“Have you ever spent a night alone in a coroner’s office?” Detective Mosepi asks, but continues before I can utter an answer. “It feels like every horrible memory, each bad experience, and all of your worst nightmares combined into one terrifying, corporeal emotion. And it is draped over the site. The air even tastes sour! You need to come as soon as you can.”
“I—”
“I swear it’s not normal,” he cuts me off, scratchy voice turning scratchier with panic. “Even the ecologists are stumped.”
“You called in ecologists?” I shake my head, unsure as to whether I should be surprised, insulted or chuffed. No, I feel all three emotions at once. I’m surprised this isn’t an isolated incident, insulted because Detective Mosepi didn’t call me immediately, and chuffed because the ecologists can’t do our job. “Listen, we’ve come across something similar in the veld where Valentine Sikelo’s body was found. I suggest you clear out the area until we can get there and grab some samples. Also, I’ll bring Father Gabriel along.”
“Please do. I have a neighbourhood full of freaked out residents who could use an explanation for…” He pauses. “Oh, just get here, damn it.” The call ends abruptly.
Father Gabriel pops out of nowhere and gives me a look, while he rolls a blade of dead grass between his forefinger and thumb.
“May,” Howlen calls over his shoulder, pocketing the cell phone before turning to face me. “Your grandfather’s been incarcerated at O.R. Tambo International Airport.”
“He wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week. Wait. What?”
Howlen wipes a film of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Customs locked him up in an office because he refused to declare his newly acquired hand of glory, whatever that is, and he doesn’t have the right importing permits.”
“Sweet heavens, why
now
?” I trek back to my car. Leave it to Christiaan Snyders to be untimely with his eccentricities. “Call Detective Mosepi and get the details of the van Rooyen house situation,” I call to Howlen. “And tell Precious she needs to refill our anxiety prescriptions today—before we both follow Gramps’ descend into madness!”
~
The most pleasant time to visit Pretoria is in September and October when the old jacaranda trees are in full bloom and the whole city turns into one large purple-coloured, fragrant sea of blossoms. The beautiful trees lining the thoroughfares—with their slender trunks, delicate leaves, and clusters of rich lilac blossoms—lend an unprecedented attractiveness to Pretoria. And pedestrians are provided with shady retreats throughout the warm, albeit usually agreeable, spring months.
The same cannot be said for Johannesburg.
I’m positive Johannesburg’s residents will disagree with my absolute loathing of South Africa’s renowned metropolis, but I’ve never noticed a single good thing about it. The streets are too narrow and the skyscrapers are too high. If shop owners didn’t hose down the sidewalks in front of their stores every morning, pedestrians would walk through urine and faeces. Winter means a blanket of smog capable of giving a person lung cancer by staring at it for too long. Navigating through traffic is another horrendous part of Jo’burg living which I don’t care for.
Most tourists don’t see these negativities because Sandton and Rosebank are far enough from the hell commonly referred to as: The City of Gold.
First impressions are important, which is possibly why the O.R. Tambo International Airport sits comfortably on the edge of Johannesburg, near the suburban Kempton Park region. Here, it’s relatively clean and the streets are in good shape. Here, you don’t get to see the crime and ugliness giving the whole country a bad name. Here, you start your Proudly South African adventure—usually heading
away
from the metropolis and towards Sun City, the Kruger National Park, or Jo’burg’s sister-city, Pretoria.
As I walk through the almost clinical, distinctly impersonal airport to talk some sense into my grandfather, I’m reminded of a Douglas Adams quote in one of his lesser known works:
It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression, “As pretty as an airport.”
The O.R. Tambo, even with its shiny surfaces and top-of-the-range technology, doesn’t come close to being described as “pretty.” I’ve seen worse in better-off countries, sure, but an airport is an airport is an airport. Each one looks identical to me. Even the customs officers, wearing their spotless uniforms and feeling oh-so protected in their bubble of self-importance looks the same as any other country’s custom officers.
Déjà vu.
I know the drill by now.
Find the supervisor. Beg for a few minutes alone with my grandfather. Convince Gramps I will somehow retrieve whatever it is he tried to smuggle into or out of the country. Then pay the fine. Sometimes fluttering my eyelashes helps lessen the fine. Other times a bit of cleavage does the trick. This time I see customs officers glare and sneer as I’m led to the holding room. One has a recently broken nose and droplets of blood still stain his collared shirt. Another one sporting a scar across his upper lip has been scratched viciously on his forearms.
My usual wiles won’t work.
I hear Gramps long before I see him. The sea couldn’t wash him clean from the obscenities he spits to no one and everyone. The supervisor clucks his tongue as he unlocks the door but otherwise he’s quiet.
When I enter the office I say nothing.
What can I possibly say to explain my grandfather’s actions? Should I tell them how Christiaan Snyders is a brilliant man? How he’s a self-made millionaire (in British pounds instead of South African rands)? Should I explain how he’s a beloved eccentric, respected by academics and police across the world? Or would it be better to say he’s a collector of weird and wonderful items which gives the Warrens Occult Museum in Virginia a run for its money? I could divulge how he’s the best in the business where the occult is concerned. I can even go so far as to announce how Christiaan Snyders is the best grandfather a girl could ever want. This violent maniac is not who he really is.
