Daddy Long Legs (31 page)

‘Sure thing, detective.’

‘Secondly, alert the Special Task Force. I want them in Hope within the hour. I’ll be there in about forty-five.’

The South African Police Service Special Task Force was the South African equivalent of the American S.W.A.T. However, unlike the S.W.A.T. and similar elite police forces in countries across the world, the STF was trained to conduct military-grade special operations. And had done so on numerous occasions. Conducting several operations alongside their military counterparts during the thirty-plus years of its existence. With a formidable reputation for counter-terrorism and insurgency, second-to-none, Human didn’t want to go in with anything less. He had requested that an STF unit remain on standby in Kimberley. He didn’t want to take any chances on this one.

With their time fading fast, Human wasted no time in getting to the address. He climbed slowly from the car, his heart beating with nervous excitement, and stood before the looming Victorian house. If ever there was an archetypal haunted house, then this must be it, Human thought. The house featured a towering crested roof with an octagonal turret on the left and an impressive trimmed gable on the right. Eerie crenellated eaves and ornate metal railings on an upper balcony and the porch completed the effect. Human stood mutely on the sidewalk, feeling his disquiet grow. The house was completely derelict. Run down. And in serious disrepair. There were several holes in the crested roof. And a part of the ghostly turret had caved in. The once peach colour of the walls had faded to a dirty beige. All the windows were boarded up. At the base of the porch and the turret some daring soul had sprayed indecipherable graffiti. The house radiated pure evil. It was no wonder the children of the town thought it to be haunted.

Human walked towards the right of the house and tried to peer in through its boarded bay window. But the darkness within revealed nothing. He gingerly walked up the wooden steps of the porch and tried the rotting front door. It was locked. Human looked around. There was no-one in the street outside. But he was still a police officer. At the very least he didn’t want to be seen breaking into a private house. He descended the steps and walked around the back. A once pristine back garden was now overgrown, with weeds and bushes choking everything. Beer bottles, cigarettes stubs and beer crates littered the back yard. In the years since its abandonment, this part of house had obviously played host to more than a few parties and drinking sessions. Human walked through the knee-high kikuyu grass and weeds towards the back door. Like the porch door, it was rotting. But locked. Looking around one last time, Human shoved the door with his shoulder. Nothing. Then again. And again. And again. Finally something splintered. And the door gave in. Human fell into the darkened interior. And stood up. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. He was in the kitchen. There was a pungent and musty smell. The stench of disuse. Thick dust covered everything inside the empty room. The shelves and counters were choked with it. As he walked slowly across the creaking floor, he left deep footprints in it. Everywhere there were signs of neglect. Cupboard doors hung skew. A closet had all but collapsed.  The wooden walls, once covered in wallpaper, were green with mould. And rotting. Everywhere, everything was rotting. And dead. A haunted house. Haunted with the disease of a serial killer. With the dying screams of his victims. The house reeked of death. And despair.

Human walked through the kitchen door, pushing aside a rotting lintel which was hanging in his way. He was in a long and broad corridor.

In front of him, pushed against the corridor wall, was an ancient and rotting upright piano.

That was when Lerato phoned him.

‘I’ve got something,’ she said.

***

‘Thank you so much, Rina,’ Lerato said, ending the call. ‘You have no idea how much you helped us.’

Rina Heunis placed her hand on Lerato’s shoulder, leading her to the front door. ‘It’s my pleasure, dearie. I just hope you can rescue that poor boy.’

Lerato nodded as she stepped over the door sill, onto the
stoep
. ‘We’re going to try our best. Believe me.’ Lerato greeted the old woman and was halfway down the steps when Rina Heunis stopped her.

‘Oh, hang on. There was one more thing,’ Rina Heunis said. Lerato turned to face her. ‘I believe he was a piano teacher.’

***

Human stood before the piano. The cover was lifted, leaving the keyboard exposed. The ivory keys were a dull dirty white with age. In the eerie stillness of the corridor, Human allowed the index finger of his right hand to trail along the keys. The out-of-tune notes rang like breaking glass in the haunted silence. An eerie refrain in the huge musty stillness of the darkened corridor. And then. On the D key. There was muffled thud. Human tried the key again. Nothing. Only the percussive thud. As with the E. And the F. The ebonies too. D sharp. And F sharp. Something was obstructing the hammer inside. Preventing it from striking the strings. Human opened the lid and peered inside. Dammit. In the darkness of the corridor, the piano interior was a shadowy maw. He wished now he had brought a flashlight. Using touch he felt around the interior. Feeling each string in succession. And then he felt it. Something flat and square. When he touched its glossy surface he knew what it was.

