The Serpentine Road

by Mendelson, Paul

  ‘Is this secure? Is this a safe line?’

  ‘Mr Smith. I told you I’d return your call. What is it?’

  ‘I told you it was urgent. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘What do you want to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t want to say on the phone.’

  ‘Then I can’t help you . . .’

  ‘Sheldon Rich, Johan Esau, Joe Swanepoel.’ He shouts the words. ‘Do you remember these men?’

  ‘This is a long time ago. I don’t have time to reminisce.’

  ‘They’re dead, Colonel de Vries. Each of them is dead. In the last two weeks.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They were killed. It’s in the local papers.’

  ‘We live in a violent country.’

  ‘Three men who were there. Those three. It cannot be a coincidence.’

  De Vries closes his eyes.

  ‘It’s twenty-one years ago. No one remembers any of it . . .’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘No,’ De Vries says firmly. ‘I . . . have to go back to work. As I said before: when I have some time, I will return your call. Take care of yourself, sir.’

  He puts down the phone, feels a gripe in the pit of his stomach.

  1992

  De Vries is a racist. He knows that this is true because when he hears Suzanne talking with her friends, he hears opinion and reasoning which, before, has eluded him. But he is not mindless. His upbringing has taught him and his training is teaching him to judge based on evidence and, for him, the evidence is clear. The white guys have built South Africa; they have the experience, the brains, the work-ethic to develop it still. He only has to look at the African countries that have demanded independence to see the corruption, the inefficiency, the violence and prejudice – their rapid decline, total regression into third world states. He fears for his future; fears for their future.

  He grew up on a farm in the Overberg, saw for himself: the black farm workers arriving late each day, working slowly for a few hours, then swigging warm cool-drink and pulling the stuffing out from white loaves, snoozing in the shade until his father, or Mike du Clos, the farm manager, or, later, he himself, had to kick them awake to get them back to the fields.

  But, when he was a teenager, his English mother, an immigrant herself, had told a different story. In her quiet voice, she explained that the white man might seem more intelligent, but that was because the white man wanted it that way: if you refuse to educate, you deny opportunity; if you oppress, you remain at the top. When she said this, he had listened and then forgotten her words but, now, when he hears Suzanne and her friends, they come back to him, and he thinks of them now.

  The blacks are not the enemy, no matter how much his colleagues repeat their mantra. Colour is not evil. The enemy is the robber, the rapist, the murderer, the terrorist: those are the people De Vries thinks about as he prepares for his shift each day. He turns away from his colleagues at work, their overt hatred exhausting, pointless, and their pessimism for the future depressing, repetition of their blinkered beliefs closed to any challenge. He pays lip service to them, to conform, to belong.

  He always resented the subjugation of childhood, the patronization of his parents and their friends. He longed for adulthood, for respect, for an understanding of the world which would allow him to be independent. Now, he longs for rank: to rise above the mere obeying of orders to the forming of them. Above all, he wants the police to police and investigate, to cease their role as paramilitaries and repressors. Amongst his peers, he is alone.

  April 2015

  The phone trills again. He snatches up the receiver.

  ‘What now?’

  He hears a hollow silence, like an evening wind blowing in the trees.

  ‘I am about to begin my post-mortem examination of the man identified as Angus Lyle.’

  De Vries checks his watch again. It is 11.35 a.m.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘It seems,’ Anna Jafari says, ‘that your appeal to General Thulani was heeded. I have been instructed to begin work immediately. You should know that I, too, have complained officially at this interference.’ Her voice sounds even more irritating to De Vries over the phone than in person.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘You wish to be present for the examination?’

  ‘Not really. I want to know time of death, cause of death, anything else you consider unusual or noteworthy. And the blood work. That will be sent to Doctor Ulton’s lab?’

  ‘He already has blood samples. I will send stomach contents and other samples as required.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, Colonel. I am acting directly on General Thulani’s orders.’

  ‘I’m grateful nonetheless. I’ll call in later.’

