Daddy Long Legs

by Vernon W. Baumann

  The profiler righted himself slowly, placing his pen in breast pocket of his shirt. He ruminated for a moment before answering. ‘Well, I can tell you this, without a single doubt in my mind. There are significant signs of escalation.’ Human nodded. ‘Not only has your killer gotten older, he’s become more vicious and brutal.’ He looked down at the boy’s naked body. ‘And it’s just going to get worse.’

  Ten

  Following the discovery of the mangled and violated body of Kobus van Jaarsveld, the town of Hope exploded into a frenzy of madness.

  All those who had left on that Wednesday morning made hurried preparations to return. The Goth convoy had received the news of the dump site somewhere around Worcester. They promptly turned around and headed back north again. Those media bodies who had abandoned the little town now sent additional delegates to Hope. Those networks who could afford it, like the feuding e-Channel News Africa and SABC International, rented entire houses for their news units. Overnight, Hope accommodation rates doubled.

  On the other side of this coin, at least two families who had finally had enough of the twisted circus that Hope had become decided to leave for good. There were many others (long-time residents of the little town) who discussed doing the same.

  Some of the residents, however, decided to take full advantage of the madness. Enterprising locals organised guided tours to various Daddy Long Legs locations, like dump sites and the houses of victims. The sale of t-shirts and various other commemorative mementoes skyrocketed. The new favourites were WHO’S YOUR DADDY? and DADDY LONG LEGS WAS HERE. The slogan featuring the unfortunate spelling was a close third. Another version featuring MY FRIENDS WENT TO HOPE AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT didn’t do as well as the manufacturers hoped and was soon discontinued.

  After years of existing on the periphery of the South African economy (South Africa has the world’s twenty-seventh largest economy), Hope was finally seeing a turnaround in its finances. Daddy Long Legs had become a boom industry indeed. The sacred cow had become a cash cow.

  On the dark side, many of the men of Hope now started wearing guns openly. A town that saw relatively little violence now exploded into open aggression. There were at least half a dozen fist fights reported on a daily basis. Mostly locals taking their frustration out on the strangers who had flooded the cramped confines of the Northern Cape town.

  One particularly vicious incident escalated the violence even further. Jody, one of Hope’s only openly gay men, was beaten so violently he had to be hurriedly transported to Kimberley. Apparently he had ‘brushed up’ against a ten-year old boy while moving through the crowded aisles of the local OK supermarket. Using a bottle of Mrs Balls Chutney, an Addis mop and several other innocuous household items, a group of men had dealt out swift ‘justice’ to the unsuspecting man. It was an altercation that left a trail of blood all the way from the detergent aisle to the supermarket entrance. Using CCTV footage the ‘respectable’ citizens were rounded up within an hour. It seemed as if ‘justice’ was swift indeed. Unfortunately for Human and the people of Hope, this sort of event was merely a harbinger of the darkness that was still to come.

  A curfew was set in place. In addition, the town council of Hope instituted the Buddy System for all little boys. And little girls, as an added precaution. No boys under the age of fifteen were to leave their homes alone. The boys of Hope were to be accompanied by a friend at all times. If this was not possible then an adult was to chaperone the expected targets of the vicious killer’s twisted lust. It was a good idea to be sure. But its practical application wasn’t always such a success. Parents could not be expected to guard their children around the clock. In a town where employment was often spotty at best, abandoning work to protect your children against a serial killer was simply not possible. Like all dubious enterprises fuelled by good intentions, the Buddy System soon became a historical footnote. School attendance fell to an all-time low.

  In the Steynbrug township that bordered Hope, things were just as bizarre. It seemed the Steynbrug residents had not forgotten the tragic story of Benny Boonzaayer. A sangoma (traditional healer if you were in favour, witch doctor if you weren’t) made her appearance in the predominantly Coloured township. Although sangomas were a strictly African tradition, with Coloured communities veering more towards their European counterparts when it came to matters spiritual, the traditional healer suddenly found herself in great demand. For R100 the sangoma would bless your son as well as cast a protection spell. Business was good in the protection industry and soon more than one sangoma peddled their services. Just to be sure, however, Steynbrug parents also took their sons to the local Catholic priest for a blessing. It couldn’t do any harm to cover all your ecclesiastical bases, so the reasoning went. And at least the Catholic priest’s blessing was free.

