Daddy Long Legs (21 page)

Lerato Mathafeng took a step towards Human. ‘He even studied criminology, obtaining a degree in the administration of justice at the Wichita State University,’ she said.

‘He stopped killing after he became a Wichita Compliance Officer, a glorified dog catcher,’ he said.

‘He soon acquired a reputation for being obsessive, measuring the blades of grass in people’s lawns and terrorising a local woman by unnecessarily euthanizing her dog,’ she said.

Human stared at the female detective, enraptured. ‘It seems Rader’s twisted need for dominance and subservience found enough of an outlet in his new job and he disappeared from the public view for more than ten years.’ Several of the detectives stared at the strange exchange that was taking place.

‘He only returned to prominence when a book was published about him.’ Lerato Mathafeng’s arms hung stiffly at her side.

‘He was finally apprehended when he sent a floppy disc to the Wichita police.’ Human’s voice was barely more than a croak as he felt his throat constrict.

‘The Word document contained metadata that listed his name as well as that of the Christ Lutheran Church ...’

‘Where he was elected president of the Congregation Council.’

The two policemen stared at each other, enthralled. All the nearby detectives had stopped what they were doing to watch the exchange. More than one detective craned a neck to watch the unfolding spectacle through the open door of the filing room. Human and Lerato Mathafeng stared at each other, wordless.

The telephone rang. And fractured the intensity. Lerato Mathafeng, turned her back, flustered. She brought a shaky hand to her breast. And pretended to consult the bulky bundle of notes in her hand. Human cleared his throat. And felt a hot blush rise to his cheeks as he noticed the stares of the other policemen. The phone was ringing. Yes. Answer it. His muddled mind told him. He pointed into empty space. ‘Yes, study those ... those notes,’ he said, awkwardly shuffling around the desk to answer the phone.

It was Magda.

Human’s blush deepened. He turned his back and faced the wall. Although they had communicated regularly through SMS, this was the first time that she had phoned him since he had been in Hope. Her voice was like an unpleasant memory in his ear.

‘Hello Magda.’

‘Don’t hello me, Wayne. I’m sitting here sick as a dog while you’re on holiday in Cape Town.’ Hope was nearly one thousand kilometres from Cape Town. And it was definitely no holiday. Human sighed.

‘What’s wrong, Magda? I thought you went to see the doctor.’

‘I went to see the doctors, Wayne,’ Magda said, nagging. ‘But doctors cost money. They cost money, Wayne.’ Human massaged his eyes. Behind him Lerato was trying desperately not to overhear the conversation. But it was extremely difficult with Magda’s piercing howl. ‘And while you’re over there having a ball, I’m over here in hell, wasting away.’ She blew her nose. A loud honk that made the internal speaker of the telephone headset shudder with distortion. ‘What happened to the money you said you were going to transfer for me, Wayne. I’m as sick as a dog, and you’re leaving me here to rot.’ Magda whimpered to underscore her distress. ‘I sometimes think you care more for those dastardly corpses than you do for me.’

‘I’m sorry, Magda. I forgot about the money. I’ve had a lot to deal with.’ Human paused, feeling his resentment grow. He could hardly expect Magda to keep up with the single biggest news story in the country right now. He snuck a peek at Lerato. Her back was turned. ‘I’ll do it straight away.’

‘Wayne, do you still love me?’ It came across more as an accusation than a question. Human paused longer than he wanted to.

‘Of course, I do, Magda. You know that I –’

Click.

She ended the conversation. Without a goodbye. Without a thank you. Without even bothering to reciprocate Human’s weak declaration of love.

Human replaced the handset. He turned to face Lerato Mathafeng. She smiled awkwardly at the older detective.

Later that day, Benny Joemat, premier of the Northern Cape finally made the political play which Human had been expecting – and dreading – all along. In a flurry of blue sirens and haughtiness Joemat arrived in Hope, accompanied by his convoy of SUV’s. The convoys – with their characteristic black SUV’s and wailing blue sirens – which provided security for dignitaries, had acquired a terrible reputation for bullying and boorishness on South African roads. As the self-important entourage stormed Hope, it was no different. At least two local cars were run off the road and Gatiep Kooi, whose old Raleigh bicycle ended up in a ditch next to the N12, had to be hospitalised.

