Deadline

by Zaheera Walker

  While the world mourned her death, another woman of greatness passed on – Mother Teresa. Feriyal admired her and had hoped she could travel to Calcutta to meet her in person one day. Death ruined that chance. A week after her passing, the Emmanuel Cathedral invited the media to cover the requiem mass.

  “Just hope I manage to find parking. I hate driving in the city centre. Too much hassle,” Feriyal mumbled to Sandile Nkosi, the junior reporter who tagged along. Cars were packed like sardines outside the cathedral. “Well, I’m just going to pull up here. Let’s go before some cop asks us to move.”

  Hundreds of worshippers filed inside and settled in the pews. Everyone loved her, it seemed. They showed this in their tears; in their fond memories of her; clutching the great mother’s photo in their hands; hands kept close to their hearts. Even her favourite hymn, Mother’s Jesus, echoed throughout the building.

  “Did you know much about Mother Teresa?” Feriyal tried to make Sandile feel at ease. It was his first assignment. It could be daunting sometimes. She remembered her first time and the blunders on the scene.

  “Mmm... well, only what I learnt in my history lessons at school.” He smiled like a summer’s breeze. “She left her homeland to settle in India. Many saw her as a beacon of hope. Hope to those who had nothing.”

  “You paid attention in class, hey. Smart lad. That was something I struggled to do in my days.” Feriyal checked to see if her phone was on silent mode. “Yes. Mother Teresa was all of that and more. A champion of the sick and poor.”

  A hush filled the air. The moment was sombre. In a room adjoining the main area, a large robed man gave instructions to his team. He seemed to command respect; to ensure all was in order before he addressed the congregation. Altar boys scurried around to sanctify the cathedral with frankincense.

  “I wonder why they do this.” It was her first time inside a cathedral and she questioned everything.

  “Yeah, I asked my parents the same thing once when they took me to a service. My father said in the old days this is how they used to get rid of the mice in the building. Mice or rats; I can’t remember.”

  “Well, whatever they did it for, it sure smells nice.” She closed her eyes and inhaled.

  A silence fell in the building. The mass was about to begin.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and in the presence of the congregation to honour the life of our Mother Teresa. It is indeed a sad day, but a day to remember her. And a day to celebrate the goodness she has left behind. We have lost a mother, a sister and a child of God. The future offered her nothing, but she took with her the wealth of absolute simplicity. The absolute simplicity of her faith in God, her hope and her love.”

  The sermon continued for some time. There were moments when it was punctuated with hymns and the upliftment work done by the sariclad mother. It reflected the brilliance of a shining star whose light had gone out too soon. Everyone seemed to know the preacher’s identity; the man who seemed to have more wattage than a light bulb. He had a way with words. When he spoke, everyone listened. Feriyal turned to the woman on her left. “Excuse me. What is his name?”

  “That’s our Archbishop Daniel Hurley. He’s the head of this cathedral.”

  “Thank you.” She pushed her notepad and pen into the woman’s hand. “Please write his name for me. I need to have the correct spelling.”

  “With pleasure.” The woman inked it down in her best handwriting.

  “And my name is Saras Charles. Here’s my number. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thanks again. I’ll keep that in mind.” It was time to leave, but people were lining up in front of another man dressed in a similar uniform to the archbishop. “What’s happening now?”

  “It’s time for the Holy Communion. See the man in front?” Sandile pointed at him. “Must be the lay minister. A senior figure in the congregation. Stands in for the head of the cathedral at times. These worshippers are preparing to receive the bread and blood of Christ.”

  He nudged Feriyal. “Watch. The man in front opens his mouth. The minister places a wafer biscuit on his tongue. Now he sips wine from the chalice.” He was mesmerised by the beauty of faith. “This shows he is accepting the body of Christ.”

  “Thank you, Sandile. You’re a wealth of knowledge. A rough diamond in our newsroom.” Feriyal was sincere and grateful to work with someone who shared her passion for news. “You seem to understand cultures and religion well. It was interesting to work with you today.”

