Daddy Long Legs (6 page)

‘She is. She
is
a bitch. You’re right ... she is.’

‘She hurt you,’ Lindsey said. ‘You gave her the world and she hurt you.’

Kyle stood up and wiped dust from his pants. ‘Yes.’ The phone was beeping in his ear. When he looked he saw the battery was failing.

‘Kyle, please tell me that you’ll come back ... and let me look after you.’

‘You’re a good woman, Lindsey. One of the best I have ever known. Ever.’

‘Kyle?’

‘Yes, Lindsey.’

‘I love you.’

And then the phone died. And Kyle was standing next to the N1 highway, heading for the town that took the life of his brother all those years ago. The town that now also claimed the strange inexplicable life of the woman that was his mother. 

In the autumn of 1988, Daddy Long Legs took his last victim.

In time ... he would pass from history into infamy.

In his wake, he left a town forever altered by his disease. He left a community shaken to its very core. And left nine children, dead and mangled. Their loved ones broken and bitter.

After the disappearance of Benny Boonzaayer, there would be two more victims. Hannes Croucamp and of course, Ryan Devlin – brother to Kyle ... and apple of his mother’s eye.

No-one could, at the time, guess that Daddy Long Legs had taken his last life. As with each of the murders, panic and hysteria erupted in the little town. And the weeks and months that followed the disappearance of Ryan Devlin were marked with the usual paranoia, fear and obsessive vigilance. Strangers were treated with open hostility. And neighbours were eyed with suspicion. The police and the detective squad in particular, were assaulted with the usual accusations of incompetence and indolence. Weeks snowballed into months and eventually a whole year followed the murder of Ryan Devlin. Only then, in the spring of the following year, did the beleaguered people of the little Northern Cape town start nurturing a guarded optimism. It was a weary and fragile hope at best. And no-one dared utter the words aloud. But could it be? Could it actually be? That the curse – that was Daddy Long Legs – may actually have lifted? Could it be that the murders had finally ceased?

As the spring of that year passed into the inevitable summer, autumn and winter, the nascent hope in the hearts of this community blossomed into something that began to resemble certainty. Yes. The curse had been lifted. For whatever reason, the murders had stopped. And Daddy Long Legs was no more. No-one dared question their blessing, lest the hubris of human smugness somehow reverse this grace. But in time, the people of Hope accepted that it was true. And finally they began to speak of it. To share, openly, their conviction that Daddy Longs Legs was no more. It was a joyful time indeed. Even the failed crops of the preceding years could not dampen the sense of relief. In time, they also began to forgive the police for their failure to bring the killer to justice. Instead of demanding that the psychopath be apprehended, the people of Hope were just too damn glad that he had ceased his reign of terror.

Of course, the homicides came up for review each year following that autumn of ‘88. Homicide
is
after all, homicide. However, although no-one said it openly, none of the local detectives believed that the case would ever really be solved. Every now and then, young detectives from Kimberley or one of the other surrounding towns would come to the little Northern Cape town, hoping to win fame and glory by finally being the one to crack the case. But it was not to be.

As subsequent studies would prove, serial killers only stop killing when one of three things happens : they die; they’re  imprisoned or they re-locate. Whatever the case, any of these three immediately made it someone else’s problem. And so eventually, the Daddy Long Legs case was put on permanent back-burner.

But there were also other, larger forces at work. And unfortunately, the serial murders in Hope became an unintended victim of history.

Less than two years after the murder of Ryan Devlin, on the 2
nd
of February, 1990, F.W. de Klerk would make his historic speech declaring the unbanning of the ANC, the release of Nelson Mandela and the commencement of negotiations with the resistance movements. Mr Jaco van der Merwe, the
bittereinder
who had been one of only two people to notice the first twisted poem in the
Hope Gazette
all those years ago, immediately began making plans to emigrate to Australia.

Two years later, on the 17
th
of March, 1992, the oft-forgotten whites-only referendum was held. It was to be the last whites-only election ever. After more than forty years of National Party Apartheid rule, the white people of South Africa declared their intention to negotiate the end of their own minority rule. It was the last bastion of European rule in Africa. It was indeed an unprecedented event. Never before, in the history of mankind, had a ruling class thus abandoned their own hegemony, their exclusive grip on power. It was as singular as it was epic. Of course, South Africa’s reputation for unprecedented historical events was only further cemented when Nelson Mandela, soon to be the new democracy’s president, advocated forgiveness and clemency, choosing re-conciliation over retribution and vengeance. With the understandable exception of a few, his people duly followed his example. Once again, history had no precedent to offer to this moral and political singularity.