Premier Joemat promptly installed himself in the mayor’s house, while renting adjacent premises for his security detail. That night he also arranged a private dinner with Dirk Engelman and his group of detectives. For the first time Human understood why the local detective enjoyed so much protection. And why even egregious behaviour was punished with nothing more than a cursory slap on the wrist.

The first thing Joemat did, however, as soon as he had settled in was stage a press conference of his very own. One would think that the media, still buzzing with the discovery of the van Jaarsveld boy and the Pill Town Massacre, would have more than enough to keep themselves occupied. But this was obviously not so, and the press people stationed in Hope responded to the press conference with slavish excitement. And with true flair, Benny Joemat had gone all the way, erecting a huge banner featuring the coat of arms of the office of the Premier of the Northern Cape. In front of it stood a podium bearing the same coat of arms.

‘I direct the following words to the serial killer that has been terrorising our youth,’ Joemat began. ‘You are a sick and diseased pervert. You are a little cowardly man, hiding behind secrecy and nursery rhymes. You are an insignificant and impotent creature, who seeks to over-compensate for your lack of manliness by torturing poor defenceless children. You are pathetic and disgusting. You are no Bundy. You are no Dahmer. The second we string your pathetic neck from the nearest tree branch you will be forgotten. Forever.’ Joemat finished his tirade, flecks of spit flying from his mouth, rivulets of sweat running down his face. The Karoo sun baked down on the Premier and the reporters gathered before him. ‘The second matter I want to address, friends,’ Joemat continued, ‘is the investigation that has been ... erected,’ he said, reserving a particular disdain for the last word. ‘I wonder how much closer we would have been to apprehending this ... sick little murderer, had the nature of the ... task group not been so ... political.’ It was a direct assault upon Joe Ndabane and his faction. It was also a direct criticism of Human’s abilities. ‘I do not understand why certain ... cliques within the ANC seek to sabotage this crucial investigation through the placement of
agents provocateur
,’ Joemat said, impressively using the correct French pronunciation. ‘I do not understand why our children must suffer as the result of inappropriate placement of outside elements.’ Joemat looked at the congregated press people with impassioned distress. ‘Why must everything in this dear country always be political?’ He asked, turning the rhetorical question into a glaring irony. Everything Joemat was doing
was
, after all, political. He wiped sweat from a furrowed brow. Using just the required amount of invective, empathy and dramatic pauses, Joemat was indeed a master speaker. And right now his audience was enraptured by his words. His speech so far had produced at least half a dozen solid sound bites. Joemat fixed his audience with a concerned silence. Some of the younger female reporters, caught up in the melodrama of his speech, expected tears to flow at any moment. ‘That is why, brothers and sisters, after lengthy deliberations, after painful entreaties to my Maker ... that is why I decided on the following course of action.’ There was a slight murmur of anticipation amongst the press. Several people shuffled closer. ‘This pathetic specimen that calls himself Daddy Long Legs ... has already taken a child from amongst us. He walked among us, cloaked in deceit, and struck with impunity. And now ... now he is primed to take another. We don’t know when. But we do know that he will. We do know that he will strike again.’ Joemat shoved an imperious finger into the hot air. ‘Well, not on my watch,
daddy
!’ There was spontaneous applause amongst the media delegates and the curious bystanders who had congregated here. The ‘bystanders’ – in time-honoured ANC tradition – consisted of several dozen Joemat supporters who had been transported to the press conference earlier. ‘Not on my watch,’ Joemat repeated. He stood for a moment, silent. Basking in the moment. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have decided, with the generous assistance of my dear friend, Tony Mohale, to create a security unit, a squad of sentinels that I have decided to call ‘The Guardians’.’ The announcement was greeted with puzzled silence by the press delegates. The ‘bystanders’, however, cheered his words with great enthusiasm. ‘The Guardians will, from this very moment, patrol the streets of Hope and ensure that our children are safe ... and protected.’

