The Harbinger

by Mark Graham

  Captain Terreblanche finished off his drink aggressively and poured a refill. “And to add melodrama to an already boorish plot,” he announced, “the case has been put in a straitjacket.”

  “The Police Act. When?” Mansell bent his head forward. He sipped Scotch calmly. “I’ve already given it to the press.”

  “Oh, my, really? Procrastination will be the death of me. I heard the news, oh, fivish or so I’d say. And now I suppose they’ve already gone to press. Pity.”

  An impervious smile creased Mansell’s face. He took up his glass. “You, Captain, are a beautiful man.”

  “Well, I suppose.” They both drank. “But you were so busy at the time, and . . . Shall we have another?”

  Small victories, Mansell thought sourly. “So the commissioner and our exalted police minister couldn’t keep their hands off of it,” he uttered.

  “No, not the commissioner this time. This one came straight from the boys at Justice.”

  “Leistner? Really? So it’s Security’s case, then.”

  “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Wolffe and his gang?” “Hatchet men, termites, and leeches.” Mansell expelled a sharp breath.

  “Yes,” said the captain, draining his glass. “Therefore, I think we shall continue with this one, Inspector.”

  Mansell nodded. Scotch stung the back of his throat pleasantly. He was lighting a cigarette when the phone rang. He raised the receiver deliberately, listened for thirty seconds, then said, “Thank you, see you in the morning,” and hung up. Terreblanche’s eyebrows arched in anticipation.

  “Detective Gosani.”

  “Another late worker. And?”

  “And it seems that Ian Elgin dined quite late last night at a restaurant called Dardano’s. And it seems that he didn’t dine alone. We have a name.”

  “So.” Oliver Terreblanche capped his bottle, preparing to leave. “Oh, yes. Major Wolffe has an appointment with our forensic people tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. I told Chas du Toits that you would be in his lab by seven-thirty. Can you make it?”

  It was a rhetorical question. The captain had already turned away. “Thanks for the drink,” said Mansell.

  “Get some sleep, Inspector.”

  The sandstone clock behind his desk read 11:05. Nigel Mansell decided on a shave and a shower before driving the kilometer back to his own bed.

  ****

  While a waxing moon hovered over the dormant city of Port Elizabeth, an evening sunset broadened across the eastern seaboard of the United States. Rush hour.

  Traffic, the like of which the inhabitants of Port Elizabeth could not have fathomed, consumed the Long Island Expressway and the two semitractor trailers that were its captives.

  Karl Brinker opened the window on the passenger side of the lead truck. A cool wind embraced his clammy skin. He was half drunk by this time. Tension infested the cab.

  Twenty minutes and ten miles later, they swung south onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, the last leg of their journey.

  Brinker double-checked his papers. He stared at the End-User’s Certificate. Pros and cons. The document itself was genuine. Fine, terrific. Yeah, and so was Defense Minister Okoya’s signature, but Foreign Minister Tseka’s was a forgery, pure and simple. Masterful, sure, a work of pure genius, but still a forgery.

  Brinker took a pull off his bottle, studying the export license. State Department–issued and–authorized. He stared at the paper, drawing strength from it, knowing that the next document, the sales agreement, had as many holes in it as the courage he was now stoking. The forged signature of the undersecretary of arms disbursement, Edward Murphy, bothered him more than anything.

  Yet the State Department inspector had been more concerned with the export permit than anything. Why? It was perfect, thought Brinker, as he stowed the papers. He stared out the window. A mile away, rising like misplaced monoliths from the tip of Manhattan Island, were the towers of the World Trade Center. But the trucks didn’t cross the Brooklyn Bridge.

  For this operation Karl Brinker had chosen a small private terminal in Brooklyn at the foot of Fifty-ninth Avenue and Bay Ridge Drive. Brinker believed in the private entrepreneur; fewer rules, fewer scruples. The Bay Ridge Terminal was owned and operated by a Portuguese immigrant named Dom Andrada. Brinker had cultivated his relationship with Andrada for eighteen years with prompt payments and numerous cases of Portuguese wine. Andrada reciprocated by discouraging undue customs interference and by arranging all towing and pilotage for Brinker’s carriers.