In a few short years, South Africa had changed from political embarrassment and international pariah to a stellar example of political settlement, unmatched in history. Unmatched in the world today. Soon the events in South Africa would inspire similar settlements elsewhere. But none would have the impact and lasting legacy of the amazing events in a country at the southern tip of Africa.

Almost six years after the disappearance of Ryan Devlin, South Africa’s first truly democratic elections were held on the 27
th
of April, 1994. These were historic times indeed. And we cannot blame anybody that a series of atrocities at the hand of a lone killer would somehow get lost in all the grand historical currents that swept South Africa in those years.

But for some, of course, Daddy Long Legs would never be forgotten. People like Roedolf Coetzee, father of the killer’s second victim, and husband of the late Yvette Coetzee who had committed suicide soon after the discovery of her boy’s violated body. Roedolf never remarried and is the last remaining member of his family. On hot summer evenings, he would sit on the
stoep
of his deserted house and dream of a time before a merciless killer took his loved ones. Yes. For some, like Johannes Boonzaayer, the cost of Daddy Long Legs is an ever mounting account. Even now, almost twenty years after the death of his son, the erstwhile doctor can still be found outside the dens and hovels of Steynbrug, begging loose change. And of course, although he never speaks of it, the events of an afternoon in ‘88 will forever remain with Kyle Devlin. The world had forgotten. But for some there could never be amnesia.

A mere two weeks before South Africa’s historic first genuine democratic elections in 1994, detective James Burke was killed in a head-on collision on a dark stretch of the N2 highway. With his death, the person with the most intimate grasp of the killer – and the person most likely ever to solve the murders – passed into the next world. It seemed as if the Daddy Long Legs murders would never be solved.

Meanwhile, at the exact same time as detective Burke’s death, a young boy in the southern Johannesburg suburb of Turffontein was experiencing his first painful and embarrassing sexual encounter. His name was Wayne Human.

Over time, Daddy Long Legs, like so many other twisted characters of history, gained a kind of a cult following. In the late 90’s, a group of disaffected and rebellious youths began dabbling in Satanism. More than a few ‘satanic’ rituals were performed on sites where Daddy Long Legs victims had been dumped. Like so many similar teenage endeavours, the cult was never really authentic. And was ultimately more concerned with making anti-establishment statements than conducting actual forays into the world of the occult. That they chose the notorious Hope killer as their inspiration was an indication, however, of how deeply ingrained the legend had become. At around the same time, a group of Cape Town musicians named their band Daddy Long Legs. They had a minor hit with ‘Your Love is Murder’ but broke up soon afterwards when it was discovered the drummer was sleeping with the other members’ girlfriends. Although he was gone, it appeared as if Daddy Long Legs was here to stay.

About a year and a half after the death of Ryan Devlin – the killer’s last victim – a few boys, playing on the southern outskirts of town, discovered what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a dismembered child. That the remains were those of a child was easy enough to confirm due to the size of the skeletal bones. The rest was slightly more difficult. The skeleton was crudely dismembered and some major components were missing, not least of all, the skull. The remains were obviously in an advanced state of decomposition and, due to the relatively new and unsophisticated science of DNA analysis at the time, it was quite some time before it was determined that the bones belonged to more than one child. Some of the skeletal remains were (eventually) positively identified as belonging to Benny Boonzaayer. What made the find even more interesting, and enigmatic, was that various items belonging to the other Daddy Long Legs victims were also strewn about the shallow grave. In fact, the site yielded small items that could be traced to almost all of the victims. Amongst the items, there was the asthma inhaler, belonging to Barry Coetzee; a little Saint Christopher medallion belonging to Jason Reed; and a single sock bearing the name of Kiepie Gous. Investigators also found one sneaker belonging to Ryan Devlin. The strange dump site led to a string of new theories and conjectures. It did not, however, lead to the killer himself.

In the end, Daddy Long Legs cut a murky swathe across the hearts and minds of the people of Hope. It was a dark band of misery, loss and fear. A small town had lost its innocence. And would for evermore bear the scars of his psychopathy. An entire generation of children were forced to grow up before their time, becoming intimately acquainted with the dark spectre of twisted human sexuality.  