  ‘Very well.’

  She hangs up. Vaughn chuckles, reflects that his interactions rarely end with a pleasantry.

  * * *

  ‘No one knows what is happening,’ Don tells him as they travel down to the Forensics Lab. ‘Angus Lyle changes everything. I do not know what to tell them to do.’

  ‘Go to lunch?’

  ‘That is what I did say.’

  ‘Then you are becoming a good leader of men.’

  They enter the lab. Ulton is leaning over a technician, squinting at a computer monitor. When he hears them, he looks up, murmurs something to his colleague, walks towards them.

  ‘Let’s go over here.’ He leads them to the other end of the lab, looks around to check that they are alone.

  ‘I heard you’ve been having some leakage problems . . . thought we’d restrict this info to the three of us.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’

  Ulton produces some papers from inside his lab coat. He snaps the papers taught.

  ‘According to his police record, Angus Lyle was born on 18 April 1984, making him a couple of weeks short of thirty-one years old. He did not have ID on him when he was found, but he was recognized immediately by the officers who discovered him.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  Ulton reads from his notes.

  ‘Officers Hendricks and Uzoma, Metro.’

  Vaughn turns to Don, who is already writing down the names.

  ‘Okay,’ Ulton says. ‘Let’s start with the gun. I’ve run the ballistic tests and, despite missing the silencer, I can tell you for certain that this is the weapon used to kill Taryn Holt. The striations on the bullets match those seen after test firing.’ He takes a breath. ‘The grip bears palm and fingerprints from Angus Lyle . . .’

  De Vries shakes his head.

  ‘This is looking pretty conclusive.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘Why maybe?’

  ‘There are a few things bothering me. It’s my opinion only and it’s certainly open to dispute. Looking at the palm and fingerprints on the weapon, to me, it looks like his hand could have been placed on the weapon. Studying the entire weapon indicates that, apart from the marks from Angus Lyle, the rest of it is clean. That is to say: it looks as if it has been cleaned; it’s devoid of any prints or dirt whatsoever. I find it hard to be certain that the gun hasn’t been cleaned and then Lyle’s prints overlaid.’

  ‘Could Lyle have cleaned the weapon after firing and then held it subsequently?’

  ‘Yes, that is exactly what could have happened, but it’s a marker of oddness, that’s all. It bothers me.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘There are traces of animal fats on the marks made on the grip. I’m analyzing them now, but it’ll take time.’

  ‘What does that suggest?’

  ‘That he had greasy hands and touched the weapon, possibly an otherwise clean weapon. Then, there were no casings at the scene. No casings found on or near the body of Angus Lyle. Why collect the casings and then dispose of them when you are still holding the weapon?’

  De Vries says nothing. Ulton continues: ‘The silencer. We know that one was used because of the markings on the bullets
and also the style of entry wound. But, it’s not around and I don’t know why you’d discard it or hide it and keep the gun on you. Again, it’s explicable but peculiar.’

  ‘I’ve encountered situations like that before.’

  ‘Me too . . .’ He trails off, snaps to: ‘The Bible is straightforward, covered with Lyle’s fingerprints and in a fashion consistent with handling the book repeatedly over a period of time.’ He looks at De Vries over his spectacles. ‘As you know, he has underlined and highlighted several passages mainly, but not exclusively, referring to immoral women. Many refer to punishment, usually death or hellfire.’ He looks at De Vries, smiles. ‘Thought you’d like this: “Just as Sodom and Gomorrah and the surrounding cities, which likewise indulged in sexual immorality and pursued unnatural desire, you shall serve as an example by undergoing a punishment of eternal fire.”’

  De Vries sighs.

  ‘It’s obvious and repetitive,’ Ulton continues, ‘but the quantity of highlighting and annotation suggests that he had been doing this for a period of months, maybe years. A cursory study of the ink and pencil marks seems to confirm this.’

  He moves the top page in his hand to the back and looks over his notes before continuing.