  The trucks swung right off the expressway onto Shore Parkway. Another right on Bay Ridge Drive led down a narrow concourse five hundred yards to the waterfront. A twelve-foot-high chain link fence formed a cincture around the terminal. Inside the gate, a matchbox-sized building hugged the ground. The sign out front read, UNITED STATES CUSTOMS DEPARTMENT.

  The drivers parked inside the gate, and Brinker climbed down. He entered the office without knocking. Two uniformed men and a woman glanced up from telephones and typewriters.

  Brinker bestowed a congenial smile. “Good evening. Karl Brinker with Brinker Inc. We have a cargo scheduled for shipment tomorrow, the fifth. ARVA II is the carrier of record, I believe.”

  The older of the two men wore a wrinkled tan uniform and a basset-hound pout. He lumbered over toward the counter and shoved a knobby hand out. “Papers.”

  Brinker passed over the pouch. “Export and import licenses. Export permit. End-User’s. Sales agreement. Shipping manifest. The whole works.”

  The customs agent waved at the door.

  “Pull ‘em down to the inspection station. Somebody will be with you in a bit.”

  After the trucks were secured, the drivers strolled down to the piers. Karl Brinker went straight to the ramshackle building that served as the terminal’s office and found it deserted. He stacked two cases of wine neatly on a secretary’s desk, slumped into a tattered recliner, and finished off the last of his brandy. Minutes later, Dom Andrada clambered through the door. A litany of cursing and backslapping culminated in two tall mugs of wine. As they neared the bottom of the first bottle, there was a knock on the door. It was the customs agent.

  “Mr. Brinker,” he said. “There appears to be a question or two about your papers. The export permit and the End-User’s Certificate have been sent over to the customs house on the island.”

  “A problem?” rumbled Dom Andrada.

  “Time will tell.”

  “What kind of questions?” asked Brinker.

  “Your export permit is dated May thirtieth. The End-User’s, too.”

  “That’s right. Yeah,” Brinker said, trying to control the muscles in his face. He felt the involuntary shaking of his wineglass and forced his hand back down on the table. “So?”

  “So both documents denote Monrovia as the port of entry,” the agent answered. “The port of Monrovia has been closed for the past nine weeks. You didn’t know? The Liberian Foreign Ministry didn’t inform you of that? Strange. Trouble of some sort. The stupid maniacs. No ships are being allowed in or out, I’m afraid. You really should have been notified.”

  ****

  A single dead bolt protected the door to Nigel Mansell’s brick bungalow. He turned the key and stepped inside quietly. A silk lampshade, illuminated by a yellow bulb, cast soft light over cream walls. A coatrack lounged in a dark corner. An overstuffed chair cradled discarded magazines.

  He stood with hands buried in his pockets, conscious of a half life. A silk jacket draped over the back of an oak dining chair. Home, he thought. A brass centerpiece sheltered neglected candles on a matching oak table. An empty coffee cup. A half-gnawed English muffin. An empty carton of peach yogurt. Home? Why doesn’t it feel like home? Why doesn’t it reach out to me with open arms and warm sheets?

  He stepped lightly into the hallway. Hardwood floors and cold echoes. He stared at the closed door that hid her darkroom.

  He didn’t knock. Couldn’t. It had been months since he last k
nocked.

  But the image of her; the image appeared to him, momentarily radiant. Why? Slender, sleek like a snow leopard, stealthy. But without the strength, a voice from within told him. Pale firm breasts, ivory skin cut by the patient hands of a sculptor. But cold to the touch, like marble, the voice argued. The muscle tone of a gymnast, controlled, capable of wide thunder; a caldron of mystery. But the lightning has run dry, he heard, refusing to listen. Blond, waves after waves of blond, and the power in her hips, the liquid fire; magic claws and violent incantations.

  Then he saw the scarlet mass of Ian Elgin’s chest cavity; swollen utricles of black and blue around his neck. He heard the shriek of the rotary saw. The door to the darkroom opened. The man had silver hair, razor cut; a silver moustache, manicured; and a gold chain around his neck. He was fifty, Mansell calculated without understanding. A Mediterranean tan of constant care. Money. They stared at one another.

