The First Rule of Survival

by Paul Mendelson

  ‘Maybe whoever killed him did not bury him.’

  De Vries and Kleinman look over at Don.

  ‘Indeed, Warrant February,’ Kleinman says kindly. ‘The act of poisoning – and the death would not have been swift or without great pain – and the ritual of wrapping and preserving the body seem at odds.’ He turns back to de Vries. ‘Not, of course, that this is my area. But it is my professional experience that when a body, particularly a child’s body, is . . . cherished in such a way, it is the action of someone who loved them and not a mindless killer.’

  ‘Henderson told me he loved them,’ de Vries says grimly.

  ‘Did Steve identify prints or DNA from the body?’ Kleinman asks. ‘Lab work is really your only hope there.’

  ‘Apparently not. And now everything is being scaled down. No time for answers, Harry. No appetite for the truth.’

  ‘I understand how you feel,Vaughn, but do you have any idea how many other deaths I see, in this building alone? This lab was only supposed to operate for your department and as a priority unit for high-profile Metro cases but, frankly, there are bodies on gurneys in the corridors. It’s nightmarish.’

  They sit in a mourning silence until Kleinman stands, slides his report onto de Vries’ desk and walks away, opening the office door and closing it again silently.

  De Vries mumbles, ‘What to do?’

  Don February looks at him, his mind racing. He says quietly, ‘I do not know.’

  De Vries drinks wine from the cellar of his family’s house, wine kept for special occasions, for dinner parties with Suzanne’s bosses, for family celebrations of Matric results and university acceptances. He knows that he will not drink to celebrate anything any more.

  He starts each evening only with negatives: no new information, no new angle from which to attack the insurmountable peak. Each piece which does not fit into the picture remains unidentifiable. As the time passes, he knows that the answers are moving, not closer, but further from him. As he watches the empty bottles gather at the far end of the mahogany dining table, his frustration festers and builds. When he sleeps, it is only for moments until he jolts awake once more, certain that a new clarity is just within grasp but then, when he is fully conscious, it evaporates. When he finally sleeps for a few hours, he wakes only when he falls from his chair at the head of the table to the floor.

  ‘You should know, Vaughn,’ du Toit says, ‘that I am inclined to agree with those who say this is the act of a desperate man.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘I know you don’t – but maybe you should.’

  De Vries stares down to the street below. Murmurs, ‘Look at them all . . .’

  ‘What do they expect?’ du Toit continues, following de Vries’ gaze. ‘That we’ll parade him in through the front doors?’

  ‘At least they know we’ve arrested him. That alone sends out a warning.’

  Du Toit looks up at de Vries.

  ‘Be careful who you say that to. You can’t arrest someone simply to publicize your suspicion.’ De Vries opens his mouth, but du Toit continues. ‘And, for God’s sake, whatever happens, I’m telling you this now, don’t even think about leaking information. Not only could you prejudice future action, but you could unleash a legal hell down on the entire department. And Vaughn – don’t leave yourself open to accusations that this is personal.’

  ‘I am fully aware,’ de Vries says dryly, ‘that this interview can, and will, be used in court. You know that no one wants this man more than me.’

  Du Toit steps away from the window, saying, ‘He may simply refuse to talk.’

  ‘That is possible. I am banking on him finding it irresistible to debate with me some more. He certainly thinks he won the last round.’

  When du Toit is silent, de Vries looks up at him.

  ‘Hopkins arrived here,’ du Toit says, ‘even before they brought him in. You know that?’

  ‘That is because Ralph Hopkins has an informant from within these walls.’

  ‘Who?’

  De Vries appears to ponder for a moment. ‘I’m working on it. Hopkins could have known we were arresting Steinhauer even before Steinhauer himself.’

  ‘If there’s a leak, I want to know who.’

  ‘When I know, you’ll know, sir.’

  Du Toit glances at his watch. ‘They’ve been in there almost an hour together. What do they have to discuss that takes them so long?’

  ‘If Steinhauer has found out that we know Trevor Henderson was his patient for nine months, he’ll realize that we have a lot of questions.’

