Daddy Long Legs (30 page)

Now, as Human stared at the phone, aggravated and pissed off deluxe, he made a momentous decision. He was achieving nothing via telephonic communications. It was time to hit the streets. Human grabbed his car keys and headed for the exit of the former forensics lab. He turned to one of his senior detectives, a man he knew well from his many years at
Wachthuis
. ‘Saaiman, if anybody asks, I’m off to Luck.’

‘Sure thing, chief,’ Saaiman replied. As Human hurried along the walkway that enclosed the police courtyard he heard Saaiman’s voice again. ‘Where the hell’s Luck?’

Before long Human was heading south on the N12. He checked his watch. If he put foot he could reach the little town in about forty minutes. As he zipped past the lush crops he had seen when he first entered Hope, he jumped on his cell phone. He dialled a number he had been given by Colonel Witbooi. It was the number for
The Lucky Star
, the small but immaculately maintained newspaper for the town of Luck. To call it a newspaper was optimistic. It was more of an advertiser. And because it serviced two other small towns to the north of Luck, it had remained a fairly prosperous venture throughout its history. And it was exactly this history – or the well-maintained records of its history – that Human was interested in. Witbooi had assured him that the local detectives had relied on
The Lucky Star
’s records more than once – to great effect. Witbooi had also guaranteed Human that his best chances for success lay with this little enterprise’s records. Human now ended the call, satisfied. The proprietor knew he was coming. Human could only hope this didn’t end up being yet another wild goose chase.

True to his calculations, about forty minutes later Human was inside the offices of the
Lucky Star
. Like the
Hope Gazette
, this newspaper was also a family business. And like the
Gazette
, the
Star
was no longer under the control of the people that ran it in the eighties. The current owner and editor-in-chief of the
Lucky
Star
was Yvonne van der Merwe, daughter of the original owner. A thin and formal-looking woman with eyeglasses and a hairstyle that also seemed to belong in the eighties, Yvonne van der Merwe met Human at the reception desk. She led him to a large room lined with storage racks at the back of the newspaper offices. To Human’s delight he immediately noted a compact microfiche reader on a desk in the corner. The microfiche machine had been a gift from the Luck Historical Society, made possible by generous donations from some of the prosperous farmers from surrounding areas, Yvonne explained. The
Lucky Star
was currently in the process of microfilming their entire database of records. It was a gradual process though, she said. With the emphasis on gradual. Which meant, unfortunately, that the search period in question had not yet been microfilmed. Human would have to search the back issues by hand. He nodded, realising the enormity of the job that lay ahead. Before he began he took a chance and asked van der Merwe if she recalled any sex crimes from that period. Specifically anything relating to little boys. She replied in the negative. Informing Human that she was a tiny girl at that time. And that she was living with her mother in De Aar at that time. Human thanked her and began the arduous task of filing through a little town’s history. And tracing the footprints of a killer therein.

The
Lucky Star
’s records were indeed immaculately maintained. All the walls were lined with shelves while the central space was crammed with storage racks. The newspaper’s back issues were all stored in hermetically sealed containers, filed chronologically, per quarter.

To maximise his results, Human decided to search backwards, starting with the week before the suspect in question arrived in Hope; the issue for Tuesday, the tenth of April, 1984 – a little more than five months before Paul Walters was kidnapped.

He took the container from the rack, carefully opened it, took the first issue out and began paging carefully; using the latex gloves Yvonne van der Merwe had given him.

Nothing.

He continued reaching deeper into the past; delving into increasingly older issues.

Then. In an issue, two months before the April issue, Human discovered the first clue. A story ... about a woman who had died in a car crash. A mother. And a wife. And something that took his breath away.

The dead woman had been his suspect’s wife.

The husband had been devastated by the loss, the article reported. If Human was on the right track, could this possibly be the trigger? The watershed moment that prompted the killer’s move to Hope. The psychological critical mass that activated a series of brutal murders. Could this be it?

With growing excitement, Human flipped through preceding issues. There had to be more. He
was
on the right track. He knew it. Somewhere in the dim past of this little town, there lurked the first terrible deed of the man that was to become known as Daddy Long Legs. He whizzed through the weeks and months. March. February. January.

Nothing.

Then into 1983. December. November. October.

Nothing.

Now Human was heading into September of ‘83. A full year before the first Hope victim disappeared. And now the doubt started setting in. What if he was on the wrong track? A dead wife. And a relocation to Hope was nothing. Least of all a smoking gun. Dammit.

Human paged through September’s issues.

Nothing.

He would have to give himself a cut-off date. A line drawn in the sand. He decided to make September of 1982 that date. Damn!

With mounting frustration he started paging through the August issues.

August 30
th
.

Nothing.

August 23
rd
.

Nothing.

August 16
th
.

Nothing.

Damn!

August 9
th
.

Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!

And then. He found it.

On the front page of the August 2
nd
edition.

He found it.

He found him.

‘I got you ... you son of a bitch.’

***

‘It was a tragic thing. It broke my heart. Into a million little pieces.’

Rina Heunis sat in her chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked down as she spoke, reaching deep down into the dark chambers of a painful memory. Lerato sat on the edge of the settee, listening intently, her heart beating in her chest.

‘The boy had been suffering from headaches, clumsiness and difficulty walking.’ She paused and fixed Lerato with a stare. ‘He was diagnosed with brain cancer in mid ’87.’

‘Wow. Brain cancer.’

