But attributing any of the above mentioned achievements to the red-faced grim reaper look-alike breathing expletives from the corner of the small office wouldn’t do anyone any good.
My grandfather looks up at me with narrowed eyes, his jaw clenched, before he straightens in his seat like a proud peacock.
The door slams shut and the key turns in the lock leaving me and the old man alone in the office.
His fisted hand moves to hover above the desk, then he drops a human tooth dangling from a leather cord onto the smooth surface. I look at the necklace, an intricate knot tying the human molar to the leather thong, and divert my stare to the speckles of blood on my grandfather’s knuckles.
Our gazes meet.
He seems unfazed by whatever retribution might come his way.
“In my defence,” he says gruffly, “there’s always been a method to my madness.”
Never has he spoken truer words.
Chapter 10
POLICE REPORT
Case Number: 010147858
Date: 22 June 2008
Reporting Officer: Deputy Clarence White
Prepared By: Tshabiso Hadebe
Incident Type:
Aggravated Assault / Attempted Murder
Address of Occurrence:
77 Semenya Street, Atteridgeville, Pretoria, 0006
Witness(es):
Lebo Jacobs: Neighbour. Male, 43
Evidence:
Fingerprints (taken from counter)
Footprint (size 10 Nike Air, found in mud outside point of entry)
DNA (collected from underneath the victim’s fingernails)
Weapon/Objects Used:
Panga / Kitchen Knives / Iron
Summary:
On June 22, 2008, at approximately 20:38, two unidentified males broke into the residence of Lucky Zingithwa in Atteridgeville, Pretoria (through a bedroom window with no burglar proofing) and went on to assault, torture and mutilate the victim with sundry weapons.
The victim, Lucky Zingithwa, was overpowered by the first intruder in the kitchen. He attempted to fight back with a kitchen knife, but the second intruder came up from behind, and knocked him unconscious. According to the victim’s statement, when he awoke he was bound to a kitchen chair and gagged and looking at two masked assailants, both wearing leather jackets, jeans, and ski masks.
“One carried a panga and the other one took the steak knife I had defended myself with,” said Lucky Zingithwa.
Upon his awareness, the assailants tortured the victim through repeated beatings before being cut across his body with the kitchen knives. One of the assailants found a clothing iron, plugged it into the electricity socket, and used it to burn the left side of the victim’s face. Thereafter, the assailants went on to remove the victim’s teeth and eyes and hack off one of his feet.
There is no sign of the victim’s body parts in or around the residence or surrounding neighbourhood, which makes this—possibly—a muti-related attack. Christiaan Snyders, occult-crime specialist, was called in to consult on the case (Snyders International—Case File: #23-CS).
After the assault/attempted murder, the two suspects fled through the front door. No witnesses have come forward to indicate whether the suspects had a getaway car.
A neighbour, Lebo Jacobs, heard commotion but thought the victim was having a domestic squabble with one of his girlfriends at the time. He asserted to officers he didn’t see anything which could be used to lead them to a suspect. He did, however, call an ambulance and the police when he heard the victim’s muffled cries for help around 23:00.
Deputy Clarence White was the first to respond to the emergency call and arrived at the scene around 23:10. He identified a partial footprint in the mud outside of the point of entry. A bloody fingerprint on the kitchen counter from when a suspect possibly leaned against it, was also found and sent to the forensics lab for analysis. Closer inspection of the shoeprint revealed one of the suspects was wearing size 10 Nike Airs. DNA evidence has also been collected from underneath the victim’s fingernails and has been sent for analysis to the forensic lab.
Victim, Lucky Zingithwa, mentioned in his statement one of the assailants wore a leather necklace with a human tooth hanging from it.
Notes:
Refer to Addendum D for the forensic lab’s DNA and fingerprint results.
Chapter 11
My grandfather’s office is large and arbitrary.
What was once the main bedroom had been extended in width and length to contain everything Christiaan Snyders deems purposeful. This includes a large glass case stretching the entirety of the back wall. From ceiling to floor, the glass case houses a collection of fantastic items with equally unbelievable stories attached.
There is an authentic Maori Warrior Mask—one of many in the world—stationed proudly in the top left corner of the case. Maori warriors used to carve masks and statues prior to going into battle. It is believed the spirit of any Maori man who lost his life in battle would then take over the specially carved pieces. Father Gabriel baptised Gramps’ Maori Mask as Houdini when he first arrived and the name stuck. It’s a nice story; imagining a warrior’s soul lives on in an inanimate object, except it is also believed these masks and statues bring harm to pregnant or menstruating women. So far, we cannot claim any females in the agency have been affected by Houdini, but he is a weirder-than-usual Maori Mask without the added stigma. Every once in a while Houdini disappears for weeks at a time. Where he goes, nobody knows, but when he returns he often wears a smug smile. Gradually, the smugness fades and his usual unpleased frown is back in its place.
To be honest, I think Houdini is a peeping pervert, but I would not say it to his face.
