Night of the Black Bastards (An Action-Packed Thriller) (23 page)

“Roger that Control. Just give us a few minutes, we may have to break the door down.”

“So received.”

Andy stood in front of hotel room 201 and placed the key inside but the door was jammed shut. There was also an appallingly foul odour that hung in the air like an evil spirit.

“Control, November Whisky 50.”

“Send 50.”

“It’s a positive Control, we have a corpse. Please call the mortuary van to attend.”

“Roger that November Whisky 50.”

“I will give you a full Zero Eight when we are finished Control.”

“How do you know it’s a dead body Sergeant?” asked Andy.

“Because a rotten corpse is the second most recognisable and pungent smell in the world.”

“What’s the first Sarge?” asked Dlamini.

“Burnt human flesh.”

Sergeant Night explained to Andy that trying to open the door via the key was probably a waste of time. He enlightened the hotel owner to the fact that most hotel suicides obstructed the room door shut if they could. A task made considerably easier in older hotels that still used physical keys as opposed to modern electronic cards – the key tips were typically broken off within the lock.

“I suggest you upgrade to the new automated identification card system as soon as you can Andy. It will save you money in the long run and will greatly improve the security of your establishment. Now I need your permission to knock down this door?”

Without waiting for a reply Sergeant Night skilfully kicked open the door on the first attempt.

“Wow Sarge, one time! But won’t you let me do it on the next chance? I’ve always wanted to kick down a door. Like in the movies!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The police Sergeant, his young student and the hotel owner entered the room. The smell of death smacked all three of the men in the face as violently as a blow from a heavyweight boxer. Andy ran out of the room and threw up on the corridor floor. Night felt sick but held his nerve and put his hand to his nose and breathed lightly only through his mouth. He looked at Dlamini to judge his reaction. The eager student looked completely unfazed by the smell of death. The two officers walked in past the bathroom on the left and through into the small room. The apartment was dark. The curtains were drawn and the heat was stifling. The television was on, the sound was off.  Chuck Norris was shooting at some bad guys while simultaneously high kicking an evil criminal in the head with a karate strike. Night shook his head. “Oh Chuck, if only the world was the way you played it” he whispered to himself, louder than he had intended.

“At least he makes us laugh hey Sarge. Texas Walker Ranger and I am like that black cop in the show, but I am better looking, and stronger” said Dlamini.

“Stronger maybe. Because they use a small guy so Chuck doesn’t look short himself but I’m not so sure about being better looking. Have you checked the bathroom yet Steven?”

Dlamini lingered for a little while and looked at the sight in front of him, he then took a deep breath, turned around and made his way to the toilet. Night looked at the dead body that sat on an old wooden chair in front of him at the foot of a made bed. It was the body of a black male. He was large, well-muscled, heavy gold chains hung from his neck just below where his entire head once was and gold rings were on each of his fingers on both hands. A diamond studded white gold Rolex watch adorned his right wrist just above his right thumb that he had used as the trigger finger on the killing weapon, an antique side-by-side shotgun. The victim had sat on the chair facing forward, placed the shotgun in between his legs while holding it steady in his feet and had leant forward giving the double barrels, what South African policemen referred to as a gunjob. He then pulled the trigger and blew his head, partly, off. Teeth, brain matter, skull and hair were stuck to the ceiling of room 201 by congealed blood and the force with which they accompanied the shot through the dead man’s head.

“There’s another one in the bathtub Sarge” said Dlamini who had returned from the small bathroom.

“Also shot?”

“Nah, looks like she died from too many drugs.”

“How do you know that?”

“There is a needle stuck in her arm and foam in her mouth.”

“All right. I will have a look. Go outside and close and guard the door. Nobody is allowed in except police officers and they must produce their appointment certificates and sign your pocket book before you let them in.”

“Roger that boss.”

