Daddy Long Legs (13 page)

‘I see.’

‘And then, in the hours following the boy’s disappearance, we sent more than twenty uniforms into the township to interview the residents of Steynbrug.’

Human felt his composure slip. ‘Interesting. And what did you hope to achieve by doing that?’

‘Elementary, my dear Sherlock. We interviewed them about any strange behaviour. Specifically, we asked them about any suspicious characters from out of town, from an adjacent township, you know. Somebody not from here.’

Just like the Hope community of the eighties, it seemed people could simply not let go of the idea that the Hope serial killer was a Coloured man. Human felt frustration gnaw at the edges of his already frayed mood. Engelman’s next words astonished him, however.

‘And you’ll be pleased to know, we’ve already arrested a suspect, mister big city cop.’

Human was stunned. ‘What? You arrested a suspect?’

‘Not just a suspect. We arrested Daddy Long Legs himself.’ Suddenly Human understood the laid back attitude, the celebratory atmosphere. ‘That’s right, mister big city cop,’ Engelman continued, bolstered by his own words. ‘One Solomon Phielander.’ He stared at Human pointedly. ‘And believe me, he’s our man, detective.’ He pointed at his arm. ‘He has a rap sheet as long as my arm. He’s been in and out of prison his whole life. Residents spotted him when he made his appearance a few days before the van Jaarsveld boy disappeared. And guess where’s he’s been? In prison. Serving a sixteen year prison sentence for ... of all things, two convictions for rape. Maria van Wyk, twenty three and Willemiena Tas, twenty five.’ Engelman made a big show counting the names on his fingers. ‘And the
coup de grace
,’ he said, mispronouncing the French term, ‘he was overheard bragging in a local
shebeen
(township tavern) that he was the one who had abducted the boy and that, if he could, he would steal every white boy in the entire Northern Cape.’ During this final oration, Engelman had walked back to the table where he extracted a Castle Lager can from a cooler bag on the table. Now he walked back towards Human. ‘Now if that doesn’t sound like a confession to me, I don’t know what is, big city detective.’ And with that he opened the can in Human’s face, deliberately spraying him with a jet of foam. ‘Beer?’

This time, however, Detective Wayne Human did not let it go.

Allowing the full force of his ire to bubble to the surface, Human slapped the beer can aside. It went flying across the lawn, ejecting a stream of foamy beer as it twirled across the manicured lawn. ‘What the –’

‘You’re all sitting here, consuming alcohol while one of South Africa’s most vicious serial killers is busy defiling a little boy.’ The words were shouted, exploding the quiet of the early evening.

For a moment there was a stunned silence. Then the stocky Engelman puffed up his chest in an effort to match the significantly taller Human. ‘Have you not been listening to anything I said, detective? And may I just remind you that this is our investigation and that you are here solely in a consultative capacity.’ The words were spat out.

Human was not for a moment intimidated. ‘In the first place, detective, my name is Detective Wayne Human, not big city detective. It is both disrespectful and pejorative. And may I just remind you that thus far you have achieved bugger-all next to nothing.’ Human took a step forward and now addressed the group of shocked detectives as a whole. ‘Our
unsub
,’ he said, casting a sideways look at Engelman, ‘is a highly educated, highly intelligent
white male
who would never have been able to gain the confidence of his
white
victims during Apartheid South Africa had he not been
white
. It is more than likely that the killer occupied a highly respected position within his community and that he remained, throughout the murder spree, above reproach. During the original series of murders, in the eighties, he was in his mid-to-late thirties, which would now make him in his mid to late fifties. Our killer can be classified as a highly organised serial killer which means, amongst others, that he’s likely to use restraints, commit sexual acts with living victims and, yes, detective Engelman, makes use of a vehicle during the commission of his crimes. In addition, the typology of the killer conforms to what is known as an erotophonophiliac or lust killer. Everything he does, including possibly the murders themselves, are committed for sexual gratification. He is a sexual sadist of the most pernicious kind and victims are subjected to the most horrendous forms of torture while confined. He is a psychopath and a shameless narcissist who enjoys not only exerting domination over helpless victims but derives singular pleasure from taunting the police and communicating with the media.’ Human paused, looking at each detective in turn. A stunned silence hung over the gathering, weirdly punctuated by a Kurt Darren song that played in the background. Human turned to Engelman. Do you have anything to add, detective?’ Engelman didn’t respond, ashen faced. ‘I said do you have anything to add, detective?’ He mutely shook his head. Human turned to the seated group of detectives. ‘I want every single file from the original case on my desk by seven tomorrow morning. Be ready to receive a briefing tomorrow at eight where we will decide the future course of this investigation. And be sure of one thing, above all else,
detective,’
Human made sure to make eye contact with all the detectives, ‘this is
my
investigation. Not yours.’

