Daddy Long Legs (12 page)

‘That’s right, Devlin. You only wake up now?’

Dirk Engelman. Another name Kyle hadn’t thought of in so many years. And with good reason. If it is true to say that everyone, at some stage in his or her life, has a nemesis, then it is certainly true to say that Kyle’s nemesis (at least in the early stage of his life) was without doubt Dirk Engelman.

Dirk Engelman. Although his name hinted at it, there was nothing angelic about the character that now stood before Kyle. The son of a prosperous local businessman who eventually made a failed bid for mayor, Dirk Engelman was a typical rich man’s son. Arrogant. Disdainful. If that wasn’t bad enough, he was also a bully. Kyle had bright visions of Engelman, strutting around the school grounds with his posse, performing
wedgies
on high school boys who should have been long past this kind of humiliation. He would surely have tried the same thing with Kyle, had it not been for his very own posse. As a result, their exchanges remained largely verbal. Yes. Dirk. Dirk motherfucker Engelman.

And then, as Kyle stared at the stocky man in front of him, he remembered something else. A memory that shocked him in its vividness. And its relevance to what he had experienced not moments before.

Engelman had always been in love with Odette.

Oh, hell yeah, he claimed often enough he only wanted to get into her pants. But everybody knew he was simply lying to cover his machismo. He had a thing for her. Big time. And it grated his ass that Kyle and she had been such good friends. It was the main reason for the enmity between them, Kyle now suddenly remembered. Sadly for Engelman, Odette never returned his affections. And although always friendly and playful, she continued to reject his advances right until they graduated. It didn’t help the already strained relationship between Kyle and him.

Suddenly Kyle felt tired. And drained. ‘Listen man, I’m just passing through. Okay. I don’t want any trouble.’ Kyle managed a thin smile. ‘So, uh, it was nice seeing you again and everything. I’ll see you around.’

Engelman crossed the distance between them with alarming speed. And pushed his face up against Kyle’s. No,
you
listen. We all remember what you did. No one here forgets the past.’ Kyle smelt meat and cigarettes on his breath. ‘I’m not the little schoolboy you used to know.’ Funny, Kyle thought. He had never thought of the burly Engelman as a ‘little schoolboy’. ‘I’ve got influence here. I’ve got power now.’ He pushed his face closer to Kyle’s. It took everything in Kyle’s power not to gag. ‘Tell me, do you think it’s a co-incidence that this sick serial killer comes back the moment you set foot in town?’

The insinuation deeply shocked – and disturbed – Kyle. He pushed Engelman away, enraged. ‘You stay away from me, you piece of shit.’

‘Yeah, I thought that would get a reaction out of you.’ He pointed at Kyle. ‘You watch yourself. Because I will. And I am.’ He smiled cold menace. ‘The moment you fuck up, I’m going to be there to take you down.’ He slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Like a mongoose ... on a mamba.’ He turned to his right, displaying his left side to Kyle. Somehow, this whole time, Kyle had missed the holstered gun hanging from his waist. ‘You got me?’

Holy shit, Kyle thought as Engelman swaggered away. What the hell is wrong with this town?

Detective Wayne Human was standing in front of a small, non-descript house. If a sign hadn’t announced that this was the location of the Hope Detective Unit, he would never have been the wiser. The sign read, ‘18 Hill Street’. Underneath, in a decorative font, the words ‘Hill Street Blues’ appeared. The sign said more about the writer’s age than his sense of humour.

Moments before he had been at the Hope Police Station, smarting from an even worse than expected first introduction to the small town’s police forces.

He had arrived at the police station a few minutes after entering Hope. On the right of the little drab government building that housed the police station was a guesthouse that overlooked the Hope commons. To the station’s left lay a large, untidy and sprawling piece of veldt that sloped, through dense trees and brush, to the Orange River down below. Human took particular notice of this piece of veldt. Here, right next to the police station, was where at least two of the serial killer’s bodies had been dumped. It had been a flagrant middle finger waved at the Hope police. An act of scorn and derision aimed at the poorly paid, uniformed civil servants whose job it was to catch him. And thus far his hubris had proved well-founded. But not for long. Human stood for a moment at the edge of the veldt. And remained quiet and receptive, trying to absorb a sense of the twisted killer that had once passed this way. A passerby in a Ford
bakkie
(pick-up) stared at him with suspicion. He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts, his sense impressions, to drift and, like mercury in a prospector’s pan, to gather at the concave of his mind.

This man. This killer. Was cold. And calculating. Possessed of an intent, so sharply focused, that he could exclude all else. That allowed him to rise above morality, and for his purposes, even more importantly, above panic ... and fear. His disease, his darkness, his demon, like a huge blood-sucking tick, came from such a deep and dark place that even
he
didn’t understand it. It was an ancient evil. Born in his youth. When he found that the things that bothered others, had no effect on him. When he discovered, to his delight, that the wings torn off a little fledgling bird gave him delight beyond his wildest expectations. When he lulled himself to sleep with dark visions of suffering ... and death.

