The First Rule of Survival

by Paul Mendelson

  Vaughn, smiling now, almost warm.

  ‘Your car was seen at MacNeil’s farm-stall in the afternoon before the bodies of two murder victims were found on site. We need to take your car to be examined in our labs. I’d like you to accompany us, and make a statement. Are you prepared to do that?’

  ‘Now? No, I couldn’t.’ The man runs his hand over his brow. ‘I have a business to run. My wife has to take our children to school and I must open up.’

  Low-voiced, compelling: ‘I must insist, I’m afraid. You can let your family know that you are assisting us. Come with us now, or it will be necessary to arrest you.’

  ‘Arrest me?’

  ‘In front of your family. It’s up to you.’

  Steinhauer stares nowhere for a few seconds, makes up his mind, and turns back towards the house. Don follows him. Vaughn looks around the idyllic courtyard, hears nothing from the house, shifts his weight from foot to foot.

  After an hour’s silent journey, Steinhauer’s lawyer is waiting for them at the headquarters building. He takes Steinhauer to a private room, away from de Vries.

  De Vries gestures at their backs. Says, ‘I thought so.’

  Don says: ‘He spoke to his wife out of my earshot. It is his right. We cannot stop him.’

  ‘I know, Don.’ Vaughn twists his left wrist, glances down. ‘I’m calling du Toit. If they come back, put them in the suite. If he changes his mind, tell him to wait for me.’ De Vries trots towards the escalators.

  Don waits down the corridor from the consultation rooms. He has eaten no breakfast, slept uneasily. Minutes pass. No one ventures near the corridor. He can’t hear any voices from the consultation room. His stomach rumbles.

  De Vries returns.

  ‘Du Toit wants to be the other side of the glass.’ He tilts his head down the length of the corridor. ‘Nothing?’

  Don shakes his head. The door opens at the far end of the corridor, and he sees Ralph Hopkins walk slowly towards them. He is red-faced and silver-haired, lavishly attired in a dark blue suit, white shirt and silk tie: moneyed good taste. He speaks with a low, deep voice, little eyes behind circular gold frames and thick lenses.

  ‘My client feels that he has been intimidated into this interview, against his will. I have advised him to decline your invitation. My client has, however, agreed to allow you to survey his car.’

  De Vries says, equally conspiratorially, ‘Your client will be arrested if he declines my invitation.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Suspect in a double murder, possible suspect in abduction, child abuse and false imprisonment.’

  Hopkins smiles knowingly. ‘I don’t think so, Colonel de Vries. If he warrants arrest on those charges, you would have arrested him already.’

  ‘If you want your client arrested, Mr Hopkins, I can arrange it. Tell him that and let me know his thoughts.’

  Hopkins raises an eyebrow, turns and saunters back down the corridor.

  ‘I’ve dealt with that asshole before,’ de Vries tells Don, maintaining his sotto voce. ‘He negotiated a plea bargain; got his client a minimum sentence. He goes out and rapes again six days later. The sick bastard was a wealthy white guy, separated from his wife, son at Bishops’. Hopkins is old-school; all his clients are rich – and guilty.’

  Hopkins reappears, followed by Marc Steinhauer, who is walking very slowly:

  ‘Marc has agreed to your interview, Colonel. Of course, I will be present. Then, he hopes that you will allow him to return to his business and family. Are you ready to proceed?’

  De Vries looks at Steinhauer, nods.

  Don encourages them down the corridor towards the interview suite. Vaughn waits until they are inside the room, and then calls Steve Ulton.

  ‘We’ve run prelims,’ Ulton tells him. ‘The car’s been very well cleaned. Professional steamclean too, underside also. I’ve run ultraviolet and show-up sprays and there’s nothing, but we’ve only just started.’

  ‘Take it apart,’Vaughn tells him. ‘Call me with anything.’ ‘Vaughn. Can you get his DNA? Could be useful.’

  De Vries ducks into an adjoining door; the room behind the mirror. Director du Toit is sitting on a high stool, sphinx-like eyes staring at Steinhauer. A technician supervises a video camera and recording machine.