  ‘The leaflet about the exhibition: Lyle’s prints are on the two outside plains when it was folded. Inside, there are no prints. This suggests he never opened it. He picked it up or it was given to him and, perhaps, he put it in his pocket.’

  ‘Okay . . .’

  Ulton looks up at him. ‘The painting with the woman on the bed with the dildo in her mouth. It’s inside the leaflet.’

  ‘Which he might or might not have opened . . . ?’

  ‘Finally, his clothing. We found blood traces on both his sweat-shirt and his trousers. The blood belongs to Taryn Holt . . .’

  ‘It does?’ De Vries says. ‘Definitely?’

  ‘For sure, ja. There are two arcs of blood spatter.’

  De Vries turns to Don, raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Note I said “spatter”,’ Ulton continues. ‘So, we come to the science of spatter patterns. I’m going to keep it simple: if there are blood spatters on a person’s clothing, as we see here, I would expect to see extensive, but minute, blood spotting. This is because if blood spurts from a wound it is, obviously, at pressure; from an explosion of an organ, as we saw with Taryn Holt, extremely high pressure. Therefore, we would expect extensive collateral spatter as well as the main arcs of spatter. My first observation is that there is virtually no collateral spatter present on Angus Lyle’s clothing. Secondly, the angle of path is peculiar and emphasizes my last observation. They emanate from above and to the side of him. This is odd, because I don’t see how the blood could come from that angle unless he was lying beneath her and, again, there should be blood spotting.’

  De Vries is shaking his head. ‘I still don’t get it.’

  ‘Okay. If he was above the body – as you would expect – when this blood got onto him, the shape of droplet would indicate that it was rising to meet him. These are drops. They have come from above.’

  De Vries frowns.

  ‘He was beneath Taryn Holt?’

  ‘That is what the blood spatter evidence suggests – even if it is hard to imagine.’

  ‘So, these spatters are illogical? What?’

  ‘Put it this way: if I was asked in court if I had doubts over my findings, I would have to say yes.’

  ‘Always doubt . . .’ De Vries muses.

  ‘Look, I may be wrong,’ Ulton says. ‘I’ve seen more dubious evidence turn out to be rock solid, but I know you want my opinion and I’m giving it to you.’

  ‘We need to know a great deal more about Angus Lyle,’ De Vries says, turning to Don. ‘Find out if he had experience with firearms, if he knew Taryn Holt and had ever visited her home . . .’

  ‘And you need to find out how he died,’ Ulton says.

  De Vries looks behind him now. There are three technicians only at the opposite end of the lab.

  ‘If someone wanted to frame Angus Lyle for this killing, how would that fit?’

  Ulton lowers his voice.

  ‘I thought about that. I have to say, if that’s the explanation – and, in all honesty, we both know it’s not likely – whoever it was has done a pretty good job.’

  De Vries sighs.

  ‘I was afraid you might say that.’

  ‘I am recording time of death based on my examination and the notes provided for me by Metro officers Hendricks and Uzoma, who found his body, and the medical examiner at the scene, as between 10 p.m. and midnight on Friday, 3 April 2015.’

  The slender body of Angus Lyle lies between them, his face and neck, arms and hands very tanned, the rest of him pale.

  ‘The cause of death is, in layman’s terms, a sudden cardiac arrest. Although he appears generally malnourished, he is reasonably fit and his organs all seem to have been in working order. Clearly there is some damage due to historic drug use, but nothing which suggests that the heart would fail catastrophically.’

  ‘So?’

  Anna Jafari looks up at him.

  ‘So what, Colonel?’

  ‘So what is the cause of the death?’

  ‘I will discuss that in due course.’

  De Vries runs his tongue over the back of his bottom teeth, glances at Don. His Warrant Officer looks mildly embarrassed.

  ‘Did he die where he was found?’

  ‘I have not reached a final conclusion,’ Jafari says forcefully. ‘I want to be clear on that.’

