Muti Nation (11 page)

“The killer wanted us to find the victims.” Howlen stands up, shakes his head and searches through the various files on the table.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Gramps says, tapping the marker against his bottom lip. “Muti-killers and/or their lackeys typically try to hide their victims. They fail more often than not, but self-preservation dictates they at least try to get away with the crime.”

“Unless we’re dealing with a killer with a personality disorder of some kind,” Howlen says searching for something in the file. “I didn’t think much of it before, but neither of the victims were raped.”

“Not all muti-victims are raped, Howlen,” my grandfather says.

“I know, which is why I didn’t think it was important. But Esmé’s hypothesis of how the killer wants us to find the bodies changes things.”

“Why?” Precious asks.

“Well, the primary motivations for rape are usually sexual gratification, power, or are committed out of rage. Since the victims weren’t raped, it means: a.) the killer wasn’t doing it for sexual gratification, b.) the killer was in control of the situation the whole time, and c.) our killer already feels powerful enough not to show dominance over the victim.”

“He’s a psychopath,” I add.

“Or has some other unspecified personality disorder,” Howlen corrects me. “Narcissism, sociopathy, schizophrenia; they all apply right now.”

“Wonderful,” Gramps mumbles. “You’ve narrowed down our suspect list to everyone in parliament.”

“We are also dealing with a killer of above-average intelligence.” Howlen walks around the table with zoomed-in pictures of the victims’ wounds, sticks them up against the whiteboard and flicks his fingers on the side of the contraption. “Clean cuts on both accounts, made by a scalpel.”

“How do you know it was made by a scalpel and not a very sharp knife?” I ask, leaning closer to the photograph to inspect the edges of the wounds.

“Okay, it could be a scalpel
or
a very sharp knife. I can’t be sure without the lab results, but I can tell you neither Valentine nor Carol-Anne Brewis died from the mutilation they endured.” He points to their necks where coagulated blood covers thin ligature mark.

“How odd.” Gramps leans closer and studies the photographic evidence. “Does fishing gut create ligature marks like that?”

“It’s not impossible,” Howlen responds.

“Pops, do you remember when you and Dad took me deep sea fishing when I was around fourteen or fifteen?” I say,

The old man nods without taking his eyes off the whiteboards.

“Remember how the captain of the boat taught me to gut a fish?”

“Of course, you smelled like fish for a week.”

I turn to Howlen, “I don’t know if you know anything about fishing, but the captain told me on the trip that every fisherman worth his salt has a sharp knife in his tackle box. We might be looking for someone who knows his way around fishing.”

“In Pretoria, though?” Howlen grimaces.

“Yes, in Pretoria,” I say. “We do have dams around here, you know. There’s Hartbeespoort Dam, Bronkhorstspruit Dam, Roodeplaat Dam—”

“I never thought you’d enjoy fishing,” Howlen interrupts me.

“You never asked.”

“The last thing we need is a creative muti-killer,” Gramps says.

“And on that note,” Precious says, standing. “I think it’s time for us to go home before we embark on catching this sick individual.”

“But—” Gramps is cut off by one of Precious’ infamous murderous glares.

He sighs. “Fine, but I’m not happy about it.”

“We’ll work on your pursuit of happiness in the morning, Chris.” Precious heads to the door and switches off the light of the conference room without further discussion. “Out.”

Howlen groans in unison with grandpa’s breathy cusses. The three of us drag ourselves into the hallway and Precious locks the conference room’s door behind us.

By now, we know not to argue with our loyal secretary, because she
always
wins.

From Gramps’ office the incessant clangs of the annoying cymbal monkey start. It is indeed time to leave.

We all part ways when the office building is locked up. Precious drives Grandpa homewards, while Howlen and I fumble around our cars in the parking lot. I’m deep in thought and silent as the dead.

When it is clear Precious won’t turn back to check on us, or the office, Howlen walks over to me.