  “Awe, thanks Feriyal. It does boost my ego somewhat. I do hope we can work together again. It would be nice to learn a bit from you before I go back for my final exams.”

  The service ended during rush-hour traffic. Exhaust fumes permeated the stale city air. Cars screeched and hiccupped along the road. Four policemen helped Feriyal smooth her way into a safe lane.

  ***

  The pair reached the newsroom as the last batch of the day staff was making an exit. It was 5pm. A few things left to do before rounding it off.

  “Are you keen to write the article for tomorrow, Sandile? You can have my notes. Compare it to what you have. Then put something together. Remember the basic 5Ws and 1H. The foundation rules for our articles. I’ll help you check it before you submit.”

  He looked confused. “Huh? What rules? The 5Ws and 1H?”

  Feriyal felt a rush of heat flooding her face. How stupid? Here was a new face in the office and she was talking editorial jargon to him. “I’m sorry, man. It’s ‘who, what, where, when, why and how’. Master that technique in all your work and you’re halfway home.”

  “Thanks for that. I’ll remember it always.” Sandile opened a new page on his screen, deciphered the squiggles on both notepads andclosed his eyes as if in prayer. Eureka! He had an idea. He could not afford to lose his train of thought and, lightning-fast, he started punching his keyboard.

  With that under control, Feriyal remembered she had to make an urgent call. She stepped into the foyer to use her cell phone. “Hi Captain Smith.” She addressed him with respect; used his title whenever she spoke to him. There were some times when he was just Smith. “It’s Feriyal. Can we meet to discuss the serial killer matter?” Her eyebrows knitted as she strained to hear him.

  “Sorry about the noise, but I’m in the city centre. Almost done at this scene.” He gave her a few options of where they could meet.

  “Yes. Aha. Not a problem. See you then.” Smith arranged to meet Feriyal after work the next day. They agreed to relook at the cases piling up; the profile that fit the killer. Anything they could take out of the files.

  ***

  The day dawned bright and beautiful. Her diary was hectic. Most of her time was going to be spent in court. First, she had to eat breakfast with Shane. It was routine. The staple cornflakes and skim milk washed down with a glass of orange juice. Then she had to inform him about the serial killer meeting later that afternoon.

  “Morning love. Sleep well?” Feriyal could not believe her words. Had she just called him ‘love’? A slip of the tongue. A Freudian slip? It was too late to take it back. Too late to find another term of affection for him. Love. It did have a nice ring to it.

  “Hi babe.” He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Yes, it was a good night. You’re in high spirits this morning. What’s happening?”

  “I called Smith yesterday.” She stopped to choose her words carefully.

  “Told him I wanted to discuss the case. I’m meeting him after work today. Would you like to tag along?”

  “No can do. There’s a board meeting at 4pm. It could run late. Don’t want you to miss your appointment. I know how much this means to you.” He sipped his coffee and shot a wink at her. “You go ahead. Tell menall about it when we see each other tonight.”

  ***

  Court orderlies were back at work. They had gone on a strike to demand better working conditions and a salary to match their jobs. Calm was restored and the whe
els of justice turned at a good pace. Feriyal took her seat in the Ycourt gallery. She watched the first batch of prisoners emerge from the grille. Ten men. She studied their expressions as they took their seats in the dock. They were charged with murder related to the taxi feud. It was a brief appearance.

  “All rise. Presiding Officer Harry Weitz.” Sergeant Charles was the resident court orderly. He was a lighthearted man who had a unique way of announcing the magistrate’s arrival.

  The courtroom was filled to capacity. Everyone rose for

  a brief moment. Enough time for the magistrate to take his seat.

  Mr Weitz adjusted his spectacles, then lowered his gaze. He read some notes and cleared his throat. “What a way to start. Five counts of murder.” He shook his head. “Are the accused in court?”

  “Yes,” a voice echoed from the group of attorneys waiting for their specific cases.