The killer, dubbed Daddy Long Legs on that hot spring evening by a couple of pre-adolescent boys, had thankfully departed ... and would be no more.

That was until...

Before we continue the story, we need to focus on an odd little footnote.

At around the same time that a group of traumatised boys found the remains of Daddy Long Legs’s last victims, something strange occurred one night at the Hope police station.

It was around 2am, on a Sunday morning. Although the Hope police force could boast a staff of around 80 people, including administrative and support staff, this particular morning there were only two police officers inside the police station. Two vans, with two policemen each, had responded to two separate calls of domestic disturbance in the township of Steynbrug. Although it was only a few hours before a new business week would begin, it was nothing strange for some members of the Steynbrug community to still be partying it up.

Neither of the two officers on duty that night could quite agree on the events of that evening. There was a great deal of contradiction and both officers revised their testimonies more than once. Only the following was ever established beyond a shadow of a doubt: around 2am, on the morning of the 4
th
of February, 1990, some unknown person broke into the forensics room at the Hope police station. This was in the days before all the region’s forensics were centralised at the nearby city of Kimberley. Autopsies were still being conducted on site and all relevant records and samples were stored there too.

When the police officers had done a proper inspection, it was discovered that the autopsy reports for three of the Daddy Long Legs victims had been stolen as well as some biological samples. Since no copies of the autopsy reports existed elsewhere, the vital information contained in the reports were forever lost to history.

Fearing a media backlash, the theft was never reported to the press. The two policemen suffered a severe reprimand as well as extensive disciplinary measures. They were, however, not dismissed.

Following an investigation, it was discovered that at least one of the domestic disturbance call-outs had been a ‘false alarm’.

The thin and bespectacled man drove slowly down Schoeman Street, deep in thought. The Pretoria street was crowded with the usual lunchtime traffic. Buses and taxis. Motorbikes and sedans. Honking and hooting. Rude gestures. Pavements packed with hundreds of pedestrians. And dozens of informal traders.

It was Monday afternoon in the heart of South Africa’s administrative capitol. And Detective Wayne Human wished he was somewhere else.

Damn!

He yanked the wheel of the Toyota Corolla and braked hard to avoid a kombi taxi that had come to a sudden standstill. He cursed again. For a moment he considered jumping out and flashing his police badge at the reckless driver. But he abandoned the thought. It was not in his nature to abuse the privileges of his office.

Although he had grown up in the massive urban complex of Johannesburg, the non-stop traffic of city life always filled him with a sense of oppressiveness. It was no different in Pretoria. However, at least here in Pretoria the large Jacaranda trees that lined both sides of the street brought a measure of relief. It was November and the distinctive trees had already bloomed into the purple profusion of spring. Detective Human stopped at a red light, enjoying the vista offered by the purple-blossomed trees, a sight as unique to Pretoria as cherry-blossom trees were to New York. The mad honking madness of Schoeman Street soon delivered him from his reverie though. The light had barely turned green and the madmen of Pretoria were telling him, in no uncertain terms, that he was keeping up traffic.

Doesn’t this ever stop, he wondered to himself as he pulled away and rolled down the busy street. On both sides of him, various government buildings zipped past. The Department of Water and Forestry. The South African Revenue Service. The Department of Education. The offices of the Metropolitan Municipality of Tswane (the name of the large municipality of which Pretoria was a part). The Department of Labour. And the Magistrate’s Office. In a city of civil servants, this was the heart of civil Pretoria. A description that certainly didn’t apply to its drivers, Human thought sardonically.

Detective Human cut a right and then another, to bring himself into Pretorius Street, one of the capitol’s main arteries. Scanning the street ahead, he pulled into a free parking bay in front of a large nondescript building. The large edifice had every appearance of being a government building yet carried no signage whatever indicating its true purpose. As he often did, he wondered if it was due to security concerns or just plain damn laziness.

Normally he would park in the basement parking area of the building known as
Wachthuis
but today he had a busy day ahead of him. As usual, there were not enough hours in the day. He stepped out of the white Corolla, an unmarked police car, and eyed the busy lunchtime traffic with distaste.

Sighing, Detective Human locked the Corolla and headed for the
Wachthuis
entrance. Amongst a dozen other police divisions, it was also the headquarters of the national detective services of the South African Police. As usual, the arcade that led to the entrance of the imposing building hosted an incessant flow of people. As he entered the darkened area of the arcade, he caught sight of two burly white men having an animated discussion. Detectives Reyneke and Veldman; both policemen in the same unit as Human. Wayne Human passed them and waved a tentative greeting. Detective Reyneke nodded curtly while Veldman ignored him completely. Human hardly took notice. It was nothing new.

