by Mark Minnie
In the ward, the matron on duty assisted the unknown doctor.
About 40 minutes later the doctor and the men in suits left. Another man sat outside the door like a guard.
Naturally Suzie was curious, so she decided to check the ward’s admittance register.
I paged through it when I booked off, but guess what? There’s nothing in the register about this patient. Not even a name. It was like he didn’t exist. I came back on duty later and the register is still the same. I’m not allowed in the ward and the guy in the suit is still sitting outside the room.
Suzie says only the matron was allowed to tend to this patient.
Why all the secrecy? I really wanted to see who was in the room, so I waited until the matron went in and timed a walk-past as the door opened.
In those days South African life was completely segregated. Black and white people did not mix in spaces controlled by the government. And this hospital was designated for whites.
So I look in and I can’t believe what I see. There’s a child in there. A coloured child. He looks about twelve. Imagine that, Max!
Suzie says the guard had watched her pass the room and had seen her peeking in.
Later, before I go off duty, the matron calls me in. The guard has told her what I’ve seen and she tells me never, ever to talk to anyone about it. I could tell from her tone of voice that she was serious.
So Suzie followed the matron’s instructions and kept away. Then suddenly the boy was gone. Discharged, Suzie says, after a week. But the strangest thing is that there are no records, not one, of the boy’s stay in the hospital.
I can tell from Suzie’s voice on the tape that even recounting the story is hard for her. She’s clearly afraid and towards the end she gets tearful.
It must have been something big. A helicopter, men in suits, a guard. Then suddenly the matron is gone. She just disappeared. I’m scared, Max. What if they think I saw too much? But please don’t tell anyone. I’m telling you because I trust you. My job in on the line here.
I switch off the recorder. My mind wanders back to William and what he had told me earlier – that there were rumours about Wingnut shooting a youngster in the anus. Now I’m wondering, does this boy in the hospital have anything to do with this? Is he the one William is talking about? The fact that the boy’s hospital admittance was covered up points to something sinister.
The only way to establish the facts would be to question the matron who has mysteriously vanished. Now I have to find her, and figure out a way to approach her and protect Suzie at the same time.
20
The case of the missing docket
It’s Monday. I had my Sunday off with Bernie yesterday and we spent the day lounging around the pool. I’m now taking stock of the Allen case. Two of the suspects are dead, both meeting their end under suspicious circumstances. Two suspects are alive and well. The older of the two brothers who first brought me evidence about ‘moffie uncles’ can place Allen at the scene of the alleged sexual assault. Not bad so far, but not good enough. I need something concrete in order to bring the mighty Wingnut before a court of law.
Finding the mystery patient would be the final nail I need to seal the case. If I can get him to testify, then we have Wingnut. Who knows who else the boy might have seen or dealt with?
Gordon storms into my office. The look on his face says he has something important to share with me.
‘I did some work with Dean and Pietertjie over the weekend,’ he blurts out.
Dean Steynberg and Pieter Kapp are brothers-in-law who are both attached to our unit.
‘And?’
‘We searched a house in Jeffreys Bay for pornographic material,’ Gordon says. ‘At the start of our search, the resident of the premises, a hoity-toity rich bitch, threatened to report us to a cabinet minister in the National Party. Says they are friends.’
I keep quiet, not wanting to reveal my suspicion of who this minister might be. Gordon leaps into the pause.
‘Do you remember William pointing out the first figure in the group photo?’ he asks excitedly.
‘As clear as daylight,’ I throw back.
‘And who the fuck was that?’ Gordon shoots back.
‘None other than the Honourable Minister,’ I gleefully howl. But not Wingnut, I think to myself.
‘Did you find any porn?’ I ask.
‘What do you fucking think, Max?’ Gordon says. ‘Of course we did. The rich bitch was as quiet as a mouse when we came across the illegal literature and videos. Dean’s handling the docket. Do you see the implication?’
This is a rhetorical question – unworthy of an answer on my part. Gordon proceeds to enlighten me anyway.
‘Jeffreys Bay and Witelsbos are not far from each other. If this minister and the rich bitch are friends, as she claims, then he must own or rent property in the vicinity. And in the vicinity is Witelsbos, where William says he was molested,’ says Gordon.
* * *
My lead to the mysterious boy in the trauma ward is going to be through the elderly matron who treated him while he was there. But she has somehow disappeared.
I don’t want to start asking questions about the matron at Suzie’s place of employment. I promised I would not expose her. But it shouldn’t be too difficult to trace the old girl if she’s alive.
It turns out I’m right about this. A few phone calls later and I have the matron’s new address as well as her telephone numbers – home and work.
As government employees, nurses are in the same position as cops: their take-home pay is meagre. This means that people who work for the state often live on credit. (Ask me. I’m one of them.) And creditors are only too keen to open accounts for government employees. If you fall behind on payments, the creditor knows it’s really easy to get a garnishee order against the salary of the state-employed defaulter. And if you live on credit, you can never hide.