  That evening, as the sun dipped into the semi-arid sands of the Karoo, the people of Hope went to bed with the uneasy realisation that a disappearance had turned into a brutal murder. And that the mystical and dark figure of Daddy Long Legs had, indeed, resurrected himself to once again blight their soil. No-one could know that the next day would bring another disaster of epic proportions.

  ***

  The next morning Human was up early. He showered, dressed and rushed to Eighteen Hill Street. The CSU photographer had contacted Human earlier that morning. He had been able to develop the crime scene photographs. They were on Human’s desk. The previous day, Human had requested a copy of the profiler’s notes. Now, with the aid of his own notes as well, he was able to undertake a detailed study of the latest crime scene. Engrossed in this intense endeavour he hardly noticed when the premises gradually started filling up as the various detectives arrived for the day’s grind. In fact, so pre-occupied was Human he didn’t even notice when a phone call produced a sudden flurry of activity. If it wasn’t Engelman who had answered the phone call, Human surely would have been informed right away. But as it turned out, immediately following the call, Engelman instead gathered his group of detectives and they – quietly – headed out. About half an hour later, the phone on Human’s desk began ringing insistently. At first he ignored it. But realising the disturbance wasn’t going to go away, Human picked up the handset. ‘’Lo,’ he said absently.

  ‘My larnie.’ Human immediately recognised the voice of his partner.

  ‘Saintes! Man, do I ever miss –’

  ‘No time for pleasantries, my bru. What the hell is going on there, Wayne?’

  Human was taken aback by Saintes van Wyk’s brusque manner. ‘Uh ... what do you ... what?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know what’s happening?’ Van Wyk cursed loudly on the other end. ‘Wayne, you better switch on the TV right now. Do it. Now!’

  Confused, Human dropped the handset into place. With a dark foreboding curled around his heart, he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV set.

  Eleven

  Kyle awoke with a hangover. A huge towering thing that sat screaming in his head. By now, his hangovers were tame little things, barely more than a mild nuisance. It was the only reward of the heavy drinker. But this morning’s hangover was different.

  Although he had made repeated resolutions to stop drinking – or at the very bloody least – drink less, nothing had come of his drunken declarations and every day, like the day before, he found himself in the dingy environs of the celebrated Horse and Hound. The previous day was no different, although the Royal Hotel’s vaunted watering hole had seen a particularly large crowd on that day. The discovery of the mangled corpse of a murdered boy can do that to people. People like Kyle Devlin. Because unlike most of the people that had crowded the narrow confines of the Horse and Hound, Kyle had a very personal connection to the little dead boy. The same killer that had carelessly dumped little Kobus’s body under the water tower ... had also taken the life of his little brother all those years ago. For Kyle, the news of the boy’s corpse brought on a paroxysm of dread ... and guilt. And several double whiskies. Throughout
a day that grew increasingly hazy, Kyle tried to fill his mind with the bric-a-brac of the alcoholic. Loose and pointless little thoughts and conjectures. Anything not to think of the dark phantom that clung to his past. But it was pointless. Try as he might, aided by booze and inane barroom conversations, he couldn’t stop thinking of that day when his brother had forever disappeared. He couldn’t forget about that day when his carelessness had caused Ryan to be swallowed up by the darkness of a twisted world. It was the careless though unintentional act of a young teenage boy racked by the demands of raging hormones. Nothing else. And yet, even now, the town of Hope couldn’t forget. And wouldn’t forgive. They still blamed him for what happened on that dark day. Buried under two decades and countless double whiskies, Kyle never allowed himself to forget. And barely allowed himself to forgive. He often thought it was his maniacal need to stay busy and focused that drove his successful career in advertising. Now, in the weeks since his career had stalled, he found it increasingly difficult to restrain his mind from brooding on that dark day, more than two decades in the past. Since that screaming headline of barely a week ago, it had become impossible. And now. With the discovery of the body. Kyle’s fragile state reached breaking point. An impossibly taut cable, about to snap under the weight of guilt and recrimination. Thank God for the ready supply of alcohol, Kyle thought to himself as he rolled out of bed. He was eager to begin another round of drinking. No. Alcohol didn’t solve any problems. And no. Throwing alcohol down his throat didn’t stop him remembering. But hell yes. It sure made the memories easier to handle. Removing all anxiety and dread that came with it.

