by Kurt Ellis
‘Different MO as well,’ agreed Zwane. ‘The first body was dumped in the open, on the side of the freeway. This boy’s almost hidden away.’
Grey flicked his chin over Zwane’s shoulder. ‘The Occult Unit’s here.’
Meyer turned to see two detectives walking up the road. He remembered one of them from the morgue two weeks earlier.
‘I’m going to talk to them,’ Grey said. ‘We can’t find the person who reported the body so, Steenkamp and Zwane, take some uniforms and do the door-to-doors. Let’s see if anyone mentions Nomtakhati or Mthembu.’ He paused. ‘I don’t like the fact that we have two muti murders so close to one another and this name popping up. They may not be linked, but we don’t know until we make sure. Cho, the scene is yours. Make sure they process it well. Meyer, once I’m done with them, we’re going to see that professor again. I need more information.’
68
Once Grey had finished talking with the detectives from the Occult Unit, the two of them left the crime scene in Diepsloot. They drove to the University of the Witwatersrand in an awkward silence.
After parking, they walked over to East Campus. Grey finally asked him, ‘Did you read The Daily Standard last night?’
Meyer had been dreading that question the moment they’d got into the car. ‘I did.’
Grey nodded. They passed a group of female students, who rubbernecked when they saw the major. ‘She’s a good reporter, that Tracey Wilson,’ he continued. ‘I’ve met her in the past, and she didn’t seem too bad. At least, not as bad as the other reporters I’ve had to deal with. At least with her I felt I could rely on her being thorough. But this article was disappointing.’
Meyer didn’t turn to look at Grey. He kept his eyes fixed ahead. ‘I mean, she took facts and moulded them to fit into the narrative of her story. It’s like she has an agenda here … I won’t go as far as saying it’s fake news, but it’s not accurate reporting.’
As they climbed the stairs to the Great Hall, Meyer inwardly debated whether or not to confess his involvement with the story. By the tone of Major Grey’s voice, it sounded as if he already suspected that Meyer was the leak.
‘This unit,’ Grey continued softly, ‘was supposed to be my legacy in SAPS, something that would survive long after I was gone, but we’ve made a mess of our first case. I’ve made a mess of our first case.’
‘But, Major,’ Meyer interjected as they squeezed past a cleaner making his way down the stairs, ‘none of this is your fault.’
‘It’s all my fault. I didn’t report the muti angle to the Commissioner the moment it came up. I should have but I didn’t. I didn’t want to give up the case to the Occult Unit. And now I’m meeting with the Commissioner and the Director next week, and it doesn’t look good.’
He sighed, ‘You know, I only became a cop to find Hettie’s murderer. And it’s finally dawned on me that I probably never will.’
They arrived on the third floor and began down the passage.
‘By taking the job with Interpol, I’m officially admitting defeat. I’m giving up on ever finding her justice. I’ll no longer be an investigator but a teacher. But what I wanted was to leave the case, and other cases like hers, in capable hands. That’s why I built this team. That’s why Creed is here. If anyone could find Hettie’s murderer, it’s Nick.’
They had arrived at the office door.
‘He’s the only man I truly believe could ever find her killer.’ Grey knocked. ‘He,’ pause ‘and you.’
‘Come in,’ the booming voiced called.
69
Professor Buthelezi wore a different Madiba shirt that day, patterned in dark red and burnt orange. He was seated behind his desk with a large encyclopaedia open in front of him, his forehead wrinkled with concentration.
He got to his feet with a broad smile. ‘Detective Meyer. Visiting me again so soon? And on a weekend? To what do I owe the pleasure?’
He extended his hand and Meyer shook it. ‘Sorry to intrude, Professor.’
‘No intrusion at all.’ He pointed to the book. ‘Just some light reading. I still prefer doing my research the old-fashioned way – books, you see, and not the Internet.’ He turned to the Major. ‘Unless you started an amazing workout plan yesterday, I take it you’re not Captain Steenkamp.’
