Daddy Long Legs (28 page)

Amidst grumbles and dagger stares, the meeting broke up. And the resentful group of detectives dissipated. Human turned to his new contingent of detectives. ‘Gentlemen, we better get started. We have a lot of work to do.’

Human led his troupe of detectives to a room that had hurriedly been prepared for the task team. It was, ironically enough, the old forensics lab. The same room from which the files and evidence had been stolen on that evening more than twenty years ago. Lerato had made copies of Human’s copious notes and now distributed them to the detectives. Human also walked the new group through the entire investigation, starting with the murder of Paul Walters in nineteen eighty-four, right up to the disappearance of Alexander Joemat. Human then divided his task force into small groups, each working on a separate component of the investigation. One of these groups was also tasked with assimilating the notes and materials of the dismissed detectives, which slowly trickled in during the course of the day.

When Human had finished re-organising the Daddy Long Legs task force, and bringing his new team up to speed, it was already night. Another day had been wasted.

But it had been a necessary move on his part and, although he regretted the bad feelings engendered by his actions, he didn’t regret taking this decisive step. It had to be done. For the integrity of his investigation. For the life of a child.

At around ten o’ clock that night Human stepped out of the police station. He was exhausted. And utterly drained. His mind was a rotting piece of Swiss cheese. Rolling ineffectively around his head, stinking up his thoughts. Human was about to unlock his squad car when he heard movement behind him. He spun around, his hand on his service pistol. It was Inspector Gerhardt van Staden, Hope policeman and father to one of Daddy Long Legs’s victims. Human eyed the aged policeman curiously.

‘Sorry to bother you, Detective Human. I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’

Human smiled thinly, tired and not in the mood for conversations. ‘That’s fine, Inspector.’

The policeman stood silently, his peaked cap gripped pathetically in both hands. Human had the strange impression of van Staden as a beggar. ‘I just wanted to ... express my condolences ... for what happened.’

Human’s tired mind flopped over uselessly. ‘What happened?’

‘The fire. At the detective division.’

‘Oh yes ... that.’

‘Yes. I just wanted to say how sorry I am. You’ve been working so hard. It was a terrible thing to happen.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Human said with slight irritation. ‘It was hardly your fault, but thank you.’

‘So ...’ Van Staden stood awkwardly for a moment. ‘You lost everything in the fire.’

‘Well, not everything.’ Was it his tiredness or was there a curious inflection in the policeman’s question. Could it be? Could it possibly be ... relief? ‘I stored some of the most important files in a ...safe ... place.’ Human decided – for some strange reason he couldn’t identify – not to tell the policeman the whole truth.

The policeman stepped forward. ‘Really?’ There it was again. An odd inflection. This time it sounded almost like ... disappointment?

‘Yes.’ Human cleared his throat. ‘Inspector, please excuse me. I’m tired and I need to get some rest.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Human nodded curtly and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Corolla. ‘Erm, detective ...’ Human looked up. To his shock he found van Staden right by his window. ‘If you ever need an extra hand with the investigation, please know that I’m always available.’

‘Okay.’ Human turned the ignition and the engine roared into life. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’ He pulled away; glad to bring an end to the exchange. Human drove to the B&B in restless silence – for some strange reason he couldn’t name – disturbed by the conversation.

The sun rose the next morning on what appeared to be a very average Karoo day. There was nothing extraordinary about the temperature that day. Or the humidity for that matter. A very average number of clouds clotted the sky. A completely average amount of birds crowded the trees around Hope. And the people of this little town had a thoroughly average expectation for that Thursday. It had, to all intents and purposes, the look of being an extraordinarily ordinary day. Except it was on this day that Human and his team would finally – after twenty years of failures – make an extraordinary breakthrough.

For it was on
this
day that they would identify the killer that had become known as Daddy Long Legs.

Lerato rose early and after a quick shower, slipped on one of her favourite dresses; a bright yellow mini-dress with a square neckline and matching yellow high heels. It was a radical departure from her normal attire, but she wore it for a very specific reason. After dressing, she departed for the police station. As she had come to expect, Human was already busy, scribbling away like mad behind his desk. The sight of the gangly detective made her heart skip a beat. She paused at the doorway for a moment and composed herself.

Her initial confession to Human had not been a lie. She had indeed been following the master detective’s career for a long time. Ever since her basic training, she had devoured anything and everything related to Human and his work. On occasion, when she had the opportunity to meet policemen and women that had worked with the legendary detective, she had plied them relentlessly with questions. What was he like? How did he work? How did he arrive at his conclusions? Over time, a deep admiration of his investigative talents had grown into something else. Call it a crush. But for Lerato it was something deeper. She had seen in the awkward detective everything that justified her worldview and her daily efforts to become a detective herself. She had seen in the bookish policeman a lone crusader who fought for those whose voice had been silenced. And with time, she was able to form an accurate picture of the man Wayne Human was. Call it a crush. But Lerato had seen in the detective something deeper. A soul mate. A true kindred spirit. The part of her that had been missing all these years.

