Dead Before Dying

Patiently Joubert had explained that the members of the force were very aware of the danger and that confrontation with the robber would be handled with great circumspection.

The district manager had said that he saw examples of the police’s circumspection on television every evening.

Joubert had sighed, stood up, and said that he would mention Premier Bank’s attitude at the press conference.

The district manager also sighed and said Joubert must sit down. He had to consult head office.

Head office couldn't decide, either. They wanted to call a meeting to discuss it. Joubert said he had to go to Stellenbosch. He left Dr. Boshoff’s telephone number. The bank must inform him when a decision had been reached.

He took the N2 and drove too fast. The big white Sierra kept his thoughts on the traffic. The road was quieter after the R300 exit. He didn't want to think about the investigation too much, about de Wit’s attempt to replace him, about the meeting at the General’s, about the adrenaline of the chase which, like an old, almost forgotten friend, was rearing its head again. Because he didn't know whether any of it was worthwhile. Tomorrow or the day after, the excitement would die down. Then he would be alone again, with only his thoughts and his memories.

He forced his mind back to the appointment ahead. What was he going to say to Dr. Boshoff?

I’m here because my psychologist suggested it. She’s a pretty, frail woman with sad eyes and I think I’m in love with her because I told her something about my father that I'’ve never told anyone else. Because she’s the first person in more than two years to whom I can talk without being scared of that overdone, artificial sympathy of those who don’t really care. That’s why I’m here, Dr. Boshoff.

No. He had to get a profile. Not only for the newspapers but for himself. He couldn't chase a phantom. He was looking for a face. A person with a disturbed mind who took other people’s lives.

Anne Boshoff’s office was in an old, restored gabled house. In front, in the neat garden, there was a sign: CRIMINOLOGY DEPARTMENT, UNIVERSITY OF STELLENBOSCH. He parked the car and got out. The afternoon was warm and windless. He took off his jacket and hung it over his shoulder. He adjusted the Z88 in the leather holster on his belt.

Two male students were walking ahead of him on the pavement. They looked at the police vehicle with curiosity, at him and the gun. They saw him opening the garden gate.

“I knew that paper was too difficult,” one said. “Lock them up.”

Joubert grinned and walked onto the cool veranda. The front door was open. He walked in hesitantly. The front entrance was deserted. He saw nameplates on doors. He walked down the passage. Right at the end he saw Anne Boshoff’s door. It was open. He peered inside.

She sat in front of a computer, her back to him. He noticed her short black hair, shorter than his own. He saw her neck, a part of her shoulder.

She became aware of him and turned.

He saw her face, the high forehead, the eyes set wide apart, the cheekbones, broad in an almost Eastern manner, mouth wide and full, the strong jaw. She looked measuringly at him from head to toe with dark, bright eyes.

“I’m Mat Joubert,” he said, aware of his discomfort.

“You sounded like an old man on the telephone,” she said and swiveled the chair round. He saw that she was full-bodied, her dress short. He tore his eyes away from the well-shaped, tanned legs.

He stood between the door and the woman. She got up. She was tall, almost as tall as he was.

“Let’s sit down,” she said and walked to a small desk in the corner of the large room. He saw the muscles of her strong legs moving under the skin. Then he looked away at the rest of the office. It was untidy. There were piles of books everywhere. The small bookcase behind the desk was spilling over. A racing bicycle stood against one wall. The only chair in the room was the one at the computer. Against another wall, under the window, there were cartons filled with documents. She turned and sat down on one of the cartons, the long legs stretched out in front of her. Her ringless hand indicated another carton.

“Make yourself at home.”

He shifted the Z88 into a more comfortable position on his hip and sat down.

“Is it true what they say about men who carry large guns?”

He looked at her. Her mouth was wide and red and smiling.

“I . . . um . . .” She was so extremely sexy.

“Great answer,” she said.

“Well, I . . .”

“What do you want from me, Mat Joubert?”

“I . . .”

“About the murder case, I mean.”

“Yes, I . . .”

“The statistics? They could help. Could give you a picture. But it’s an American picture. They set the pace for mass murderers. And we follow in their footsteps. Little America, that’s what we are. So the figures might help you. Do you know how they’ve increased in the past twenty years? Exponentially. It’s an accusation against Western civilization, Mat Joubert.” She looked at him when she spoke, a focus, a direct spotlight of a focus, a beam, a ray.

“Is . . .”

“The statistics say your murderer is a man. A middle-class man with the weight of his background on his shoulders. Why a man? Because most of them are. They’re the sex who have problems in accepting the prison of middle-classness. We live in an era in which we teach our sons that they must achieve, be better, become rich. And if they can’t . . . Why middle class? Because most people are. Isn’t it curious? In previous ages the small handful of mass murderers came from the lowest classes. Slaves and prostitutes and the scum of the earth. In our time it’s the middle classes. Sometimes lower middle class like Charles Starkweather, sometimes upper middle class like Ted Bundy. Their background? It can vary. Do you know how many mass murderers were adopted children? Kallinger. Bianchi. Earle Nelson. And illegitimate. Now some psychologists are of the opinion that Ted Bundy killed because he knew he was an illegitimate child. David Berkowitz was adopted and illegitimate. And so many were orphans or taken by welfare. Fish. Kemper. Olson. Panzram. Bonin. And then they murder to assure themselves of a small place in the community. Tragic, isn’t it.”

He wrote. It kept his eyes and his hands busy.

“But do you know what bothers me, Mat Joubert? The weapon and the victims. The Mauser is too blatant. Too macho. A statement. It bothers me. Here sex is raising its horrible head. That long barrel. I checked. Ian Hogg’s book

German Pistols and Revolvers.

That long barrel. A phallic symbol. A male symbol. This is a man with a problem. All the victims are male. It bothers me. A man with a problem who kills other men. But the victims aren’t gay . . .”

“They . . . One was,” he said loudly.

“One? Just one, Mat Joubert? Are you sure? Do you know for certain?”