Jigsaw, page 8
part #1 of Susman & Devil Series
"Well," replies Susman. "Relatively speaking."
"Problems with sleeping?"
Susman shakes her head. "No."
Clementine's surprised. "No?"
"Luckily, on this case, there's no time to sleep."
Clementine laughs. "That's grasping at straws if I've ever seen it."
"One grasps at what one can."
"Is there anything I can do? I want this bastard behind bars as much as any of you."
"No. But thanks for asking."
"You're sure?"
Susman takes a sip of her cold, bitter coffee, and grimaces. "Now that I think about it—"
"Anything, darling."
"You know we were joking about your Nespresso machine?"
"Don't say another word. I'll have a new one delivered to the station today."
"Thank you. I'm no coffee connoisseur, but I couldn't stand another day of this awful stuff they have here. Just let me know how much it costs."
"Don't be silly, Robin. I'll send the bill to Alastair!"
21
Hangman
Major Alastair Denton picks up his telephone receiver and presses a button. "Denton here. It's a secure line."
"Major," says Smith. It's bedlam in the background. People are chanting and shouting.
"You have anything for me?"
"Excuse the noise on this side. I'm outside the courthouse. I have updates on the Whittaker case and Bombela."
"Those can wait. You have anything on the Turbine Hall Gang?"
"They're in court today. Right now. That's why I'm here."
"What's the feeling on the ground?" asks the major.
"It's difficult to say. The public hates them, you know that. There have been protesters here since sunrise, calling for the death penalty."
"Good," says Alastair.
"I thought you disliked the death penalty," says Smith.
"I find it abhorrent. But which judge will give parole to prisoners when the public are baying for their blood?"
"They'll be dead by dinnertime," says Smith.
"Exactly."
There's a knock on the door, and Denton rings off. Devil sticks his head in. "Sorry to interrupt you, Major."
Alastair's face darkens in anticipation. "Another abandoned baby? Or another body?"
"Another body, sir. But it's not one of the missing mothers. It's a new case."
"Who, then?"
"We haven't identified it yet. Forensics are busy with it, now. It seems to be another one of those cases that you hate, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"One that captures the public's imagination."
The major groans. "Oh, God. My phone's already ringing off the bloody hook. What do we know so far?"
"They found the body—a male body—hanging from an eToll gantry."
"Hanging from an eToll gantry?" asks the major. "Has the world gone mad?"
De Villiers sighs. "The world has always been mad."
"Hanging? So it may be suicide?"
"Doubt it, sir. Msibi said he was dead before they placed him there."
"He's not an official, is he? Don't tell me someone is so angry about eTolls they've done something like this."
"We can't say yet. At first, we all thought it was a grand gesture to the government. Or some dramatic protestation gone wrong. But now it looks like plain, old-fashioned murder."
The major clears his throat. "Do you ever feel that we are wasting our time?
"Catching killers?" De Villiers asks. "No."
"But even when we catch them," says Alastair, the muscles in his jaws working hard. "Look at the Turbine Hall Gang. They've got that ruthless lawyer, and now they may be days away from being back on the streets. After all we did, after all we went through to put them away."
"You're worried about Susman?" asks De Villiers. "She's doing okay."
"It looks like she is doing okay. There is a difference."
"You owe me a beer, Devil," says Msibi. "Susman paid up with the coffee. Now it's your turn."
"Beer?" says De Villiers into the phone. "Only one?"
"A six-pack. The expensive ones. Green bottles."
He looks at his watch. "It's a bit early in the day for that, isn't it?"
"Haibo, you've changed."
"So you've identified the hangman?"
"Yebo, Sir Detective. Affirmative."
"And?"
"And I've sent the file to that adorable intern of yours."
"Khaya's not an intern. He's a sergeant."
"He's adorable, anyway."
"He's happily married," says De Villiers.
"I didn't mean it that way."
"I know, you want to cuddle him. Like a puppy."
"Those big brown chocolate button eyes, how can you stand it?"
"Easily," says De Villiers.
"I want to schmusch his cheeks," says Msibi.
"I never figured you for the cuddling type."
"No? Have you not noticed my body? It's very voluptuous. It is made for cuddling."
De Villiers sighs. "Why are we even having this conversation? I don't have time to—"
"It's to keep things light, Captain. To help you with your headaches. To help me with my peptic ulcer. Life isn't all about the darkness, you now. Just because a joke's not important doesn't mean it's not worthwhile."
"Thanks for sending the file to Khaya. I'll call you if I have questions."
"Are you sure he's happily married?" asks Msibi.
"Khaya? Yes. Why?"
"Ah, nothing. Just reminded me of a joke."
"I'm listening," says De Villiers.
"I thought fancy detectives didn't have time for jokes?"
"It had better be funny."
"Well, it's not a joke-joke."
"Msibi," says De Villiers. "Get on with it."
"It's just something my uncle used to say. He was a funny guy. I'd hate to be unhappily married, he'd say, because I'm happily married, and it's SHIT."
"Right, Khaya," says De Villiers. "Who's the hanging man?"
"I was just saying to detective Susman—"
"Not a detective," corrects Susman.
"I was asking if she would help us on this case, too."