Instead of waiting for the laborious elevator he decided to take the stairs to the sixth floor, home of the elite detective services. The office was the usual bustle of activity. Dozens of people hurried along its dingy corridors. Phones rang. Doors slammed. People shouted. Chairs scraped across tiled floors. At the end of the hallway, Human saw two detectives escort a suspect to one of the interrogation rooms. A black detective, Busi Jali, stopped Human. He vigorously pumped his hand. ‘Hola, my
bru
, well done,
eksê.
’ He beamed up at the tall detective.

‘Aw, come now, Busi,’ Human said, smiling at the black man, ‘it was all of us. Everyone played a part.’

‘
Hoa
,’ Jali said feigning shock, ‘you’re so modest. Hey?’ Jali spotted someone in the distance. ‘Hey, Lerato’ he said, waving her over enthusiastically, ‘come and congratulate detective Superman here.’

The large black admin clerk jogged towards Human. ‘Ooooooh.’ She threw her arms around him.’ You! You! You! You are the super detective,
né
?’ She held him at arm’s length to admire him.

Wayne Human smiled fondly at Lerato. ‘Really, you do have a sense of the dramatic, don’t you?’

‘
Eish
,
broer,
(brother)’ Jali said, ‘even the papers are calling you Sherlock Holmes now.’ A beefy white detective with a walrus moustache edged past the group with a hint of irritation. ‘So,
broer
, some of the guys are meeting at the Horse and Keg later tonight. You gonna make a turn?’

‘Oh, Wayne, you must, you must.’ Lerato giggled with excitement. ‘Promise? Hey? You promise?’

Human drew a hand through his thin wispy hair. ‘Lerato, I’ll ... erm ...I’ll see, okay?’

‘Eish, you, you’re such an old man, you.’ Lerato patted him on his shoulder as she ambled away. ‘Sharp,
né
,’ she said throwing him a thumbs up. ‘You must come tonight.’ She disappeared into one of the dozens of offices lining the long corridor.

‘Wayne, well done,
broer
.’ Jali punched him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you later,
né
?’

‘Sure thing.’

Jali walked off, then stopped and turned. ‘Hey, Curry wants to see you, okay.’ Wayne Human nodded, smiling. ‘Get that bastard to give you a raise,
eksê.
’

Jay ‘Curry’ Govinda was the divisional head of detective services, and Wayne’s immediate superior. He chuckled. As always, the western swear words in the mouth of an African sounded so incongruous and starling to him. He paused for a moment in thought then headed off to the end of the corridor and Govinda’s office. In the ante-room, Ilse Venter loudly greeted Human. She came out from behind her desk and embraced him. ‘Jou
doring
,’ she said fondly, speaking in Afrikaans, ‘I heard you got a guilty.’ Ilse was Govinda’s secretary and one of the longest serving members on the sixth floor of the
Wachthuis
building.

‘Yep. Sentencing hearing later this week,’ Human said in faltering Afrikaans.

Ilse grabbed both Human’s arms in her meaty hands. She looked at him with beaming pride, as if he had been her son and not one of the unit’s top detectives. In many ways, he was. ‘We’re all so proud of you, you know that, Wayne?’

‘I know.’

‘Susan told me old Bulldog Brussouw was on fire.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Wayne said with genuine admiration. ‘He didn’t miss a beat.’ Kobus Brussouw was the chief prosecutor for the city of Johannesburg. An old hand who had been one of the few to make a seamless transition into the new ANC dispensation of the post 1994 elections.

‘I’m glad. It’s always such a shame when they mess up the hard work we do over here.’ She winked at Human. Then released him and adjusted her blouse. It was back to business. ‘Curry’s expecting you,’ she said resuming her position behind her desk. Ilse’s use of Govinda’s nickname came easily and was without derision. It was true that many of the members of the detective division had nicknames that carried racial connotations. It was a testament to the relative success of South Africa’s political transition that these nicknames existed in an atmosphere of amicability. After decades of forced racial divisions, it seemed few had need of the uptight obsessiveness of modern political correctness. ‘You can go right in.’

Human headed for Govinda’s door and turned the handle.

