The Disappeared (11 page)

By the time
Linde and his partner – John Stanley – arrived, the house was crowded with
numerous other uniformed and plain-clothes cop,s as well as members from the
forensics unit and the local pathologist. The two teenagers were now sitting
together on one of the couches. A police psychologist was sitting next to them.
She was holding the hand of the boy closest to her. As usual, Linde walked into
the house as if he owned it. Arrogant. Disdainful. Belligerent. He ignored
everybody and greeted no-one. He never did.

Linde stood in
the middle of the lounge, at the edge of stylised bowl that contained the
expensive leather sofa. He lit a cigarette. Several people glanced at him in
surprise; some stared in open contempt. These were still the old days – long
before modern draconian smoking laws came into effect. However you
just
didn’t walk into a victim’s house and light a cigarette. Linde appeared
oblivious to the acidic stares. Instead he looked at the big screen TV. It was
still blaring loudly; flickering images of death and destruction on its
high-resolution screen.

‘Will somebody
switch that FUCKING thing off!’ He glowered at two uniformed officers near him.
The uniforms stared back uncertainly. As if deciding no-one was up to the task,
Linde walked down the steps of the round depression and strode angrily towards
the TV. Ever the consummate detective, he pulled a latex glove from his pocket,
slipped it over his right hand and grabbed the remote. These were the early
90’s. And only the wealthy owned DVD’s. Detective Linde studied the
foreign-looking remote for a while, trying to orientate himself. He pointed it
at the large screen and then ... paused. Everyone in the room was looking at
him. He walked up to the TV and glanced down at the multiple LED displays of
the black
Sony
entertainment system. He slowly took a small notebook
from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and wrote something down. He
pressed a button on the remote and the image on the TV screen froze. Now he
turned to the two teenagers. They were still sitting next to the psychologist;
the three of them engaged in subdued whispering. ‘Enjoy movies, do you boys?’

The boys’
heads snapped up. They stared uncertainly at the imposing detective. Then they
looked at each other ... at the psychologist (who patted the hand of the boy
closest to her) and back at the tall unfriendly cop towering over them. The boy
who was nearest the detective – also the same one who had originally embraced
Coetzee – nodded mutely.

‘That’s nice,’
said Linde. It was obvious to every single person in the room that the
detective did
not
think it was nice at all. There was a cold indifference
in his face; a stinging sarcasm lined his words. The two boys exchanged
confused glances. Linde walked over to Coetzee who was standing with Cloete; he
knew that the two cops were the first on the scene. The detective nodded a curt
greeting to Coetzee; it was about as friendly as one could expect Linde to get.
He leaned over and spoke
sotto voce,
not wanting the others in the room
to hear. Over his shoulder Coetzee caught a glance of the rest of the room. It
was absurd! He almost broke out into hysterical laughter. Every single person
in the large open area – easily about ten in all – was visibly leaning in the
direction of the detective. Straining to hear his whispered words. Coetzee
would later describe it as a room full of Leaning Towers of Pisa.

‘Did anyone
touch that entertainment system since you arrived? I mean anyone at all?’ The
big bad detective leaned in closer. He nodded his head in the direction of the
two cheerless teens. ‘Specifically Tweedledum and Tweedledee.’

‘No.’ Coetzee
didn’t hesitate in the slightest. As an experienced cop he knew the first and
most sacred law of crimes scene investigation: don’t touch anything! As the
first officers on the scene it had been their duty to ensure the evidence
remained uncompromised until the guys from CSU showed up.

‘Not the TV
... not the DVD? Nothing right?’

‘Nothing,
Piet.’ Their long-standing friendship had afforded Coetzee the ‘privilege’ of
calling the detective by his first name.

‘Good.’ Linde
glanced around the room. ‘Good.’ He winked at Coetzee, then glided effortlessly
up the heavy staircase. Everyone watched from downstairs as he disappeared
through the parents’ bedroom door. The moment he was gone the foyer and lounge
area erupted into sizzling clusters of whispered conversations. Some – Coetzee
was sure – discussed the never-ending rudeness of Bloemfontein’s most disliked
cop. Most however were speculating what the brilliant detective had up his
sleeve ...
this
time.