Human had slowly opened his eyes. But like so many others he had dealt with, this killer was also a narcissist. Conceited. And proud. Possessing a confidence and arrogance that veered on the megalomaniacal.

Detective Wayne Human smiled grimly. He liked a challenge. And this would be his greatest yet.

Let the games begin.

Before he entered the station he took a casual walk through the rugged terrain, descending down towards the river until he could hear its furious waters but not so far as to be able to actually see it. Once he had been able to read the files, he decided, he would return to try and verify the exact locations of each of the bodies.

A few moments later he was inside the police station, and to his surprise, found it deserted. As any decent visitor would, he had waited patiently in the public service area. The soulless austerity of a thousand police stations was perfectly reflected here. The walls were face-brick while the floor was concrete, painted a dark red. Human always wondered if the colour of police station floors had been chosen with the expectation of blood. To his left was a long counter. Thick bars connected the counter to the ceiling, protecting the policemen behind, Human surmised, from the worst elements of the Hope underground. Now, however, there were no policemen behind the counter. And the entire area was deserted. Human stood for a few moments. Nothing happened. No-one came. He stood a few minutes longer. Directly to the right of the counter was a door, presently closed. Human knew that it lead to the interior of the station. Sighing softly, he depressed the handle and walked through. Instead of being in the interior of the police station, Human found himself outside, facing a large courtyard, with the station itself forming a horseshoe around it. A portico, like a hallway, ran along the inside of the building. Human stood for a while, unsure of where to go, when he felt a brusque hand on his shoulder.

‘You’re not allowed here.’ Human turned and faced a tall white policeman in uniform. His insignia identified him as a sergeant. ‘This area is for members of the South African police services only,’ the man continued with a heavy Afrikaans accent. ‘Please return to the public service area.’ Human was about to identify himself, but the man’s brusque pace took him down the corridor and into a room.

‘Wait a minute ... wait a minute!’ Human almost jumped, startled at the loud voice in his ear. He turned to see a short, squat black policeman pointing at him. ‘Wait a minute.’ The policeman approached Human, a big smile spreading across his pleasant features. ‘I know who you are. I know you.’ Human smiled. ‘You’re that detective, from Pretoria. That famous detective, the one that caught that serial killer in Hillbrow.’ Most people remembered Human for the work he had done on the Moffat case. He was pleased that the policeman referred to the Hillbrow case. It was a case that was infinitely more important to him.

A dead girl.

A beautiful dead girl. Called Sasha.

‘Harmse? Hoffman?’ The policeman, also a sergeant, kept pointing a finger at Human while he guessed his name. His other hand was extended in greeting.

Human held out his own hand. ‘Human. Wayne Human.’

‘Hey
ntate
, you know, this is a great pleasure meeting you.’
Ntate
was the South Sotho for ‘father’, a sign of respect used with adult males of a certain age. He aggressively pumped Human’s hand, smiling from ear to ear. ‘Chauque, Sergeant Reginald Chauque. You know, like the bank robber,’ he said, laughing with great mirth. Then suddenly his smile vanished. ‘Wait a minute. You –’ His eyes grew wide. ‘You must be here for that bloody Daddy Long Legs guy.’ Human nodded. ‘Hoa hoa hoa. That guy.’ He stared at Human. ‘But now? Why you here? Chauque indicated the general vicinity.

‘I ... well ...’ Human smiled sheepishly. ‘That’s a good question.’

‘Come, come.’ Sergeant Chauque took Human by the arm and led him down the porticoed hallway. ‘Let me take you to the chief. While we stand here that bloody guy is making trouble for everyone. And stealing kids.
Eish
, that guy!’

Colonel Jan Witbooi, the station commander, was a no-nonsense policeman who received Human with cordial respect and genuine gravity. He expressed great dismay at the recent developments and promised Human all the help and resources he needed. His demeanour both surprised and gladdened Human. Maybe the political obstacles wouldn’t be so bad, after all, Human thought to himself. Of course, he had no way of knowing that politics would play a disastrous and tragic role.

But for now, the exchange emboldened Detective Human. He immediately sensed that Witbooi was a good man, and a good policeman. And he was glad, within the political quagmire, that there was at least one silver lining to this dark cloud. Along with good policemen like Sergeant Chauque.

Witbooi had then referred Human to the detective unit, stationed at a separate location, close to Wide Street, within one of the Hope residential areas.

Human stood for a moment longer outside the detective unit’s building, quietly ruminating. It was already late afternoon. In the west, the sun was slowly sinking into a dusty grave.

Human entered the detective unit . The room in which he now stood was a small area, meant to serve as some kind of reception room. Visible through a large archway, was a large room dotted with various desks, the actual open-plan office of the five-man detective unit, Human assumed. Leaning back, on a swivel chair behind one of the desks, was a detective, sleeping.

