Dead Before Dying

The 9 mm round ripped through Uncle Zato’s shoulder, broke the clavicle, and tore the subclavicle artery. He fell back against the counter, his blood spouting in a thick stream against the wood paneling. He had two minutes to live before too much of his life’s fluid pumped out onto the floor.

Between the screams and the exclamations of clients and banking personnel, only Vusi Khumalo, moving forward and bending over Uncle Zato, heard the flabbergasted words: “What are you doing?”

“You wanted to rob the bank,” Khumalo said.

“No,” said Uncle Zato, but darkness was overcoming him and he couldn't understand anything anymore.

“I think we must stop the bleeding,” a calm voice said next to Constable Khumalo. He looked up, saw a young black man in a short white coat.

“Are you a doctor?” asked Khumalo and moved away so that the man’s hand could reach Uncle Zato’s shoulder to block the red flow.

“No,” said the young man. “I’m still learning.” And he saved Zatopek Scholtz’s life.

31.

Joubert and de WIT sat in the luxurious office of Premier Bank’s district manager. The view to the north, over the harbor and Table Bay, was breathtaking. None of the three men saw it.

The district manager of Premier Bank stood right in front of Joubert and wagged his finger at him. “You promised me discretion. Discretion. Discretion is a much-loved and respected client who is fighting for his life in Tygerberg’s intensive care unit. Discretion is the chairman of my board of directors, who is waiting for me to return his call. Discretion is my managing director, who is having a coronary. Discretion is a phone call from the media every seven minutes. Discretion is a bank robber who’s still somewhere out there with a bloody great pistol while the discreet people of Murder and Robbery tell me they’re sorry.”

Sweat dripped off the district manager’s face and his high, bald head shone under the concealed lighting of the office.

“You must understand . . .” said Colonel Bart de Wit and lifted a finger of his own.

“No, I don’t have to understand anything. This fat fart”— the district manager’s finger shot in Joubert’s direction—“gave me the assurance that nothing would happen. But he’d forgotten to assure me that you would deploy a crowd of kaffer constables with cannons in my branches. He—”

Joubert got up, his body virtually touching the district manager’s, his face only inches from the man’s nose.

“Listen,” Mat Joubert said.

The district manager stepped back, kept his mouth shut.

“Listen carefully,” said Mat Joubert. “If you speak to me or speak to him,” and he indicated Bart de Wit, “you speak politely. And if you ever refer to my men again as kaffer constables, I’ll smash your face.”

The district manager looked pleadingly at de Wit. De Wit looked at Joubert. There was a small, confused smile on the Colonel’s face.

“Anyway,” said Joubert. “I can’t be that fat anymore. I’m on a diet.”

Then he sat down again.

No one said anything. The district manager stared at the carpet. He sighed deeply, walked slowly to his chair. He sat down.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The stress . . .” He took a corporately correct handkerchief from the top pocket of his coat and pressed it against his forehead. “The stress,” he said. Then he looked up. “What now?”

“Obviously we’ll relieve Constable Khumalo and do a complete investigation of the whole incident,” said Joubert. “And this evening we’ll assemble all the policemen who have to do duty in Premier Bank branches. We’ll drill them. Safety, caution, public interest. We’ll give them a short course that they must impart to every branch member tomorrow morning. Crisis management. Self-control. Emergency planning.”

De Wit nodded his head enthusiastically.

“And from tomorrow the whole operation will be under the command of one of the Peninsula’s top detectives.”

De Wit and the district manager looked at him expectantly.

“His name is Benny Griessel.”

* * *

“No, Captain. I mean I approve of your reaction to his racist and discriminatory remarks. But Benny Griessel?”

They walked to Joubert’s car.

“Colonel, I’m sorry. I should’ve discussed it with you first. But I only thought of it some minutes ago. In that man’s office.”

“Griessel is lying drunk in a hospital,” de Wit said.

“I was there last night, Colonel. He’s dry. He needs something, Colonel. He must be kept busy now. He must regain his self-respect. This is just the right thing.”

“The right thing? With all the stress?”

“Benny can handle stress, Captain. It’s death he can’t handle,” Joubert said quietly.

They walked in silence to the white Sierra. Joubert unlocked the passenger door for de Wit, walked round and got in. The car was unbearably hot inside. They turned down windows. Then Joubert switched on the engine and they drove off to the N1.

Bart de Wit stared at the road through the front window. His finger rubbed the mole nervously, over and over again. He didn't speak. Joubert sighed and concentrated on his driving.

They had already passed the N7 exit when de Wit looked at Joubert. “We’re no longer in control of this thing, Captain. Neither you nor I. The whole case has developed a life of its own. All that remains is to pray. Because, Captain, the truth of the matter is that my head is at stake. There are many eyes in the force who are watching me. Old Two Nose, they say. Old Two Nose won’t make it. He was given the post because of his buddies in the ANC. He didn't deserve it. All I really wanted, Captain, was to prove them wrong.”

Then de Wit was silent until they turned into Kasselsvlei Road.

“You can give Benny Griessel the opportunity, Captain.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“Who knows. Maybe someone will gain something from this mess.”

* * *

Joubert closed the special ops room in Hout Bay and shifted the investigation to the head office, back to Murder and Robbery. He sent people to Gail Ferreira and to Alexander MacDonald’s employers for photographs of the victims. He had the SAPS photographers make copies. Then he called in his team to the parade room. “Thank you very much for the trouble you took with the arms dealers and the gunsmiths,” he started his address. “Unfortunately we found nothing that we could follow up. But there’s still hope.” They looked at him expectantly.

“There is a possibility that the victims knew one another.” A few men drew in an audible breath.

“You’ll be divided into teams of two. Each team will get a set of photographs of all the victims. Leon Petersen and I will visit the relatives, you’ll take the neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances. Start with the names on the notice board, but you’re responsible for extending the list. Anyone who lived near a victim. Contacts at work. Drinking pals. Anyone. We want to know if they knew one another.”

He ran his eyes over them. They were listening attentively, already caught up in the excitement. Tonight they’d tell their families, “I’m working on the Mauser case.”