“You’ve got a keen eye, Detective.”
“You would have picked it up eventually,” he says.
“That’s highly unlikely, but thanks for the vote of confidence.” I lean back against his chest, studying the pages in my hand but unfocused on what the letters mean.
Rynhardt wraps his arms around my waist again, reading over my shoulder, while I decipher the needling feeling that he was on to something with that R.R. thing. Slowly the puzzle pieces itself together in my head. The strange things happening to me, the murders, the R.R.—they’re all related.
We both seem to have an epiphany at the same time, because he grabs the pages from my hand as I move to get my cell phone.
“Put on the lamp,” he says.
I switch on the lamp as I get to the nightstand. I find my cell phone and scroll through my contact list until I find Detective Mosepi’s number.
“Damn it!” Rynhardt says. “Where’s my phone?”
I dial Mosepi’s number and press the phone to my ear. Two rings later, a yawn greets me.
“Ja?” he says.
“Get guards assigned to Rochester Ramphele,” I say.
“Esmé?” Mosepi.
“Is that Mosepi?” Rynhardt asks.
I nod.
“Tell him, I know where
Him
will strike next.”
“Is that Rynhardt in the background?” Mosepi says. I curse myself silently. “What’s going on?”
“Catch,” I say to Rynhardt, who’s searching for his clothes on the floor.
He looks up, and I toss my phone his way. Rynhardt catches it in one hand, expertly moves it to his ear, and listens.
“Get him to put extra guards on Ramphele.”
Rynhardt gives me the thumbs up as I walk out of the bedroom, ready to wash away the night’s sins.
Chapter 27
“This better be good.” Gramps exits his car dressed in striped pyjamas, slippers, and a paisley robe. Apart from the dawn-pink sky, tinted with an almost sickly green colour, the night still reigns over the world. This far from the city lights, the darkness is absolute. He searches around the wooded area, before making eye contact with me. “Where’s Howlen?”
“Off, screwing Cinnamon,” I answer, shrugging.
Gramps frowns. “That sounds both unpleasant and unsanitary. What happened to good old hand cream?”
“Gramps, Cinnamon is a prostitute’s alias.” I shift my lifejacket and helmet into my other hand.
“Oh,” he drawls, eyes widening as it becomes clearer. “Now it makes more sense.”
I roll my eyes, ready to change the subject. “I can handle the crime scene myself, but you’re going to have to work with the witnesses today.”
“There are witnesses at this time of the morning? It’s pre-dawn, for God’s sake.” Gramps makes a show of yawning, looking around again as uniformed police officers tape off boundaries around the river’s beach. Early risers who might’ve heard or seen the commotion look on from their campsites. The onlookers’ interest would diminish if they knew how horrendous the Hartbeespoort police officers made the actual crime scene sound. “Where’s Detective Mosepi?” Gramps asks.
“He’s down in the river bend, helping the other detectives set up a makeshift bridge while we wait for forensics to come,” I explain. “Pops, you need to go to the clubhouse downstream. The witnesses are waiting for you there.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” he mutters. “And if you see Howlen perchance, tell him if I wanted to get called out in the middle of the night, I wouldn’t have hired him.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Unlike me, Gramps enjoys his eight hours of sleep, every night, and he’s not a morning person if he doesn’t get it.
As my grandfather leaves, I turn back to the Crocodile River where the commandeered canoes, lifejackets, and helmets are located. I’d already picked out my equipment and a one-man canoe, but from looking at the beach, the police expect a small army today. Good thing I’m here early, and able to avoid the rush. I put on my gear and walk up the shore to where an officer waits with the yellow canoe. Together, the two of us quickly get the boat into the water. I climb inside the raft, get my paddle into position, and push away from the shore. Yelling a quick thanks over my shoulder, I paddle in a wide arch to rectify my course downstream.