Next to Houdini sits an honest-to-God shrunken head dating back to the late 1800s. We call him Jack (don’t ask me why). Jack comes from Peru, but he ended up in Gramps’ collection a few decades ago when another collector decided he was a cursed object. Apparently Jack mumbles from time to time and it freaks people out. His story is not half as interesting as some of the other items. But take it from me, shrunken heads are kind of cool to look at.
The rest of the top shelf is dedicated to other cursed knickknacks. There are ancient Israeli oil lamps in various sizes and shapes (none of which houses a genie, fortunately), statuettes from Mesopotamia, bad luck coins and plates, a Chinese vase, and a cracked Japanese teapot.
On the second glass shelf are a few haunted dolls. Gretchen, a pretty porcelain one with wide blue eyes, perfectly curled blonde locks and a cheerful floral dress, stares directly into the kitchen situated across from Gramps’ office. Though she doesn’t do anything malicious around here she has a tendency to hurt children. According to my grandfather, Gretchen attacked one of her previous owners with a Minora blade back in the 1960s, scarring the poor child for life, mentally and physically. After the incident, other owners of the doll reported their hair being pulled, being pinched, and the doll moving around at night. Nothing of the sort has happened since she’s taken residence in the glass case.
Beside Gretchen sits the vintage cymbal-banging monkey, which comes to life all by itself for hours at a time. The bastard has a sick sense of humour because he loves making a racket when someone’s working after hours, which tends to scare the living crap out of anyone unfortunate enough to try and get an overtime cheque.
Otherwise, he’s benevolent.
Then there’s a voodoo doll from the 1800s, wooden blocks that enjoy spelling out colourful words no child should know until he or she has hit puberty, and a creepy clown with an affinity for destruction of property.
On the third shelf is The Crying Boy painting—a print, in this case—displayed in a special frame inhibiting its pyrokinetic abilities. The Crying Boy’s story is common in England but around here people don’t know the tale.
The boy is said to have been orphaned and abandoned on the street as a young child (circa 1950) and was found alone and crying after his parents’ recent deaths in
a house fire; one he supposedly started with his mind. Many claimed he had real life pyrokenetic abilities, and was thus named Diablo (devil) or The Fire Starter. An artist by the name of Bruno Amadio found the boy and painted his portrait and rumours have it he also allowed the boy to live with him in his studio apartment. Shortly after the completion of his work, the studio burnt to the ground.
The boy was then passed from family to family, and each family lost their house to a spontaneous fire.
Later, the same boy died in a car accident. No one claimed his body. People forgot about him, the painting, and the tale until thirty-five years later. In 1985, in areas throughout England, some fifty house fires occurred in which the houses were completely burned to the ground. In each case only one item within the house was left untouched and unclaimed by the raging fire: The Crying Boy picture. By then, the painting had been mass produced so there were thousands of copies in circulation. Although the whereabouts of the original painting (there were twenty-eight so-called originals) is unknown, the curse seems to extend to the copies as well.
Gramps also owns a demonically possessed Ouija board, sitting beside The Crying Boy. In front of it is a magician’s grimoire from the late 1700s, covered in human skin. A pearl necklace and sapphire hair comb, supposedly haunted, also make their home on the third shelf.
The newest addition to Gramps’ collection is a real “hand of glory,” the same one that had gotten him into trouble at the airport. I cannot wait to hear the story behind it at our next office gathering under the lapa.
Every few years Gramps changes out the displayed collection with other procured artefacts. Where he keeps the rest of his stuff, I cannot say.
I only hope he gets rid of the stupid monkey soon.
The remainder of Christiaan Snyders’ office is lavishly decorated. Expensive lamps accentuate expensive furniture. Rare books from around the world in several languages line the shelves behind his desk. A post-modern art piece, by some famous sculptor, stands in the corner. These things are simply the most conspicuous of the lot. Within the nooks and crannies are other miscellanies, forgotten until they are needed. Amulets and talismans hide in a flowerless vase. A discarded bowtie dangles precariously from a candelabrum, its purpose and owner unknown. A Carrol Boyes letter opener, positioned next to a Faberge egg I’ve coveted my entire life, is on his desk. Where he found the Faberge egg is anyone’s guess but he insists it’s the real deal and he promised me if he ever wants to get rid of it I have first dibs.
My feet sink into the plush carpet as I pace the length of my grandfather’s office. “We’re setting ourselves up for the South African version of an O.J. Simpson trial. Do you have no consideration for the law?”
My grandfather and Howlen are working on the illegally obtained DNA evidence Pops had collected from the customs officers at the airport.
“And you!” I say with a jut of my chin.
Howlen watches me from underneath his thick eyelashes.
“I expect more from you when it comes to adhering chain-of-custody laws,” I say.
“Get off your high horse, Esmé,” Gramps says.
Howlen’s gloved hand swabs the customs officer’s dried blood off my grandfather’s knuckles.
As soon as I got him out of trouble at the airport—not including the assault charges they’ll file against him at first light—Gramps instructed me to find a Ziploc bag so we could cover his hand (the evidence) with it.
Gramps says, “It was probable cause and I am a consulting specialist on the case. Besides, the guy was interviewed as a possible suspect numerous times.”
