Daddy Long Legs (16 page)

By the time Human reached the police station it was almost dark. Outside in the dirt road, the crowd was singing hymns. And bearing candles. Somehow Human found the scene unsettling. The town was infused with such a sense of tense anticipation that the scene appeared more like a lynching than a candlelight vigil. As if to confirm his disquiet, when he climbed out of the car, somebody shouted at him, ‘Where’s the body, detective?’ Where’s the body?’

Howling dogs baying for blood, Human thought as he entered Eighteen Hill Street. He made a note to stay inside for the rest of the day. He wanted none of the madness of the world outside. He switched on the TV and kept it on mute. The networks had made a great deal of the so-called Zero Day. Both e-Channel News Africa and SABC International had paraded a series of experts and ‘insiders’ who provided ‘insight’ into both the killer and the events now unfolding in Hope. At one stage, ECNA had featured a psychic who, with great fanfare, made a prediction that little Kobus would be found in a nearby town, licking an ice cream. Human wondered if she knew the network was making fun of her, displaying her like a carnival side-show while they were waiting for real news. As the day drew to a close and it became patently obvious that the mangled body of Kobus van Jaarsveld would not be discovered, SABC International shifted focus and, subtly, removed the Zero Day title from the screen. They made no reference to the fact that their prediction had proved hopelessly inaccurate. ECNA, on the other hand, in keeping with their brash commercialism, started a negative countdown. The following day, Tuesday, would be negative one day, -1.

It was a spectacle. A Circus Ludicrous. Human switched off the TV and focused on the heap of case files that lay on his desk.

The town of Hope entered a restless and agitated night. The candlelight vigil outside the detective unit eventually fizzled out around 1am. Sometime later, Human retired to the guesthouse where he was staying.

With too much energy and no spectacle upon which to heap it, the evening slowly unravelled. At least two dozen fights were reported across the town. And several businesses and cars were vandalised. A group of drunken students had hung up one of their friends from a street lamp, helplessly suspended in his sleeping bag. In possibly the most telling incident of the night, somebody had sprayed DADDY LONG LEGS WAS HER on the N12 entrance to Hope. When Human heard about the vandalism, he suspected that the hilarious slogan was more the result of insufficient spray paint than insufficient education. The slogan was immediately picked up and became a symbol of the ridiculous spectacle that had sprung up around the disappearance of Kobus van Jaarsveld. Later that Tuesday evening, someone had added an ‘E’ to the end of ‘HER’, in a slightly different shade. But it was too late. By the next day the slogan was already appearing on t-shirts across South Africa. Human just watched all of it with jaded astonishment. How absurd could things still get?

Human had no idea that – very soon – things were going to get considerably more bizarre.

Human got an early start on the day. Throughout all this time he had still considered this to be the most likely day on which the body dump would take place. He felt ready. All his senses were heightened. And he experienced a clarity of thought that was refreshing after the tumultuous events of the previous few days. He placed the entire division of detectives on high alert. He instructed them to keep their eyes peeled. To keep their ears open. No event. No observation. Nothing was to be considered too trivial. Or unimportant.

As Human entered the office he learned about the previous evening’s events. About the vandalism. And about the laughable spray paint slogan.

The mood in the town of Hope that morning was very different from the previous day. It was the mood of the child who had learned that the Christmas tree did not reveal the gift he had been craving all year. The dismay of the lover who had just realised his soul mate was maybe not the person for him. It was the aching hangover after a night of egregious drunken revelry. The mood could be summed up in one succinct word. Disappointment.

On Twitter somebody with the handle, @DaddyBongLegs, had tweeted, ‘Thanks for nothing, Daddy!’

Human also learned that over the weekend somebody had begun a Kobus van Jaarsveld page on Facebook. The page immediately attracted a horde of followers. Commiserations and dedications streamed in from all over the world.  Not to be outdone, somebody started a Daddy Long Legs page. It was an interesting comment on human nature that the Daddy Long Legs page attracted considerably more followers than Kobus’s page. By a factor of three, in fact. Human dismissed the Facebook pages as the product of bored minds and paid no more attention to the phenomenon. It was a decision that would soon come back to haunt him.