One thing she did not tell him was that – a few years before – they had met. However, stuttering and sputtering when she had been introduced to the senior investigator, Lerato had made a complete fool of herself. It had only strengthened her resolve, however. To meet him again. To re-unite with him. Now, as she stood studying the gentle curve of his face, the unbreakable focus – call it obsession – with which he approached his task, she knew that the missing part of her own being had finally been located.

Lerato saw that there was no-one else around. She approached him slowly. ‘Good morning, Wayne.’

He looked up. And did an immediate double take. ‘Um ... good morning.’ Her dress had had the intended effect.

She sat across from him. They looked at each other for a moment, saying nothing. Finally Lerato broke the silence. ‘What you did yesterday took an incredible amount of courage. And determination.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘It was awesome.’

‘Thank you, Lerato.’ She looked at him. And saw genuine appreciation for her remark. Outside she heard voices. Some of the detectives were approaching. It was now or never. She reached across and, with her hand behind his head, she drew him to her. Drew his mouth to hers. She enfolded his lips in hers. Forcing his mouth open. At first he resisted. Did nothing. But then he returned her passion. And they were fused at the mouth. They became one. She heard him whimper. And knew. That the chemistry was real. That the passion was real. As her loins exploded with fire, she released him. Moments before the detectives entered the room. Human looked at her. Shocked. Blanched. The detectives shouted a greeting. Human returned it meekly. Lerato leaned in and spoke softly so only he could hear. ‘I know who you are. I know your situation. I know everything ... that stands between us. But I want you to know this. I care for you. I care for everything you are and everything you stand for. I would never ...
never
try to destroy what you have. I would never ever come between you ... and her. If you can’t be with me. If you refuse to be with me, I ask only one thing of you.’ She looked over at the detectives who were busy fixing themselves some coffee. ‘Tell me that you feel the same. Tell me I’m not alone. If we can’t be together, Wayne, then at the very least, just tell me that there is something inside you that feels the same way I do. That’s all I ask.’

Human looked at her stunned. She rose and smoothed out the creases from her ‘60’s style dress. She spoke loud enough for the other detectives to hear. ‘I’m going to the hospital. I think I’m on to something.’ The other two detectives eyed her outfit with appreciation. And then she turned and walked away. By the time she reached her car outside, tears were flowing. She stopped and wiped her eyes, searching her handbag. She heard a sound behind her and turned. Human stood at the entrance to the police station. He looked at her with impassioned desperation, his arms hanging limply by his side. They looked at each other. In the trees above them, the mating call of a turtledove resounded through the emptiness.

‘I do.’ Human spoke so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. ‘I do.’ He repeated. And then, bowing his head he turned and re-entered the police station. Standing alone outside, Lerato smiled a bitter tortured smile, her full lips pursed in exquisite agony. And then she entered the car and made her way to the hospital. On the way she took her enflamed emotions and neatly packed it into a tiny box where it was shoved into a tight corner of her soul. There was a lot of important work ahead. And Lerato was, if nothing else, professional. 

Despite being a small town, Hope had its own hospital. And although the hospital had fallen into disrepair under the ANC government, its records had been immaculately maintained. Albeit in a bizarre filing system that made no sense.

Lerato had been a regular visitor to the hospital since she had first outlined her idea to Human. Now, as she walked through the halls of the tiny hospital, carrying her laptop and handbag, she was greeted by many staff members, doctors and nurses and cleaning staff. She immediately made her way to the large but cramped room where the records were stored. She entered the dusty room and closed the door behind her. Laid out on a desk provided for her were several files that covered the period in question; the late eighties.

As Human and the original detective had noted, something odd was happening during this period in the murder spree of Daddy Long Legs. In his notes, Human estimated that this change started occurring around the time that Benny Boonzaayer disappeared, on the 2
nd
of November, 1987.  Human notes that there ‘appears to be a looseness surrounding his Modus operandi. It appears as if the killer was somehow distracted????’ Human writes. ‘In a significant deviation from his MO, the killer stopped sending taunting rhymes to the
Hope Gazette
following the disappearance of the Boonzaayer boy,’ He continues. Of course, in the mind of Human – and Lerato herself – the single most significant deviation from the killer’s MO relates to the body dumps. None of the bodies of the last three victims were ever discovered. Barring of course, the strange discovery of the skeletal remains and the various items belonging to some of the victims.

Ever since Lerato had read this annotation in Human’s notes, it had intrigued – and bothered – her. Why did the killer vary his MO so profoundly? Why were the bodies of the last three victims never dumped like the previous victims? What was happening in his life? It was, of course, these questions that had led Lerato to this very place. Now, as she stared at the stack of dusty files, she thought of the latest victim. And prayed that her intuition was correct. And that she wasn’t chasing ghosts while a young boy was being violated ... and prepared for death.

Lerato placed her laptop on the desk and opened it. She also opened her handbag and withdrew her spiral notebook. Her notes were a hybrid of paper and pixels. It was the way she preferred to work. She sighed as she contemplated the difficult and tedious work that lay ahead. It was a gargantuan task indeed. Her work was further complicated by the records themselves. Although the files covering that period were profuse and plentiful, the nonsensical filing system meant that she had to continually interrupt her reading and note taking with additional searches in an ever widening collection of records, following obfuscating cross-references and citations. On the little desk provided for her there were now already more than three dozen separate files. And there was no end in sight.