  A few minutes later Kyle was strolling down the street. He turned in at the OK Supermarket to buy a pack of Camels. At the cash registers he waited patiently as a trainee struggled with a customer’s debit card. Behind him someone dropped a box of Kellogg’s cereal. Despite his hangover Kyle stooped to pick up the box. He turned to the person in the queue behind him. ‘Here you –’

  He was staring into the eyes of Odette.

  Seconds passed like hours. The universe shrank to a molecule. And danced with vivid electricity in the space between them. Behind them an impatient mother with two nagging children pushed past them and plonked her groceries down on the check-out counter.

  Odette spoke first. ‘Kyle.’

  Like an idiot with a hangover, Kyle stammered a single word. ‘Nienaber.’ It had been the name she had spoken over a fuzzy telephone line, almost twenty years ago. Her married name.

  ‘What?’ She laughed a deep throaty laugh, throwing her head back, a plume of rich auburn hair spilling over her shoulder. She grabbed his hand and moved him aside as another impatient customer joined the queue behind them. ‘I can’t believe it’s you. Wow.’ She pulled him closer and hugged him hard, the box of cereal digging into his back.

  ‘Yes, I ...’

  She released him and looked at him intently. ‘After all these years. Unbelievable.’ She beamed, revealing a row of even white teeth. ‘You’re looking good, Mr Devlin.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Kyle continued, still stammering with shock, ‘you look erm ... good.’ He looked down at her gray knee-length skirt and matching high heels contrasted with black stockings wrapped around long and shapely legs. At the little white button-down blouse that curled provocatively around her waist and hugged two pert little breasts. ‘Amazing, in fact.’

  She laughed again. ‘Hey, watch that big city mouth, young man.’ She looked at him with sparkling eyes, a suppressed smile dancing on full rouged lips. ‘Oh darnit, gimme another hug.’ She placed the box of cereal on a nearby shelf and embraced him again. This time Kyle hugged her back, delighting in the rich spicy aroma of her perfume. She stepped back. ‘By the way, how did you know my surname, stalker?’

  Kyle looked at her, an idiot’s grin on his face. The hangover and the sudden shock of seeing her had clouded his mind. ‘Erm ... well ... Brendan Freely told me,’ he lied. ‘Yes, he told me.’

  ‘You,’ she said, wagging a playful finger at him. Then her smiled vanished. ‘Not that it matters. That’s all a thing of the past. We got divorced a few years back.’

  ‘Really?’ Kyle asked, pretending that he didn’t already know. ‘I’m sorry to hear.’

  ‘It’s nothing. These things happen.’ She smiled wanly. ‘It’s not as if –’ Her hand shot to her mouth. ‘Oh my God. Here I am feeling sorry for myself and meanwhile ...’ She touched his shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry. Believe me, Kyle I would have attended the funeral, but I wasn’t in town. It happened so suddenly.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Kyle stammered, thinking that she had been talking about his brother this whole time. About his brother and the phantom from the past that had returned to haunt him. To haunt them all. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Listen,’ she said, looking at her watch, ‘I’ve ... I’ve got to go. But ... are you going to be in town for a while?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘I would really love to see you again. You know, talk about the good ole days, and all that.’ She dug into her purse and took out a small flip pad with a pencil attached. ‘Here, please take my cell number.’ She hurriedly scrawled a number, tore off a sheet and handed it to Kyle. ‘We don’t all have business cards like you big city slickers.’

  Kyle absently shoved the paper into his Levi’s pocket, dazzled by her smile. ‘That’d be great.’