Dlamini left the room and closed the door behind him. Night was surprised at how well his student had handled the sight and smell of the corpse. And not just one of them. The majority of student constables Night trained crumbled at their first sight of death. Some were physically ill and others mentally broke down. Dlamini had obviously seen death before, up close, bouquet included. And it was the smell that usually broke the rookies and the odour in room 201 was particularly bad. Night surmised that this was because of the lack of ventilation in the room. The presence of not one but two corpses and the fact that the room’s heating system had been left on.

Night was struggling to contain his own urge to be sick. He would have one last look at the dead man. He noted crocodile skin shoes, expensive white pants and an unbuttoned cream coloured shirt. His clothes, pimped out jewellery, the shoes and his physical build all said one thing - Nigerian drug dealer. That much was obvious. The unusual gun was probably part payment from one of his rich young white clients, stolen from daddy’s safe.

Night moved to the bathroom and found the body of the dead woman. Dead by overdose for sure, heroin. The syringe was indeed still stuck in her arm and foam hung around her open mouth. Her eyes wide open. A smile on her face. At least she died happy Night thought. She was a white female, in her forties, blonde hair, brown eyes and naked in the empty tub except for her dirty yellow underpants. Perhaps that’s why the heating was on. The hired entertainment for the night enjoyed walking around naked or perhaps the customer demanded the woman be without clothes. The question that Night asked himself was when did the prostitute OD? Before or after the self-execution or was it an overdose by design but why would a Nigerian drug lord care enough to kill a whore – they had plenty of them. Though it mattered not to Night. He was a patrolman. A combatant. Not a detective. He would secure the scene and call in the investigators.

Night left room 201 and joined Dlamini outside and attempted to get hold of the police Controller on the radio network but channel 26 was busy and Night had to wait a few minutes for the broadcasting net to clear of traffic before he could get a word in.

“Control November Whisky 50.”

“Send November Whisky 50.”

“Update Sitrep of 55 Bravo; On inspection of room 201 at the Star Hotel we have confirmed two deaths. One Bravo Mike and one Whisky Foxtrot. Looks as though the Bravo Mike killed himself with a shotgun and the Whisky Fox died of drug overdose. Although don’t take my word for it Control. Please send a detective, photographers, crime scene specialist, mortuary van and duty officer Control. I need them all. A full house please Control.”

“Roger that November Whisky 50 but you will have to be patient. We are busy and I have three other bodies that need to be collected all on opposite ends of Johannesburg.”

“Well what else would I expect Control. Not to worry though I have my very own Shark who will guard the scene for you Control.”

“Lucky you November Whisky 50. Please give me a full Zero Eight when you hand over the scene to the detective.”

“Roger that Control. Although I doubt the detective will take the handover. I am sure we will be here until the dead are removed.”

The rookie cop spoke with an unexpectedly plaintive note in his voice: “You’re not going to leave me alone here are you Sarge?”

“No Dlamini, there will always be more than one police officer here, in the hotel. Remember in the South African police ‘two is one and one is none.’  But there is no point in keeping all four of us off the road to look after the scene. We will be here a while.”

“Like how long is a while boss?”

“Waiting for one of only two mortuary vans in the whole of Johannesburg to arrive - anything up to eight hours, ha-ha or more.”

“Sho! That’s bad. What a waste of police time, just waiting for a body to be taken to the morgue.”

“That’s the SAPF. Hurry up and wait.”

“What do we do now boss? Do we start an investigation and go after the bad guys?”

“We do nothing. Except preserve the scene. Our job is to make sure the scene of crime or inquiry is left untouched and is not interfered with until the detective and crime scene experts can carry out their investigations. Our job is simple in that way. And you will do well to remember that.  I have seen overeager patrol officers arrested for handling exhibits and conducting their own inquiries. Have you ever heard of a bodyguard Dlamini?”

“Of course. Like Kevin Costner. Right?”

“No. Kevin Costner is an actor. And in the police a bodyguard is different to everywhere else. You are now a bodyguard. That is now legally your job. You must guard those two bodies inside the room behind you. They are now lawfully your responsibility. Don’t let anyone in except for the necessary people. Not even other cops who don’t have to be here – because I have just put the call in to Control over the air waves that there are two dead bodies here some of our colleagues may come here just to have a look. Because cops are fascinated by death and more likely may think that there may be some valuable items lying around, unguarded by the dead. Don’t let them in unless they want to take responsibility for the scene and they sign your pocket book stating so. Got it?”