For the remainder of the day Human busied himself trampling through the case files and evidence boxes. He was a little more than halfway through the contents. In the process, he was starting to form a lucid and concrete image of the killer they were dealing with. He was beginning to understand him. He was starting to know him. On an intimate level. As if he had been an old friend. Or, in this case, an old rival. Others may have frowned on Human’s obsessive attention to the details of the original murders. But this was how he worked. This was how achieved results. This was how he performed the Human magic.

Over the course of the morning he received several requests for interviews. Keeping in mind Joe Ndabane’s directive, he announced that he would hold a quick press conference. In the midmorning sun, congregated in front of the detective unit, Human met the press. In the distance, the candlelight vigil group that had been camping out in front of the unit for the last few days as well as several other private citizens looked on with muted interest. He announced that the police were investigating several promising leads. And that they were starting to form a solid picture of whom they were dealing with. He took great care to re-iterate that ‘Zero Day’ had been a media creation from the start and that the investigators never expected any ‘developments’ to take place this early on, Human said, being very careful to phrase his statements as diplomatically as possible. He ended off his press statement with the declaration that there was every reason to believe that little Kobus was still alive. This last statement unleashed a torrent of questions. Human patiently answered the questions. And concluded the conference.

Afterwards he took a quick drive to his CSU team at the police station. In contrast to the heightened anticipation of the previous day, the mood was muted. Disconsolate. And fractured. Sullen groups of people congregated around cars. Around street lamps. Around shop entrances. A large group of
Goths
milled around an old Volkswagen van, painted black and featuring ornate fantasy-inspired illustrations. They were drinking from quart beer bottles in brown paper bags. It seemed nobody took the effort to remind them that drinking in public was against the law. Elsewhere groups of teens were sleeping off the previous evening’s excitement in cars.

At the police station Human found his CSU team hard at work. They had matched the majority of the prints lifted from the public phone. As expected the prints had produced hits in the extensive database. Once again, as expected these were not the results they were looking for. So far, there had been four hits. These belonged to locals who had been arrested for minor charges like public indecency and theft. The most serious offence had been for assault.

While Human was at the station, he took the time to drop in on Colonel Jan Witbooi, the station commander. Witbooi received Human enthusiastically. And immediately ordered them each a brimming cappuccino. Human wasted no time in enquiring about the strange incident surrounding the nineties theft of items from the evidence room. Witbooi responded with genuine embarrassment and said that, although it had been significantly before his time, it was nonetheless a sensitive issue. And one that filled him with dismay and left him thoroughly mortified. Witbooi told Human that it was, in fact, the theft itself coupled with rapid developments in forensics that had precipitated the relocation of the entire forensics unit to Kimberley. Human asked about the internal investigation. ‘Do you know anything about it? Are you familiar with any of its findings?’

‘Vaguely. If I recall correctly, the investigation team found that although the officers on duty were negligent, they could not be held directly responsible for the theft. Minor disciplinary measures were recommended. I can’t remember what they were or if they were ever implemented.’

‘And you don’t remember who the policemen on duty were ... that night?’

‘No, sorry.’ Witbooi shook his head regretfully. ‘Like I said, before my time.’

‘I see.’ Human leaned forward. ‘You’re aware that files related to the investigation are missing.’

Witbooi cradled his head in his hands. He sighed with exasperation. ‘Yes. Detective Engelman informed me.’ He looked at Human. ‘You must understand ... Wayne. Can I call you Wayne?’ Human nodded. ‘You must understand, this is a ... it’s a bloody embarrassment to me. That something like this could happen in my division. You must understand how I regret it.’ Human could see that the policeman’s dismay was genuine.

‘I understand.’