And with that he turned and walked out. At the door that led to the interior he paused and turned to face Engelman once more. Whipped into a frenzy, he just didn’t care anymore for social niceties. ‘Tomorrow morning I want you to go and release your so-called suspect, Mr Phielander. He is not by any means our serial killer. Do you understand?’ There was silence. ‘And, by the way,
detective
, the expression is, “Elementary, my dear
Watson
” not “my dear Sherlock”.’ As he walked through the deserted room Human realised he had just permanently buried any chance of a cordial working relationship, but right then he couldn’t give a damn ...
my dear
. Inside his car an odd thought struck him. He had asked for the report to be on his desk by eight the next morning. But he didn’t even have one.

Kobus van Jaarsveld awoke.

There was darkness everywhere. And he was shivering uncontrollably. From the cold. From the terror. From the cold steel that bit into his tiny naked body.

Immediately his tiny world imploded. Immediately his entire being shrank. Immediately everything that had ever been Kobus van Jaarsveld collapsed into an impossibly dense ball of tortured subsistence. Into the dark rabbit hole he plummeted. Deep. Deep. Deep. Inside himself he fell. Into himself, he plunged. This is where we all go. When everything gets too much. When the reality around us becomes a crushing weight. We sink to a dark stratum our waking mind can never know anything about. It is an ancient place. A place that existed before we were fully formed. Before we became us. Before we had a sense of ourselves as something separate from the world around us. This is the basement of the consciousness. The secret room. The void within. Where God and the Devil sit on opposite sides of your being, dropping pebbles into the dark murky waters of your soul. 

This was the state that marked Kobus van Jaarsveld’s waking hours. This was where he lived. When he wasn’t running with delirious panic through his dreams. This was where he lived. Ever since that beautiful lost Tuesday afternoon. When his world had ended in a flurry of pain and chemicals. And this is where he stayed. Until –

Oh God no.

There it was.

There
he
was.

The terror brought his consciousness. His senses. Into sudden sharp focus.

He was back in the cage. In the darkness.

And he was coming.

Was it a sound? Or. The stench?

He was coming.

That was something they never mentioned. On those crime shows his mommy so loved to watch.

Mommy
?

That was something they never mentioned.

In a place like this. In a situation like this. Something happened. With your senses. They became like sharp little flying knives. Slicing the reality around you. Cleaving open the world around you. Revealing layers. And secrets. Exposing the world. No. This was something they never mentioned. In the darkness. In the cage. He could see. And hear. And taste. And smell things he never knew possible. He could hear the death anguish of a fly. He could taste the setting sun. He could see how darkness deepened in the corners of the room that he knew existed around him. And ... And ...

He could smell him.

As he now did.

He could smell him.

And he was coming.

It was a deep rancid smell. A stench. Like a dead snake baking in the sun. Like dying flesh.

Daddy had once told him dogs could smell disease. Disease like cancer.

That was
his
stench. Like disease. A disease no doctor could cure.

Kobus van Jaarsveld could smell his sickness.

He smelt it now.

He was coming.

Light exploded into his world. But his eyes were closed. Moments before. He had heard his hand disturb the darkness. He had smelt his fingers probe the void.

Kobus van Jaarsveld coiled up into a dense little ball. Trying to hide from the light that flooded the room. Trying to hide from him.

He smelt him coming closer. The stench grew until it became a creature. Reaching out for him. He could hear his rasping breath. He could hear the ligaments and joints in his knee creak and groan as he knelt by the cage. He tasted the stench on his finger as he inserted it through the bars of the cage. And stroked his naked flesh.