  ‘Unless he simply claims that everything is confidential.’

  ‘Of course that’s what he’ll claim, but he has to answer that he supposedly missed his brother’s involvement, and now it turns out that the real perpetrator was one of his patients; either he missed yet another very sick character, in which case he’s a lousy shrink, or he was complicit . . .’ De Vries stops, adds forcefully, ‘controlling – all this time.’

  ‘I am thinking that he can plead ignorance easily enough.’

  ‘Yes, but will he? I’m not sure that is how he thinks. He’s an arrogant son of a bitch.’

  ‘Be careful,Vaughn. Keep in mind what could be used against you by a defence attorney. Your inner conviction of his guilt will not put him behind bars.’

  De Vries is about to reply, but he checks himself; knows that he must save the debate for the interview room.

  Du Toit turns from the window and sits himself behind his desk, adjusts the angle of the framed photograph of his family, moves it again, then a third time – it is back where it started.

  ‘You are assuming,’ he says, ‘that Henderson was alone in taking those boys?’

  ‘Henderson was in uniform, driving a marked police car. That would explain why Bobby Eames and Steven Lawson got into the car with him, and why no one saw them. People in this country look away when they see us; they don’t want their image to register on the mind of the cop.’

  ‘A cynical view,Vaughn.’

  ‘It’s a fact. They’re on their cellphones, their exhaust is pumping ten tons of shit out the back of their car, they have a baby standing up in the front seat, there are eleven people in a car with four seats. They don’t want to be noticed.’

  ‘That is a state of mind the world over: the more lawless the state, the less people want to condone the authority of the police.’

  De Vries sighs. ‘I understand your argument, sir.’ He chooses his next words carefully. ‘And I appreciate the historical difficulties, but we are losing the coloureds and the whites too. This case has significance for everybody.’

  Du Toit snorts. ‘This isn’t the time for your entry into the political fray,Vaughn. You’re more educated than you seem, but the real politicians will have you for dinner. Your job is to put something together that gets this man, at the very least, to court.’

  ‘That may be enough for you; nothing short of life behind bars does it for me. I know what Steinhauer has done.’

  Du Toit nods. ‘Call me when Hopkins says they’re ready. Norman and I will be behind the glass.’

  De Vries stretches his back, grimaces.

  ‘All right,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m going down.’

  Ralph Hopkins does not appear for a further half-hour. When he tells them that he has completed his client conference, they assemble, just as before. Don February faces Hopkins; Attorney Classon and du Toit sit in their same seats in the gallery, each dry-lipped with anticipation. Steinhauer lounges in his upright chair, plays with a gold signet ring on his little finger. De Vries sits down and, while Don February announces those present for the tape recording, de Vries arranges his notes in front of him.

  Don gives him the signal to begin.

  ‘Mr Hopkins,’ de Vries says. ‘You have made clear to your client the legal significance of this interview, compared to the voluntary meeting we had on the nineteenth of this month?’

  Hopkins rests his hands on
the top of his belly.

  ‘Dr Steinhauer is fully aware of all aspects of this provocative action by the SAPS.’

  De Vries smiles. ‘Good.’ He takes a slow, deep breath, gathering himself. In his head, he knows just what he must say, has anticipated every combination of response he might receive from his suspect, planned how he will build his argument and trap his quarry.

  ‘Dr Steinhauer . . . during the years 2004 to 2009, were you a consultant psychologist at a private clinic called Tokai First Practice?’

  Steinhauer smiles minutely, points his chin towards de Vries. Says, ‘No comment.’

  De Vries swallows. He opens his mouth and shuts it again. He says firmly, ‘Have you ever met Inspector Trevor Henderson, formerly of the SAPS?’ He waits, watching Steinhauer’s eyes examine the surface of the wood-laminate table. Nothing is forthcoming.

  ‘All right, Doctor. We know, as a fact, that you were based at the Tokai Private Practice and that Trevor Henderson was referred to you by the SAPS.’ He scrutinizes Steinhauer’s expression; observes a stillness and control over muscles and flesh; notices that the man’s breathing is shallow and rapid. Nothing but the breath in his body registers any movement, any sound.