"And she said no," says De Villiers.
Khaya nods.
"A middle-aged white man hanging off a gantry is not Susman's kind of case."
"Why not?"
"Because the victim is not a woman."
"You only care about women?" asks Khaya.
"It's not that," says Robin.
"You just care about women more than men?"
"No," she says. "It's complicated."
"She'll explain it to you one day, Khaya, when you're all grown up. In the meantime, tell me about our eToll man."
"His name is Richard Sterling."
De Villiers holds up his hand to stop Khaya from speaking and yells out to the rest of the office. "Swanepoel, Vellie, Breytenbach, Modise, come here. Listen here. This is your new case."
"I'll be there now," says Breytenbach. "I'm just in the middle of something important."
"Sounds promising," says the detective. "Better be."
Breytenbach nods.
De Villiers addresses the cops standing around his desk. "Before Khaya briefs you … Swanepoel and Vellie, this case is yours. Codename 'Hangman'. I need to focus on the Jigsaw Killer. You can report to me on developments."
They nod.
Khaya looks chuffed that he gets to brief the team. "The vic's name is Richard Sterling. He died of a head injury. No patterned abrasions and no brush-burn. Blunt force trauma. That means he was klapped over the head with something heavy."
"We know what 'blunt force trauma' means, Khaya," says Swanepoel.
"Why was he hanged?" asks De Villiers. "Was it to send a message?"
Swanepoel looks at the detective. "You think it's a warning? Drug lord? Mafia?"
De Villiers shrugs. "Could be. In any case, it's an interesting way to dispose of a body."
"From what I can tell, Sterling doesn't seem to be that kind of man," says Khaya.
De Villiers takes the file from him. "Please elaborate?"
"It's not like he was the owner of a strip club or anything. Nothing seedy, from the looks of it."
"Ask most members of the Mafia what they do for a living, and they say 'import/export’. They never say import of what. Never trust a man who says he's in 'import/export’.”
"Okay," says Swanepoel. "So what did this Richard Sterling do, if his career has been so immaculate as not to make the very Devil suspicious?"
"He was a renowned surgeon," says Khaya.
"Ah. For once we come across someone who saves lives instead of taking them."
Khaya pulls a face. "Not quite."
"Not another Chris Barnard then? What kind of surgery? Bones? Teeth?"
"You're getting closer. He was a cosmetic surgeon."
"Cosmetic, like plastic surgery? Are we talking fixing kids' burn scars or sucking out rich housewives' cellulite?"
"The latter," says De Villiers. "And by the looks of it, he's done a lot of it in his time. He was a multi-millionaire. Owned a string of luxury bush 'escapes' where international tourists would come to visit and get their faces done. Instead of staying in New York with a bandaged-up face and having to avoid your friends and colleagues, you come to South Africa and have it done here by a top-notch surgeon. You pay in Rands and have two weeks of five-star downtime."
"Wow," says Swanepoel. "The lives of the rich and famous."
"Don't be envious, Swanepoel," says De Villiers. "Being rich isn't always what it's cracked up to be."
"And you would know this, how?"
De Villiers smirks. "Clearly not from personal experience."
"Devil is right. Imagine all the stress. The bond repayments on all the different houses all over the world. The helicopter maintenance—"
"Ja, well," says Swanepoel. "I got ninety-nine problems and being rich ain't one of them."
"At the end of the day, us sorry sacks sitting here are better off than Mr Sterling," De Villiers says, shrugging. "At least we're alive."
"Good point," says Swanepoel.
"So," Devil rubs his hands together. "A mega-wealthy man is murdered. Who do we look at first?"
"The wife," says Khaya.
"Yes."
"And then the business partners."
"Yes. And the competitors, and the enemies."
"She's here," Khaya gestures at the passage. "The wife. Mrs Sterling is in Room Three."
"That was quick," says De Villiers.
"She came in herself. Wanted to talk."
"Well, men. It looks like this case may solve itself if we're lucky. Swanepoel, you're the good-looking one. You do the talking. You know the drill, start by taking it easy, be empathetic. Befriend her. Coax her into a solid confession. Try not to alienate her with your bullshit."
"Ah, Devil, I never knew you felt that way about me."
"Don't get excited, Swanepoel. You're not my type. Take Khaya with you. He needs to learn. Don't teach him anything shifty, okay? He's still an Innocent."
Breytenbach slams his phone down in excitement.
De Villiers looks up. "You have something?"
"More than 'something,'" Breytenbach says. "I think I have … I mean it's premature to say. I'll take you through my thinking and how—”
"I'm getting old here, Breytenbach,” says De Villiers. "What? What do you think you know?"
Breytenbach takes a deep breath; his eyes sparkle with excitement. He stares at De Villiers. "I think I might have him. The Jigsaw Killer."
22
A Name of a Ghost
Parkview Police Station, 16th of July 2014, 9:12.
"Tell me," says detective De Villiers.
Breytenbach hammers at his keyboard; it's an old thing that crunches as he types. "I'm printing his file. The system is trying to find his address. No luck so far. Putting his picture up on the screen now."