‘It is time,’ he whispered. ‘It is time, my lovely.’

Kobus began whimpering.

He inserted a whole hand. And stroked the little boy’s naked flesh.

‘It is time.’

Kobus’s world reeled and staggered.

‘I want you to see what I see.’

Kobus screamed.

By the time Wayne Human awoke the next morning from a disturbed sleep, he was thoroughly restless. And also sharply focused. He allowed himself only the briefest moment to contemplate the task that lay ahead before he showered and prepared for the day’s activities. He regretted the previous evening’s outburst. It wasn’t in his nature. He made a mental note to apologise to Dirk Engelman and the other detectives. A few minutes later he was at the detective unit’s quarters. HQ from now on. Eighteen Hill Street. To his great delight, he saw that the little house was a flurry of activity. Maybe his little tantrum had served a purpose after all. At least half a dozen uniformed policemen were swarming the rooms, re-arranging furniture and carrying boxes and other items of equipment. The area that had been the reception area only the day before was now crammed with an extra three desks. The side room that had formerly been the file room had been similarly re-arranged. The bathroom had now become the new file room. Human spotted Brussouw who at once came over to him. ‘Morning detective.’ Human returned the greeting. Gone was the sheepishness of the day before. Maybe Brussouw would turn out to be an asset after all, Human thought as he shook the detective’s hand. ‘We got you a desk over here in the old file room. We got a whiteboard coming just now.’ He pointed to the file room. ‘All the old files and evidence boxes are over there in a corner.’ Brussouw looked pleased with himself. ‘Exactly as you asked.’ He approached Human and lowered his voice. ‘Dirkie wasn’t too happy taking the files out of storage, but I eventually convinced him. As long as the files never leave the premises, we’re fine.’

‘Good. Thank you.’ Human looked around. ‘And the detectives from Kimberley?’

Brussouw consulted his watch. They should be here between seven and eight.’

‘Good.’

Over the course of the next few minutes the remainder of the Hope detective unit ambled in. When Engelman came in, he kept to himself. Unlike the others, he made no effort to greet Human. Not long after, a group of six detectives from Kimberley arrived. Human now had a group of eleven detectives in his task group. More than enough to catch a killer. At eight, Human assembled the team in the old file room, now officially his new office.

The evening before he had compiled an updated but still preliminary profile of the killer on his laptop together with a basic plan of action. He now handed each of the detectives a copy.

Unfortunately, the genuine profile could only be compiled once a member of the IPU had come down to Hope. And then, only once there was a body and a dump site. Human hoped beyond hope that this was not necessary. But he realised the chances of catching the killer this soon was highly unlikely. The reality was, of course, that during the original murders, the fine science of profiling had not yet been employed as a tool by the South African Police. All they had right now was the original psychological analysis compiled by the very competent Dr Frederick Nieuwoudt.

