Muti Nation (18 page)

It was an out-of-body experience where everything happening to my body was dull, grey, and horrendous. And everything around the scene was bright and welcoming.

[Pause]

I was walking home from a friend’s house, taking the shortcut through a field; the same shortcut I always took. It wasn’t a particularly large field, either. The path was well-trodden, the grass often cut short, and people frequented the field all day, every day. When I ventured into it on the night of the attack though, it was nearing midnight, and the field was vacant.

I remember it had rained the afternoon, so the sweet smell of cut grass and damp earth was inviting. The moon hung in the air like a great white orb, and the burst of starlight against the dark blue sky looked magnificent, almost magical. I could clearly see all the way to my house, and there wasn’t a soul standing between me and my destination.

[Pause]

Halfway through the field, I noticed a shadow slinking from the corner of my eye. It separated itself from nothingness, and approached before I could grasp the severity of the situation.

He hit me over the head with something. It happened so fast [Pause]. The shock left me incapable of screaming. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. By the time I realised this wasn’t a mugging, it was too late to cry out for help.

And who could help me? Nobody leaves their houses for anyone in need anymore. They don’t go out when their dogs bark, when someone screams out in pain. Nobody wants to get involved anymore. So what was the point of my screaming if I could anyway?

My face was pressed into the grass, so hard; I could only concentrate on not suffocating to death.

[Audible Sob]

Esmé:Should we take a break?

Hester:[Incomprehensible]

*BREAK*

Hester:I distanced myself from the ordeal enough to survive I think, but I still remember certain things. There was a moment, a split second, where I had to choose: Do I stay alert throughout this experience and make sure to list every single detail of my rapist, or do I escape from this place of pain and save myself the agony? I couldn’t choose fast enough, so I was left in this weird in-between place.

My arms were pinned behind my back, I was afraid they’d pop out of their sockets. Meanwhile, I gnawed on grass and clumps of dirt, swallowing God knows what, for a shallow breath of air. That was only the beginning of it, though. My body didn’t want to yield to his dark desires, and the brutal force he used did not escape my notice.

[Pause]

At some point I disconnected from the rape itself and just floated, looking down with Dorothy’s pre-Oz eyes. The rest of the field was vibrant with colour—the grass was emerald green, the earth post-box red, the sky sapphire blue, and the tarmac road a shimmering onyx. It was this one spot where I was being brutally violated that remained grey. Needless to say, I focused on the colours and manipulated them in my head until I couldn’t feel anything.

When he was done, I didn’t even notice. He turned me over, pinned me down, and slapped me across the cheek a few times to bring me back to reality. I was completely out of it. I barely registered when he asked me what part I can offer him.

Really? I thought. Haven’t he gotten enough from me already? What more can I give this bastard?

When he took out his knife I snapped back long enough to wonder if I was going to die now. He repeated his question and I said I didn’t understand. Then, he went on to explain he literally wanted a piece of me.

Esmé:Oh God.

Hester:I asked him if he wanted a part of me as a trophy. He replied, very calmly, he didn’t take trophies for himself, but what I gave him was intended for muti. He asked me then, again, what part I can offer him. Eventually, I said to him to take my breasts, and he went to work. I passed out.

[Pause]

But when I awoke, I still had both my breasts. I don’t know if he was scared off before he could take his muti, or if my passing out was enough to deter him. Either way, I still had my breasts. I’m very lucky in that regard, but I doubt the scars will ever fade.

Esmé:Can you tell me anything about your attacker? How he looked, how he spoke, anything recognisable or unique?

Hester:You’d think I’d remember a lot of things, considering how bright the night was and the fact he was unmasked, but his appearance was unremarkable. He had broad shoulders—rugby player shoulders—and he was muscular. But apart from his leather jacket, which was mass-produced, and his necklace, he looked like a regular guy.

Esmé:Necklace?

Hester:Yeah, it was this leather thong with a human tooth pendant. I thought it was probably a knock-off curiosity. Well, I hoped so. I can’t be sure. Hey, are you all right? You’ve gone pale.

Esmé:[Clears Throat]

I remember someone else mentioning a similar necklace in their testimony, a few months ago. It could be nothing. I’ll have to check my facts.

Hester:Look Esmé, I would love to find my rapist and take a baseball bat to his skull, but his eyes were [Pause] dead. He was soulless, inhuman. It’s the single most outstanding aspect of him: his dead eyes.

Be careful when you go searching for him, okay? You don’t want to end up like me, or worse.

*END OF AUDIO TRANSCRIPT*

Chapter 22

I double click on the desktop icon, titled
Valentine Sikelo: Case #137-ES
, and find the recorded .wav file listed in the folder. I tap on it and wait for the recording to come to life in the Media Player. A deadpan voice I recognise as my own begins before I scroll through the photos located in the same file.

“Esmé Snyders, Occult Crime Expert, Case Number 137. It is approximately 18:00 hours on Friday, 4 September 2015. The victim is a black female, aged between twenty-six and thirty years. Height is around 1,70 metres, and weight about 85 kilograms. Clothing includes a turquoise peplum top and matching pencil skirt—cut off and discarded roughly two metres from the body—as well as black underwear and a pair of black open-toe heels.

“Breasts and genitals have been removed, presumably pre-mortem. Defensive lacerations on her palms may confirm theory. DNA evidence of murderer and/or murderers might be present underneath fingernails. Eyes, tongue and lips are also missing.