I head off to the matron’s new address. A woman answers the door. It’s the housekeeper. She informs me that the ‘madam’ is at work. I don’t leave a message. I also refrain from contacting the old girl at her new place of employment. She was obviously transferred, perhaps at her own request. There’s no need for other people to know that the cops are looking for her. She’s done nothing wrong at this stage.
I pop into the brigadier’s office, determined to lay all the cards on the table. I tell him about William’s identification of Allen and Wiley, as well as the possibility of linking the other minister he identified to the sexual offences allegedly committed in Witelsbos. I also clue him in on Suzie’s story. He’s happy with how the investigation is proceeding – without me ‘actively’ pursuing it.
And then I drop the bombshell about Wingnut – including how I prevented William from pointing him out in the photo.
It shocks him to the core, that I can see. But professional as he is, his brain keeps running at a good click.
‘What’s your next move, Max?’ he asks me.
‘Finding the boy Suzie told me about. If he gives me a statement implicating Wingnut, then I’m personally dragging that bastard’s arse into court to face all allegations currently on the cards.’
The brigadier gives me a wry smile, followed by a wink.
‘Officially, Max, I’m instructing you to cease all further investigation with regard to this matter.’
And with that, I go back to my office.
I’ve barely taken a seat when the phone rings. It’s the brigadier.
‘Max, be careful, son. Keep this as close to your chest as possible. This investigation can turn against you. Make sure that you’ve got all your ducks in a row before you act against Wingnut. The man is extremely powerful.’
‘Got it, sir. Thank you.’
Why all this fear and trepidation? I wonder. Wingnut is not above the law. He’s a citizen of this country, and he’s compelled to respect and obey the laws as set out in our constitution. Fuck him.
I spend the rest of the day completin
g more paperwork, which has mysteriously mounted up again. I’ve never been a dude for paperwork, but it must be done.
At 6 pm I dial the matron’s home number. A woman with a raspy voice answers in Afrikaans. It must be her.
I speak to her in Afrikaans. She confirms her name and surname and then I identify myself.
There’s a slight pause before she asks me the reason for my call. I get straight to the point, wanting to drive home the advantage immediately. She senses that I know something about the mysterious patient. I hear her breathing on the other end of the line, but otherwise she remains silent. I suspect that her pulse rate has nearly doubled by now. And then suddenly she’s a bag of tears, begging for the Lord’s forgiveness.
‘I haven’t spent one cent, not a penny, Sergeant Max. All of the money is still here. I always knew it was trouble. It’s dirty money. And now God has seen fit to punish me for my sins. Oh God, please forgive me,’ she bawls over the phone.
I pretend to have known about the money. The rest is going to be easy. She doesn’t know how much I know and I’m going to milk her for as much information as possible.
‘Yes, and exactly how much money was it again? Hold on, I can quickly check my records,’ I bluff as I ruffle some papers on my desk.
‘R10 000, Sergeant. I’ve still got it all,’ she blurts out.
By the time our conversation, or should I say interrogation, reaches the 45-minute mark, she’s given me exactly what I need: the name of the surgeon who treated the youngster. She’s also told me that she honestly doesn’t know the particulars or current whereabouts of the kid.
It’s clear that this woman was duped into believing that the R10 000 was to cover her relocation expenses as part of her transfer to the new hospital. She’s been trying for years to get a transfer, and then all of a sudden it happens. She’s an expendable pawn being used by manipulative people who have no conscience and think they can do as they please. Now she’s a nervous wreck, hellbent on offering the rest of her life to the service of God and everything else that is pure in this world.
In closing, she wants to know what she must do with the tainted money. I advise her to go out and spend it all as quickly as possible. Then I hang up the phone.
* * *
The name of the surgeon who treated the boy in the trauma ward has been bandied about at our office for a while now. Vice Squad members have him on their radar. It’s rumoured that he recklessly supplies Schedule 5 drugs to some of his patients.
I phone the doctor directly, fully aware that I need to be careful in my choice of words when speaking to him. Being bombastic will accomplish nothing. I also need to keep in mind that he could expose me as someone actively investigating the case that the senior public prosecutor has shut down. Yet, in spite of this sword hanging over my head, I’m hoping that the doctor will fess up and tell me what I need to know about the young boy.
But my hopes are dashed. The doctor refuses to talk about the case, opting to play the patient–doctor privilege card afforded him as a professional medical practitioner. He reveals nothing. The men in grey suits have done their job well. My clandestine investigation has run up against a brick wall.
When I hang up the phone, I reflect on what I have so far. I have to concede that I don’t have enough firepower at my disposal to arrest Wingnut. Yet, if the suspect had been a person of lesser stature, an immediate arrest could have been considered. I decide to approach the brigadier to get his input on the situation. His response is succinct – and cautious.
‘Max, I’m going to take this up with higher authority. Let the bigwigs bend their heads around the Wingnut saga. Should they give the go-ahead to take steps against him, then they’ll be forced to bear the brunt of any resulting repercussions. We’re just passing the buck, son.’