Now, as Human stood before his task group, he had a captive audience. He quickly took them through the original murders. And a summation of the preliminary profile. Then he detailed the unique challenges that faced those whose task it was to catch serial killers. ‘The public often wonders, in the case of a serial killer, when someone abducts and murders so frequently, with such brazen disregard for the authorities, why this type of offender isn’t apprehended with greater ease. We are often asked why some killers get away with their crimes for so long. Why do we struggle to arrest them, when they keep body parts in the fridge and bury corpses in their backyards? The answer is of course, a complex one. One reason is that the serial killer’s victims are chosen randomly. And I use the term ‘random’ very loosely. This type of killer, of course, selects victims based upon a very well-defined psychological imperative. On the surface, however, this selection process appears random, making it very difficult to identify the killer. This apparent ‘randomness’ is related to the next obstacle. Serial killers almost never kill people that are known to them. In a normal homicide, as you know, the first suspects are the family members, loved ones, friends and colleagues. With a serial killer, we have none of this luxury. In addition, we’re often dealing with a highly evolved criminal mind, further sharpened by psychopathy. The serial killer has no remorse. And doesn’t abide by the normal social scruples and rules that bind the rest of us. He’s a psychopath. Pure and simple. In addition, we’re dealing with a deep-seated obsession, whatever that may be, that impels him to continue killing, regardless of injury or fear of arrest. These are all things that combine to make the killer highly focused. And extremely difficult to identify. Now, add to that the instances of a typology we call the organised killer – as opposed to the disorganised killer – and we have a big problem on our hands. Specifics aside, the name is what it implies. A killer that is ordered, structured and goes about his killing and the consequent evasion of authorities in a highly precise manner. The details are in the report. Throw all those into a bag, shake it about, and you get a phenomenon known as Daddy Long Legs.’ Human looked at his detectives sternly. ‘By the way, while you’re a part of this task force, you will never refer to this suspect as Daddy Long Legs. We are not here to advance anybody’s media career.’ Although it had not been his specific goal to impress his detectives it was clear that Human had made quite an impression. Regardless of his intentions, it
was
important, especially if he was going to rely on his authority to get things done. Human surveyed the faces before him. ‘Alright, so following on from what I said, because the serial killer does not follow the normal modus operandi of the everyday murderer, we cannot ourselves follow standard homicide procedures. Interviewing family members and loved ones, for instance, reveals almost nothing. All it may achieve is to arrive at a profile of the victims. In this case, we already have a profile. Young, mostly Caucasian or fair-skinned boys between the ages of nine and eleven.’ Human paused. ‘What I propose is the following. It is extremely rare for serial killers to resume their rampage after such an extended period of zero activity. Serial killers stop killing for one of three major reasons: they die, they go to prison, or they move elsewhere. It is my firm belief that if we can decipher why this maniac stopped killing in the first place, we can understand why he started killing again. And if we can understand why he started killing again, we have a very solid foundation from which to identify ... and catch him.’ Several of the detectives looked at each other, nodding in assent. It was clear that this was not something that had occurred to the majority of them. ‘Now, those three reasons that I mentioned just now very succinctly sum up our next course of action.’ Human grabbed a blue marker and turned to the white board behind him. ‘Okay, I have yet to work out the roster,’ he said, looking over his shoulder, ‘maybe detective Engelman can help me with that?’ Engelman nodded gloomily. ‘I want to assign a group of detectives to each of the following tasks.’ In capital letters he wrote the words, PRISON and RELOCATION on the board. Some of the detectives starting taking notes. ‘Okay, since we obviously know the killer could not have stopped killing because he died, that leaves us with two possible options. Prison and relocation. I want you, in your respective groups, to go back into the past, to nineteen-eighty-eight or nineteen-eighty-nine, and compile a list of everybody who went to prison during this period. Keep in mind the profile of a white male in his late thirties.’ Engelman snorted. ‘The prison term doesn’t have to be a full twenty years, but we’re looking for a good few years.’ He cast a glance towards his detectives to make sure they were following. ‘Then I want another group to investigate the same period and compile a list of everybody who relocated during this period.’ He turned to the group of seated men. ‘Don’t just focus on Hope. I want you to consider all the towns within a fifty kilometre radius.’ There were a few who grumbled their disapproval. There were at least six towns within this area. ‘I know it’s a big area. But we have to cover all our bases, as the Americans would say. I want us to cover each component thoroughly. I don’t want to miss anything, or be forced to come back to the same issue again. Are we clear?’ Most nodded. ‘Then, the moment we’ve compiled the relocation list, I want us to focus on a third list.’ Human turned to the board and wrote SIMILAR CRIMES in large capital letters. ‘We simply cannot allow this animal to escape our grasp simply because we didn’t think of everything. As soon as we’ve identified the various towns and cities that our original Hope population relocated to, I want us to locate similar crimes, featuring the same victim profile, same MO and so on, within these designated areas, from that period until the present.’ Several of the men hung their head at the thought of the mammoth task that this involved. ‘I know this is a huge task. I know it’s tedious work. But we have to consider all the options. If the killer relocated to somewhere else and he continued his killing spree in another area, we have to know about this.’ Human pointed to the first two words on the board. ‘Maybe we don’t get him on these two lists, but I guarantee you, we’ll get him on the third.’ Human could have no idea that he was indeed correct. But in a way he could never guess at this stage.