Photographs.

He plucked the wad of photos from the space into which they had been tightly wedged. From its thickness he guessed there were about half a dozen snapshots. He lifted the bundle up into the air, trying to discern the images in the dappled light of the corridor. Holding the top photo up to the dim light.

It was a little boy. Hog tied. And gagged. Naked. His terrified eyes staring into the camera. Huge hazel irises enflamed in the flash of the camera.

Human slammed the piano cover shut.

And ran.

Through the creaky corridor. Through the musty kitchen. Into the littered backyard. He ran. Around the house and into the front garden. He ran. To his car.

Inside, he shoved the photographs into his jacket pocket and plucked out his cell phone while he started the Toyota. With screeching tyres he pulled away.

‘Botha. Did you get his new address?’

‘Got it sir.’ Human could hear the pride in the detective’s voice. ‘He relocated to Orania.’

‘Well done. Tell those FTS fuckers to haul ass. I don’t care how many laws they break. I want them there now!’ He glanced at his watch as he swerved wildly to avoid two pedestrians. ‘I’ll be there in ... half an hour. Get everybody ready. We’re leaving immediately.’ He cut through a stop street, screeching tyres protesting as he made a high-speed right turn. ‘See you now!’

His name was Arnold Havenga. And he was a piano teacher.

His name was Arnold Havenga. And he was a vicious killer.

Also known as Daddy Long Legs.

Born in Bloemfontein in March, 1955, to Ingrid and Ronald Havenga – yes, Arnold is an anagram of Ronald – Arnold Havenga had an idyllic life as a child. Ingrid was a typist and Ronald Havenga a professor of History at the University of the (Orange) Free State. No. He was not born into a broken family. No. He was not sexually abused. Some killers are just born that way.

Psychologists often refer to a triad of early indicators, foreshadowing signs in the psychopathy of the serial killer. One is pyromania. A predilection for setting fires. Another is bedwetting. Arnold Havenga demonstrated none of these. He did exhibit the third though. Animal torture.

Shortly after his sixth birthday, little Arnold discovered the exquisite joys of torturing little defenceless animals. His fawning mother had bought him a little miniature Doberman. Toeksie. Possessed with the psychopathy of the man that would later become known as Daddy Long Legs, it is certain that Arnold Havenga would have discovered his taste for sadism later in life anyway. But as it turned out. He unearthed this side of his personality quite by accident one day.

He had been playing with Toeksie on the Havenga’s spread-out lawn. He had accidently stepped on the little
stoepkakker’s
(porch shitter) paw. As befitted a pampered little lap dog, the miniature Doberman had yelped and howled in affected agony. When Arnold had picked up the little dog he had experienced something completely different from the contrite sympathy he had expected. Instead, in the face of the little yelping dog he had seen something obscenely disgusting. And repulsive.

Weakness.

He had stood there, in the afternoon Free State sun, overcome by hatred and revulsion. There was something in this dog that he wanted to crush. And mangle. And destroy. Casting a quick glance over his shoulder he had gripped the dog’s little snout in his hand and twisted violently. The dog’s face had exploded into panic. It howled with terror. That’s when little Arnold had realised something else. Not only did he despise weakness. He loved inflicting pain. By the time he released the little dog, Arnold Havenga had experienced his first erection. He didn’t know what it was. But, oh man, it felt so good.

In the weeks and months that followed, Arnold would choose private moments to inflict tiny – but oh so satisfying – torments on his little Doberman. Shoving his little face into his bathwater. Suffocating the dog under his pillow. Squeezing his little body until his eyes nearly popped. Arnold was a clever boy. And he knew he couldn’t do anything that would arouse the suspicion of his parents. So he kept it all measured. And gentlemanly. The little Toeksie. Confused. And increasingly traumatised, nevertheless remained loyally by his owner’s side. Never relinquishing the unconditional love for the monster that wanted nothing more than to crush the life out of his little canine body. In time, of course, Havenga escalated his campaign of terror. One Sunday afternoon, as his parents slept, he grabbed his little frightened miniature Doberman. Holding the little dog’s mouth clenched tightly in his hand, so the dog couldn’t alert his parents, he pushed Toeksie’s face into the dirt. Harder and harder. The dog struggled frantically. Kicking and clawing. But the boy’s strength was simply too much. The boy kept on pushing and pushing. Shoving the little dog’s face into the dirt. Until blood welled up over his hand. Then. In one swift stroke, he picked up a brick. And smashed Toeksie’s head in with a clean stroke.

