In the Midst of Wolves

by Kurt Ellis

  ‘Go see her about what?’

  ‘She’ll tell you when you get there.’ Grey turned and walked away, as if to gather his thoughts. ‘Or go home. It’s up to you.’

  ‘Whatever you want, sir.’ He gave Grey a mocking salute.

  Creed was climbing back into his truck when Grey called out.

  ‘Nick!’

  Creed stopped, one foot in the cab, other still on the concrete.

  ‘You’re just like him, you know. As much as you say you hate him, you’re committing suicide. Just like your father did.’

  Creed didn’t respond or look back. He climbed into his car and drove off.

  29

  Tracey saw tardiness as a sign of disrespect. People who arrived late for meetings made her furious, so it was only fair that she too was punctual. But today she was running late. Speed-walking away from her car, she pressed her key remote in the parking lot of Greenstone Mall, Edenvale. Her headlights flashed once.

  She scurried past the shop fronts until she saw the red-and-white Wimpy sign beckoning. A waitress greeted her with a smile. Before she could offer her a choice of a seat inside or outside, Tracey spotted Pieter Vorster. Sitting in a window booth inside the eatery, he smiled broadly and waved.

  She slid onto the red seat. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Piet. Traffic was a nightmare.’

  ‘I thought the e-tolls were supposed to reduce the congestion,’ he said.

  She gave a wry laugh. ‘Really? The only purpose of the e-tolls is to make a handful of rich people and corrupt politicians richer. Nothing more. You tagged?’

  ‘Me?’ Piet was tucking into a breakfast of fried eggs, sausages, bacon, chips and toast. ‘Nope. You?’

  ‘An oppressed people are authorised, whenever they can, to rise and break their fetters.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Henry Clay.’

  ‘So, I take that as a no?’

  Tracey answered with a wink. A waitress offered her a menu, which she declined. ‘Could I please have a cup of coffee and a bowl of muesli with plain, fat-free yoghurt? Thanks.’ When the waitress had left, Tracey looked at Piet as he shovelled a rasher of bacon into his mouth. ‘You know that stuff is going to kill you.’

  He smiled while he chewed. ‘At least I’ll die happy, and with a full stomach.’

  Pieter Vorster was a handsome man. In his late thirties, he was physically fit, with dark eyes and brown hair. He had been one of Tracey’s long-time secret police sources before he resigned from the SAPS two years ago to open his own security consulting and private investigation firm. He still continued to offer his services to her as a PI. And it was true when they said that all the good men were either married or gay.

  ‘How’s Kesivan?’ she asked about his husband.

  ‘As he always is – full of complaints and issues. That man is never happy.’

  ‘But you love him.’

  He shrugged. ‘Yeah, I do.’

  She smiled as the waitress brought her mug of coffee. Pieter wiped his mouth with a serviette and reached down to the seat.

  ‘You know,’ he started, ‘I could have done a much better, more thorough job of getting this information for you if you’d given me more than just a few hours.’

  ‘If you’d reduce your hourly rate, then I would’ve given you more hours. You’re pricey, Pieter.’

  ‘You pay for quality, my dear.’ He opened a brown manila file, swivelled it around, then pushed it to the centre of the table so they both could see.

  ‘Okay.’ He tapped on a photograph of a bespectacled Chinese man. ‘Professor Stephen Cho. Forensic pathologist. Graduate of China Medical University, in the Shenyang Province of mainland China. He’s married to a South African woman, Liesl Cleets. She was in China teaching businessmen English.’

  He pronounced English as Engrish, then cheekily grinned before adding, ‘They returned to South Africa four years ago and Professor Cho has worked for SAPS ever since. He’s assigned to be the forensic consultant for the IPU. Nothing major to report on him. According to his wife’s Facebook page, they love ballroom dancing and are apparently pretty good. They enter competitions and such. From my contacts in SAPS, he’s very detail orientated. Not very friendly, keeps to himself, but he’s very good at his job.’ He flipped the picture to the next. ‘Captain André Steenkamp.’