  Jennifer stepped out into the hall, laughing. The sight of her husband destroyed this jovial display. “Nigel. What are you doing here? I thought you were staying. . . .”

  “I live here.” His voice was acutely low. His pale eyes that much paler. “Remember? And he doesn’t. Get him out of here.” “I don’t—”

  “Now.” Cold. His head tipped downward, eyes forever upon her.

  The man fidgeted with his glossy hair. He touched his chain, and then her shoulder. “Jen. I must go, at any rate. I’ll see you in class.”

  She escorted him to the door. Mansell retreated into the kitchen. At the sink, he turned on cold water. He searched his pockets for a cigarette. When he was dizzy from the smoke, he leaned over the basin and watched the water disappearing in swirls across endless fields of white porcelain.

  Chapter 3

  In the corner of the forensic laboratory, partitioned off by plastic curtains, was an area reserved for the science of moulage, the casting and molding of impressions. The molds were made from plaster or paraffin, Plasticine or liquid latex, organics or dental materials, silicone rubber or molten sulfurs.

  Chas du Toits pushed aside one curtain, and Mansell followed him into the cubicle. Upon a wooden table, highlighted by white floods, were four castings. Photos of the original impressions, taken outside the ladies’ lounge at King George Station, were presented on easels behind the castings. A sketch of the drive and the plots of ground outside the lounge dangled from one of the chief inspector’s hands, a cigarette cupped in the other.

  Mansell ordered himself back into the present; last night was a dull ache trying desperately to capture his thoughts. Hurt was not an emotion he cared to acknowledge. He would push it aside and then, like an obsessive thief, it would sneak back again and the battle would begin anew.

  “We were able to secure four complete shoe prints and an exceptional impression of the front left tire,” du Toits was saying, steam rising from the cup in his hand. “Also a complete set of fluorescent tire marks from the sidewalk. The drive was obscured by overlapping from other vehicles, but we still managed an exact wheelbase measurement. Not bad, if I do say so.”

  The molds were cast at the scene from white silicone rubber tinged with aluminum dust, a silver fingerprint powder. The aluminum dust brought out remarkable highlights on the surface of the impressions. The fluorescent tire marks taken from the concrete were produced by using ultraviolet light. The invisible prints absorbed the ultraviolet rays, thus transmitting fluorescent traces, which, if correctly photographed, produce remarkable details. Mansell was pleased with the results.

  “The tire circumference is two hundred and five centimeters,” du Toits continued. He handed Mansell a statistical printout. “One of those beleaguered compacts, I’m afraid. Wheelbase dimensions confirm this. The tire shows less than seven thousand kilometers of wear on it.” He gestured at the casting. “There’s a nail mark here, and two significant defects here and here.”

  Mansell ran a hand over the churned-up mound along the side of the cast. “We’ll run it through the tread guide in the computer. With luck it was manufactured here in P.E.,” he said. “All right. The maintenance man at the station reported that the garden plots under the windows were turned over on Wednesday afternoon, thirty-six hours before the murder. Can you improve on that?”

  “Inspector, please.” Du Toits feigned disappointment. “The westerly wind peaked at forty k.p.h. Thursday evening at five-ten. The impression shows no sign of drifting or eroding. True, the area is enclosed to a point, but there almost assuredly would have been indications of wind damage. Further, we had an hour’s worth of light rain at six-thirty that evening. No evidence of rain damage either. Age of the impression, nine hours maximum.”

  “Very good, but it doesn’t narrow it down enough.” Mansell took notes as smoke rose from the nub of his cigarette, burning his eyes.

  Du Toits raised a hand, saying, “But I can tell you that the fluorescent exhibits indicate to us that the vehicle was parked outside that window less than thirty minutes. The driver made a U-turn in the drive and returned the same way he’d arrived, from the west.”

  “You’re an artist. And the shoe prints?”

  “Ah, yes. The shoes.” The forensic scientist offered two other castings, also silicone rubber with aluminum dust. “The impressions were made from patterned crepe soles. Luck, fickle creature that it is, Inspector, does at times ally itself with science. You see, crepe soles are like fingerprints. No two are exactly alike, even if they come from the same die. Shoe size, 101/2-D.”

