politicians – as well as police officers and members of the court.

  George takes a seat in the bench which will house the accused.

  Mr. Knox, do you understand why you are here?” the judge asks dressed in his black coat – a thick Afrikaans accent is recognizable when he speaks. Before George could answer he continues.

  “How do you plead?”

  Without hesitating for a moment George takes a deep breath through his nos
e and exhales through his mouth. Not guilty rushes through his mind, but remembering that he had handed himself over to the authorities confuses his mind like a whirlwind. George looks the judge straight in the eyes and sighs.

  “I plead not guilty, you Worship,” he answers respectfully.

  After a long pause of silence and the sweeping of the judge’s eyes through piles of documents lying on his stand, he announces that the court will proceed in five minutes followed by a loud slam of his gavel.

  After about twenty minutes of waiting for the court to proceed, the judge enters the court – a regular thing which happens in court: always late.

  With the nail biting minutes being passed, George takes his stand alone due to insufficient funds to afford an attorney and declining corrupt state help. He stands in the accused stand, shaking out of fear and nervousness.

  “The court will proceed with its hearing on Friday at nine a.m. The state needs to gain evidence to build a stronger case against Mr. Knox. Witnesses will also need to be reeled in for questioning. Mr. Knox, I will not be approving any bail application. You will get sent to Pollsmoor prison where you will await trial,” the judge says before slamming his gavel on a wooden plate, letting the words court adjourned echo throughout the room.

  After the court proceedings, George gets laden back into the police truck and gets transported to Pollsmoor prison where he will await trial. Upon arrival the truck pulls up to a metal gate. Thirty foot walls which rise over Adam Street surround the prison with four watchtowers which stand tall near each corner of the premises. It is Cape Town’s largest state prison.

  George peeps through the light flaps on the side of the truck and notices hundreds of inmates walking around outside in their orange correctional services jumpsuits. Some are lounging around in the sun, some playing soccer and others lifting gym weights.

  The gate buzzes open and the truck enters. Immediately after entering it comes to an abrupt stand still. An officer climbs out and starts fiddling with the latches on the door. Suddenly the door swings open and George gets ordered to enter the building.