  He walks up to du Toit, stands next to him, examines Steinhauer through the window.

  Du Toit says: ‘He looks more angry than nervous.’

  ‘Anger is usually a front.’

  Vaughn stares at Steinhauer. He watches him tap his left foot on the thin carpet, his knee rocking up and down. He sees him glance at his watch, ask Hopkins if he can call his wife, Hopkins murmuring that he should wait, Steinhauer complying. He studies the man’s face, which is tense, but no more so than he might expect in an interview room, in a police station. Steinhauer has a pudding-basin haircut, a weak nervous smile, soft pink hands. Vaughn sees him count the heartbeats he feels in his head. Something feels wrong.

  Vaughn ducks back out, straightens himself, enters the interrogation room. Steinhauer looks up at him almost, de Vries thinks, hopefully.

  ‘This interview will be recorded and a copy made available to you at the conclusion.’ De Vries indicates the tape machine to Don, and he switches it on.

  ‘Nineteenth March 2014, ten thirty-five a.m. SAPS headquarters, Suite One. Present are Mr Marc Steinhauer, his legal representative, Mr Ralph Hopkins, Colonel Vaughn de Vries, Warrant Officer Donald February.’

  Vaughn sits next to Don, opposite Steinhauer. He relaxes in his seat, takes his time.

  ‘To confirm for the tape: you are Marc Steinhauer, residing at Fineberg Estate, Fineberg Road, off Annandale Road, near Stellenbosch?’

  Steinhauer leans towards the tape device.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mr Steinhauer, you have agreed to make a voluntary statement to us regarding your visit to MacNeil’s farm-stall on—’

  ‘No.’

  De Vries opens his mouth to continue, is taken aback by Steinhauer’s negative.

  ‘I was pressured into attending this interview, under threat of arrest in front of my family. I was left no choice.’

  De Vries watches Steinhauer’s little mouth moving, pink lips fluttering; finds him sanctimonious and annoying. He smiles, almost to himself, continues calmly, ‘But you nevertheless consent to speaking with us on these matters?’

  ‘Now that my client’s objection is duly noted,’ Hopkins interjects. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. Can you confirm that you drive a silver-grey BMW 750iL, registration . . .’ He looks to Don.

  ‘CA 785454.’

  ‘Yes. That is my car.’

  ‘Please describe how you came to be at MacNeil’s farm-stall last Monday at approximately four forty-five p.m.?’

  Hopkins leans forward again. ‘I don’t believe any specific time has been mentioned or agreed.’

  De Vries nods at him, conceding the point. He turns back to Steinhauer.

  ‘At what time did you visit MacNeil’s farm-stall on Monday this week?’

  ‘I don’t remember exactly. I intended to go there for a snack, so approaching tea-time, I suppose. I found the car park full and the place busy. I changed my mind, turned around and continued home.’

  ‘From where had you been travelling?’

  ‘I had been away for the night, visiting my aunt in Riebeek West. I left after lunch and was planning to drive to Betty’s Bay, where my wife and I have a beach-house.’

  Don asks, ‘Why not take the coast road via Gordon’s Bay? Is that not more direct?’

  ‘I do sometimes. In fact, I usually do, but that day I . . . I don’t know. I decided to drive the longer but faster route over Sir Lowry’s Pass.’

  Don follows on: ‘What was the purpose of your visit to your beach-house?’

  ‘It is our holiday home.’

  ‘But you just told us that you had driven from the Riebeek Valley. You would have driven close to your main home. W
hy did you not call in there first?’

  ‘Why should I?’ He looks childlike and petulant.

  ‘Did you, in fact, visit your house in Betty’s Bay that day?’

  ‘No. I changed my mind. I had been planning to collect some books I had left there and, as much as anything else, to drive my car, but I decided that perhaps I was tired and would go home after all.’

  ‘So,’ Don says, ‘you decide to bypass your home to travel to your beach-house, but something makes you change your mind?’

  ‘Yes – no. Not anything in particular. I realized I could collect my books another time and perhaps I was being selfish and should get home to my family more quickly.’