A few minutes
later Linde emerged from the bedroom. He had a grim look on his face. All eyes
were on him as he descended the stairs. His hand lightly floating just off the
surface of the wide balustrade. Even the two boys who had previously been cocooned
in a bleary world of grief now watched the detective intently. Coetzee thought
he saw something else in the expression of the super cop. Subtle, but hell ...
it was there. Was it ... could it be ... satisfaction?

Linde walked
towards the centre of the room and placed his left hand on a uniformed cop’s
shoulder. The man’s head whipped up. Linde did
not
do public displays of
affection; the man realised he was about to receive an order. With his right
hand Linde pointed at the two boys. ‘You two. What are your names?’ The two
boys stiffened. To Coetzee it looked as if one of the boys was about to stand
to attention and salute. The blood instantly drained from their faces. They
looked with huge terrified eyes at the man that had just seen through their
nefarious little murder plot.

‘Come, come,’
said Linde impatiently snapping his fingers. ‘This is not “
Who Wants to be a
Millionaire?”
It’s a simple question. What ... are ... your ... names?’
Linde placed increasing emphasis on each word until the last one was almost
snarled. One of the teenagers emitted a high-pitched little moan. It sounded
like a puppy that needed to do
peepee.

‘Detective
Linde!’ The psychologist – Ms Lena Le Toit – had now stood up and was glaring
at the detective, a look of steely determination on her face. She still had one
hand on the shoulder of a teen. ‘I will remind you of your manners,
detective
Linde. Obviously, to appeal to your sense of decency, would be impossible, as
you have none.’ Someone snorted with suppressed laughter. The psychologist
looked down at the teenagers. ‘Don’t answer him boys. The constitution protects
you from this kind of barbaric badgering.’

Linde sighed.

The onlookers gaped
and stood in awe. Above, some of the CSU personnel who had been gathering evidence
now peered through the open door of the bedroom. This thing – the great clash
of titans; the continuing battle between the superpowers – this thing that had
become the never-ending confrontation between Detective Linde and Lena Le Toit,
this thing ... was legendary amongst the local law enforcement members.
Everyone was mesmerised.

Ms Lena Le Toit
had first made the mistake around a year ago of commenting on the ‘excessively
belligerent attitude of Detective Linde – especially towards his colleagues’.
This had been followed by a report on the ‘precarious’ psychological state of
one Detective Linde as well as what Ms Le Toit had deemed ‘a very necessary,
very urgent’ suggestion to his superiors that above-mentioned detective submit
himself to compulsory psycho-analysis. The lady in question had then made the
mistake – the very big mistake – of showing up in Linde’s office. Unannounced
and uninvited and insisting they start their first session at that very moment.
Well ... had the poor woman only known that she was blindly walking where
powerful and fearless angels did indeed fear to tread. Had she only known that
the word ‘belligerent’ was a euphemism she would later come to regret.

On that
unfortunate day. When the poor unsuspecting psychologist had entered the lion’s
den. On that day. With no hesitation and little fuss the ‘belligerent’ detective
in question had unceremoniously bundled the psychologist out of his office. He
had grabbed her by the collar of her blouse and the belt of her Carducci slacks
and had carried her – screaming and kicking in mid-air – through the premises of
the Park Road Police Station in front of an astonished crowd of uniformed
onlookers. And deposited her in front of her office door. In the unfortunate scuffle
that had happened between his office and hers it appeared as if his thumb had
become hooked into the lining of her panty. By the time she was standing in front
of the door bearing her name, the poor woman had received a most unfortunate ‘
wedge’
– with her panty about halfway up her back. Linde later apologised for this and
insisted it had happened by mistake. Not everybody believed him.

Now they stood
– sparring once again. She ... trying to defend the constitutional rights of two
little boys. He ... trying his level best not to lose his temper. Coetzee
thought of what Siobhan – a liaison officer at Bayswater – had told him once. ‘It’s
sexual tension. Nothing else. They should just shag and save us all a tonne of
trouble.’

