James McClure - The Caterpillar Cop

“And how long do you think the boy’s been dead?”

“He was still pretty warm when I got there around midnight.”

“I see. And what does the girl have to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey?”

“Shocked out of her mind. In the club secretary’s office just sitting. You can’t get her to open her mouth. When she looks at you, your arse goes tight. I tell you there’s something bloody weird about all this, sir. That’s why I’ve kept her father away so far.”

“Good man. Who’s with her now-and the boy?”

“Constable Williams. He’s having a hell of a job keeping them out.”

“Who?”

“The secretary, Pipson; Mr. Jones, the father; and the Transvaal coach, Freddie Harris.”

“What the hell?”

“Really doing his nut, this Freddie. Says his chances of the singles championship are ruined-doesn’t think the rest of the team will be up to much in the morning either; all too upset.”

“Bugger me, and there’s a kid… Any identification yet?”

“Central are looking after that; nothing so far. I’ve asked for the dogs and the extra men and everything, like you said. The district surgeon is on his way now.”

“ Uhuh. What about the rest of the dance?”

“All gone home or back in their hotels.”

“Good.”

“Do you agree there’s some…?”

“Look, Bokkie, I never agree until I have facts that agree. Maybe there is something strange, maybe not. You go back and keep those two quiet and I’ll take a look-see in the trees. I can hear they’ve got the lighting going.”

With the sigh of the subordinate who is so often right yet never heeded by his superiors, Bokkie slid off the seat and landed heavily on the tarmac. He paused to hitch his button-down holster round to its correct position.

“Bokkie,” Kramer murmured, “has it perhaps not occurred to you it might be her blood?”

As the father of two preadolescent girls, Sergeant Kritzinger understandably appeared shocked.

It was true, the body was warm to the touch. Very warm although several hours must have passed for blood to congeal like that. Most peculiar.

Kramer rubbed his fingers in the sand and stood up.

“Good-looking kid,” he observed.

Hendriks gaped incredulously at the swollen features and pair of staring blue eyes. Somewhere there was a face.

“Got a nice smile,” he replied gamely.

Which made it Kramer’s turn to wince and cast an odd look.

“Come on, man. When you’ve finished poking your brains about, we’ll get the rest of the notes down.”

Hendriks removed the pencil from his earhole.

“Right. We’ve been once over the surrounding area and found bugger all. Now for the body-write ‘one’ in the margin.”

“Body One.”

“Boy strangled by wire twisted eight times at back of neck. No defensive wounds or bruises on arms, suggests he was attacked without warning from behind and that other injuries were sustained afterwards. Description of wire: ten-gauge baling wire as found round fruit boxes, soft, bends easily. No sign of rust and it has kinks in it at approximately four-inch intervals, which suggests it was carried to the scene of crime.”

Kramer lit a Lucky Strike and waited for Hendriks to catch up.

“Two: Severe grazing under chin and on either side of jaw with fragments of Tree A’s bark adhering to wounds. This is consistent with description given by witness Rogers that he found the body semierect against Tree A with chin wedged in fork. This is backed up by pool of blood at base of Tree A.”

“And the blood on the tree, sir.”

“How fast can you write? Okay, put it down, too, and add pressure mark along torso. Now Number Three…”

Squatting down, Kramer made another examination of the body before going on.

“Three: Multiple stab wounds in and around groin, genitals severed, later recovered beside Tree A. Wound characteristics suggest curved knife used while body was upright.”

“How come, Lieutenant?”

“He’s not big, man. When these bastards get worked up they’ve the strength of a bloody ox. Easily hold him up against the tree with one hand. More notes now: Mutilations consistent with frenzied attack by pervert-more misses than hits. Bleeding limited, but a smear indicates area handled after death. Got it?

“Then Number Four: Back marked by long cuts, three across shoulders, another bisecting them and traveling from nape of neck to left buttock. These wounds suggest a ritual killing.

“And lastly, Number Five: Brown birthmark on right shoulder.”

A Bantu constable appeared shyly at the edge of the light, holding his knobkerrie as if he did not know what to do with it in polite company.

“What is it, man?”

“Sergeant Kritzinger says I must come for the clothes, my father.”

“Got the plastic bags?”

Kramer took them and packed away the white T-shirt, khaki shorts, and Y-front underpants found near the forked tree. He put the contents of the pockets-a khaki handkerchief, pencil eraser, three bubble gum wrappers, and single-bladed penknife-in a separate container.

“There you are. Tell the sergeant that the body has a brown mark like a spoon on the right shoulder, if he doesn’t know that already. And say there are no shoes because the little boss was going barefoot.”

“Doctor coming now, sir.”

“Bugger off then.”

Kramer paused to wonder if there was not something else he should pass on to Kritzinger. Then he turned to Hendriks again and frowned: he was sick of being lumbered with pimply youths who put in every spare moment on their pus crop. Hendriks was working his way along a row just above the back of his collar, reaping the golden harvest on a corner of his handkerchief. It was enough to turn any man’s stomach.

“What are you planning to do with that thing?” Kramer snapped. “Pour water on it like a tea bag?”

Hendriks blushed-he was young enough to do that, too, the backveld clown. You could see that he was beginning to remember things he had said about present company. So much to the good.

Kramer picked up one of the long torches the firemen had brought down before being ordered away with mutters to wait at the tender. The beam was so strong it seemed solid enough to tap the twigs off the trees. Another, just as powerful, was tossed across to Hendriks.

“Right. I’m going to take a look at where this bloke says he and the girl first saw the kid from. You stay here and go over the glade again.”

“But, sir-”

Kramer was just stepping out of the light when he spun round and caught Hendriks in midgrimace.

“Maybe you’ll make a better job of it if I tell you there is something for you to find,” he said.

“How do you know, sir?”

“Because I planted it there. It’s my cigarette stub, a Texan. Okay?”

And Kramer permitted himself a smirk as he moved carefully into the bracken. Hendriks should have noticed something wrong about that brand name.

But the joke was short-lived. Kramer had hardly made the most of a patch of curiously flattened vegetation before there came a triumphant cry.

“I’ve found it!”

“Hey?”

“Your Texan, sir.”

Jesus.

“But have you done it all yet?”

“Almost. I’ve got two other blokes helping me now and Dr. Strydom’s come.”

Kramer sighed. He had just begun to enjoy himself discovering things about a young tennis star who should know better than to tell such lies. It was also a shame that his ruse, planned to inspire a feverish search, had been nipped in the bud.

He began to move back along a path someone had forced through the undergrowth while traveling on one foot; a normal footfall made no impression on the messy carpet of compost, but a body’s full weight concentrated on a single heel was something else. By holding a torch almost flat on the ground, a series of depressions was thrown into relief. Hmmm. Interesting.