“Further investigative information is required to determine whether the victim is, beyond a reasonable doubt, another muti-murder fatality but the preliminary evidence is overwhelming.

“Edit: The victim has been identified as Mrs. Valentine Sikelo from personal effects found near the body. Several possible suspects have been cleared by the police in record time.”

The high-definition photographs are graphic and they pull at my heart strings, but I don’t look away. I study each photo in excruciating detail, playing my recording on loop, searching for one overlooked piece of information that’ll help me find this so-called
Him
. Who is he? What’s his intended outcome? Why murder these people, these wholly different people? My eyes water before I decide to close the folder, stop the recording, and move on to the next desktop icon.

I open the folder named
Carol-Anne Brewis—Case #138-ES
and repeat the process. I listen to my uncertain voice with the almost inaudible gulps interrupting my sentences.

“Esmé Snyders, Occult Crime Expert, Case Number 138. It’s around 06:10 hours on Saturday, 5 September 2015. The victim, one Carol-Anne Brewis, is a white female, aged twelve years. Her height is 1,61 metres, and weight between 40 and 45 kilograms.

“The victim’s clothing is a panda bear printed onesie. From what I can tell, the right sleeve is torn at the shoulder, but otherwise her clothes are in place. No suggestion of sexual assault is present at this stage. The coroner would be able to verify.

“Side note: Get coroner’s report ASAP.

“The victim’s right ankle seems to be broken—possible escape attempt gone wrong? Self-defence is indicated by the victims’ broken nails on both hands. A piece of cloth has been stuffed into her mouth to muffle her screams.”

A long pause follows these few facts and I remember how I’d mentally readied myself to look at the child’s ruined face and her fatal wounds. I never quite got a handle on seeing innocence stolen.

“A clean cut with a precision tool—possibly a cranial saw from the serration marks on the edges of the bone, was used to remove the top of the skull. A large piece of the brain is missing. It seems most of this happened pre-mortem.”
I hear myself sob and someone in the background asks if I need a break.
“I think so,”
I say, and the recording ends.

Admittedly, even after having some time to distance myself from the actual crime scene, looking at the photographs still makes me queasy. I study the photos though, zooming in for close-up shots of the bruising and wounds. I zoom out, piecing the photographs together on the monitor to get an overview of the crime scene and the body.

Nothing jumps out at me as particularly unique. The killer’s signature is either not there or invisible.

Sighing, I close the folder and recorded file and move on to the newest icon, named
Abraham Amin—Case #139-HW
. Howlen’s voice issues from speakers.

“Howlen Walcott, Ph.D. It is Thursday 10 September 2015 at 08:45. The victim has been identified as Abraham Amin, an ANC MP. His height is 1.81 meters and weight approximately 98 kilograms—as suggested by the missing person’s report. The victim is suspended by bungee cords, running down the ventilation shaft of the Daspoort Tunnel—an elaborate setup, planned well in advance.

“The victim has an infected wound running from left to right, and severing his Achilles tendon, on his right heel. The fatal wound however is the deep, jagged cut across the victim’s abdomen. Premeditated disembowelment is a possibility, but the momentum of the fifty-meter fall would’ve created a similar effect when the bungee cord jerked back. What bothers me is did the killer take
something
, some piece of Abraham Amin for a ritual? I cannot be certain at this stage.

“The victim also sustained multiple post-mortem bone breaks and wounds. From the fall down the ventilation shaft?”
Howlen’s voice grows distant, thoughtful, and I can imagine him studying the victim and the whole scene.
“Possibly,”
he says.
“These cords, and the harness, are professional bungee equipment. I’ll look into it.

“I have doubts about the victim’s political status being the reason he was targeted, but one can never be too sure. Law enforcement will be investigating this particular lead, and Detective Mosepi vowed to keep us updated with their findings. I’d bet a month’s wages the coroner’s report is most crucial to this case.”

I close the files, sit back in my chair, and chew on my bottom lip as I look around my office. The pastel colours are supposedly too cheerful, too homey, and too girly for an occult crime expert. So I’ve heard, anyway. A baby blue and white chevron pattern is painted across the walls. White bookshelves are built around the large window that allows for natural light throughout the year. Mauve and turquoise green vases act as bookends whilst simultaneously matching my dusty pink shag carpet and my repurposed turquoise desk. An oil landscape depicting an abstract Pretoria skyline in more pastel colours hangs at eye-level across from my desk. Then there is my personal rolling whiteboard peeking out from behind the open door. The office is not me exactly. It’s an office better suited to a muted personality. I much rather prefer dramatic colours, severe lines, and unconventional materials for decorating. But when you’re surrounded by death most of the time that sort of décor would depress you further.

Nevertheless, there is a lot of me in this office.

The chevron pattern has semi-severe lines. The repurposed desk has an unconventional design. The colours are dramatic for someone’s work office. All in all, it’s still
me
in its own weird way.

This leads me to contemplate not only the psychology of murderers and serial killers, but rather human nature in general (if one could call
Him
a human being).

In almost every situation, everyone leaves something true about themselves behind. Why should a crime scene be any different?

“The riddle,” I say to myself, revisiting the memorised words from the note the killer left behind. There were grammatical errors, silly ones where capital letters were used wrongly. It shouldn’t mean anything, and yet…

Opening my internet browser, I type in
Beautiful in Beaufort-Wes
, which is a multi-language love song with Afrikaans and English lyrics combined. It isn’t a big lead, but it is something new to follow up on. If anything, this lead could mean the killer is familiar with the Afrikaans language, to some degree.