  ‘We have already waited some time while you consulted with your legal representative and this is a simple enough question: are you, or have you been, acquainted with, personally or professionally, a man known as Trevor Henderson?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I have asked you a question, Doctor. Please answer it.’

  Ralph Hopkins leans forward. ‘My client has answered your question, Colonel. He has elected to make no comment.’

  ‘Have you advised your client that to take such action will, whatever the letter of the law, reflect poorly for him in court?’ de Vries asks.

  Now Hopkins smiles. Replies smoothly, ‘Well, that assumes when, rather than if, you charge my client with anything.’

  De Vries appreciates Hopkins’ guile; an echo of the first interview – Don February’s taunting use of one word over the other. He feels his adrenalin ebb.

  ‘Will you be preferring charges at this time?’ the lawyer demands.

  De Vries glances at Steinhauer, settles back on Hopkins.

  ‘Will your client be prepared to answer any questions at this interview?’

  Hopkins shrugs his shoulders. ‘There may be topics he is prepared to discuss with you, but you should be aware that I have advised my client to decline to answer your questions.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘We have discussed at length – as you were so ready to point out to us a moment ago – the coincidental matters which apply to my client regarding this case, and we have considered the information you have presented to us regarding an evidentiary link to the charge of conspiracy on which basis my client has been detained. As you will doubtless have been informed by your legal advisers, to prove a charge of conspiracy is extremely difficult and the level of proof required is, to say the least, demanding. My client has assured me that you can have no evidence directly connecting him with these accusations and therefore he declines to discuss coincidence and arbitrary connection with you at this time.’

  ‘At this time?’

  ‘If you charge my client, and present the basis of your evidence, then naturally we will reconsider our position in the light of your so-called evidence. I ask you again: do you wish to lay charges now?’

  De Vries feels all the momentum, all the expectation drain from him. He feels himself flushing.

  ‘Your client will remain in custody while we reflect on his decision not to cooperate with us in interview.’

  Hopkins leans over to Steinhauer and whispers something in his ear. Then he says to de Vries, ‘Inform me the moment you wish to speak to my client again.’

  De Vries turns slowly to Don February.

  ‘Warrant Officer. Take the prisoner back to the cells.’

  Don dictates the time of the interview termination for the tape recorder, rises and goes to the door of the interview room. An officer enters and, together, they escort Steinhauer away, down the corridor.

  Hopkins rises, checks his wristwatch.

  ‘It’s make your mind up time, Colonel,’ he says to de Vries. ‘And time waits for no man.’

  Then he leaves the interview room, pulling his cellphone from his jacket pocket. As de Vries listens to his footsteps, he hears Hopkins speaking; the voice and the footsteps moving away from him. De Vries, aware that both camera and gallery are behind him, clenches his fists under the table, bares his teeth and screams silently.

  Don knocks tentatively on de Vries’ door. He hears nothing, but he has already seen him slumped over his desk, head resting on interlocked fingers. He opens the door, closes it quietly and walks over to the desk. De Vries looks up.

  Don says, ‘It was always a possibility that he would refuse to talk. It is not our fault.’

  De Vries sighs. ‘No, Don. It’s my fault.’ He shakes his head. ‘I was so certain that the one thing he wouldn’t do is clam up. I know this guy. He wants to speak. He wants to take me on, to fight me, to beat me. It’s Hopkins. He knows we have nothing concrete and he’s not going to let Steinhauer give us anything.’

  He sits up, looks out at the almost empty squad room. ‘Where is everybody?’

  Don glances behind him, even though he has just walked through the room to reach de Vries’ office.

  ‘Just out.’

  ‘Three boys, two more men. All dead because of what Nicholas Steinhauer managed to do. No one cares. They’re not even here.’

  ‘They care,’ Don says quickly, ‘but right now, there are another five deaths, just today. And yesterday, there was a mother, father and five-year-old child all burnt alive in their shack in the camp above Hout Bay. Maybe a thousand people within two hundred metres and no witnesses. Not one.’