‘Ms Le Toit,’
Linde said. His words were slow and measured – the way a volcano growls before
it blows its top. ‘May I remind you that if you continue to interfere with my
investigation ... it is
my
constitutional right to arrest you and throw
your meddling arse into the deepest darkest lice-infested pit that I will
personally travel to the ends of the earth to find.’ There was silence. As if
they were a crowd at a tennis match, the spectators in the room turned as one
to look at Ms Le Toit. Sensing that things were about to get ugly, Constable
Cloete stepped forward. He flipped open a little notebook similar to that of Linde’s.
‘Ah ... detective, I believe ... um, the boy on the right ...’ he said pointing
to the boy on whose shoulder rested the shaking hand of Lena Le Toit, ‘is Erwin
and ... the other boy is Harold.’

Linde looked
at the boys for confirmation. When no-one said anything he nodded assuming the
Constable had been correct. ‘Good.’ He cast another corrosive look at Lena Le
Toit then said: ‘Erwin and Harold Stanley, you are under arrest.’ His hand was
still resting on the shoulder of the policeman. He now turned to look at him. ‘Officer,
please read the suspects their rights and take them into custody.’

No-one moved.
There was complete silence. The kind of silence Coetzee thought you would only
find in the deepest reaches of space. More than a few mouths hung open, gaping
in astonishment at this sudden turn of events. The Constable that Linde had
commanded stood frozen. Erwin Stanley was the first to respond. It began as a
low wail and quickly blew up into a long drawn-out screech. His face was
contorted into a mask of terror.

‘EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH’

His brother
soon followed his example.

Detective
Linde – the biggest baddest bad-ass in the history of Bloemfontein Police
Sevices – turned and calmly walked towards the exit.

‘Mr Linde!’ Ms
Lena Le Toit purposefully omitted the ‘detective’. ‘How dare you? You have
crossed the line, sir, and I swear I will make it my personal mission to see
that you are punished for this.’ Her face was red with the passion of her anger
and her teeth showed in a vicious snarl. She had to shout to be heard above the
combined howl of the two teenage boys. ‘These boys are innocent victims who
have just experienced an extremely traumatic incident. These boys –’

‘These boys,
Ms Le Toit, are two cold-blooded murderers who just killed their parents.’ He
turned and walked out.

A suspicion.

‘Just a
suspicion.’ That’s what Linde always told Coetzee. ‘You know this business,
Jan. C’mon, how many of our cases get solved with fancy bullshit forensics.
Hey, tell me. DNA and Gun Shot Residue, my arse. In the end it comes down to
two things. Instinct and intimidation. You get a suspicion ... you arrest the
bastards and a few hours of good old balls-to-the-wall interrogation and you
get your confession. Signed, sealed and delivered. Am I right or what?’

He was.

Three hours
after the boys were arrested they made an unconditional confession.

As it turned
out, they had used huge amounts of schedule-seven sleeping pills to dope their
parents into a near coma-like sleep. In the early morning hours – as mom and
pop lay sleeping – the boys had slipped specially prepared nooses over the
heads of their slumbering and unsuspecting parents. They had thrown the rope
ends over the sturdy beams of their post-modern house. And together they had
hauled their parents – one at a time – up and up and up until the middle-aged
couple had succumbed to death by strangulation. The empty bottle of
prescription pills was discovered with their fingerprints all over it. A printout
of Erwin’s credit card records – yes ... the brats each had their own credit
cards – indicated the purchase of the ropes at a hardware store.

That feeling.

Something
just isn’t right here.

That feeling
he had had as he approached the Pentagon Park mansion. The same feeling he
would have more than a decade later outside Bishop Police station.

In less than
half-an-hour, the seasoned garrulous old detective had proved him right. Proved
the feeling right. In less than half-an-hour, Linde had proved that two boys –
who had put on the show of the century – were in fact greedy, cold-blooded
murderers.

A few days
later Coetzee tracked Linde down at the sprawling Park Road complex that housed
the murder and robbery squad. It was also home to all of Bloem’s detectives.
Linde was in the office he shared with his partner. Detective Sitwell, however,
was out.