Dead Before Dying

“You read what they said? About the woman in the bank? About how brave she was? She’s a heroine. That’s not true. I think she was scared and the robber had a fright. The Mauser murderer wouldn't have been frightened. He would’ve shot. It’s not the same person. To shoot someone at point-blank range with a large pistol needs . . . it needs a certain absence. Sometimes murderers and robbers are the same. But this robber is different. He’s a clown. The disguises, the sweetheart nonsense. I simply can’t believe it.”

“Are you going to speak to the criminologist?”

He was still too involved in his argument to grasp her meaning.

“The one they quoted? Who said the mass murderer’s acts were a revolt against society. Dr. Boshoff, I think.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He hadn't considered it.

“Don’t you think it would help to get to know the psyche of the murderer?”

How could he explain to her that the examinations he wrote for sergeant and lieutenant and captain had contained nothing about the psyche? He only knew how to ask questions, how to look for the numbers in the spider’s web of the law’s thousand and one rules, to add them up until the sums made sense. Until the books balanced and he asked for a warrant of arrest and went to hammer on someone’s door with the face of an executioner.

“I don’t know. That’s your field.”

“It can’t do any harm. They’ve got all that data and research results. They teach it to the students. It would be a good thing if it could be used somewhere.”

“Perhaps I should,” he said.

* * *

The same nurse was on duty. “I'’ve come to ask how Sergeant Griessel is,” he said politely and carefully.

Her eyes were large behind her glasses. “He asked for medication last night.” It sounded as though she had forgiven him.

“May I see him?”

“He’s sleeping. He won’t know that you’re here.”

He accepted her word. He thanked her and turned away. Then he stopped. “Why didn't he want medicine before?”

“He said he didn't deserve it.”

He just stood there and looked at her while the gears in his head slowly shifted.

“Are you a relative?”

“No,” he said. “Just a . . . friend.”

“They are like that sometimes. They fight it for so long. The bottle. They think that the next time round it’ll be easier to remember how bad it was to leave it.”

“Thank you,” he said without thinking and walked out.

There were still books that had to be arranged on the shelves. And his shoes. He wanted them shining. By evening.

24.

He wasn'’t alone in the swimming pool this morning. The business club was there in full force, possibly because people were back from their holidays.

He swam grimly.

The bloody diet. He’d been hungry last night. Was it the conversation with Hanna Nortier or the physical effort with the bookcase that had sharpened his hunger? But he would not eat fattening foods, even though he yearned for Russian sausages and chips and toasted egg and bacon sandwiches from the bloody café. He would lose the weight and show Bart de Wit and the doctor and the psychologist . . .

So he smoked. As if his stomach would get nourishment through the tubes of his lungs. Food or cigarettes. Last night he had smoked the Special Milds without satisfaction, one after another until his mouth was dry and his tongue tasted foul, while he considered the curious relationship between the Detective and the Psychologist and wondered whether he was falling in love. Suddenly you’re a sexual whirlwind, Mat Joubert? One randy young thing you couldn't even get into your gunsight and you’re busy with the next one. Don Juan Joubert. What has happened to your grief and pain? Do you really think you can escape Lara Joubert?

He had mocked himself, one section of his mind a spectator, watching his life passing, commenting and laughing at the owner of a video machine and a pile of cassettes. Let’s play one for you, Mat Joubert. See, there’s your dead wife, Lara. There, at the dressing table, the brush being dragged through her hair with irritable strokes. Watch the biceps and the triceps of her arm bunching under the tanned skin with each stroke. Watch the breasts bobbing, her bare breasts, which you can see in the mirror, small annoyed little tremors that make the nipples dance. Listen to her voice. “Jesus, Mat, we spend every weekend at home.”

There you are, lying on the bed, a book on your chest. “That place’s music deafens me,” you say weakly, a pathetic defense. Look at her turning toward you, look at her glowing with life. Look at her ardor. That was the way one should live. With every fiber of your being feeling, experiencing, expressing itself. “I’ll go alone. As God is my witness, Mat, one day I’ll go alone.”

There were other images as well. Before her death, after her death. Was the demon who orchestrated the libretto of his dreams also the mad scriptwriter in his head?

Now he swam even more grimly to escape too many cigarettes, his fear of his mind, which he didn't understand.

He swam more lengths than he had ever swum before. And that made him feel slightly better.

* * *

The forensic report lay on his desk. He opened it. Mauser Broomhandle. The ammunition old.

His phone rang. De Wit wanted to see him. He got up, took the report with him. Gerbrand Vos stood in front of de Wit’s office.

“I just want to have a quick word with Captain Joubert,” de Wit said to Vos. He held the door for Joubert, walked in, and sat down. Vos remained outside.

“You must understand me clearly, Captain, it’s nothing personal. But this Mauser number is getting out of hand. The Brigadier’s coming here at eleven. He wants a complete report. And the media. They’re running with the murders. And it’s my duty to protect you.”

“Colonel?”

“I’m afraid someone might talk, Captain. People are people, even here. I want to take you off the case before they find out.”

“Find out what, Colonel?”

“About your psychological treatment, Captain. The force can’t afford it. Can you imagine how the newspapers would react?”

De Wit said it as if Joubert’s psychological treatment was a transgression for which he could be held directly responsible.

“I don’t understand, Colonel.”

The nervous smile was back on de Wit’s face. “What don’t you understand, Captain?”

“How they would find out. Surely only you and I and the psychologist know about it?”

The smile disappeared for a moment, then reappeared. “The service pays the psychologist, Captain. There are clerks who do the documentation, who send through files . . . Listen, it’s a preventive measure. It’s nothing personal.”

Joubert was caught unawares. He collected the loose threads of counterarguments, tried to arrange them. De Wit got up. “I’ll just let Captain Vos in.”

He opened the door, called Vos, sat down again. Vos sat down next to Joubert.