“Probable cause does not extend beyond the police! You are not the police!”
“And you, my sweet grandbaby girl, have forgotten we live in South Africa.”
“What does that have to do with anything, Pops?”
He groans and gives Howlen one of his help-me-out-with-this looks.
“Esmé,” Howlen explains, “criminals find loopholes all the time, which is why the police hire consultants like us to do the things they cannot do, while under the influence of a badge. Technically speaking, with a good prosecutor on our side, Christiaan can be seen as a part of the chain of custody. If we have an ignorant judge, nobody will even question the event. On another note, Christiaan also obtained video evidence of the suspect wearing the necklace and I’m a licensed forensic criminologist. Everything counts in our favour.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“Relax, May. Detective Mosepi will probably only use this evidence to get a search warrant for the suspect’s house.”
“May?” Gramps asks nobody in particular, an eyebrow rising. “You two have grown rather chummy since I last saw you. I bet she calls you Howl, right?” He laughs at his own, unfunny, joke. It takes all of my strength not to go over there and throttle him. “Your mother will love that.”
“You know his mother?”
“Of course I do.” His shoulder twitches into what I believe was meant as a shrug. “Lady Sophia Jane Walcott is one of my dearest friends.”
“Lady Sophia Jane Walcott?” I parrot, and chance a glance at the expressionless Howlen.
He’s transfixed by my grandfather’s knuckles.
“How noble she sounds.”.
“I sense awkwardness,” Gramps muses, looking between Howlen and me. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Nope.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Howlen, will you be so kind as to take my grandfather home tonight? I have to get ready for an appointment.”
All I get is a curt nod.
“What type of appointment, May?” My grandfather chuckles under his breath.
“The type of appointment that involves getting up close and personal with a dominatrix at a residential swingers’ club.”
“I hope you’re joking.” Grandpa’s expression is almost as priceless as Howlen’s shock, which is quickly replaced with a scowl. I answer them with a sheepish grin, and begin to exit the office. “Esmé, tell me you’re joking!”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call over my shoulder, suppressing a laugh.
The truth is I’m not joking.
Leila Fourie and I go way back.
She was the popular girl in high school with a flock of rugby players tending to her every whim and need whereas I was the awkward girl smoking those cheap Voyager cigarettes under the bleachers with other likeminded outcasts. Leila had the body of a svelte twenty-something year-old when she was barely sixteen, whereas I was a bit more childish-looking. We’ve always been worlds apart but an unlikely friendship grew in the summer of 2004 after I held back her hair while she vomited up a bottle of vodka. As remuneration for not abandoning her like her so-called friends Leila taught me the finer points of womanhood. Before her I was clueless when it came to cosmetics and clothes due to growing up in a predominantly male environment. Now I’m possibly the best-dressed occult crime expert in the world. Before me she perpetually second-guessed herself and relied on others to rate her worth. Now Leila is a respected publicist for a major mobile company by day and a fetishist by night. She’s independent and self-confident unlike ever before.
The reason we meet in secret—in a swingers’ club that changes location every time a gathering is planned—is because she gets confidential information from high profile individuals and secure databases. She could easily be assassinated if our friendship becomes public knowledge. This is why we only meet on a bimonthly basis at the swingers’ club, where members’ secrets are kept secret.
The location for the swingers’ club, tonight, is in an ambassadorial mansion in Moreleta Park. It’s a beautiful house with an enclosed courtyard, pool, four bedrooms with en-suites and a fifth with its own lounge. And the whole place overlooks a private bird park, dam, and endless rolling lawns.
When I drive up a security guard checks my credentials and membership card at the gate before he waves me through with a tip of a non-existent hat. Then the hard part begins.
I climb
out of my car wearing a formal red dress with a low front and an even lower back. I carry my prop-box I’ve filled with all kinds of goodies Leila will swoon over. I walk up to the front door of the mansion and knock. Inside people are already laughing and acquainting or reacquainting themselves with one another.
The soirée is in full swing.
The door opens and another security guard allows me entry. Familiar faces smile at me. We exchange greetings or trade quick tête-à-têtes while I discreetly sweep the room for Leila. I move on to the next room, and the next, falling into the usual routine of conversation until I finally find Leila in the kitchen. She is dressed in a Grecian-style white dress, sipping tentatively on a flute of champagne.
Leila doesn’t feign an iota of interest with the older gentleman trying to wiggle his way into her knickers, but he doesn’t get the message.
Only when she spots me in the door does her face brighten.
“Excuse me.” Leila pushes past the tuxedo-clad man and closes the distance between us. Air-kisses are exchanged and the box is handed over.
“What a boring old fart,” she whispers as we exit the kitchen to explore the house. “As if someone like me would ever agree to consensual sex with someone like him. He’s on the verge of bankruptcy. By God, I do have some standards.”
I laugh. “Good thing I made the cut.”
“I told you if you ever want to change teams I’d go steady with you.” Leila winks.
I almost blush at her appraising glance, but we end up laughing it off.
Muti Nation Page 6