From his position, on a desk inside Eighteen Hill Street, Human groaned loudly. He sank his head into his hands. This was a terrible idea. The so-called Guardians would do little to ‘protect’ the children of Hope, Human realised immediately. All it would achieve would be to offer the silent killer even more camouflage, even more cover, and simply allow him to move amongst the townspeople with even greater ease. Human was, of course, dead right.

‘Oh my God, this is a disaster,’ he said to the flashing images on the TV screen.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Joemat continued with great flair, ‘I introduce to you ... The Guardians!’ The banner behind him dropped to the ground, revealing a group of about twelve men, all dressed in black slacks and white long-sleeve shirts. Each man wore a red band around the right arm.’ The rent-a-crowd cheered loudly. While the press looked on with curious interest. ‘These are the first twelve. But by tomorrow, we will have at least fifty concerned citizens patrolling the streets of Hope, finally putting an end to this sick coward’s reign of terror.’ Human could see the ‘concerned citizens’ were clearly harvested from the ranks of the unemployed within Hope and the surrounding areas. At least seven, Human was later told, were regular visitors to the Hope police cells, for regular misdemeanours that included public drunkenness and domestic violence.

‘Oh no,’ Human groaned. ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no.’

What Joemat, of course, didn’t mention, was that Shanghai Mohale had signed a deal, giving him exclusive media access to ‘The Guardians’ and their activities. Or that the two had initiated a reality TV show – to be called, unsurprisingly
The Guardians
– that would feature the valiant everyday activities of the self-appointed saviours of Hope.

If you hadn’t guessed by now, Shangai Mohale himself was a part of the political faction within the ANC that opposed the current president, of which Joemat was a very vocal member. As with all the BEE (Black Economic Empowerment) millionaires in South Africa, Mohale himself was formerly a member of the ANC government. Politics pervaded every single aspect of South African life. It always had. It always will. Sad but true.

In front of the TV screen, Human now lamented that very fact. For the media, the latest development was big news. For Human it was just another nut added to the crazy stew that was brewing in the little town.

‘I have so much confidence in these new measures,’ continued Joemat, ‘that my son, Alexander, will be joining me for the remainder of my stay in Hope.’ A female member of Joemat’s staff ushered the young boy towards his father. Shy and frail-looking, the boy shrivelled under the attention. He clung to his father’s leg, digging his face into Joemat’s slacks. The Premier turned to the cameras, a determined look on his face. ‘You, who choose to call yourself Daddy Long Legs.’ He pointed a finger at the cameras. ‘Your reign of terror has come to an end. I’m coming to get you.’ The crowd cheered as the visual cut to two presenters, seated on plush couches in a Johannesburg studio.

Dreading the consequences of this maverick political move, Human made arrangements to meet with the Premier. Two hours later, he was in the lounge of the mayor’s house, face to face with Joemat.

‘I understand your concerns, Detective Human.’ Joemat was seated in a leather Lazy Boy, sipping tea from a porcelain cup. Around him were two aides and three burly men in black suits who made up his security detail. He had not bothered to rise at Human’s entrance. ‘But you must trust that I know what I’m doing.’ He paused to take a delicate sip from the cup. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that I used to be the Northern Cape MEC (Member of Executive Council) for Safety and Security.’ Human had not been aware of this. But regardless, he
hardly
found it sufficient basis for the madcap course Joemat was now undertaking. ‘And besides, detective, all your resources are engaged in ... apprehending the serial killer. It’s painfully obvious that you’re not able to protect the people of Hope.’

Human took a step towards the Premier. The bodyguards stiffened. ‘Premier Joemat,’ Human said, clothing his request in as much polite formality as he could, ‘my team is tasked solely with the apprehension of the killer. I admit that we do not possess the resources required to protect the ... the people of Hope.’ Joemat coolly stared at Human across the rim of his ornate tea cup. ‘But I beseech you to abandon these new ... measures of yours. It will only serve to complicate matters further. And further imperil the very people you are trying to protect.’