Rina Heunis nodded gravely. ‘By the time he was admitted to the Hope hospital, he was suffering from regular seizures.’ She looked at Lerato. ‘We had a very good oncology specialist at that time and it was decided to keep the boy in Hope. He was admitted sometime in September of ’87 I think.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Lerato frowned. ‘Why didn’t I see his file in the –’

‘The reason you didn’t come across his case file was because all the oncology files were kept separately. There was a great deal of discussion of establishing a full oncology ward back then. With F.W.’s speech in 1990 ... that all changed.’

‘I see.’

‘By the time the boy was admitted, he was already suffering from advanced brain cancer. The prognosis was bad. There was nothing anyone could do. And his condition became progressively worse.’ She shook her head as the memory flooded her mind. ‘Terrible headaches. Constant vomiting. And the most awful seizures.’ She looked at Lerato pointedly. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever seen anyone suffering from brain cancer, Lerato, but it’s not pretty. The brain swelling pushes the eyeballs from the head, until they protrude like some sick caricature of a human. Towards the end, the skull disintegrated ... and the boy’s brains were protruding from the holes in his head.’ She held a hand to her mouth. ‘Dear God.’ Lerato reached out across the space and held her hand. ‘And throughout this whole time, the father was by his son’s side. Night and day. Without stop. He only went home to bathe and change.’

‘And the mother?’

‘She had died in a car accident some years before.’ Lerato nodded, making a mental note. ‘The suffering of the father was almost worse than that of the son. It was such a tragic and heart-rending thing to watch. It affected all of us so badly.’

‘What happened then, Rina?’

‘Well, the end was inevitable. There was truly nothing anybody could do. The boy had been in hospital for almost seven months. And there was
nothing
anybody could do.’ She paused. ‘The end came quickly. Somewhere towards the end, the father took the boy home. About two weeks later, we received word. The boy had died.’

Lerato leaned forward. ‘Rina, this is very important. Do you remember what day it was ... when the boy died? Do you remember what day it was?’

Rina Heunis looked at Lerato. ‘I remember exactly what day it was. It was such a tragic ... I don’t know, coincidence?’

‘Yes?’

‘It was on the morning of Good Friday.’

Lerato gasped. ‘Rina, do you remember the date? On what date was Good Friday?’

‘Oh goodness, dear, now you’re asking too much from an old woman.’

Lerato flipped open her laptop and clicked on the Windows calendar in the task bar. She clicked it back to 1988. To April. Good Friday. It was on the 1
st
of April. She lifted her notebook and quickly flipped through it. There it was.

Daddy Long Legs’s last victim had disappeared less than a week later, on Thursday, 7
th
April 1988.

Oh my God.

This was it. Surely this was it.

Him. Daddy Long Legs.

Lerato shoved her laptop to the side and grabbed both of Rina’s hands in hers. The fervour of the detective startled the retired nurse. ‘Rina, what was his name? The father. What was his name?’

Moments later Lerato dialled Human’s number. ‘I’ve got something.’ Her heart was beating like mad in her ribcage. Breathless.

‘So do I.’

***

There it was. The thing they had been searching for. That everyone had been looking for. For more than twenty years. The evidence of Daddy Long Legs’s identity. So many had failed. So many children had died. So many people had suffered. And there it was.

Not the killer. But his very first victim. Ever. It wasn’t a smoking gun. But a smoking gun wasn’t what Human was looking for.

On the front page of the
Lucky Star
edition for 2
nd
August, 1983, Human found what everyone else had missed all these years.

In the bottom right corner of the front page, between adverts for a local liquor store and a general dealership in Vanderkloof, was a single column story. A follow-up story. The headline: STILL NO PROGRESS IN THE DISAPPEARANCE OF LOCAL BOY. And a small black and white picture of a young boy. Little Wouter Pienaar had disappeared under mysterious circumstances more than nine months before. The police had made no progress. And now, almost a year later, there were still no suspects. And no leads. The insinuation was implied. There would be no further progress. And the case would soon be relegated to the mountain of cold cases. It was muted declaration of resignation. And failure. A prelude to a story – and a case – that was about to become a footnote. And a final pathetic obituary. The parents had relocated some months before. Too much to bear. And there was no more pressure on the local police.

Human knew he would find increasingly urgent stories and reports in earlier editions of the
Lucky Star
. But that would be a waste of time. And time was something they didn’t have. He had gotten what he came for. And it was all he needed. It was time to catch a killer.

Human quickly replaced the issues in the container and rushed to the front office. He thanked Yvonne van der Merwe. And was about to leave when he thought to ask her something. He showed her the name, scribbled in a notebook. ‘Did you know this man? Did your father maybe ever mention him?’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, detective. I don’t know him.’ Human nodded, a little disappointed but not surprised. He was about to turn when she continued. ‘But I do know about
him
.’ Human’s eyes flared with excitement. ‘In fact, his family still owns a property in Luck.’ Human gasped. ‘It’s a house, in Marais Street. It’s been abandoned ever since he left. Never been occupied.’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘The children still claim it’s a haunted house.’

Human looked at her in shocked silence. His eyes wide. He had to get to Hope right away.
Yesterday
. But he couldn’t possibly pass up on this opportunity.

Human rushed to his car, a piece of paper with the Marais Street address on it, clutched tightly in his hand. Human dialled one of his detectives. ‘Botha, two things. Listen carefully. Did you do the background check on our suspect?’ Earlier that morning Human had instructed all his available detectives to compile a thorough history of the suspect in question.