Human walked up to the man and slammed his hand down on the desk. The detective jumped up and for lack of anything else to do, stood to attention. ‘I am detective Wayne Human, from
Wachthuis
, in Pretoria.’ When the detective continued staring at Human, he continued. ‘I am here for the serial –’

‘Yes, yes of course,’ the detective managed while he smoothed his shirt with distracted motions. ‘I was just ... erm ... thinking,’ he said, averting his gaze from that of Human. ‘The rest of the guys are out back. Follow me,’ he said indicating for Human to accompany him to the back. As the detective opened a door at the back, he held out his hand, still not meeting Human’s eyes. ‘Detective Wouter Brussouw.’

Human shook his hand and smiled, deciding to let the matter go. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ They walked through the door and found themselves in a small backyard, a pleasant garden area. Various trees dotted the small yard. Against the back wall, a
lapa
with a thatched roof, had been assembled housing a large built-in
braai
(barbecue). This was the standard set-up for outdoor social functions in South Africa and, as was to be expected, a small group of men now congregated around the
braai
, each with a Castle Lager in the hand. The
braai
was as South African as Nelson Mandela and Apartheid. The still-flustered detective now led Human to the group of detectives seated under the
lapa
. As always in these social situations, Human felt his heart constrict. Awkward and introverted, he hated the brash cockiness of the South African male, especially the Afrikaner male with whom he was forced to work so closely in his daily routine.

The group of men spotted the stranger in their midst and immediately cut their conversation. Brussouw made the introductions. The group of men exchanged knowing glances. ‘Well, well, well,’ one of the men said, rising, ‘if it isn’t the big city cop, all the way from the concrete jungle.’ One of the detectives snickered. ‘I’m sorry that you came all the way for nothing. We’ve already solved the case.’ Another detective chuckled. Despite the laughter, there was a subtle yet palpable mood of hostility. The stocky man with thinning hair and a moustache swaggered towards Human, hand extended. When Human extended his own hand, the man pulled it away and slapped him on the back. The smack was hard and forceful, way too aggressive to be a friendly gesture.

Detective Wayne Human let it go.

The squat detective with the moustache laughed rapaciously. ‘Just kidding, mister big city detective. It’s the way we small town people greet strangers around here,’ he said with a smile that was more of a sneer than a friendly gesture.

Detective Wayne Human let it go.

The man extended his hand again. Taking his time, Wayne Human lifted his hand and shook his in greeting. The detective pulled Human closer and looked him in the eye. ‘The name is Engelman. Dirk, Engelman.’

Engelman released Human and pointed to each of his detectives in turn. ‘Klaas du Plessis,’ he said pointing to a portly man with food stains on his shirt. ‘But we call him Duppie.’ Human nodded a cordial greeting which wasn’t returned.

Detective Wayne Human let it go.

‘And over here, the master
braaier,
is Cyril Boersma,’ he said indicating the only Coloured detective in the group. ‘Worsie Ferreira,’ Engelman said pointing to a tall and gangly man with a crew cut and the biggest moustache Human had ever seen in his life. ‘And, I believe you’ve already met Brussouw, our
rookie
,’ he said, doing a bad American accent. The men laughed.

Although he was feeling anything but amiable, Human shook his head and smiled as amicably as he could. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Glad to finally meet you guys.’ No one responded. Silence. ‘Tell me,’ Human continued, trying to maintain what he hoped was a friendly tone, ‘what measures have you taken following the disappearance of Kobus van Jaarsveld?’

Engelman looked at his detectives with a cocky smile on his face. He sniffed loudly. ‘Well, big city detective, you’ll be glad to know that we’ve got this thing pretty much wrapped up.’ He winked at his men. ‘First of all, we set up road blocks on all the major arteries leading in and out of Hope.’

Human’s spirits sank as he listened to the mindless drivel he was being fed. Instead of expressing his dismay, he smiled and nodded slowly, feigning interest. ‘I see. And what exactly was your thinking behind this?’

It worked. Engelman was feeding on his own bluster. ‘Well, it’s simple police work, really. We want to contain and restrict the movement of the suspect in and out of Hope. And catch him in the act of transporting the victim. You are aware, of course,’ he said, angling his words towards his subordinates for maximum effect, ‘that the ...
unsub
makes use of a car in the commission of his crimes.’ The use of the American abbreviation for unidentified subject,
unsub
, was purely for Human’s benefit. Since it was a term
never
used in South African profiling, it only served to irritate Human more.

‘I see.’

‘In addition, we interviewed the parents of the child at great length.’ He looked at his detectives. ‘For over four hours, in fact.’ Once again, Human’s spirits sank as he contemplated the waste of valuable manpower within the crucial first forty-eight hours after the crime was committed. As far as he was aware, the father was at work and the mother was at home when the boy was abducted. The detectives would have achieved far better results had they interviewed residents within the immediate vicinity of the abduction. Yet, in an attempt to grease the social wheels of this logistical disaster that had been dumped onto him, Human forced a smile to his face.