  ‘I understand,’ De Vries says. ‘Was he moved?’

  ‘No. It is likely that he quickly lost consciousness, fell into the hedge where he was found, and died there.’

  ‘What about stomach contents?’

  ‘A small quantity of chicken and potato fries, very recently consumed, within an hour of death. One of my assistants is analysing it now, but the quantity found inside him suggests that he did not eat a full meal.’

  ‘Scavenging?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Anything distinguishing about the food?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Chicken and fries?’

  ‘As I said.’

  ‘Greasy?’

  ‘A high fat content, certainly. Why?’

  ‘We have greasy fingerprints.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Evidence of previous drug use?’

  ‘There are old syringe marks presenting quite clearly on the inside of both arms. The damage I have observed is consistent with long-term drug use. However, none of these marks is recent.

  ‘So, a drug overdose is unlikely to be the cause of death?’

  ‘As I have explained, the cause of death is clear; the cause of the myocardial infarction is not.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Bruise marks on his left shoulder and neck. Again, recent and probably sustained at a time close to death.’

  ‘Any idea what caused the bruises?’

  ‘They are consistent with hand marks, but I would need more time. They look to me to be weight rather than impact.’

  ‘Something I can use, Doctor,’ De Vries says irritably. ‘Give me examples.’

  Jafari shrugs.

  ‘I don’t give examples, Colonel. I tell you what is there.’ She hesitates. ‘I would say that if . . . If the bruises were caused by hand or hands, then they are not punches, but more likely restraining bruises. A hard grip, sufficient to bruise the flesh. That is a suggestion only.’

  ‘Thank you.’ De Vries studies the wounds. ‘Could they have led to his heart failing?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. A heart does not stop beating for no reason.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He has a tattoo of a crucifix on his chest. It is not a professional tattoo and may even have been self-inflicted.’

  They look down at his body. The blue-black outline of a crucifix, perhaps twenty centimetres in height, is positioned centrally, the
horizontal axis lining up perfectly with his small, brown nipples.

  ‘How recent?’

  ‘It is difficult to say. Over a year, certainly.’

  ‘You have his medical records?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you requested them?’

  ‘No. If you wish for them, you can request them, Colonel. I will continue to investigate this matter, including blood and other trace testing. My conclusions will almost certainly not require any further research.’

  De Vries nods.

  ‘Thank you again, Doctor. The time this early examination has bought us may prove crucial. You’ll get your final report to me?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stares at him.

  ‘What, Doctor?’

  ‘And is there anything else I must do for you, Colonel? I wouldn’t want General Thulani to have to prompt me again. Any further work in addition to my own carefully planned schedule?’

  Don looks down at his feet. De Vries takes a breath, wants to explain to her the difference between crimes which can be solved – are likely to be solved – and those which cannot; priority must be given to those where the killer is still at large and possibly may strike again. In crime, there are gradations to everything; very little is generalized. As he studies her in the moment, he realizes that she probably does not care. It is not what she does.

  He smiles at her, says quietly. ‘That’s all. Have a good day, Doctor.’

  She turns away, leaves them with Angus Lyle.

  ‘Under the circumstances,’ General Thulani says, ‘I accept that such an important development in a murder enquiry should take priority over a casual interview. However, be aware Colonel, that your poor relations with David Wertner and the Internal Investigation Department is a matter of concern to me – and others.’ He points markedly at the chair in front of his desk. ‘Now, sit down.’

  De Vries sits. He is calm now; a steely resolution has descended on him and he realizes that this is how it is when he is under pressure. Although he dreads this state, he craves it also.

  ‘It seems that you have convinced Colonel Wertner that what we thought was a serious leak of confidential information was nothing more than speculation by the newspaper journalists.’

  ‘That seems the most likely explanation. I have spoken to all my team. It is, as you are aware, sir, only a small group. I suspect that someone in this building saw Trevor Bhekifa, recognized him, and decided to make mischief.’