In the awesome silence that followed, a huge blowfly circled the table, buzzing a lazy refrain. Witbooi’s head snapped back. ‘There is something I remember. Simply because it was so ... so peculiar.’ Human leaned forward in his chair, his interest piqued. ‘I remember something about a number of call-outs that night. All false alarms. As if, well, as if someone was trying to empty the police station that night.’ Human rested his chin on his fist, thoroughly intrigued by the Colonel’s words. Witbooi paused. ‘I mean, that could indicate that ... that it may have been someone from outside ... that it may not have been ...’ He left the sentence hanging. Unfinished. Not saying the obvious thing that was foremost on the minds of the two seasoned policemen. That it was one of their own who had staged the theft. And the far darker implication. The thing that both cops were too afraid to say. At least at this stage.

‘That’s very interesting, very interesting indeed,’ was all that Human managed. He sat back in his chair. ‘Tell me, Colonel, what can you tell me about Inspector van Staden?’

Witbooi scratched his chin. ‘Hmm. Tragic case really. You’re aware that his wife committed suicide, God, just a few days ago.’ The commander stared into the distance. ‘It seems like ages ago, actually. So much has happened in the last few days. Crazy.’ He shook his head as if to clear his mind. ‘Any case, yes, a good officer, really. No complaints. Old school, you know. Not just as a policeman, but also as a person. Decent upstanding. Reliable sort of fellow.’ He frowned as he searched his memory. ‘Of course, as you know, he was struck by tragedy during the eighties. When his son became a victim of uh ... the Hope killer.’

Human nodded. ‘Yes. Terrible situation. And now his wife too.’ He considered his words. Then added, ‘Also a victim of the same madman, as it were.’

‘Yes. He went downhill a bit, after the whole affair.’ Witbooi made the universal sign of drinking, cradling an imaginary bottle and tilting it towards his mouth. ‘Started spending a bit too much time with the bottle, you know.’ Human nodded. ‘We had to schedule a bit of compassionate leave for him after that. But you know, he’s a committed policeman. After a bit of counselling, he was ... well, he was better. But he never really got over it. I don’t expect any father really would ... get over something like that. He was never quite the same.’

‘You knew him back then?’

‘No no no. This was what I learned from the personnel files when I took over. And from speaking to some of the more senior guys.’

Human leaned back and sighed. Then rose. ‘Okay,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Thank you so much for your time, Colonel. I appreciate it.’

Witbooi shook Human’s hand, rising himself. ‘Any time, detective. My door is always open.’

As Human headed out the commander’s office he heard an almighty ruckus. Hurrying to the public service area he was in time to see a group of four officers engaged in a titanic struggle to subdue a large man with tattoos and a blond ponytail. Only when a fifth officer joined the fray were they able to gain control of the situation.  In an awkward six-man tango, they herded him off to the prison cells at the back. It seemed, in the hot Karoo sun, the listless  mood of the town was turning violent.

Moments later Human was heading back to the detective unit. Everywhere he sensed mute aggression. A brewing dissatisfaction. In his rear-view mirror he saw a group of young people circle each other. A portly youth hurtled a quart bottle at someone. While another tall man ran up and landed a flying kick to the youth’s midriff. Somewhere a police siren wailed loudly. Except for the youth who lay writhing in the street, the group scattered. The Hope killer had singlehandedly turned the town of Hope into a little Afghanistan (with a little help from the media, of course).

At the office, Human quickly busied himself with more reading. He had spent the whole day trying to stay busy. Trying to keep his mind occupied. But it was all to little avail.  As much as he tried, he couldn’t focus. Somewhere out there. In the sweltering heat. A little innocent boy was about to lose his life. And have his lifeless body unceremoniously dumped onto the hard soil of a town called Hope.

The day passed in a haze of unfocused, meandering thoughts. And notes and reports read and read again. With little comprehension. On the wall above them the day revolved to a close. With nothing. Human contacted his surveillance teams several times. But they had nothing to report. More than once he considered driving over there. And joining this or that detective. But each time he abandoned the idea. He didn’t want to create a disturbance that could possibly give away anything. And prevent the killer from acting. With each ticking minute adding to his frustration, he nonetheless persevered in his mammoth task of wading through the Daddy Long Legs material. When he found himself again, it was after eight at night. Dammit. He was so sure the killer would strike today. It had been more than a certainty. Yes. It had been a conviction. And now he had to contend himself with the realisation that he had been wrong. And that they would have to wait another day.