  “Mr Max Nkosi.” The magistrate looked straight at the man who was now standing in the dock. He looked at his notes again. “Do you have an attorney?” Before the accused could respond, he said, “If you can’t afford one, the state will make provisions for you. Do you understand what this means?”

  Max Nkosi bowed his head. “Yes, Your Honour.” He took his seat again, then turned to search the gallery. Who was he hoping to see?

  “Your Honour, the defence would like to request an adjournment. We did not have sufficient time to consult with our client.”

  “Does the state have any objections?”

  “No, Your Honour.”

  “Well then. The bail application will be set down for 30

  September in X-Court.”

  Feriyal rose from her seat. She walked to the door and did a little curtsy before she left the room; a sign of respect for the court. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as she took in the sight of heavily armed policemen. They were stationed in court to ensure the prisoners didn’t try to cause any problems.

  A week before the accused appeared in court, newspapers reported the bloodbath at the taxi rank. It detailed how gunmen had opened fire without warning. A policeman, two hitmen and two unidentified people had been killed.

  Next was a fraud sentencing in V-court. This was a quick one, because the accused, Dombi Zuma, pleaded guilty to thirty-five counts of fraud.

  The old woman from Empangeni wiped away tears while she listened to magistrate Kate Naidoo announce the sentence.

  “Fraud is a cancer eating at the very root of society. We cannot treat this lightly. She cleared her throat. “You, Mrs Dombi Zuma, co-operated with the investigators in this particular matter. You spent a long time awaiting trial. Eighteen months. You are the sole breadwinner for your child. You used your late mother-in-law’s identity details to apply for a pension. You also didn’t waste the court’s time and pleaded guilty. I’m giving you a suspended sentence. I hope you have learnt your lesson.”

  Feriyal took pity on the woman. She had spent such a long time in prison. There was no family support for her in court. Worst of all was that she didn’t have any money to travel back to her home and her child.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Two coffees later, Feriyal was still waiting. She was irritated. Her hands folded in front of her, she leant back into the chair. Her legs crossed, then uncrossed. Smith was forty-five minutes late. Her fingers began drumming the table top. Why hasn’t he called? He sure is taking his sweet time. Has he forgotten?

  “Hi there. Sorry to keep you waiting. Had to get the file out. You know the matter is sensitive. Not easy to stroll out with this file.” Thud.

  He dropped it on the table.

  “No problem, Captain. Just got here myself,” she lied. How dare he keep her waiting?

  “Since we are going to be working closely, please don’t become all formal when you’re around me. Just be yourself. ”

  “I will remember that.” She waved the waiter over to the table. “Two coffees please.” She looked at him. “Is coffee all right?”

  “Yes. I could do with a strong cup. Been a hectic day.”

  He opened the file and flipped through the pages, careful not to mislay loose cuttings.

  “What can you tell me about this case? I have read a bit from the file you gave me. Did some research as well.

  Anything new?”

  “Well, the murders are now up to twenty-three. Suspect is still at large. He may have started the killing spree seven months ago, but we can’t be certain. The victims were all Indian. All in their mid-twenties to early thirties. They were raped, and strangled with a chain and a coinlike object, because of the imprint on the throat.” He stopped for a bit.

  “Are you one of those fearless journos?”

  “What sort of a question is that?” Feriyal became uneasy. “Yes, I am. Always have been. I will go to great lengths to investigate my story, but I do everything in line with my ethics.”

  “Whoa, young lady! No need to bite my head off. I just wanted to propose something. Come. Let me take you to one of the scenes.” Feriyal was embarrassed for barking at him. She was excited too. Visiting a crime scene made her feel like she was being cast in a role for the X-Files. “I’m sorry I misunderstood.” She dropped her gaze, but then shot back, “Nothing will hold me back from chasing a good story. And thanks. I appreciate what you’re doing for me. Let’s be on our way.” It was a risk going there without police back-up. The area had been cordoned off after the last body had been picked up. Detectives were still combing the area for clues. Taking a civilian to the crime scene might hamper investigations. Smith knew all this, but nothing was going to deter him. They headed to Phoenix in his unmarked police car.

