Lazy bastard, Nico thought, this isn’t a fucking picnic.
“There’s nothing to see here, people. Go home. You’re blocking the way. Please, people, let us do our jobs and go home. Have some respect for the dead,” the constable said, showing very little respect towards the people around him.
Nico took the plastic shoe covers out of his jacket pocket and pulled them over his shoes. The elastic band at the top closed around the hem of his pants. The covers prevented him from carrying in anything that could contaminate the scene any more than it already had been. The forensic team would go through the place with a fine-toothed comb once he was finished. They would probably rip the place to shreds. It would never look the same again. Which was probably a good thing. The protective shoe covers rustled on the ground as he walked. The smell of rotting human flesh assaulted his nose as he went inside the small two-bedroom flat. The profiler on the case, Dr Pete Papenfuss from the Investigative Psychology Unit, and the police photographer, Thabiso Ngweni, were waiting for him at the door. They already had Vicks vapour rub under their noses to cover up at least some of the smell drifting up their nostrils. Toothpaste also worked.
“Thank you for finally deigning to join us, Captain Van Staaden,” Pete said, with a wolfish grin that showed off his yellowing teeth. Too much coffee and nicotine hadn't done his teeth any favours.
“Why do they always have to find the bodies on a Sunday?” Nico asked. “Ruined a perfectly good lunch.”
“I think they do it just to irritate us.” Thabiso chipped in.
“Looks like she was in the process of moving,” Nico said, looking at the boxes in the hall and strewn across the lounge.
They walked the scene, each one taking notes and making their own observations. One of them would notice something that the others could miss. Three pairs of eyes were better than one. He tried to forget that the other two were with him and absorbed everything that was around him. They started at the front door and worked their way through the flat. Thabiso took pictures of anything that could be possible evidence. They climbed over the boxes and examined the contents in each.
In the kitchen, they found the two coffee cups. The milk jug was still standing next to the coffee that would never be drunk. The milk had turned sour. The smell of the sour milk was overpowered by that of the corpse. Blood, coagulated on the counter, had also run down the cupboards and collected in a small puddle at the base. A trail of blood led from another larger puddle, where her head had fallen, out of the kitchen door towards the bathroom. The boxes were still on the kitchen counter and on the floor, decorated with blood from her severed artery. There was an empty bottle of brandy lying on its side on top of the full rubbish bin. Thabiso snapped a few shots from a 90-degree angle and from all four corners of the room so that nothing would be missed. One cupboard door below the counter was hanging at an angle. It looked as though it had been kicked. Scuff marks were visible.
“Signs of a struggle.” Dr Papenfuss said, pointing at the cupboard.
“She was even making him a cup of coffee. Son of a bitch.”
“At least she put up a struggle,” Thabiso chipped in once again.
Nico and Pete turned and looked at him and shook their heads.
“She’s still dead,” Nico said.
“Maybe the forensic guys will be able to get something off those,” Thabiso said, tilting his head at the coffee cups and milk.
“Keep dreaming,” Nico replied. “Our boy wouldn't have been stupid enough to drink out of the cup. Plus, by the time we get the results, there'll be several more corpses to deal with.”
Nico stared at the scuff marks and tried to put himself in the killer’s place. Tried to feel what the killer had felt. It was dark and lonely. He thought about Janet, her blue eyes and soft skin. She pulled him out of the darkness. But he needed to linger there a while longer and pushed her image out of his mind.
In the bedroom they found a crumpled jacket lying on the bed. A small wooden crucifix hung on the wall above it. A wedding photo in an old silver frame stood on the bedside table: an attractive couple smiling at each other, obviously in love. A sign of happier times. The bedroom was curiously peaceful, undisturbed by violence and death.
It was in the bathroom, however, that they encountered the reason for giving up their Sunday. The body was bloated, and the skin was starting to fall away from the muscle tissue. The water had done its damage. Her clothes had given her body some protection, but parts of her, like her hands, neck and head were badly decomposed. The flesh was falling off the bones of her fingers, and the portion of her head that wasn't submerged in the water had turned black. The water itself was murky, and a ring of slime had formed around the rim of the bath.
“She’s been lying in the water for about a week, I’d guess. Thanks to the water there’s not much hope of finding any forensic evidence, and the Forensic Pathologist won’t be able to give you the exact time of death,” Pete said, standing over the bath and examining the woman’s body. Nico leaned over the bath to get a closer look. The smell made his bile rise.
“She was garrotted, the same as the other two. Our killer’s been a busy boy. Any idea who this one is?” Nico asked.
Pete consulted the small notebook he always carried with him and said, “Her name was Theresa van Wyk, divorced with no children. Her neighbour complained about the smell, so the caretaker let himself in. He got a bit of a surprise when he came in here.”
“I bet he did. Is he the guy in the shorts with filthy feet?”
“That’s him.”
“Did he touch anything?”
“He says not.”
Pete looked at the shower curtain. “I wonder if he opened the curtain to find the body,” he said, almost to himself while taking notes.
“Remind me to ask him when I interview him,” Nico replied while fingering the curtain.