  She stroked his cheek tenderly. ‘It was great seeing you. I mean it.’

  ‘Yeah. Same here.’

  Throwing him one last smile, she grabbed the cereal box off the shelf and hurried to an open till. Kyle stood for a moment. Dazed. Completely forgetting why he was there. When she walked out the supermarket she cast a last glance at him over her shoulder. He waved meekly. He dug in his pocket and looked at the number she had scribbled. Like a love-struck teenager he stared at the three little X’s she had scratched beneath the cell number. In a deep and dusty part of his heart, so long beset by darkness, he felt a slow uncoiling. A gentle glow. A languid sunshine sparkling into life.

  In a daze, he paid for the Camels and ambled towards the exit. Where he halted.

  Something was happening in Hope.

  Groups of people were standing around, chattering with excitement. Others were running down the street. At least two cars raced past in the same direction. Kyle stopped two youths running past him. ‘Hey, what’s happening?’

  ‘It’s Daddy Long Legs,’ the one said with wide excited eyes. ‘They caught him.’

  Twelve

  It became known as the Pill Town Massacre. And it was a fitting metaphor for the circus that the town of Hope had become.

  It wasn’t Daddy Long Legs. And they hadn’t “caught him”. Instead it was a local petty criminal and drug dealer by the name of Piet Venter. He was known locally as Piet Pille (Piet Pills).

  Piet Pille had been spotted trying to abduct a Coloured child. He was unsuccessful and fled in his car. A few locals, enflamed by alcohol and rage, had given chase. Somebody mentioned that they had seen child pornography in Piet Pille’s car. The group cornered him at his ramshackle smallholdings just north of Hope. Inside the dilapidated house Piet Pille took refuge, aided by his equally dilapidated father – and a huge arsenal of weapons. The media got hold of the story. Daddy Long Legs has been apprehended, they broadcast to an astonished world. Detective Dirk Engelman immediately saw the potential for career advancement. And promptly became the SAP spokesman, confirming the news headlines. Yes. We’ve got the bastard.

  Meanwhile, the small group of men outside Piet Pille’s residence steadily grew until it swelled into a huge mob of angry residents – chanting and baying for blood. Most of the mob were also armed.

  The situation steadily worsened. Until the riot squad from Kimberley was called in. The entire Hope police force was also deployed, forming a cordon around the seething mob.

  And then apocalypse descended upon the scene. Someone within the crowd fired a shot. Piet Pille and his father returned fire – with
semi-automatic R4 rifles. The riot squad fired several tear gas canisters into the crowd. And a bad situation became infinitely worse.

  A monstrous gunfight ensued. With the police stuck in the middle. The crowd stormed the house. And for some inexplicable reason a corner of the building burst into flames. When the mob eventually dispersed all that remained of the house was a smouldering shell. The final death toll was twenty-seven. Of that number nineteen were civilians. Ten had died of gunshot wounds; three from complications arising from gunshot wounds. Six people had died as a result of being crushed to death under the stampeding crowd. Two of those were teens.

  The police lost six officers that day. Three died as a result of gunshot wounds. A further three were crushed underfoot when the mad mob stormed the Venter house. It was a disastrous loss for the police, especially since not a single cop had fired a shot that day.

  And as for the Venters, junior and senior ... well, their charred corpses were hauled out of the smouldering frame a few hours after the massacre had taken place.

  Within a week of the massacre, the local Northern Cape government set up a commission of enquiry. The South African government had a particular predilection for commissions, spending thousands of tax payer rands to apportion blame to people who were never truly punished and arriving at conclusions which were inescapably subjective ... and political.

  Due to the ‘fog of war’ (or should that be the fog of blatant idiocy) no-one could afterwards, with any certainty, say how the whole incident started. Despite dozens of interviews, it was never determined who fired that fateful shot. After hours and hours of laborious sessions, the commission arrived at a conclusion that was only slightly more belated than it was obvious. That a single shot had indeed set off the conflagration. The protestors blamed the police. The police blamed the protestors. The Venters blamed nobody. They were both dead.