  The place she had called home until a month ago.

  “You travel all this way? Day in and day out? How do you do it?” Smith was weaving through peak-hour traffic.

  He wanted to reach the crime scene while there was still light.

  “I enjoy my work. So getting to and from work was never an issue for me. Take it you haven’t heard. I now live close to work. Moved in with Shane not too long ago. And it’s a good thing too.”

  Smith clicked his fingers and his face lit up. “I knew it! I knew there was something going on between the two of you. Anyway, I think he’s a great catch. And from what I’ve seen, I think you two make a nice pair.”

  Her face flushed pink. “I didn’t think it was that obvious. We try to keep our relationship under the radar. It’s still early days.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll take this secret to my grave.” He crossed his heart and grabbed the wheel again to keep moving in a straight line.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “So what’s it like? Your travelling time? Safer too, I guess, with the serial killer on the prowl. Wise decision to move out of here.” He stopped short and surveyed the area with his trained eye. “Hope you’re ready for this. We’re close to the scene.”

  Feriyal unclipped the belt and strained to catch a glimpse of the area.

  “Yes, I am. Having a look at the scene will help to make things a bit clearer. I pray he is caught before he swoops on his next prey.”

  The bright orange from the setting sun painted a beautiful picture. Its rays stretched out like arms hugging the dense field – the last embrace before the darkness; before evil descended.

  “We’ll get him. We’ll get the bastard. Just a matter of time. He will slip up and we’ll bring him down.” Smith opened the compartment below the dashboard. “Before I forget. This is the cell phone you must have with you at all times. It’s small compared to most phones. There’s a chip built inside. To help to pick up your location. The phone number is written on the box. There is sufficient airtime for the phone. Keep it switched on at all times.”

  “Thanks. I’ve never seen such a tiny phone. The one I have looks like a brick.” She laughed.

  “The only people who will know about the phone are you and me. Nobody else must know about this or it could jeopardise the case. Come. Le
t’s do this while there is still some light.”

  They unlocked their doors and stepped outside. Their shoes flattened the soil, with each step leaving imprints crunched on the ground; the one that became the final resting place for countless victims. A cold gust of wind kissed Feriyal’s cheeks. She pulled her jacket tight. Her hands sought comfort in the pockets. She was treading on dead ground.

  Her feet betrayed her. They remained rooted to the spot; too scared to move any further. That was until Smith joined her, with a gun secured in a holster around his waist.

  “I’ve been a policeman for twenty years. Seen it all. But when I come here my heart sinks. The first woman looked so beautiful. Her nails were neat. Healthy hair. She was elegant. We found her dumped over there.” He pointed to a clearing now marked as a crime scene. “He must have held her down with such force the metal disc cut into her throat. Her underwear was missing. Genitals slashed. Limbs twisted.”

  He flicked a match, then lit a cigarette. He dragged on it deeply. Plumes of smoke billowed from his nostrils and mouth. “This son of a bitch is crazy. Punched her black and blue. A coward. He took his frustration out on her.” Smith’s voice cracked. “Sorry to display my weakness.” He turned away to wipe his eyes.

  Feriyal cringed. She hadn’t known that policemen showed emotion. She had always believed they were as hard as nails. Should she comfort him or pretend she didn’t notice his pain? Without further debate, she hugged him. “Like you said, he’ll get caught. I have faith in the justice system. Trust that the punishment will fit the crime.” It could not be anyother way, she thought. “I don’t see what you see, but this can’t be easy for you. To go home to your family and pretend all is well. I’m grateful there are men like you who are so committed to the work you do.”

  “I asked you to put your life at risk. What sort of a man would do that? What was I thinking?” His hands shielded his face. He took a deep breath. “You can change your mind, you know. I won’t be upset.”

  Smith continued padding through the dense growth, stopping at different spots to remember the nightmares that haunted him each time he picked up a body. A dead woman. Someone’s mother. A wife. In the end, she became another statistic. Life was harsh.