Grey clasped the Professor’s hand. ‘Major Eli Grey of the Psychological Investigation Unit.’
The Professor gestured to two chairs at his desk. ‘Please sit, gentlemen. I’m afraid I don’t have any tea or coffee to offer you. My crockery’s in for cleaning and yet to be returned.’
‘We’re fine, Professor, thank you.’ Eli Grey looked around the office.
‘Professor,’ Meyer started, ‘the reason we’re here is because we’ve found another body.’
The smile slipped from the tall man’s lips. ‘I see. And you suspect muti killing once more?’
Grey nodded. ‘The body parts that were removed were the same as in the last murder.’
‘And was the victim alive when this was done?’
‘Yes, he was.’
The Professor ran his palms over his face, as if washing it with water. ‘If the person killed for muti was still alive, then that muti is said to be stronger.’
‘We’re aware of that, Professor,’ Grey started. ‘We wanted to know if there’s any significance to the fact that the victim had albinism.’
‘And a ten-year-old boy,’ Meyer added.
His eyes bulged wider. ‘Ten years old?’
‘Around that age. Yes.’
‘Was his skin taken?’
‘Yes, from his back.’
The Professor shook his head. ‘Stupidity. Ignorance,’ he muttered to himself, then responded to his visitors. ‘No, detectives. There’s no particular significance in the age. The albinism, though, is important. Muti made from white skin is said to be very powerful. It’s a belief that’s not limited to South Africa either: Tanzania, Malawi, Kenya, DRC and many other countries in Africa have the same problem. Albinos are brutally murdered and dismembered to be used in muti. It’s horrific but also extremely profitable. A set of albino arms, legs and ears or genitals can sell for up to 75 000 US dollars on the black market.’
Meyer scribbled this down before asking, ‘But, Professor, if muti made from white skin is considered more powerful and is so profitable, why aren’t more albinos and white people being killed for muti?’
‘You think they’re not? Trust me, they are. The problem is inaccurate police reporting or the deliberate disregard of such cases in order to prevent public panic. In the course of my own research, I’ve made some shocking and depressing discoveries. When you next have a bit of time on your hands, do a simple Google search of ‘moral panics’. I think you’ll find this most instructive. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve come across. For example, there was an incident not so long ago, in which a Lesotho inyanga killed a white farm couple for muti purposes. It’s not nearly as uncommon as you might think. But the muti-murder angle is either not reported on or overlooked, because of poor policing or government officials looking to avoid a cultural conflict. Muti murders make people decidedly uncomfortable, and understandably so.’
‘Go on,’ encouraged Grey.
The Professor turned to Meyer. ‘The scene at the mortuary, where we met, is also not uncommon. I’ve worked on cases with the Occult Unit in which several workers at government mortuaries have been convicted of selling body parts of unclaimed white corpses to inyangas and syndicates trading in them. There’s quite a large sum of money that can be made from this. Fairly low risk, high reward. And it’s much safer.’
Meyer prodded. ‘Safer than?’
‘Safer than killing white people for their body parts. There are many unclaimed Caucasian bodies in our morgues. And although body parts and organs harvested from the already deceased are said not to be as strong, it does not mean there’s no market for them.’
‘Professor,’ Grey leaned forward, ‘tell me more
about the muti trade and trade in body parts.’
The Professor opened a drawer and pulled out a large, hardcover book entitled Muti: Dark Medicines from the Dark Continent. The author was Professor Mgwazeni Buthelezi himself.
‘I did some research on the topic for this particular book. Worldwide profits generated from the trade of illegal body parts is estimated to be between 600 million and 1.2 billion US dollars annually. Besides traditional practices, there’s a lot of money to be made for those involved because of the financial rewards the trade offers. Rich people lead extravagant lifestyles, gentlemen, especially in the West. They damage their kidneys, livers, hearts and so on. So, in the poorer countries, it’s only a matter of time before people start killing each other to harvest organs to sell to these richer countries. Supply and demand. And South Africa is no different. In 2010, St Augustine’s Hospital in Durban was found guilty of 102 counts relating to illegal organ trading. The challenge, though, comes in determining which body parts are being removed for sale, and which are being removed for muti.’