One of the detectives raised his hand. Human pointed to him. ‘What about a tip line? You know, get the public to phone in with tips or observations.’

Human took a deep breath and remained quiet for a moment. He spoke slowly. ‘Tip lines can be a good idea ... but not now.’ There was a discontented rumbling in the room and several shouts of protest. Loudest among them was Engelman. ‘Look, although tip lines do sometimes yield results, more often than not they just end up bogging down the investigation with a tonne of data, most of it completely useless.’ Human sighed. ‘Let me give you some examples. During the investigation to catch the Yorkshire Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe, not only did the tip line severely distract the police, but a sick, so-called prankster who mailed in a recording of his voice completely changed the focus of the Ripper task force and succeeded in derailing the entire investigation. Instead of focusing on Sutcliffe, who had at this stage already been identified as a possible suspect, they altered the profile. The result was that the investigation lasted several years longer than it needed to. In the case of the Green River Killer in Washington State, the task team was so overwhelmed with the ridiculous amount of data gathered from the tip lines that the investigation dragged on for more than a decade. A decade! Ten years. Once again, the killer, Gary Ridgway, who had also at that stage been identified as a possible suspect, was allowed to continue killing with impunity, in a rampage that lasted more than ten years.’ Human turned to the detective who had asked the question. ‘Do you want this twisted bastard to continue killing for ten more years?’ There was silence. ‘Look, I have, over the years, developed a graded set of priorities.’ He turned to the board again and started scribbling. ‘Right at the top of my list of priorities is forensics. Within this list, I include basically any kind of concrete objective evidence, video footage, audio recordings, paper trails etc. These are the things, gentlemen that win court cases. Next in line are eyewitness accounts of abductions, body dumps etc. Once again, an eye witness on the stand is powerful ... and concrete. Next in line is what I cover under the general term of profiling. It includes the work I’ve just discussed,’ he said, pointing at the three lists on the white board. ‘Then, to cut a long story short, almost right at the bottom is public tip lines. The public tends to be over-enthusiastic when it comes to these things, believing they are aiding detectives when all they’re achieving is over-burdening us. A tip line, to me, is always a last resort.’ He looked at the group of men, trying to gauge the mood. ‘Okay. Detective Engelman and I will work out the schedule,’ Human said, once again trying to reconcile with the difficult and truculent policeman. ‘You will receive your assignments within the next hour.’ Human carefully surveyed the group of faces. ‘Any other questions?’

‘DNA.’ It was a black detective who spoke. The only one in the group.

‘Yes, good question. A few years back when the first dedicated cold case squads were introduced, they sent a preserved sample from the Hope case to a lab for DNA testing. A useable profile
was
extracted.’ Human paused. ‘But it didn’t match any of the profiles in the DNA database.’ Several of the detectives expressed dismay. ‘Now, guys, all that meant is that the killer hadn’t been arrested or tested for DNA until that time. It’s been several years since then. We’re going to check our profile against the database again. Later today, in fact.’  Human checked his watch. ‘Of course, I’ve requested that the lab review all the biological samples that have been preserved since the original murders. I want them to look for additional DNA profiles. For all we know, our original DNA profile that was compiled might not even belong to the killer.’ The black cop who had asked the question nodded with appreciation.

Human’s face became grave. He ruminated gravely while the men in the room stared at him in silence. ‘Detectives, if the killer follows his established patterns, it means he keeps the boys captive for a period of about a week. We’ve lost two days. The reality is simple. Yet powerful.’ Human took off his glasses and cleaned them on his button-down shirt. Taking great care to ensure they were clean, he positioned them on this thin face. ‘Gentlemen, there’s no need to stress the vital importance of what we’re doing here. The eyes of the entire country are upon us. We have less than a week to make this happen. The longest period of time during which the killer held a victim captive was eight days. The average was closer to six. I believe, being the first time he’s been active in twenty years, we can look at a longer period of captivity. Whatever the case, we’ve lost two days and the investigation is on the back foot. We’re on borrowed time here, gentlemen. We have six days to catch a killer. And save a boy’s life.’