Of course another factor that contributed to Lerato’s headaches was that she wasn’t really sure at all what she was looking for? Was it an illness? Was it a death? Was it both? And of course at the heart of her dilemma was an unformed anxiety that she dare not even consider. Was she even following the correct lead? What if the answer didn’t lie here at all? What if it rested somewhere else entirely? With a ticking clock, this kind of doubt was not a luxury she could afford at this stage.

The third factor that complicated Lerato’s work was a particularly virulent meningitis epidemic that had hit the town of Hope in the late eighties. In June of 1987, a fourteen year-old girl was admitted to the Jan Verster Hope Hospital with extreme headaches, nausea and vomiting, and a raging fever. She was promptly diagnosed with viral meningitis. Less than a week later she was dead. What followed over the course of the next few months was a veritable epidemic. When the outbreak of the virulent meningitis strain was eventually arrested more than a year later, thirty six children had been admitted and treated for the highly dangerous disease. Of those, twelve had died. Of the remaining twenty-four, nine had been treated successfully and recovered quickly. Thirteen however had suffered protracted symptoms and were forced to stay in the hospital for lengthy periods. Another two were relocated to larger medical centres in Kimberley and Cape Town. If Lerato thought the killer’s personal crisis would be clearly visible amongst the records she had made a big mistake.

Up to now, it had taken her almost three days simply to get this far; to learn about the meningitis epidemic ... and to collate the various records. Now she was left with an even bigger task. The records gave only sketchy details regarding the family members of the children struck with the lethal virus. The profile postulated that the killer was in his mid-to-late thirties and that he was a married man. It was a theory that both Lerato and Human supported. Now Lerato would have to compare the meningitis records against that profile. It was information the hospital records simply didn’t contain. Four hours into her day, Lerato sighed with exasperation. She cursed softly. ‘Damn.’ It was as severe a curse word as she would allow herself. She was about to abandon the hospital records room to pursue the information somewhere else, when she saw something that made her pause. In one of the files, she saw the annotation of a nurse. A certain R. Heunis. She quickly flipped through another of the files. Yes. There it was again.

R. Heunis.

She threw the file aside and paged through another. And another. And another.

When she had done, she had discovered notes and comments from the mysterious R. Heunis in about twenty-eight of the meningitis cases. Lerato made the logical assumption. R. Heunis must have been the head nurse or matron.

Excited, Lerato charged out of the room, one of the files in her hand. She rushed up to the nearest nursing station, where two nurses were engaged in an animated discussion. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, addressing the elder of the two nurses. ‘I’m looking for a nurse, possibly a head nurse or matron or something.’ She held the open file for the nurse to look. ‘Her name was Heunis.’ The nurse peered at the written comment. ‘Do you know someone like that?’

‘Heunis?’ The nurse wrinkled her nose. ‘Sorry, I don’t know anyone like that. There’s no-one called Heunis that works here.’

Lerato felt her spirits sink.
Dammit!

Just then an elderly doctor walked past. ‘Did you say Heunis?’

‘Yes.’ Lerato looked at the aged doctor. He had a curly mop of gray hair and large bushy eyebrows. She showed him the nurse’s handwriting in the file. He placed a pair of bifocals on his nose and studied the file.

‘Yes. Rina Heunis. She was head matron here for, oh my, a very long time.’ He gave Lerato a friendly smile, the perfect picture of the amiable small town doctor from a bygone era. ‘But she’s retired now.’ Lerato looked at him expectantly. ‘Are you looking for her?’

‘Yes. Definitely.’ Lerato’s heart was beating with excitement. If she could track down the head nurse from that period and question her it would save her literally days worth of work. ‘She’s not dead, is she?’ She dreaded the answer.

‘Oh goodness no.’ The doctor laughed heartily. ‘As strong as an ox, that one,’ he said, pointing his bifocals into the air. ‘Give me a second. Her niece works here. I’ll get you her address.

Sister,’ he said turning to the elderly nurse, ‘do you know where Annette is?’

‘Ward B, doctor.’

Five minutes later Lerato was dashing through the halls of the tiny hospital, her heart racing.

The house was tiny but beautifully maintained. The neatly manicured lawn was divided by a quaint cobblestone pathway. Trimmed flower beds circumvented the modest face brick house. A wire fence bordered the property, at the centre of which an old-fashioned gate bore the name RINA HEUNIS. Lerato took time to calm her excited disposition as she opened the little gate and walked along the pathway to the
stoep.
Typical of houses in a hundred small South African towns, the
stoep
had a red polished surface and sturdy brick walls upon which were placed a dozen pot plants. The entire scene conveyed a sense of care and diligence. Lerato knocked on the front door. Moments later she heard footsteps, across a wooden floor. ‘Hellooo.’ The voice was cheery and loud. Lerato leaned forward.