‘Professor,’ Meyer inched forward on his chair, ‘what do you think we should be doing to find this umthakathi?’
The professor leaned back. ‘There’s the Traditional Healers Association, but I doubt if this … fiend is a member there. Again, officers, and I cannot emphasise this enough, inyangas who practise muti with human body parts are a tiny minority. The practise is condemned by most. I—’
‘We understand that, Professor,’ Grey interjected. ‘We’re just trying to do all we can to track down this monster.’
He nodded solemnly. ‘I know. The people who can help you the most are in the communities. Myths grow from seeds of truth. Talk to the people. Listen to what they have to say. They’ll know who you’re looking for and where to find them.’
Meyer thought of the old woman in Sinamane’s flat, convinced she had seen the Tokoloshe.
The room was silence before Grey added, ‘One last thing. Have you ever come across a witch named Nomtakhati in your research?’
A tiny smile stretched across the Professor’s face. ‘Where did you learn this name?’
‘It’s come up in our investigations. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘Very good, Major. She’s an urban legend. I’ve encountered her name numerous times in my research over the last twenty years or so. Urban and rural legend say she’s the wife of the Devil himself. I’ve found many references to such a person, but never found hard evidence to prove she ever existed.’
‘But you just said myths grow from seeds of truth.’
‘That they do. But remember, Major, God didn’t create man; man created God. And his enemy, the Devil.’
The blasphemy made Meyer’s skin prickle.
‘An incident happens to man, good or bad,’ the Professor continued. ‘This is the seed. This is where it starts. When no natural cause can be determined, a supernatural cause is assumed: it is God’s will, or it is the Devil’s doing. That is how the myth is grown. But the myth does not change the fact that something occurred in the first place to give rise to said myth.’
Grey nodded to Meyer, who took it as a signal that it was time to leave. They both got to their feet and shook the Professor’s hand. As they were leaving the office, Grey stopped to study the photographs hanging on the Professor’s wall.
‘Ah,’ Professor Buthelezi said, ‘that’s a shelter for abandoned and abused babies with physical and mental deformities in rural North West.’ The picture showed him seated in a chair, cradling a baby with an unusually large head. He smiled at the image. ‘I built it.’ He pointed to another photograph. ‘This one’s in Limpopo. And this one’s in the Eastern Cape. I’m building another two in KwaZulu-Natal as we speak. Giving back is important, wouldn’t you agree, gentlemen?’
The Professor shook his head slowly. ‘In the old days, people in the rural areas didn’t understand genetics or babies with deformities. They viewed them as monsters and would drown them, or they’d expose these babies to the elements, killing them. And by old days, Major, I’m referring to last month, when a baby with dwarfism was thrown into the Orange River.’
Grey shook his head. ‘That’s terrible.’
‘The people, they just don’t know better. They’re simple people who’d rather believe in witches, curses and monsters than genetic abnormalities. And through abuse, they create the monsters they fear.’
He pointed at another image of himself, this time sitting at a child’s table, having mock tea with a young girl. ‘This is Precious. She’s mentally disabled. When we found her, her father had left her in the kraal to live and probably die with the cattle. But she didn’t die. Instead, she became a feral child. She became one of the herd, until she was found.’
‘Is this common?’
‘It’s not as uncommon as you may think. In 2017, for example, a twelve-year-old girl was found in Uttar Pradesh Province in India, raised by monkeys. She was a monkey in every aspect of the word, apart from genetically. But there are stories throughout history in many countries of feral children raised by a variety of animals: pumas, monkeys, goats. Just think of the boys raised by wolves, Romulus and Remus. In Roman mythology, Romulus and his twin brother Remus were the founders of the city of Rome. Think of the famous bronze sculpture of the mythical she-wolf suckling the twins … The kingdoms of man and beast, culture and nature have been intertwined for as long as the idea of civilisation itself. Animals operate purely on instinct, but man … we ascribe meaning through our norms and values of what is civilised and what is monstrous. Man is the real and only monster we should fear.’