“Where have you been tonight?” he asks as I slip out of the driver’s seat and lean against the back door. He’s admiring my dress, shamelessly tracing my body with his gaze.

I ignore him, feeling my own wants and needs multiply under his stare. I know he wants to touch me, but hesitates for some reason. I take his hand in mine, tenderly brushing my fingertips against his palm, before I place it on my hip. I step closer, set my own hand on his cheek and draw his face closer to mine.

“May.” His voice is pained. “Where have you been?” he repeats, frustration evident in his tone. His hand moves down my hip and toward my upper-leg, scrunching up the crimson fabric in his fist.

I grin, brushing my nose against his, our lips almost touching at times, but never quite reaching. “I was working a possible lead, like I told you when I left.”

He backs me up against my car, my dress becoming shorter with every breath we take. Hot wind licks my bare legs. The sound of late-night traffic on the other side of the wall drones in the background. It’s exhilarating, whatever this is.

“You said you had an appointment with a dominatrix at a residential swinger’s club.” Howlen’s free hand glides down my neck. He cups one breast through my dress a bit harder than he’d usually dare before moving down my side.

I close my eyes and try to control my laboured breathing.

“Were you joking?”

“No,” I whisper, opening my eyes.

A mischievous smile plays in the corner of my lips. My hands move down to his belt, loosening it with the precision of a pickpocket.

He barely registers my quick movements. Instead, the same hand that’s been groping me through my dress snakes its way into my hair.

Howlen pulls my locks backward until I’m forced to look into his eyes. It doesn’t hurt, though secretly I think I might like a bit of pain served with my pleasure.

He kisses me hard enough to bruise my lips, wedging my mouth apart with his tongue. However long his domineering kiss lasts I can’t be sure, but when he pulls away I’m breathless with lust.

Howlen lets go of me and steps away. “Goodnight.”

“Wha—?” I snap out of my wanton delirium and watch him walk to his car with purpose. “Are you fucking kidding me?” The screech of disbelief was undeliberate, yet not entirely undignified. “Howlen?”

“Go home, Esmé,” he says, closing his car door. “Go home, before we do or say things we’ll both regret tomorrow.”

I stare, dumbfounded, as he drives away.

Chapter 14

MISSING PERSON

ABRAHAM AMIN

Description:

SAPS Case Number:
OB07/09/15

Age:
39 Years

Gender:
Male

Eyes:
Brown

Hair:
Black

Build:
Average

Weight:
98 kg

Height:
1.81 m

Last Seen:
Monday, 07/09/2015

Last Contact:
Monday, 07/09/2015

Last Seen Wearing:
Pinstripe suit, white shirt, purple and blue paisley tie, black dress shoes platinum Rolex, and white gold cufflinks with diamonds.

Abraham Amin was last seen at an ambassadorial mansion in Moreleta Park, Pretoria, on the 7
^th
of September 2015, at approximately 19:00. Witnesses stated that an unknown person evaded security personnel on the premises and knocked several attendees unconscious with a club before abducting Abraham from the embassy.

Abraham Amin suffers from diabetes and is in need of immediate medical attention. His vehicle, a black Mercedes Benz CLA-Class Edition 1, was found abandoned on the N1 Southbound, before Lynnwood. His cell phone was found in the glove compartment, along with his wallet.

If you know of Abraham’s whereabouts, or know of someone who may be able to assist us in finding him, please contact your nearest police station immediately.

Alternatively, please call: 0800-1177-1416 or email:
[email protected]
with any details concerning his location.

REWARD OFFERED

Chapter 15

These days the Internet is widely available in South Africa and this gives people the opportunity to explore other religions to their heart’s content. Whether this is due to curiosity or from a valid quest for spiritual enlightenment, I cannot say. What I can say is that although it is a constitutional right to enquire and/or practice whatever faith you wish, it is your responsibility to adhere to the laws set forth in the
Constitution of the Republic of South Africa (1996)
. Unfortunately, the notable increase in so-called vampirism, spiritual intimidation, voodoo, and a variety of other harmful religious practices—especially in schools—has many uneducated persons making wild accusations about things they don’t understand. And they
don’t
understand, because they are too scared to climb out of the comfortable holes they’ve dug for themselves.