It takes a few strokes to establish a rhythm but I’m soon heading towards the first manmade rapid where slick concrete is visible underneath the fast moving water. As the canoe approaches the first rapid, I brace myself and pull the paddle up and out of the water. The raft hits it head-on. The river slowly pushes the raft over the edge before gravity takes me down. Sprays hit my face as I’m plunged into the filthy water, and I purse my lips in disgust. The paddle makes its way back into the water; right, left, right, left.
There’s something soothing about white river rafting. It gives me time to think about where I’ve been and where I’m going. Even if the thoughts are predominantly set within the last few hours.
After Rynhardt had called Detective Mosepi, sharing his hunch on where the killer might hit next, a whirlwind of synchronised policing occurred. Detective Mosepi had called the Hartbeespoort Dam police department and they’d sent out a patrol. When they arrived at the downstream clubhouse, they found several witnesses who’d been out on an overnight white river rafting adventure about to call the emergency services themselves. Before Hartbeespoort police called Detective Mosepi back, though, he’d already set up an interrogation with Rochester Ramphele for me at eight o’clock in the Pretoria Central police station. Extra guards had been stationed for Ramphele’s protection, too. An hour later, an onslaught of authorities gathered at the camping grounds’ beach getting ready to evaluate
Him
’s newest horror show.
So many different facets need to be assessed, but at least I’m getting somewhere. At least I’m not stuck in the office, waiting for the crime labs to get back with the results we so desperately need.
I grip the paddle hard enough for my knuckles to turn white.
The canoe hits a few mini rough patches on the way to the second manmade rapid, tugging and pulling the raft, bumping over the raised rocks. I raise my paddle from the greenish brown river, and the current pushes the canoe forward.
Irrigation has tamed whatever force this narrow river once held, but the rush of water still prickles my adrenal glands. My stomach lurches at what appears to be a ninety-degree drop. I brace myself and squeeze my eyes shut. It feels as if my organs need to play catch up with gravity as the raft falls forward, spraying water everywhere. I open my eyes to see the oncoming bumps ahead and the sharp curve that lies beyond. My paddle is submerged again.
I lean left and paddle hard to avoid the looming carved-out hill where jagged rocks lurk under the shallow water. The Crocodile River bends and I follow the curve with ease. Another set of small rapids awaits but even amateur rafters can manoeuvre them without breaking a sweat. Beyond that, though, is a long stretch of tranquillity surrounded by nothing but nature—or so it leads one to believe.
Squaring my shoulders, I paddle past the high embankments where tree roots hover over the polluted water. I try to look past the plastic bottles, beer cans, pieces of cardboard, and other remnants of human waste caught in the roots, but it’s impossible. Once upon a time, before man corrupted the world, this must’ve been an idyllic spot. Now though, the Crocodile River is another casualty in mankind’s war against nature.
At the next bend, where the river’s flow had deposited enough sediment to create somewhat of a beach, I see policemen squeezed together. The actual scene, however, is obscured from my view by the natural curvature and wild flora inhabiting this stretch.
An officer gestures for me to round the bend before the sickly sweet smell of death hits with such a force it brings tears to my eyes. The rancid odour, however, is nothing compared to the larger than life crime scene ahead.
At the highest point of the overlooking cliff is the skeleton of an incomplete mansion. Nearby stands a smaller neglected house and its matching shed a way off. I can hear traffic from the nearby highway intermingling with the bounty of insects drawn to the Crocodile River.
It’s private, for the most part.
Quiet.
Perfect for a midnight murder.
The trees here grow at awkward angles from the steep slopes of bordering cliffs, their gnarled branches stretching far across the water. Limbs and organs dangle from the drooping branches like overripe fruit. Blowflies buzz around decomposing flesh and muscle. Carrion birds circle overhead. Forensic analysts climb the trees to retrieve body parts. I didn’t think they’d get here so soon; someone high up must’ve pulled them out of bed for this. Then there are the police, high on the cliffs, who are struggling to keep the media hounds from getting a close look at what we’re dealing with.