  “That has to eliminate Anthony Mabasu. His size can’t—” “Size 9-C.” Du Toits sniffed unctuously. He cleared his throat. “We checked his file. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll control my irritation,” replied Mansell. “There was also a partial on top of the locker. Salvageable?”

  “If you please.” Du Toits removed three photos from their respective easels. Photographs of dusty prints required oblique lighting, and the pattern in the crepe registered, Mansell thought, with remarkable clarity. Du Toits said, “We lifted the impression later using a rubber lifter, but I’m not pleased. The shoe is the same, however. An exact match of the right print found outside. All well and good, except for one small problem.”

  “Explain.”

  “We couldn’t find one other print from these same shoes inside the locker room itself. We checked the floors, the wooden benches, the tops of the other lockers, everywhere.”

  Does a killer remove his shoes before entering his arena? Mansell wondered as they left the cubicle, or does a thief have second thoughts?

  “I’ll take some of that tea, with your permission,” he said. The pot was across the room, and he called over his shoulder. “Tell me about the rope.”

  “It’s a pure nylon with traces of blue rayon running through it. A fine mesh, tightly woven. Extremely resistant and lightweight. Probably expensive. You wouldn’t tie luggage onto the roof of your car with this stuff. Mountain climbing, more likely. The killer wore vinyl gloves, almost assuredly, but there’s also trace evidence of human flesh other than the victim’s.”

  “Any idea on the age of the rope, or prior use?”

  “As far as prior use, I’d say none. As far as the age, I can’t say about the manufacturing, but I can say that the rope hadn’t been out of its wrapping more than a couple of days before the killing.”

  “Good. With luck, a recent purchase.”

  They stopped in front of a long narrow bench covered with sterile white paper. Evidence lined the table. Each item was appropriately packaged, string-tagged, and labeled. Du Toits picked up a paper bag sealed with tape.

  “We found hair from three different people on the victim’s sweater. One being the victim himself. We ran an SEM on the others,” said du Toits. He raised an eyebrow dourly, and saw Mansell smiling. “A scanning electron microscopic, for the less learned.”

  “The toys of aging children.”

  Du Toits ignored the remark. “Two of the hairs were thirty-five centimeters long. B
lood type A-positive, female. Black, coarse, and wavy. A minute degree of sun bleach. Protein analysis showed the hair belonged to a Europoid/Bantu.”

  “A coloured.” In South Africa, individuals of mixed race, white and black primarily, were termed “coloured.” “That narrows it down. And the other?”

  “Short, twenty-five millimeters. Light brown, very fine. Four good samples with sheath cells bearing. Europoid. Male. Blood type 0. A very dry scalp but no sun bleach at all. Curious.”

  On a climate where the sun shone nine out of every ten days, a trace of sun bleach was almost inevitable. “Curious indeed,” said Mansell.

  Du Toits gestured next to a transparent plastic bag. The fibers inside reminded Mansell of pubic hairs. “These were found on the victim’s sweater, as well,” said the forensic scientist. “The fibers are one hundred percent wool. Woven and dyed, a bit unevenly. It’s a black-and-gray blend, and almost certainly from another sweater. Probably from his own closet.”

  “We’re opening up Elgin’s apartment today,” Mansell interjected. “Have a team ready and we’ll find out.”

  Mansell studied a sketch indicating the exact locations on the victim’s sweater where the fibers and hairs were found. Then he studied the fiber again, but his mind wandered. His feet took him back to the teapot.

  “Anything confirming on the victim’s suit coat? The one from the sleeping room?”

  “Fragments of his own sweater on the inside and traces of his own hair on the outside. A single hair, long and black, matching the ones found on his sweater. The coloured woman’s.”

  “Good. And the used cot?”

  “It seems that used is an appropriate word,” chortled du Toits. “We found identifiable traces of semen, human hair, sweat, and other—how should I put it—other body fluids.”

  “Ian Elgin’s?” asked Mansell.

  “I’m afraid not.” Du Toits shrugged. “But we do have a rare bird. A male with AB-negative blood. And I place the time of use at between midnight and one-thirty A.M. Friday morning.”