  ‘I know of him,’ Tracey said, though she didn’t tell Pieter that Steenkamp was also a source of hers; that he was the person who had put her onto Nick Creed in the first place. Journalism 101: do not disclose who your sources are to other sources, in case you need to verify information provided by one with the other. The last thing you want is to have a conspiracy of sources intentionally feeding you wrong information.

  The waitress arrived with the bowl of muesli on a tray. She placed it in front of Tracey, who mixed in the plain yoghurt.

  ‘I’m sure you would. Captain Steenkamp here was once the biggest star in the SAPS during the Eighties and early Nineties. He was part of the famous Brixton Murder and Robbery Unit until it was closed in 2001. But even before then, it looked as if he was on a downward spiral. Nothing official, but I hear he’s an alcoholic. Heavy drinker. And a wife-beater. The woman is too scared though to press charges, it would seem.’

  Tracey hadn’t realised how famished she actually was until she’d had her first mouthful of breakfast. ‘Anything concrete on him recently? Any dirt?’

  Pieter mopped up egg yolk from his plate with a piece of toast. ‘Nothing. Looks like he’s just trying to keep his head down until he retires in a few years. Protect his pension, you know? Also, it looks like he wasn’t part of Major Grey’s original plans but Grey was forced to add him to the team by the powers that be. More on that a little later.’

  He flipped the photograph over to the next. ‘Reshmee Patel. Degree in communications from Wits and now studying her master’s through UNISA. Appointed by Major Grey to handle the public relations bullshit. Lives at home with Mommy and Daddy. Rather boring, to be honest. But now it starts to get interesting.’

  He smiled as he flipped the page to the next photograph. ‘This is Detective Dumisani Vincent Zwane. Apart from the spokesperson Patel, he’s the youngest member of the unit. Little experience as a uniform, to be honest, but somehow he got to the rank of detective in lickety-split time. And then he managed to get into the IPU. How do you imagine that would happened?’ He paused. ‘Could it be because he’s the nephew of Lieutenant General Claudius Ngcobo?’

  Tracey froze, the cereal-filled spoon in mid-air. She looked into his eyes to see if he was joking. ‘You mean …’

  He nodded. ‘Yip. The chief of detectives.’

  Tracey felt her face flush with excitement. ‘So we clearly have a case of nepotism here: another appointee forced onto Grey.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s hold onto our panties for a second, Tracey.’

  Pieter pushed his empty plate aside. ‘I didn’t say that. From what I could find out, Grey did actually want him. Zwane was top of his class in the Academy. He scored higher than anyone else in every aspect and in the few years he was in uniform he looked to be a good cop on all accounts, and a very good detective so far. Maybe the kid deserved the chance.’

  ‘Or, it could be a matter of his instructors and commanding officers trying to score favours with his uncle, or even being instructed by good old Uncle Claudius to be more lenient on him,’ said Tracey.

  Pieter shook his head. ‘Tsk, tsk. I thought you were more than a tabloid journalist. There’s no corroboration for any of that. Again, with more time, I could find out more.’

  She smiled. ‘True. Definitely something to look into, though.’

  Pieter nodded, then flipped the sheet. ‘This is Detective Luke Meyer. Now wait until I tell you about this guy.’

  30

  Her desk was a mess. Sheets of paper were strewn across the table as if someone had opened a window and a strong gust of wind had wreaked havoc.

  Creed leant against the frame and
tapped his knuckles twice against her door.

  Reshmee looked up from her laptop screen, startled. ‘Oh, hi … er … Nick.’ She stood up.

  ‘I was told to come see you.’

  ‘Er, yes …yes …Please, have a seat.’

  Reshmee Patel’s windowless office was small and elongated. Creed could smell what he thought was potpourri; a bowl of the stuff must be hidden somewhere beneath the chaos on her desk.

  ‘Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it,’ she continued.

  ‘No problem. I was nearby.’ Creed eased into the seat and sighed. With his exhalation, he smelt the whisky on his own breath. On his way in, he had stopped off at a nearby bar for a quick something to drown his anger after the confrontation with Grey.

  ‘So,’ she began, ‘Major Grey asked me to chat with you so we can … you see, uh, there have been some rumblings from within the, er … rank and file about your presence in the IPU team, so I just wanted to make sure we get our … you know … story straight.’