They wait a few breaths, then a photo of a young man appears on the monitor: dark hair, dark eyebrows, sharp cheekbones and chin. A small crucifix hangs from a gold chain around his neck.
"He's better looking than I expected," says De Villiers.
Susman folds her arms. "They usually are."
"What is that on his cheek?" asks De Villiers. "A scar?"
"Looks like a small burn mark. A cigarette?"
"Breytenbach. You found the other variable."
The lieutenant looks excited.
"Variable?" asks Khaya.
"This institution roll was too long to work through. Not at the speed we needed to find this guy. So I tried other variables to triangulate the data. I struck out any names that didn't have a criminal record. That halved the pile. Then I checked those records for cruelty to animals and pyromania and got a shortlist. No one on that list was our guy."
"How do you know?" asks Khaya.
"Some are dead, others still institutionalised or in prison. A few live out of the country. Our guy wasn't there."
"Okay," says De Villiers.
"So then I went back to the criminal record list and looked for victims of possible child abuse. Not surprisingly, this didn't make much of a dent."
"So you added another criterion," says Susman.
"I had a brainwave. Last year, my washing machine packed up."
"Make your point, Breytenbach." De Villiers fidgets. "I can't sit in this chair for much longer knowing that we might have this guy."
"The system is still searching. I don't think he has an address on file."
Susman's paying attention. "Your washing machine packed up?"
"Yes. So I went to a hyper store to buy a new one. And I couldn't put it in my car, right? So they had to deliver."
"So you had to give them your address," says Susman.
"Address, phone number, ID number."
"ID number?" asks De Villiers.
"For insurance. The guarantee."
"So this guy bought an appliance recently?"
Susman's face opens up. "Of course he did. A chest freezer."
De Villiers' lips curl into a smile.
"So I called all the hyper stores in Gauteng. Asked for customers who bought a chest freezer in the last couple of years. I cross-referenced that with my shortlist and got just one hit."
"That's him," says Khaya. "It's gotta be him, right?"
"The details given were actually of an older woman, a Brenda Flock. It was just the surname that matched. She is deceased, has been for a decade."
"So unless a dead woman was out shopping for kitchen appliances…"
"He used his mother's details on the store's forms. Probably just made up a story about how he was buying a gift for his mom."
"First name?" asks Susman.
"David. David Flock."
De Villiers stares at the screen. "Why is this taking so long?"
"Usually when it takes this long, it means there's no address on file," says Breytenbach.
"Of course,” says De Villiers. "That would have been too easy."
"It's funny, isn't it?" asks Susman, looking intensely at the crucifix. "The surname?"
De Villiers shoots her a glance. "Maybe to a sheep farmer."
"Flock of sheep, like believers?" says Khaya. "Like Jesus takes care of his flock?"
"Exactly," says Susman. "Here is this man named David—a biblical name—who seeks to control people, as a religious leader does. He expects his mother to be pure, virginal. Anything else makes her a Fallen Woman. Maybe he is building his own version of the perfect mother, piece by piece. Creating her from others' bodies, like the story of Adam's rib, in Genesis. He sees himself as a kind of god, giving life and taking it away."
"A religious bent makes sense," says Breytenbach. "As a child, he was removed by social services and put in the care of a Christian group—The Parable People—when Brenda Flock was arrested for soliciting."
"Soliciting?" asks Devil. "Flock’s mother was a prostitute?"
"A single mother, no maintenance from the child's father," says Susman. "She did what she had to, to keep food on the table."
"She also left him in others' care for extended periods while she went partying. She'd disappear for days at a time. Not much family to speak of."
"He would have seen that as abandonment," says Susman.
"It was abandonment," replies De Villiers. "What about the abuse?"
"The Parable People," says Breytenbach.
Susman shivers. "It sounds like some kind of cult."
"They reported injuries. Bruises, broken bones. Cigarette burns. There's no photographic evidence, though. The mother denied it, said it was the Parable People who had abused him. Brainwashed him."
"That scar," says Khaya. "That scar under his eye."
"It could be from anything," says Susman. "Where does the carpentry thing come in?"
"Well, Jesus was a carpenter," says De Villiers.
Susman smiles.
"I don't know," says Breytenbach. "No carpentry jobs in his record. No jobs at all. He seems to be a drifter." The computer beeps. No address found.
"But he would have to have a woodwork room," says Susman. "Some tools. The jigsaw, for one."
"And maybe it's soundproofed to a certain extent if it's in a residential area. So he'd be able to do the noisy work without raising complaints. Or suspicion."
"Which means he'd be able to keep a prisoner there."
Susman feels an awful tingle moving along her spine. They're getting closer; they have a name of a ghost.
"Not only is there no address, but no employment history, no credit cards, no bank account. How does he live, day to day? It's like he doesn't even exist."
"Is he using his mother's details, his mother's bank account?"
"No," says Breytenbach. "It was frozen years ago."
Devil can't help smiling, even though he knows it's in bad taste. "Excuse the pun."
Swanepoel arrives. "Hey, what's going on in here? You guys all look like naughty little school kids trying not to laugh. Is it the new coffee that's made you so happy?"
"Big break in the Jigsaw case," says De Villiers. "No thanks to you."