The photographer snapped some more shots of Mrs van Wyk’s body, curled up in the foetal position. Her jean-clad legs were pulled up to her chest and her body suspended in the murky bathwater. It was a sad and profane parody of new life. Was that what the killer was after? A new life?
The photographer took photos from every corner of the room, as he had in the kitchen.
“Okay,” Nico said to Pete. “Recap time. What do we know about this guy?”
“For one thing he’s organised. He brings everything with him, his so-called killing kit. He targets older women; probably has mommy issues. He’s a young white male, probably mid-to-late-twenties. Has knowledge of police procedure and could be in law enforcement. He also has no respect for our abilities to catch him. He makes no attempt to cover up his crime. Oh yes, and he’s a big boy, probably about six foot.”
“How do you know how big he is?” Thabiso asked between snapshots.
“Didn’t you see the size of those bloody shoe prints in the passage?” Nico asked, his tone harsh and irritable.
“Plus these women are not exactly small. A small guy wouldn’t be able to pick them up very easily.” Pete said, interjecting before Nico and Thabiso could get into another argument.
“And how do you know that he's a white boy or that he's a cop?” Thabiso asked, ignoring the look on Nico's face. “That's a bit racist isn't it?”
“A witness saw a young white male in what could have been a police uniform leaving the first victims apartment,” Pete said.
“Why do you want to know about the shower curtain?” Nico asked, fingering the curtain the way Pete had done earlier.
“The others were closed. If he closes the curtain it means he does feel some remorse for what he’s done. If he left this one open, then something’s changed and something we need to know about.”
Nico nodded his head and mulled everything over, but came up empty. He had no answers, only more questions. He needed space and time alone. The flashes from the camera irritated him.
“Hey,” Nico clicked his fingers at Thabiso whose name he had trouble remembering. “Um, why don�
�t you go take some photos of the crowd in the passage and outside the building?”
“I already did that while we were waiting for you. I guess I’m a little more with it than you are today.” Thabiso was offended. “Oh, and by the way, my name is Thabiso, but I’ll go take some more shots of the ones still hanging around just to make the baas happy.” He left, mumbling to himself.
“Well, I guess I just put my foot in that one,” Nico said and turned back to Mrs van Wyk’s floating body.
“He’ll get over it. He’s a good guy and good at his job. You really should try and get on with him. Remembering his name might be a good place to start,” Pete said.
Mrs van Wyk’s open, dead eyes looked back at Nico. The irises were now a smoky-white. He wondered what colour her eyes used to be. Her mouth was slightly open, probably from the last breath she had exhaled.
“I’ll leave you alone, so you can have your conversation with her, or whatever it is you do. I’ll give you five minutes before I send the forensic boys in,” Pete said and left the room.
“Ja, Ja. Piss off.” His focus was on Theresa van Wyk; he hardly noticed the doctor leave. He sat on the toilet, next to the bath and looked down at the rotting body in the tub.
“So ... Theresa, why did he kill you? What made you his target? Who do you remind him of?”
But the woman would never answer him, stubbornly mute in her noxious, amniotic grave. He was still sitting in that position, staring at the body, when the forensic guys started collecting samples of the bath water to be analysed at the lab. He wondered how long those results would take. The backlog at the lab was monumental and incredibly frustrating for any cop trying to solve a case. Detectives were working with one hand tied behind their backs.
He left the flat while they emptied the water out of the bath and with great difficulty moved her body onto the gurney. Her wet clothes didn't make it any easier.
Once outside the flat, he took a deep breath. The air outside was fresher and a welcome antidote to the smell of rotting flesh. He took the lift down to the ground floor, where the circus was waiting for him. Inquisitive people from the neighbourhood had gathered outside the building. Didn’t these people have anything better to do on a Sunday afternoon than turn someone’s death into an event?
The flash of a press photographer taking a snapshot almost blinded him. Thabiso was hard at work taking snapshots of potential suspects in the crowd, hanging around to soak up the aftermath of his handiwork. A blonde woman from the SABC news team shoved a microphone in his face.
“Well, if it isn’t Helen Stratford,” Nico said, pushing the microphone out of his way. The memory of her, naked and laughing, flashed through his mind. Instantly making him feel guilty.
“Hello, Nico. You’re not still angry with me, are you?” she asked, giving him her most alluring smile. It always worked on him, or it had in the past.
“Why would I be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because ...”
He interrupted her before she could finish.
“Look, Helen, I’m working, and if I remember correctly, our problems were because of our jobs. You were dedicated to getting the story no matter who was hurt, even if it meant screwing me over.”
“So you are angry.”
“It’s ancient history. Now, if you don’t mind, I do have a case to work.”
“Speaking of the case, is it the Bathroom Strangler?”
“Sorry Helen, you know I can’t give you anything yet.”
“Come on Nico. For old time’s sake?”
“No, not even for you,” he said as he pushed past her. He needed to get away from her. She always managed to get to him he thought, as he realised his hands were shaking and his heart was pounding.