From my position on the river, I can see approximately twenty metres of chaos to deal with, but this gruesomely ostentatious display of power is nothing more than an art project for the killer. How many people suffered for
Him
to make this… this shrine? How many more will suffer before he is caught?
My canoe bumps into the makeshift bridge where planks have been hastily hammered together on top of car tyres and secured with nylon ropes to either sides of the river. It looks sturdy enough, but the first big storm would tear it up like paper.
Detective Mosepi steps into view, donning a Marlboro cigarette between his lips. “Shocking, isn’t it?” It’s rhetorical, of course, but accurate nonetheless.
All I can do is nod, the picture of the low-hanging body parts seared into the back of my eyelids.
“Extravagant,” I agree when I find the courage to speak again. “How far does it go?”
“Exactly twenty metres,” Detective Mosepi says, exhaling smoke. “And I think Rynhardt was right. This is our guy.”
“Did you find anything tying this scene to any of our previous victims?” I hold my hand for assistance.
Detective Mosepi takes it and pulls me out of the raft and onto the makeshift bridge with ease.
As soon as I’m standing upright, I turn to face the scene again.
“The first cops on the scene found Carol-Anne Brewis’ charm bracelet, Valetine Sikelo’s necklace, and Abraham Amin’s cufflinks in a Ziploc bag on the beach,” he says, tossing the half-smoked cigarette into the river. “I’m thinking we might have more than one killer. One person cannot get this done in a single night.”
Detective Mosepi juts his chin to the forensics team rappelling down the cliffs to get to the trees as evidence of his deduction. He scratches his nose and exhales, clearly at a loss for words. Explanations fall short for this one. “Maybe he has followers helping him?”
“No, our guy doesn’t have acolytes,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s probably counting on getting some in the future, but his megalomania feels new.”
“Humph.” Detective Mosepi glances around the area.
My mind swims with questions. There was something here, something I wasn’t seeing. The trees, decorated with body parts, are scratching the surface of more sinister wrongdoings. I can sense the something, but I can’t comprehend the killer’s motives.
“Esmé?” Rynhardt’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I ignore him and survey the water on either side of the rickety tire-plywood-hybrid bridge. One side is occupied by the various rafts, their journey downstream halted by the manmade disturbance stretching across the river’s width. The other side is clear, or as clear as a polluted river can be. The water is murky, tranquil but flowing. A bubble appears on the surface, its pop muted by a familiar din which always accompanies a police investigation. At first I think it’s nothing more than a fish (crocodiles don’t inhabit this part of the Crocodile River as far as I know), but when another bubble rises to the surface I’m no longer sure.
I’m on all fours before I know it, leaning over to study the bubbles. The next bubble rises at a snail’s pace and when it reaches the surface I very nearly miss the ink black sludge it releases when it, too, pops. The river dilutes the black substance fast enough to make it unnoticeable to anyone who’s not paying attention.
I remember the veld where Valentine Sikelo was found and the photographs and reports Howlen handed over after they inspected Carol-Anne Brewis’ dumping site—both decimated by an inexplicable
something
.
Something was happening here, now.
Another bubble rises and pops. A dead fish floats to the surface, its white belly swollen and decomposing, quickly.
I stand, look at the twenty faces working hard on cracking the case, and I realise that this display of carnage was nothing more than a trap.
We
are the sacrifices.
The trees, the body parts, the extravagance of the site, it’s nothing more than bait.
“You need to get everyone out of here,” I order Detective Mosepi.
Rynhardt gives me a puzzled look.
“For fuck’s sake,” Detective Mosepi mutters, but doesn’t ask questions. He walks to the other end of the bridge and yells for an evacuation.
A flurry of activity occurs straightaway. The forensic analysts are pulled up onto the edge of the cliff. Uniforms rush around, trying to clear out the collected evidence without disturbing anything else. Detective Mosepi shouts to the beach, telling them in three languages to vacate the area, while Detective Louw passes me to grab hold of the unwinding rope ladder. “Ladies first,” he says.