‘Wayne?’ Human turned to Ilse. ‘Well done,
boykie
.’ Human winked at her and entered.

Jay ‘Curry’ Govinda was seated behind his massive desk, scribbling intently. ‘Sit down,’ he said curtly. Wayne seated himself without taking offense at Govinda’s tone. By now he was used to the division head’s brusque and formal nature. Having grown up near destitute in the Johannesburg suburb of Florida, it was the former detective’s no-nonsense nature that had allowed him a swift ascendancy up the ranks of police bureaucracy. Despite his abrupt manner, Human was glad that someone like Govinda was in charge of the division. ‘Has
tannie
(aunty)
Ilse been fawning over you again?’

Wayne chuckled. ‘Yes, sir. You know her.’

Govinda continued scribbling without responding. ‘Good work on the Moffat case,’ He said without looking up.

The Moffat case had been a veritable media sensation –and the division’s biggest success story to date. Two of South Africa’s biggest philanthropists – and both major players in the oscillating politics of the ANC – John and Lydia Moffat had been found brutally murdered in their plush Bryanston home a few months earlier. Facing a great deal of politics and much criticism from the media, Human had soon identified the son as the major suspect. After authorising a dragnet that almost cost him his job, he had discovered a vital piece of forensic evidence just in time to prevent Michael Moffat from fleeing the country. It had turned the shy Human into a media darling and had solidified the reputation of the entire detective division – at a time when it had been facing mounting opposition.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Finally, Govinda looked up at Human. ‘How’s the rest of your case load?’

Human nodded in contemplation. ‘Good. I’m interviewing a witness later today.’

‘No. You’re going to have to cancel.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I’ve got a team from
Special Assignment
coming to do an interview with you.’ Govinda looked at his watch. ‘In about half an hour.’

Human felt his spirits sink. But he remained stone-faced and didn’t voice his feelings. He spent a moment digesting the information. Trying to re-schedule the busy day that lay ahead. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ Govinda carried on scribbling. You realise how important this media attention is, right?’

Detective Wayne Human thought that even the cleaning staff must have known how important ‘this media attention’ was. In the politically charged world of civil service South Africa, it was difficult
not
to be.

A few years back, the government had created a new investigative arm, known as the Scorpions. Staffed by some of South Africa’s premier investigators, this new division was meant to mirror the FBI in scope and ability. The Scorpions had achieved spectacular successes in its short history, and under the direction of a wily and media-savvy chief, had become the darling of the South African press. In a country where the police were often accused of being corrupt and incompetent, the Scorpions had become a thorn in the side of the National Police Commissioner. The primary reason, of course, was that the Scorpions reported directly to the National Prosecuting Authority, and were thus not a division of the South African Police Services. That the senior positions in the Scorpions were largely occupied by detectives from the old Apartheid regime, further inflamed the political infighting. It was for this reason that Wayne Human was of such importance. About a year ago, the Director for Priority Crime Investigation – in charge of the
Wachthuis
division - established its own unit, tasked with high profile cases, as a counter against the media success of the Scorpions. Under the leadership of Detective Wayne Human, the Moffat case had been its first notable success.

‘Yes, sir. I know.’

Govinda had obviously noted something in Human’s tone, because he looked up, carefully studying his prize detective. ‘I know you don’t like this media bullshit, Detective Human. Believe me, I detest having to kiss the arse of every reporter that walks through our doors, but it’s something we have to do. This comes straight from the top.’ He gave Human an icy stare. ‘And I mean,
straight
from the top.’ Human knew exactly what Curry Govinda meant. Rumours had been circulating lately that the Police Commissioner himself was about to be investigated by the Scorpions. If it were true, it would be a political earthquake. And would have ramifications far beyond the top structures of the police. ‘Besides, we
all
have to look good. The FIFA World Cup is coming up in less than two years. All eyes are gonna be on us.’

‘Yes, sir. I understand.’ Human bowed his head in acquiescence. ‘Will the interview be conducted here at
Wachthuis
?’

‘Yes. Ilse will let you know when they arrive. Keep your cell phone at hand.’

Human nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He stared at the shiny scalp of the division head as he continued scribbling feverishly.

The top cop stopped and looked at Human with puzzlement. ‘That’s all, detective.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Human said, rising from the chair. ‘Thank you.’ He was halfway out the door when Govinda called him back.

‘You’re doing good work, detective. Well done.’