He ejaculated in his shorts. The first time ever. But not the last.

Then he had buried the little dog. Carefully. Making sure the body would never be found. He was, after all, a very clever little boy.

That night he made a big scene. Toeksie was gone. Oh where was his beloved little doggie? Oh no.
Boo hoo hoo
.

A week later, he lay on the couch, curled up in his mother’s arm. He looked up at her, making a little puppy face. ‘Mommy, can I please have another doggie?’

Arnold grew up fast after that. He exhibited none of the early developmental problems of other serial killers and excelled, both at school and sport. And was liked and respected by his peers. And his elders. Just as detective Wayne Human would testify years later, over time little Arnold learned to compartmentalise his mind and personality. He could keep his darkness perfectly concealed, and hermetically sealed, deep within himself. His demon was not in charge of him. Oh no. It was
his
choice when he would allow the thing inside him to come out. It was his choice when he would bring out his sickness. And take it for a little stroll.

Of course, like all mothers, Ingrid knew her son best. And she soon began to note something in her young boy. She began to sense his disease. The sick rotting thing inside him. But like all mothers, she looked the other way. And prayed – sincerely and without cease – that her little boy’s dark side would fade with time.

It’s just a phase, dear Lord.

Arnold Havenga applied to the music department at the University of the (Orange) Free State and easily passed the entrance exam. That his father was a professor at the same university didn’t hamper matters, of course.

In his third year, he met a wonderful little girl, as it turned out, also called Ingrid. She was a B.Sc (Bachelor of Science) student who wanted to complete her H.E.D (Higher Education Diploma) and become a teacher. The year after Arnold graduated, they were married.

Arnold’s grandfather died soon thereafter, leaving him a grand old Victorian mansion in a little Free State town called Luck. When Ingrid was able to procure a teaching position at the local primary school, they decided to move there.

All this time, Arnold managed to keep his monster at bay. Simply because he could. Every now and then, maybe twice a year, he would approach the local SPCA. With fatherly kindness, he would offer to buy one of the ‘abandoned little doggies’. The poor creatures never made it home. Hours later, Arnold Havenga would make it home. Sometimes with blood on his hand. Sometimes not.

Within a few months of their arrival, Ingrid fell pregnant. And nine months later little Ronald was born, named of course after his grandfather. With the birth of his son, Arnold discovered something new within himself. Call it love, if you like. (Yes, serial killers can also love.) Call it a kind of fawning obsession. Or a type of cherished infatuation. Whatever it was, for a long time it served to keep Arnold Havenga’s demon confined to his muddy soul. And things proceeded for some time without incident.

Then, one day, as Havenga was busy teaching a Chopin Etude to a little local brat, the boy broke down in tears at the piano. Struggling to conform to Havenga’s exacting standards. Suddenly, looking down at the little bawling rodent, his mouth contorted into a maw of disgusting agony, Havenga felt an old friend return. With a fury – and yearning – he had never before experienced. Havenga calmly leaned over and fisted the boy violently, leaving him unconscious on the corridor floor where the upright piano stood. He then walked to the telephone, phoned the boy’s mother and told her that her son had never showed up for his weekly lessons. He then hogtied and gagged the unconscious boy and took him down to the house’s cellar. Within a few hours he had sated his lust for violence. And pain. And the boy was dead. In front of the piano that day, he had experienced an exquisite re-alignment. And a re-birth. His darkness had found a new focus. Something far more beautiful. And fragile. And satisfying. On that day he had acquired a taste for the human boy child. And he would never be the same again.

Driven by sheer likeability. And deception. And disingenuous grief. Havenga was never even a remote suspect in the disappearance of the boy. That was the first time he got away with it. It wouldn’t be the last.

A little more than two years later, his beloved wife, Ingrid, died in a violent car collision. Once again, Wayne Human was right. It
was
a trigger.

And the rest, as they say ... is history.