But attributing any of the above mentioned achievements to the red-faced grim reaper look-alike breathing expletives from the corner of the small office wouldn’t do anyone any good.
My grandfather looks up at me with narrowed eyes, his jaw clenched, before he straightens in his seat like a proud peacock.
The door slams shut and the key turns in the lock leaving me and the old man alone in the office.
His fisted hand moves to hover above the desk, then he drops a human tooth dangling from a leather cord onto the smooth surface. I look at the necklace, an intricate knot tying the human molar to the leather thong, and divert my stare to the speckles of blood on my grandfather’s knuckles.
Our gazes meet.
He seems unfazed by whatever retribution might come his way.
“In my defence,” he says gruffly, “there’s always been a method to my madness.”
Never has he spoken truer words.
Chapter 10
POLICE REPORT
Case Number:
010147858
Date:
22 June 2008
Reporting Officer:
Deputy Clarence White
Prepared By:
Tshabiso Hadebe
Incident Type:
Aggravated Assault / Attempted Murder
Address of Occurrence:
77 Semenya Street, Atteridgeville, Pretoria, 0006
Witness(es):
Lebo Jacobs: Neighbour. Male, 43
Evidence:
Fingerprints (taken from counter)
Footprint (size 10 Nike Air, found in mud outside point of entry)
DNA (collected from underneath the victim’s fingernails)
Weapon/Objects Used:
Panga / Kitchen Knives / Iron
Summary:
On June 22, 2008, at approximately 20:38, two unidentified males broke into the residence of Lucky Zingithwa in Atteridgeville, Pretoria (through a bedroom window with no burglar proofing) and went on to assault, torture and mutilate the victim with sundry weapons.
The victim, Lucky Zingithwa, was overpowered by the first intruder in the kitchen. He attempted to fight back with a kitchen knife, but the second intruder came up from behind, and knocked him unconscious. According to the victim’s statement, when he awoke he was bound to a kitchen chair and gagged and looking at two masked assailants, both wearing leather jackets, jeans, and ski masks.
“One carried a panga and the other one took the steak knife I had defended myself with,” said Lucky Zingithwa.
Upon his awareness, the assailants tortured the victim through repeated beatings before being cut across his body with the kitchen knives. One of the assailants found a clothing iron, plugged it into the electricity socket, and used it to burn the left side of the victim’s face. Thereafter, the assailants went on to remove the victim’s teeth and eyes and hack off one of his feet.
There is no sign of the victim’s body parts in or around the residence or surrounding neighbourhood, which makes this—possibly—a muti-related attack. Christiaan Snyders, occult-crime specialist, was called in to consult on the case (Snyders International—Case File: #23-CS).
After the assault/attempted murder, the two suspects fled through the front door. No witnesses have come forward to indicate whether the suspects had a getaway car.
A neighbour, Lebo Jacobs, heard commotion but thought the victim was having a domestic squabble with one of his girlfriends at the time. He asserted to officers he didn’t see anything which could be used to lead them to a suspect. He did, however, call an ambulance and the police when he heard the victim’s muffled cries for help around 23:00.
Deputy Clarence White was the first to respond to the emergency call and arrived at the scene around 23:10. He identified a partial footprint in the mud outside of the point of entry. A bloody fingerprint on the kitchen counter from when a suspect possibly leaned against it, was also found and sent to the forensics lab for analysis. Closer inspection of the shoeprint revealed one of the suspects was wearing size 10 Nike Airs. DNA evidence has also been collected from underneath the victim’s fingernails and has been sent for analysis to the forensic lab.
Victim, Lucky Zingithwa, mentioned in his statement one of the assailants wore a leather necklace with a human tooth hanging from it.
Notes:
Refer to Addendum D for the forensic lab’s DNA and fingerprint results.
Chapter 11
My grandfather’s office is large and arbitrary.
What was once the main bedroom had been extended in width and length to contain everything Christiaan Snyders deems purposeful. This includes a large glass case stretching the entirety of the back wall. From ceiling to floor, the glass case houses a collection of fantastic items with equally unbelievable stories attached.
There is an authentic Maori Warrior Mask—one of many in the world—stationed proudly in the top left corner of the case. Maori warriors used to carve masks and statues prior to going into battle. It is believed the spirit of any Maori man who lost his life in battle would then take over the specially carved pieces. Father Gabriel baptised Gramps’ Maori Mask as Houdini when he first arrived and the name stuck. It’s a nice story; imagining a warrior’s soul lives on in an inanimate object, except it is also believed these masks and statues bring harm to pregnant or menstruating women. So far, we cannot claim any females in the agency have been affected by Houdini, but he is a weirder-than-usual Maori Mask without the added stigma. Every once in a while Houdini disappears for weeks at a time. Where he goes, nobody knows, but when he returns he often wears a smug smile. Gradually, the smugness fades and his usual unpleased frown is back in its place.
To be honest, I think Houdini is a peeping pervert, but I would not say it to his face.
Next to Houdini sits an honest-to-God shrunken head dating back to the late 1800s. We call him Jack (don’t ask me why). Jack comes from Peru, but he ended up in Gramps’ collection a few decades ago when another collector decided he was a cursed object. Apparently Jack mumbles from time to time and it freaks people out. His story is not half as interesting as some of the other items. But take it from me, shrunken heads are kind of cool to look at.