“Got it boss!”

“I am going downstairs to have a word with Andy and to wait for Zulu and Stani. If you need me just get me on the radio with my call sign, Mike November.”

Three hours later and the crime scene investigators, the photographer and fingerprint specialist had all carried out their respective duties. Only the detective assigned to the case docket and duty officer remained on scene. Dlamini still dutifully guarded and Controlled access to room 201.

“Constable, we are finished here. A docket will be registered at Norwood station. Will you and your crew inform the next of kin?” asked Captain Suthuli.

“Ah, hold on Cappie, let me just call my FTO” said Dlamini.

“Ah Control this is November Whisky 50 Student Constable Dlamini can I have permission with my FTO please?”

“Yes go ahead Student Constable Dlamini but make it snappy and check the network next time before jumping on my channel. I was waiting for a response from one of my other vehicles.”

“Ah, okay, roger that Control, sorry about that. Ah Sergeant Michael Night come in for Student Constable Dlamini please.”

“Send for Delta Sierra boy” said Constable Daniel Shaka on November Whisky 50’s radio.

“Um okay, is that you Zulu? Anyway the duty Officer here, um Cappie Suthuli wants to know if we are going to tell the dead peoples, ah people about the uh dead uh people?”

“You mean if we will be informing the next of kin? That’s a big negative. We will get hold of the trauma counsellors at Lifeline and they will inform the family” said Sergeant Night who had returned to the vehicle and had taken the radio mike from Shaka.

“Okay roger that boss I will let the Cappie here know but I think he heard already when you said it over the radio anyway and he is leaving the scene now with the detective.”

“Roger that. Stay put. We are en route back to the hotel, we will be ten mikes.”

“Roger that boss. Uh have you guys been busy on the road, what have I missed?”

The radio Controller intruded on a note of irritation: “That’s a big negative Dlamini the radio is not for your chit chat. Get off my channel! November Whisky 50 you must teach your student the correct radio procedure and etiquette. Next time I will write him an OB entry for messing around on my channel.”

“Sorry Control. It’s day one for the boy. It won’t happen again” said Night.

Twelve minutes later and the Black Bastards were in the corridor of floor two of the Star Hotel and outside room 201. The giant Zulu greeted his Shona apprentice with a sharp smack around the back of his head.

“Ouch man. What the hell was that for you bloody big tree!”

“That’s was for being an idiot on the radio and for fucking up the name of November Whisky 50. I would beat you some more but I think you have done a good job guarding this door and the dead folk” said Constable Shaka.

“Ya well I have. And I have stood here for six hours without a break or water, that’s probably illegal you know.”

Night handed his young student a fast food takeaway packet containing a double cheese burger and chips with a large coke from Wimpy.

“You have been here for three hours not six. Now before you eat this food for a job well done is there anything I should know Steven?” asked Night.

“Um no Sarge. All is in order in there. The people are still dead but have not been harassed or stolen from and all the detectives and experts did their job. It was great hey like CSI Joburg in there and I was the boss in charge of it all” said a proud student.

“All right good. Let me see your pocket book. You made everyone sign it I hope.”

Student Constable Dlamini handed over his pocket book and Night inspected the contents. All was as it was supposed to be. Night could see when the detective, photographer, crime scene expert, fingerprints and duty officer had arrived and left along with their full rank, force number and time, date and full force signatures. Night noted the last entry, took some time to read it and started to laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny Mike?” asked Constable Shaka.

Dlamini had dug into his burger but was listening intently with wide eyes.

“Looks like our boy here turned away two Officers from entering his scene” Night said while looking at his student with obvious pride in his eyes.

“Go on boy tell us what happened” said Shaka. 

Student Constable Dlamini took his time in devouring his delicious burger and stuffing his face with French fries, even pausing for dramatic effect to gulp down his sugary beverage clearly enjoying all the attention being concentrated on him.