  Steinhauer looks towards Hopkins and then back again at de Vries and Don February.

  De Vries just watches, waits.

  Don says: ‘Just run us through what you did at the farm-stall, Mr Steinhauer?’

  ‘What I did? I told you. I drove up the driveway, came into the car park, saw how busy it was, and decided not to bother.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I turned around and left.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where did you turn around?’

  ‘In the car park.’

  ‘You did not drive around to the back of the farm-stall?’

  Steinhauer frowns, thinks. Says, ‘I may have turned at the back. I’m trying to picture it.’ He closes his eyes; his lids flicker. ‘I can’t really remember.’

  ‘You did not get out of your car?’

  ‘No – no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, surely you can remember that?’ de Vries’ voice echoes in the small room; Steinhauer jumps. ‘Did you get out of your car or stay inside and just turn around?’

  Steinhauer pauses; de Vries shifts in his chair, his smile weak, his stare hard.

  ‘No. I stayed in my car.’

  ‘You stayed in your car?’

  Steinhauer looks across the table at each of them.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At what time did you reach your home in Stellenbosch?’

  ‘I don’t remember. As I say, I had made lunch for my aunt, but not eaten myself. I was hungry when I got home.’

  ‘What did you eat for your supper?’

  Steinhauer is about to answer, but Hopkins interrupts him.

  ‘Is this germane, Colonel? I appreciate your desire to have a casual discussion with my client, but surely his diet is irrelevant to your enquiries?’

  De Vries shrugs; he asked the question to observe Steinhauer talking about something irrelevant compared to, perhaps, the disposal of the bodies of two dead teenage boys. He is frustrated to have been interrupted.

  ‘Where do you have your car cleaned?’

  ‘There’s a hand-wash, valet service at the new shopping centre at the end of Annandale Road, on the main road into Stellenbosch. I take it there every week. It’s a new car. A present to myself. I drive a great deal for my work: to markets, fairs. We are adding olive oil to our range. We own twelve hectares of olive groves; I am supervising the crop. I like my car clean: it presents a good impression of me and my business.’

  ‘You have the full valet every time?’

  ‘Up till now, yes. They steamclean the upholstery, the underside of the vehicle, the tyres, everything. It’s a very good service.’

  ‘And when was it cleaned last?’

  ‘Yesterday. I did the family shop while it was being done. As usual.’

  ‘Your wife works?’

  ‘She runs the business side of the estate. I am front-of-house. The face of Fineberg, you might say.’ He manages a little smile; seems more relaxed.

  ‘I need to take you back to the farm-stall, Mr Steinhauer. Where in the car park did you turn around? It was, as you said, crowded.’

  Steinhauer sighs a little. ‘I’m not sure. Is there a turning circle at the end of the car park?’

  De Vries shakes his head.

  ‘No, Mr Steinhauer. I want to hear what you remember.’

  Steinhauer looks over to Hopkins, who says: ‘Colonel, Marc has told you that he does not clearly recollect where he turned his car in this car park. It sounds to me as if you have a witness who recalls seeing Marc’s car. Perhaps you could tell us what he, or she, thinks they saw, and we can discuss that with you?’

  ‘You were seen turning your car left at the end of the car park, around the back of the farm-stall.’

  Steinhauer blinks and shakes his head.

  ‘I may have turned left – I didn’t go behind the farm-stall. If I did, it was only to turn the car.’

  ‘As opposed to what?’

  Steinhauer freezes. ‘I – I don’t – What do you mean?’

  ‘You said, if you did, it was only to turn your car. What else would you be doing in the back yard of the farm-stall?’

  ‘If,’ Hopkins interjects, ‘you question every unassuming word in my client’s replies, it’ll be a long morning.’

  Vaughn’s eyes never leave Steinhauer. Ignoring Hopkins, he moves on smoothly.

  ‘Did you read about, or see the reports on this murder investigation, currently under way?’

  ‘I’m too busy to read the rubbish in the newspapers and we discourage our children from watching television. So, no.’

  ‘You were not aware that we are actively seeking witnesses from MacNeil’s farm-stall on that date?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, no. If I had, I would have contacted you.’