70
Meyer stood beside the vehicle in the university parking lot. A group of students rushing by, probably late for a study session, glanced at Grey as he paced back and forth, his cellphone pressed to his ear. Meyer folded his arms and watched as he argued with General Sindane. It sounded as if the Occult Unit was making another play to take over the case, but Grey didn’t want to give it up. After a tense five minutes, Grey slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and came over.
‘Did it go well?’ Meyer asked.
‘Not at all. I’ve bought us some time, but not a lot. We need to go see Creed.’
Meyer felt the back of his neck bristle, as if someone had run a frozen finger along his spine. In his opinion, with the brass now looking at them through a magnifying glass, involving Creed further wasn’t a good idea. But as his own recent errors in judgement had ended up on the front page of the newspaper, he decided to hold his tongue.
Meyer eased behind the wheel and drove them off campus, negotiating the light Saturday-morning traffic towards the West Rand and arriving in the suburb of Florida in less than fifteen minutes. The streets were quiet. Meyer would have preferred to stay in the car, in the midst of that silence. Grey, however, instructed him to follow.
As Grey unlatched the side gate and stepped into the yard, a small pack of dogs came running up, teeth bared and barking.
‘How many dogs does he have?’ Meyer asked, keeping a wary eye on the animals.
‘Far too many.’
Grey didn’t even acknowledge their threat. As if they were no more harmful than a swarm of buzzing flies, he walked up the cement stairs and knocked on the door.
There was no answer. Grey pounded harder. The thumping echoed through the house. There were no other signs that Creed was at home, apart from his bakkie, parked behind them.
Grey tried the handle. It turned and the door creaked open. ‘Nick,’ he called into the darkness.
The curtains were all drawn closed. Large dust particles floated in the slivers of sunlight shining through thin cracks in the drapes.
Grey called out once more. ‘Nick. Are you here?’
Grey pulled his weapon from his hip holster. Meyer couldn’t see the reason for the Major’s concern. Creed was most probably passed out, drunk or high. Nonetheless, he drew his weapon in cover too. The two of them walked into the house in single file. The woo
den floorboards creaked under their weight and the soft noise of their footsteps was amplified by the stillness. They turned right into the passage. Grey scanned the lounge quickly and confirmed that it was empty. They made their way down the passage towards the bedrooms.
‘Nick!’ Grey called out once more, as he reached for the handle. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open. It was a sight that Meyer knew would stay with him for as long as he lived. Blood and gore. It was everywhere.
71
Three of the four walls were bare – naked and white. On the fourth wall, red, pink and grey hues were splattered almost from the ceiling to the floor, like a Jackson Pollock of pure carnage. But few would call this artistry. This was far too grotesque for that. Blood. Flesh. Brain matter. The photographs of violence and slaughter were stuck on the wall. These were images of crime scenes, so many photos that several of them overlapped. A symphony of destruction. Of severed heads. Of mutilated bodies. Of death.
In the middle of the room, sitting on a white plastic chair, was Nick Creed. His head was flopped forward; his chin rested on his chest. An empty bottle of whisky lay on its side on the floor. A syringe next to it. His right hand dangled over the arm rest. He loosely held a gun with his fingertips.
Meyer rushed in and placed two fingers on the side of Creed’s sweaty neck. ‘I got a pulse,’ He declared. ‘It’s strong, but I think we still …’ He turned to face Grey. ‘Oh … my … God.’
Grey had walked into the room and his eyes were narrowed on the images stuck to the wall.
‘Oh … my … God,’ Meyer heard himself repeat.
His commanding officer remained silent as he stood in front of this collage of killing. His gaze stopped at the photographs positioned in the centre of the wall, directly in the eye line of the unconscious Creed. Meyer heard Grey inhale sharply. In a rush of fury, he burst forward and violently began to tear down specific photographs.