I should know. I work with these brainiacs more often than I’d like.

They mostly show their faces in and around schools when the media reports on some or other “religious” crime committed by teenagers. With a catchy headline like: “TEENAGERS KILL IN THE NAME OF SATAN” or “SATANIST TEENAGERS KILL GIRL (16) AS SACRIFICE,” how can one not take notice? This draws together “concerned” government officials, which includes the South African Police Service (SAPS), the National Prosecuting Authority (NPA), the departments of basic education, social development and health, as well as teachers, pupils, parents and faith-based speakers. Sadly, these people are as ignorant as they are idiotic, and the only things they know are what the Satanic Panic instigators of old forces down everyone’s throats. This includes, but is not limited to, trying to discern the so-called “warning signs of possible occult-related discourse,” because
obviously
the Biblical Devil isn’t smart enough to blend in with the times.

It’s backwards thinking, in every sense of the phrase.

In the
Harmful Religious Practice
pamphlet, released by the Department of Justice and the Department of Constitutional Development in 2014, the ignorance and propaganda is slathered on so thick it’s amazing we don’t burn women at the stake for menstruating. This pamphlet neatly outlines every possible symptom of “being influenced by a harmful or dangerous belief or practice.” It covers everything from teenage hormonal changes, including unusual aggression, being quiet, or becoming secretive, to warning against gothic culture, and condemning hematolagnia (anyone who shows a fascination with blood, especially human blood). That’s simply the beginning of the nonsense these backstreet “occultists” teach kids. At best people are labelled as being weird. At worst, people get killed in the name of God.

For years, academics have tried to prompt intelligent approaches to occult-related problems but the possibility of a modern witch-hunt makes it impossible for them to be heard over the incessant bloodlust of ignorance. That’s why I tend to avoid those who are unwilling to learn even the basics of occult-related matters, much to my grandfather’s dismay. The truth is I don’t have the patience. Gramps can try to deprogram the country until he’s blue in the face but while the government backs “God’s Warriors” or whatever the media calls them now, he won’t get through to anybody.

Dealing with the media is another peeve. They want sensationalism, not facts. They want the “SATANIC YOUTH BLAMES HEAVY METAL MUSIC FOR MURDER” headline, not the mediocre “ATTENTION SEEKING TEENAGER KILLS” truth. They are a large part of the problem, which is why I give those vultures a wide berth every time I encounter them. Howlen can handle the reporters if he feels so inclined, he has a face for television.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on social media. Thanks to Google everyone’s an expert on everything, especially when it comes to delegating how I should do
my
job. Well, fuck you very much for the comments, folks, but until you’ve overturned a bucket only to find a child’s severed head arranged in their intestines, you don’t know anything.

There is evil in this world, yes, but believe me when I say evil cannot be pigeonholed.

Take Jencko Graça for instance.

Jencko Graça is a doctor, a gynaecologist to be exact, who works at a free-clinic in Pretoria West. Jencko wakes up three days a week and drags himself to the free-clinic where he provides a service to women who cannot afford gynaecological care elsewhere. The rest of the time he works at an abortion clinic in Pretoria CBD. Now, don’t get me wrong, just because he performs abortions doesn’t mean he’s evil. In fact, in South Africa—where the rape statistics continue to climb and where victims range from a few months old to well into their golden years—clinics where safe abortions are conducted are, without a doubt, essential. After all, a twelve-year-old girl, raped by her uncle, is in no position to care for a baby. From an economic perspective, children cannot survive on air and water alone. As for religious standpoints, well, even if most people in South Africa don’t condone abortion, I’ve never seen anyone picketing at their local Mary Stopes Clinic.