  Snidely: ‘If you had remembered that you had been there.’

  Steinhauer askance; Hopkins asking, ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Merely that, when we were talking with Mr Steinhauer at his home, he claimed to have forgotten that he had been there.’

  ‘I should have thought,’ Hopkins pronounces, ‘that if you went somewhere where you merely drive in and out of a car park, it is not something that will remain at the forefront of your mind.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Do you have any further questions for my client?’

  De Vries gets up. ‘A few minutes more, gentlemen.’

  He exits the suite, enters the observation room.

  Du Toit says: ‘What have you got forensically?’

  De Vries, his cellphone at the ready. ‘I’m checking now.’

  Du Toit: ‘I mistrust his manner.’

  De Vries is listening to Steve Ulton. His phone snaps shut.

  ‘Nothing. Ulton says he’ll need all day to fully process it.’

  ‘Damn. It’s not him, is it?’

  ‘It’s his car. The colour, the make, the blinds at the back, the Fineberg label.’

  ‘But Ulton has nothing. We can’t prove it.’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Get him out of here,Vaughn. Tell him we’ll hold the car for twenty-four hours, offer to have it driven back for him. He’s not going anywhere; he’s got his wife and family there. If he’s got nothing to do with this, you see how it’ll look?’

  ‘Look?’

  ‘The case reopened. Nicholas Steinhauer publicly criticized you back then – both of us – all of us. Now you drag his brother into the station. The man’s well known now, well respected. You know how Hopkins will work the press. They’re supporting us for now, but you can imagine how this could play?’

  De Vries takes a deep breath; he feels energy draining from him.

  ‘Very well, sir. He’s hiding something, though; he’s a completely different man when he’s with Hopkins. Whatever it is, he’s afraid that his wife and family will find out.’

  ‘Unless you can tie that car to those two bodies, it’s nothing. Probably cheating on his wife, that’s all. And Vaughn – tell February that there is zero leak on this discussion. No one from the department is to mention a word about having him here. If it gets in the papers, we’ll know who leaked it.’

  De Vries nods, leaves the room, his shoulders down, prepares to let Steinhauer go.

  Vaughn hands Don a
DNA swab kit.

  ‘DNA? Why?’ Steinhauer released, then asked for one more cooperation.

  De Vries: ‘So that our lab can eliminate your DNA in comparison to any other traces found.’

  Steinhauer glances at Hopkins, who nods once.

  A huff. ‘What do I do?’

  Don takes an oral swab from Steinhauer’s gums, places the cotton bud in the test-tube provided, seals it. Steinhauer makes a point of rubbing his tongue over his teeth, as if, somehow, a cotton bud had been displeasing to his system.

  De Vries opens the door to the suite, ushers Steinhauer and Hopkins out ahead of him, offers Steinhauer a lift back to the Fineberg Estate.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Hopkins tells de Vries outside, standing between him and Steinhauer. ‘I will drive Marc home myself. He’s been under quite enough stress for one day. An early-morning raid, an interrogation . . .’

  ‘That’s not what happened.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be in your report. Make sure you call Mr Steinhauer this evening and let him know at what time his vehicle will be returned. He has cooperated fully. And, Colonel, if you wish to speak with him again, have the courtesy to permit him his legal right of an attorney – before you start your questioning.’

  Hopkins turns away, leads Steinhauer towards the exit. Vaughn watches them go, his teeth gritted.

  Don February, silent again, sitting in de Vries’ office. Outside, scalding afternoon sun on the windows. He wants to be working; wants to be doing something. De Vries enters, slams the door.

  ‘We wait. Steve Ulton says he’s finding stuff. Nothing standout, but possibles.’ He sits at his desk, struggles out of his jacket. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Nervous, particularly when you spoke about MacNeil’s; evasive. But he was jumpy anyway, when I first visited him. He had certain answers worked out but, other times, he stutters while he thinks of what to say. I think he is lying, or not telling all of the truth, but if we cannot link him to the bodies, I suppose we do not have anything.’

  ‘That’s what du Toit said.’

  ‘You, sir?’