He looked around, searching for something out of place, and moved his mind off Helen and back where it belonged, on the case. The streets were quiet, only the usual Sunday afternoon traffic in the suburbs. A blue Citi Golf drove past, slowed down to gawk at the spectacle, then carried on driving. A few cars were parked in the parking lot and on the dying grass. It was while absorbing this information that he noticed the Rent-a-Cop patrol car parked across the road between a dented, red Volkswagen Beetle and a white Golf Chico. He walked towards it. The driver got out and started to walk towards him. As the man drew closer, Nico recognised him. It was Louis.
“Howzit? What are you doing here?” he asked Louis.
“I had to work. The guy who usually works this shift called in sick, and here I am. Nats isn’t too happy about it, but we need the cash. So is this the reason that you had to leave?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t suppose you were working in this area last Sunday?”
“I had the Sunday night shift. Why?”
“See anything strange? Anybody hanging around?”
“You mean other than me?” He laughed. It was a forced laugh that sent tingles along Nico's nerves. “What time on Sunday?”
“Unfortunately we still don’t know what time she was killed. Sunday’s also a bit of guess at this stage.”
“Then I’m sorry, bro, but I can’t help you there. But I do have another idea. How about we get together for a beer in a couple of hours?”
“Sounds like a plan. I could fit in a short and very welcome break. But aren't you on duty?”
“Ja, but one beer's not going to make much of a difference to my ability to check on a false alarm. I leave the serious crime solving to your brothers in uniform.”
“Okay,” Nico laughed. “As long as it doesn't get you fired. How about we meet at five at News Café in Hatfield?”
“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.” Louis turned and walked back to his car. Nico watched him. There was something that wasn't right about the guy, but he'd promised Janet that he'd give him a chance, so he pushed his misgivings aside for the time being.
HE WATCHED THE CRIME scene from the safety of his car. The young black photographer was snapping photos of the crowd standing in front of the building. He wondered what the woman’s corpse would look like now. How did she smell? Was her flesh falling away from her brittle bones? Was she being held together by her clothes? He wished it was that Bitch. If only she was the one decomposing. The thought gave him an erection. He watched a well-dressed blonde woman get out of the SABC TV News van.
Well, well, he thought, I’m going to be on the news tonight. The coverage on the first murder had been abysmal. The second one had created a satisfying buzz. This one would get their attention. He watched the SABC newswoman hijack the Captain on the case. Good old Nico van Staaden, who was looking a little flustered. They looked like they knew each other. Interesting. Maybe it was something he could use to his advantage.
“Having a bad day, my friend?” he mumbled to himself.
While the police asked bystanders questions and more press arrived, he stuck his hands inside his pants and touched his erect penis. He thought about how it would feel to strangle her. He wondered how it would feel to hear that witch struggle for her last breath. With each thought, his erection grew harder. Maybe he would kill her tonight, he thought, with a smile.
3
Hatfield, Pretoria’s main social spot, was bustling with life. Not a day went by when there weren’t hordes of people drinking and laughing in the suburb. News Café on a Sunday afternoon was packed with an assortment of people. A mix of students, yuppies and flea-market bargain hunters sipped cocktails while the sunset. Muffled voices and clinking glasses filled the air. A man’s drunken voice rose above the others shouting for another beer.
Louis sat at the bar drinking his Black Label and kept one eye on the door. The bar counter was still wet from the barman’s alcohol-soaked cloth. A young woman, probably a student at TUKS, wearing a pair of skin-tight denim hipsters walked past him and gave him the once-over. He noticed she changed her walk to accentuate her rear end. He chuckled. Taking another sip of his beer, he admired the show and thanked his lucky stars that Nats wasn't there to see it. She would have scratched
her eyes out
Someone sat down on the bar stool next to him. The sound of the stool clanging against the brass foot rail made Louis jump. It was Nico, not his jealous girlfriend.
“Howzit Bro. I didn’t even see you come in,” Louis said.
“Ja, I saw your attention was elsewhere, so I took the chance to sneak up on you. It’s what we cops are good at.”
“Okay, if you say so,” Louis laughed. “So can I buy you a beer?”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
Louis got the bartender’s attention and ordered a Black Label for Nico and another for himself. Louis tapped the counter with his fingers and looked around the crowded bar, trying to think of something to say while they waited for the beer to arrive.
“So,” he eventually decided on, “any closer to finding this so-called ... um ... what did the press call him again?”
“The Bathroom Strangler?”
“Yes, that’s the one. So any idea who he is?”
“Nope, and I really shouldn't be discussing the case with anybody.”
“Come on,” Louis said, looking eager for more information. You've got to tell me about it. I promise I won't tell anybody.”
“I don't know.”
“Look, if you don't trust me, then that’s fine. You don't have to tell me anything. It's okay. We'll just drink our beers. I thought that maybe talking about it might help you clear things up in your own head. You never know you might have one of those eureka moments, but if you'd rather not, I understand ... I'm not a member of the club.”
“What club?”
“The Cop Club,” Louis said, using his fingers as inverted commas.
“There's no such club. Trust me. It's not that I don't trust you. It's just that it's embarrassing that we have so little to go on; we're still busy pulling all the evidence together. I don't want to bore you with the details.”
“You couldn't possibly bore me. I find this fascinating ... It’s all anybody in the control room at work talks about.”
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