  ‘All right, Don.’

  ‘I am not trying to play down—’

  De Vries snaps: ‘Okay!’

  Don February stops, waits, sits down in the visitor’s chair. Waits some more. In the silence, he hears strides across the squad room, drumming footsteps which herald nothing good. The door opens and du Toit comes in, followed by Norman Classon. Don stands up, and de Vries pulls himself half out of his chair.

  Du Toit looks at both of them and then around the office.

  ‘Warrant Officer,’ he says quietly to Don. ‘Please fetch two more chairs from next door.’

  Don February walks out, takes the two chairs nearest to the office and carries them back in. Du Toit motions with his finger.

  ‘Put them around the desk there.’ He looks up at de Vries, frozen in his crouch. ‘Sit down,Vaughn.’ Du Toit and Classon sit opposite de Vries with Don a little way back, lower in the visitor’s chair.

  ‘I’m sorry it went like that,’ du Toit starts. ‘I suppose we should have expected that they might take that route. I am afraid Ralph Hopkins has plenty of experience dealing with clients who do better saying nothing.’

  ‘We can hold him,’ de Vries says. ‘Maybe we’ll see if he feels like talking at two in the morning.’

  Du Toit takes a deep breath.

  ‘No,Vaughn. It’s over. We have to release Steinhauer, close the case and wait until we get a breakthrough from DNA or some corroboratory witness.’

  ‘Over? We can hold him for another . . .’ he consults his wristwatch ‘. . . twenty-two hours.’

  ‘I have received instructions that Nicholas Steinhauer is to be released immediately,’ du Toit states. ‘That is the position.’

  ‘Instructions? From who?’

  Du Toit looks at de Vries darkly, his palms flapping slowly in a calming motion.

  ‘Listen to me. I have orders from the Provincial Commander which, he tells me, emanate straight from the Police Minister’s department.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘There’s no debate, no argument,’ du Toit snaps. ‘We just do it. The case is closed officially an
d the press will be informed that Nicholas Steinhauer has helped us with our enquiries and that no charges have been laid.’ Du Toit looks over at Classon.

  ‘It’s revolting,’ Classon says. ‘But I cannot find a way to lay charges against Steinhauer which have any chance of sticking even before they reach court. Put simply, what we have isn’t enough to go to trial. If we are seen to present charges which the press might describe as “trumped up”, and then we go on a fishing trip, we will lose the media high ground and come out of this with nothing.’

  ‘As opposed to what?’ de Vries says bitterly.

  ‘As opposed to leaving open the possibility of later action,’ Classon temporizes. He lowers his voice. ‘I think that we, here in this office, are all agreed that Nicholas Steinhauer is involved in some measure in the conspiracy which led to the events seven years ago, and then again, this month.’

  ‘While the case may be closed officially,’ du Toit says, ‘unofficially I am sure that time can be found for further forensic work and, in due course we may be able to identify the other three men – we assume men – whose DNA was recovered at the bunker scene.’

  De Vries says nothing; he stares at his desk.

  Don February says: ‘May I ask one question, sir?’

  ‘Of course, Warrant Officer.’

  ‘Is it usual for the Police Ministry to be involved in the investigation of murder cases by the SAPS? I mean, even before a suspect is charged?’

  Du Toit smiles. ‘What can I say, Warrant Officer? The answer is no.’

  ‘So . . . why . . . ?’

  ‘Because a voice very high up has decreed it. You must judge what his, or her, motives might be. I prefer not to try to doublethink these people. Gives you an ulcer.’

  Don raises his right hand to ask another question, can see du Toit would prefer that he didn’t, asks anyway.

  ‘Is Nicholas Steinhauer being protected?’

  Vaughn laughs; du Toit shoots him a look.

  ‘We can’t know that.’ Du Toit sits up. ‘Chances are, this is politics, plain and simple. The Police Department is a department of civilian politicians. They have come to the conclusion – and you may well ask why they should have deliberated on this matter at all – but they have decided that, politically, everyone is best served by the conclusion of this case.’