  He took a second. ‘And what story is that?’

  ‘About you. You know?’ She spoke as if nervous to be alone with him.

  ‘How old are you, Reshmee?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘How old are you?’

  She cleared her throat and sat straighter. ‘What does …’

  ‘Here’s a lesson for you about confidence. You can fake it.’

  She looked as if she was about to say something but he continued. ‘Nobody really knows you. Nobody really knows anyone. If this job will teach you anything, it’s that everyone is hiding something. Everyone is wearing a mask. We’re all liars. Some of us are just better at it than others. But no one knows what you’re self-conscious about, what you fear, what you like, what wounds you have hidden in that heart of yours. No one knows your weaknesses, so you can pretend to have none. Remember, those fuckers out there,’ he gestured over his shoulder with his thumb, ‘are ruthless. Fucking animals. They can smell weakness. They’ll see your limping from a mile away and they’ll eat you alive. And by fuckers, I mean the media and the police. Shit, I mean everyone.’

  She stared at him in silence for a second. ‘Okay, well … er, thank you for the advice. I’ll keep that in mind. But I’d like to get to what I called you in for.’

  He had insulted her. Creed could see it. He hadn’t meant to but she was clearly wounded.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘So, basically, I just want to confirm a few points; things you’d like me to say should anyone question your presence here.’

  ‘I don’t care what you tell them. You can say anything you like, to be honest.’

  ‘Look, I … er …’ She consulted her computer screen for a second, then focused on him. ‘I know your career history. I mean, everyone does, I think, but remember, we need to make sure the IPU is seen in a good light, not only by the public but by SAPS as well. Your CV more than justifies your presence here. But there are other … matters that could be a problem.’

  He smirked. ‘Problems … like?’

  ‘I … think you know. We can’t have your personal … life reflecting poorly on the unit. So if you can … be a little more subtle, then that would be appreciated.’

  Her words irked him. Creed reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He stuck it in his mouth and lit the tip. ‘Subtle. Sure.’ He blew out the smoke. ‘I can do subtle.’

  31

  Tracey Wilson studied the glossy photograph. The green eyes stared back at her. They were old eyes, in contrast to the baby face they were set in.

  ‘Detective Luke Meyer was the first appointment made by Major Grey to the unit,’ said Pieter Vorster. ‘He went to get him from Cape Town. From what I could gather, he was an orphan, raised in a Catholic boarding school down there. He went on to seminary school.’

  ‘Seminary? You mean, priest school?’

  Pieter nodded. ‘I mean priest school. Detective Meyer here is a bona fide Roman Catholic priest.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘Spent eighteen months looking after his flock in some piss-hole fishing town in the Western Cape before quitting and joining the police.’

  ‘Do we know why he quit?’

  ‘Again, we would if you’d given me more time.’

  He waved the waitress over and ordered a glass of orange juice. ‘But at the moment, I don’t know why he quit. What I do know, though, is that he wasn’t the most popular person at the Melkbosstrand Police Station where he was based. He reported the station commander to IPID for corruption and bringing the service into disrepute.’

  No wonder he wasn’t popular, Tracey thought. Reporting a fellow police officer to the Independent Police Investigative Department, South Africa’s own Internal Affairs Division, is Sin Number One to the men and women in blue. She had assumed it was the same in any police force in the world: you simply didn’t not rat on your own and break the Blue Code.

  ‘The case was solid,’ said Pieter. ‘The Commander’s doing a stint in Pollsmoor Prison as we speak. But, again, not too many friends for Meyer in SAPS, particularly in Cape Town.’

  ‘Interesting. A whistle blower. I think I can use that.’

  He flipped the page. ‘And then, of course, you know Major Eli Grey.’

  She gave him a cheeky smile. ‘I’d like to get to know him a whole lot better, if you know what I mean.’

  Pieter laughed. ‘Major Grey is the golden boy of SAPS and head of this team in the Investigative Psychological Unit. One of the youngest majors in the history of the service.’ He moved Grey’s picture aside so she could view the photograph of Nicholas Creed. ‘These two may be very closely linked, but couldn’t come from more different backgrounds. Grey, the only son of rich white parents; went to private schools and vacationed in Europe. Creed’s the eldest of three. He’s the son of a school teacher and an ANC militant; grew up in a poor coloured area. Oh, and have you heard of a serial killer named Perumal Vijay?’

