Dead Before Dying

“Right up the prick, poor bastard.”

A uniformed constable called carefully from the small front veranda. Joubert peered around the door. “Here are a lot of people from Murder and Robbery looking for you, Captain,” said the constable and pointed to the street. Joubert’s eyes followed the pointing finger. Eight unmarked police cars had suddenly filled the street. The detectives stood at the garden gate like a rugby team posing for a group photo. He walked to them.

Murder and Robbery’s only officer of color, Lieutenant Leon Petersen, was the group’s spokesman.

“The Colonel sent us, Captain. To help. He said the district commissioner had phoned the Brigadier and the Brigadier had phoned him. They’re suddenly wide awake about this”— he indicated the house—“thing. He said the Captain needed more people, the Brigadier must get detectives from all the stations, especially for the groundwork. But we’re here to help.”

“Thanks, Leon.”

It was the press, he knew. The pressure was increasing on everyone— from unimportant captains up to generals. Reputations were being laid on the line. The smell of blood was going to drive the press crazy.

He explained to the group of detectives that he wanted to keep the house and the plot clean until the laboratory team arrived. He sent them in pairs down the street. Perhaps the neighbors had seen something. Maybe they knew something about the deceased.

The police video unit was the first to arrive. He asked them to wait. They moaned. He beckoned the uniformed sergeant. “Where’s the woman who found the body?”

“In the back of the police van, Captain,” said the sergeant.

“In the back of the van?”

“Just to make sure, Captain,” the sergeant said, aware of Joubert’s disapproval.

“Bring her here, please.”

She was a black woman, big and heavy. Her mouth was stiff with anger about the treatment she had received. Joubert held the garden gate for her.

“I’m sorry about the inconvenience,” he said in Afrikaans.

“I only speak English.”

He repeated the sentence.

She shrugged her shoulders.

He walked around the house with her to the back door. On the stoop there was an old couch and two old steel-and-plastic kitchen chairs. “Please sit down,” he said, then called Snyman and O’Grady. When they were all present he asked her what her name was.

“I didn't do it.”

He knew that, he said. But they had to have it for the witness forms.

Miriam Ngobeni, she said.

Her address?

The informal settlement, here in Karbonkelberg.

What precisely happened this morning?

She had come to work as usual at about half past seven. But the door was open and her employer was there, lying in all that blood. She had a fright and ran to the neighbor.

Had she seen anyone? Someone who looked suspicious?

No. Could she leave now?

If she would answer a few more questions, please.

According to the uniformed police the man’s surname was MacDonald. Did she know his first name?

Mac.

Did she know where in the house he kept his personal documents, like an ID book?

No. Not in the house. Probably on the boat.

The boat?

One of the two fishing boats lying in the harbor. MacDonald’s fishing boats. She had never seen them, but every day she had to try to wash the stink of fish out of MacDonald’s clothes with her hands because he didn't have a washing machine. You couldn't leave the clothes in the laundry basket for one day. The smell . . .

Did MacDonald live alone?

She thought so. Sometimes, on a Monday morning, there were signs of big parties. Empty bottles and cigarette butts and liquor stains and burn marks on the tables and the chairs and the floors and the few loose carpets. Sometimes the bed in the main bedroom . . . But apart from that she knew of no permanent woman. She seldom saw him. Often only on Saturdays, when she came to fetch her money. And then she waited at the door.

What was he like?

White.

What did she mean?

He was difficult, always threatening and complaining that he paid her too much and that she stole his liquor and took the change out of his pockets.

So she hadn't liked him?

Not so. That’s the way white people are.

Thank you very much for your willingness to answer questions, he said. Could someone take her home a bit later?

Please not.

Joubert explained the pattern of the investigation of the house to her. He asked her whether she was willing to wait until it had been completed. He said she had to look through the house to see if anything was missing.

Must she sit in the van again?

No. She could sit on the back stoop if she wanted to.

She nodded her assent.

They walked round to the front gate. The press had arrived. A horde. In a single glance he counted ten, mostly reporters and photographers. The cameras flashed. “Is there a suspect?” one called out. It became a chorus. They rushed toward the gate. The uniformed constables stopped them.

“Forensics are inside, Captain,” the constable at the gate said.

“Thank you. Tell your sergeant to keep the press out, please.”

He sent O’Grady and Snyman to the harbor to have a look at the boats and to talk to the crew. Then he walked into the house and told the forensic team that they had to search the entire house and the plot as well. They complained. He said they had to hurry because he was allowing no one else into the area until they had finished. They moaned again.

He stood at the window and looked outside. The appearance of a murder scene, he thought. They all looked alike. Township or downtown. A group of curious onlookers, avid for details, talking to one another behind their hands in hushed voices as if they thought they could wake the dead. The uniforms’ yellow cars with the blue lights. The red and white turning lights of the ambulance. Sometimes, if there was enough hysteria, the press— a moving, noisy mass, almost like a mobile stock exchange. Sometimes the next of kin were also on the stage of death, a small group who clung quietly to one another and hoped for guidance to avoid the bitter knowledge.

He saw the pathologist making his way past the people at the hedge and reaching the gate, where he showed his plastic card to the uniform. Then he walked over the neglected lawn and entered the house.

He whistled through his teeth, then saw Joubert.

“Messy,” said Professor Pagel. He saw the second wound in Alexander MacDonald’s groin. “And a new twist, I see.”

“Yes,” said Joubert and sighed. “A new twist.”

Outside, the photographer, the video unit, and the dog unit had arrived. They would all have to wait. They wouldn't like it but they would have to wait.

He lit a cigarette and walked out. His radio on his hip suddenly spoke loudly. De Wit wanted him urgently. He thought he knew why.