‘It’s worth a try, sir. Let’s just hope that someone up there has the balls to act.’
* * *
A month passes. There’s no word from the brigadier regarding the case. I’m no fool; I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to understand what’s going on. The bastards are covering it up – and from the very top.
But I can also play this game. I decide to get into bed with the enemy. Stuff them. I have to push on.
I know a journalist working at Die Burger, the Afrikaans daily newspaper. English newspapers are more radical in attacking the government, but for some reason I trust Afrikaans journalists more. And just maybe the editor at Die Burger is willing to take a risk and publish something.
The journalist and the editor at Die Burger prove to have balls. Using the information I have supplied, the newspaper publishes a story about the unusual circumstances surrounding John Wiley’s suicide, bravely making the connection between the deceased minister and Dave Allen.
Bingo. The fuse has been lit. All of a sudden every journalist in South Africa is calling me. I’m extremely cautious about what I say. Mostly I don’t say much at all. Let them find their own way, I figure. I make sure never to mention Wingnut. But it isn’t long before something untoward takes place.
One morning, upon entering my office, I immediately sense that something is amiss. Looking around, I quickly discover that the Allen case docket is gone. The entire file has disappeared – without my knowledge or approval. I rush into the branch commander’s office. It seems he knew I was on my way.
‘Relax, Max,’ the lieutenant says nonchalantly. ‘Two high-ranking officers from head office in Pretoria, accompanied by Brigadier Schnetler, walked in demanding the docket. I unlocked your office and they took everything they needed.’
I am livid. Especially because I accidentally made it easier for the bastards. I kept the Allen docket separate from my other cases. I had a special file where I stored the docket, the illegal copies of the inquest file as well as the tape recorder.
And now everything is gone.
CHRIS
21
On the minster’s trail
When Mark Minnie and I met up again in 2017 to talk about writing this book together, he startled me with the claim that he almost had me killed that day our paths crossed so briefly in Port Elizabeth 30 years earlier.
According to him, he had two trained marksmen giving him backup, and had given them instructions to shoot me on sight should anything untoward happen to him. He said, ‘I told them that if I just as much as fall asleep while sitting talking to you, they should shoot to kill …’
I must say I found that hard to believe – even from a South African cop in the eighties. But Minnie was adamant that he felt in need of protection – from me. As he put it, ‘I feared for my life. I did not know who you were really working for. You could have been Security Branch, which had showed such interest in my case to the point that the docket was stolen out of my office.’
He told me that there were rumours that Dave Allen had been taken out by the branch, and then I had turned up expecting him to confirm that one of the most powerful and dangerous men in South Africa was part of a paedophile ring abusing boys on Bird Island. The former detective added: ‘But even if I knew you were on the right side, I would never have confirmed anything in view of the fact that you were a member of the liberal press who would possibly twist my words, and then they would have come after me.’
For my part, the meeting with Minnie was so useless from a journalistic point of view that I had actually completely forgotten about it. It was only while working on this book that I was reminded of the frustratingly fruitless exchange between the detective and me in that hotel foyer three decades ago.
In retrospect, Minnie’s attitude towards me at that time did make some sense. In those years, members of the so-called left-wing press and the ‘Boere’ (police) were usually on opposing sides.
In an e-mail to me in 2017, Minnie revealed just how much he had distrusted me:
Nice meeting up with you … once again. This time it’s under different circumstances, though. We’re on the same side, now. I apologise profusely for the ‘cold shoulder
’ treatment which I meted out to you so many years ago in Port Elizabeth. I was unaware as to your true agenda on that specific day that we spoke to each other in the lobby of the Elizabeth Hotel … Those days, for some or other reason, I felt more comfortable in the presence of journalists working for the Afrikaans press.
In 2017, after the long, long silence between us, I finally got to read Minnie’s version of his own investigation. I learned for the first time that he had suspected right from the start that Allen’s death had not been a suicide. I also learned that he had shared my own suspicions that Wiley’s death, too, was not suicide.
The fact that the key to the minister’s locked bedroom had gone missing – according to a source close to the family – was certainly suspicious. At first it had been presumed that Wiley had locked himself in his room before lying down on the bed and taking his life. But when his son, Mark, gained access to the bedroom through an outside window, he couldn’t find the key. Sources close to the Wileys told me at the time that the family had searched everywhere for the key and were completely baffled by its disappearance.
Adding to my suspicion that there was something odd about Wiley’s death was confirmation by the police that he had not left a suicide note – despite his well-known penchant for constantly writing notes. And, during the writing of this book, I learned that many of Wiley’s notes were found burnt in the driveway of his home a couple of days after his death. Whoever had set fire to the notes was in such a hurry that the scorched ring binders had been left behind.
I also found out that Wiley’s bedroom window looked out over an open veranda from where one could walk onto the lawn and straight across it into a quarry. ‘Anyone could have gotten in,’ I was told. Moreover, I learned that the police officer on night guard duty had left at 6 am that morning. Furthermore, although Wiley’s wife seldom rose early, I was told that she had also gone out by 6 am.