“I’m not going to university, Ma.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m joining the police.”
∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧
19
Profiling.
Johannes Jacobus Smit had been bound, tortured, and then murdered because he had to supply the combination to a safe and afterward he was an unnecessary and unwelcome witness. The motive was known. The modus operandi clear. The profile simple. A single-minded thief. Someone who was capable of torture and murder. Psychopath, sociopath, at least some symptoms.
Behavior established personality. They had taught him that at Quantico. His three American months.
But the magical power of profiling lay in pinpointing the evidently motiveless, the serial killers, the rapists, the sex murderers who were driven by the demons of their pasts: the fucked-up family life, the violent father, the whoring mother. Not in exposing the simplicity of torture and murder committed to get at the contents of a safe. Robbery. Murder. With aggravating circumstances.
Planned robbery. The wire had been brought to the murder scene. The blowtorch was part of the murderer’s equipment. Here are your sandwiches, love. And don’t forget the wire, the pliers, and the blowtorch. Is the M16 loaded? Have a nice day.
He, the murderer- robber, was known to Smit. Maybe. Probably. No sign of forced entry into the house. And the fact that Smit was shot execution-style. Another potential sign. No witnesses left behind.
Perhaps. Possibly. Conceivably.
He parked the Corolla under a tree at the bottom end of Moreletta Street and switched off the engine.
The blowtorch.
There was something about that blowtorch. The murderer knew he would have to torture, which meant that he knew Smit wouldn’t talk easily. Which also meant that he knew him. Which meant that he knew Smit possessed something that was worth stealing. Something that was hidden or locked away. But there were many ways to torture that caused pain, inhuman pain. Why use a blowtorch? Why not use the pliers to extract Smit’s nails, one by one? Why not beat Smit with the stock of the rifle until his face was unrecognizable and the pain of a broken nose and smashed mouth and cracked skull made him beg to confess, to tell where the documents or diamonds or dollars or drugs were?
Or whatever the fuck was in the safe.
The blowtorch said something about the murderer.
Arson was a primary warning sign of a serial killer in the making. Together with bed-wetting and torturing animals.
They liked fire. Flames.
He took out his notebook.
Crime Research Bureau. Blowtorch burglaries/crimes
He closed the book, put it into his jacket pocket with the pen.
“You must be able to put yourself in the shoes of the murderer and the victim,” they had said at Quantico.
Smit’s shoes. The perspective of the victim acquired from the crime scene, the forensic and pathology reports. Smit, alone at home, follows his usual routine: there’s a knock at the door – was the door locked, had he always kept it locked, habit of fifteen years, or was the door open and had the murderer simply walked in with his rifle and his blowtorch and his wire and his pliers? Here was something that didn’t make sense. There were too many things for one man to carry. Hold the door for a moment, Johannes Jacobus, I just want to get the torture equipment.
Two attackers?
Or one. With a backpack and an M16.
Smit is startled, fear, recognition: after so many years the existence he had crafted with so much care is suddenly threatened. Great fear, adrenaline. But he’s unarmed. He steps away from the door. What do you want?
Oh, you know, Johannes Jacobus, the goodies you stole from me. Where are they, good buddy?
According to the pathologist there were no wounds to indicate that there had been a fight. Smit had put up no resistance. A lamb led to the slaughter. Sit, Smit, and we’ll see how long you can hang in there before you tell me where my goodies are.
Why hadn’t Smit put up any resistance? Had he known he would achieve nothing because there were two of them? Or was he simply too scared, terrified?
Force him into the kitchen chair, tie him down.
With an M16? How do you hold an M16 to a man’s head with one hand while tying his hands with binding wire and a pair of pliers with your other hand?
There had been more than one “visitor.”
Tell us, Smittie, where are the goodies?
Fuck you.
Ah, so pleasant to have cooperation. Light the blowtorch and strip him.
Torture him. The blue flame on his scrotum, on his chest, on his belly, on his arms. The pain must’ve been inhuman.
Why hadn’t he simply told them? His business was doing well. He didn’t need money, diamonds, drugs, weapons, to make more money. Why didn’t he just say, It’s in the safe, here’s the combination, take the stuff, and leave me alone?
Reason: there was something else in the safe. Of no monetary value. Something else.
Reason: he’d known he was going to die if they found what they had come for.
Van Heerden sighed.
“What the fuck do the shoes of the victim have to do with anything? Except if the murderer’s blood is stuck to them” had been Nagel’s reaction. “The suspect, yes. His shoes. That’s what counts.”
He stared ahead, didn’t see the street, the big trees, the gardens. Didn’t see the clouds moving in from the mountain.
Nagel. Who was now thrusting his thin, sinewy arm from the grave. Nagel, he thought, had rested for long enough. Nagel was coming back.
He didn’t know how he would handle it.
He got out of the car.
Let the footwork begin.
♦
Like crystal, she thought. The sunshine days between the cold fronts. Clear as glass, windless, a beautiful fragility. Shining jewels in the dark dress of winter.
Hope Beneke was jogging next to the sea at Blouberg’s beach, somewhat self-conscious about the stares of passing motorists, a small price to pay for the stunning view of the sea and the mountain, the great towering mass of rock with its strange, world-famous shape that guarded the bay, a sentinel of calm, constancy, peace of mind, resignation. Some things always remained the same.
Even if she was changing.
Rhythmically, one running shoe following the other, she took pleasure in the fitness of her body, her breathing deep and even, her legs blissfully warm. She wasn’t always fit; she hadn’t always been so slender. There had been a time in her last year at university and the clerkship years when she had been ashamed of her legs, when she didn’t like her bottom, didn’t look good in jeans – the combination of university-residence food and long hours of study and a certain aversion to herself.
Not that Richard minded. He said he liked her Rubenesque curves. At the beginning. When everything was new in their relationship, when he ran his hands over her body for the first time, sighed deeply, and said, with a light shining behind his eyes, “Lord, Hope, but you’re sexy.” Richard, with his small bald patch and his laconic accountant’s view of life and his passion for news. Richard, who later, when everything was no longer new, would get up after making love to look at the latest news. Or would pick up Time, switch on the light, and read. Time!
Richard, who wanted to get married. No, who wanted to live like a married man long before she had finished with the romance and the eroticism of the game of love.