  Tracey shook her head.

  ‘I’m not surprised. He wasn’t one of the,’ he made air quotes with his fingers, ‘most popular ones. He killed four boys in Durban in the Nineties, though the police suspected him of more. The locals called him Rumples. Anyway, our man Creed here was only twelve when he witnessed Vijay dumping a victim. He went to the police and testified in the court case, leading to Vijay’s life sentence. I mean, holy shit. He was catching killers at the same age I was catching confused feelings in Phys Ed class.’

  Tracey couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘Thank you for that, Piet.’

  ‘But then,’ he continued, ‘they also have a lot in common. Creed’s father committed suicide when he was fourteen and Grey’s parents died in a car crash when he was sixteen. Then his girlfriend was murdered when he was nineteen. After all this, was there any doubt that they’d both decide to go into law enforcement?’ He sipped his juice. ‘Anyway, I know you’ll like this. They went to university together, then into the Academy. Both quickly made the rank of detective, on account of their educational qualifications but also their performance. And that’s when the FBI came a-calling. It was called Project Ukusakaza Umlilo.’

  ‘Uku what?’

  He laughed. ‘Your poor Anglophile tongue. Call it Project Wildfire. That’s what the Americans called it. The plan was for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit to take the most promising South African detective to Quantico and to train him or her in the latest profiling techniques. The intention was for this exchange programme to last for a year; then the trained officer would return to the SAPS Investigative Psychology Unit and upskill their colleagues. Hundreds applied.’

  He took another sip.

  ‘Heck, even I applied, if you must know. But the person chosen was Detective Nicholas Creed.’ He tapped his finger on Creed’s picture. ‘But then that one year became nine years in America as an FBI agent. And while he was going to barbecues at JC Penney, or whatever the hell he was doing, our Major Grey here was working his ass off. He became our very own specialist in
serial murders and crimes, lecturing at universities worldwide, writing books and so on. A successor to Piet Byleveld, if you will. Then, the shit hit the fan for Creed.’

  Tracey swallowed her last spoonful of cereal. ‘What happened?’

  Pieter seemed to be enjoying having her on the edge of her seat. ‘Nick Creed was engaged to his university sweetheart, a Megan Ramsey. She went with him to the States and got into real estate there. She did very well in business, in fact. All happy, right?’ He shook his head. ‘Well, not quite. I’m sure you saw the video of the Alain Joe Mooney arrest.’

  ‘Of course,’ she responded. ‘I watched it all live, actually.’

  ‘Well, then you know about the movie Prey that was made about the case. That, plus the live footage of the arrest, and suddenly Special Agent Creed became a big shot and a bit of a reality show-like celebrity. And Mister Big Shot didn’t have time to be with a small-time girl like Megan any more. He was a media darling. He took over the BAU team when his mentor Douglas Redman retired. They co-wrote two books before that with little fanfare, but after the movie the books became bestsellers. And the movie did huge numbers, hey. But after the Mooney case, Creed moved on to the next big media obsession – the Beast of Bay Area, or some corny bullshit name that you media people like to make up.’

  Tracey remembered that case too. The modus operandi of the brutal killer who operated in the Seattle area, later identified as Manuel Rodriguez, was to kill married women who were home alone. He would mutilate the bodies and leave their corpses just inside the front door, so the first thing the unsuspecting husband would see when he came home was the remains of his wife.

  Pieter continued: ‘Rumour is that Creed was already in discussion with a publisher about the story as well as a movie studio about making another film about the case, even before they had arrested Rodriguez, who was on the run at that point. But little did Creed know that Rodriguez wasn’t running. He was hunting. The bastard, he broke into their home.’ Pieter’s eyes became saddened. ‘Megan was home alone. Rodriguez killed the poor girl and left her body in the hall. He then phoned Creed, who was at some party, and waited for him to arrive. But this is where it all gets murky.’