Thirteen Hours

Chapter 3

Dr Tiffany October called them: 'Inspector ...'

'Yes?'

'I could speculate a little ...'

Griessel wondered if she had overheard him talking.

'Anything could help ...'

'I think she died here, at the scene. The blood pattern shows that he cut her throat while she lay here. I think he held her flat on the ground, on her stomach, and then he cut her. There are no splash marks to show that she was standing.'

'Oh ...' He had already worked all that out.

'And these two cuts ...' She pointed at the two cuts on the girl's shoulder blades.

'Yes?'

'It seems as if they were inflicted post mortem.'

He nodded.

'These look like fibres here ...' Dr October used a small pair of tweezers carefully around the wound. 'Synthetic material, a dark colour, totally different from her clothing ...'

Ndabeni looked at the forensic team, now walking bent over along the pathway, heads together, eyes searching, mouths never still. 'Jimmy,' he called, 'here's something for you ...' Then he crouched down with the pathologist.

She said: 'I think he cut something off her back. Something like a backpack, you know, the two shoulder straps ...'

Jimmy knelt beside her. Tiffany October showed him the fibres. 'I'll wait until you've collected them.'

'OK,' said Jimmy. He and his partner took out instruments to collect the fibres. They continued an earlier conversation, as though there had been no interruption: 'I'm telling you it's Amore.'

'It's not Amore, it's Amor,' said fat Arnold and took a thin transparent plastic bag out of his bag. He kept it ready.

'What are you talking about?' asked Vusi.

'Joost's wife.'

'Joost who?'

'Van der Westhuizen.'

'Who's that?'

'The rugby player.'

'He was Springbok captain, Vusi.'

'I'm more of a soccer guy.'

'Anyway, she has this pair of ...' Arnold used his hands to indicate big breasts. Tiffany October looked away, offended. 'I'm just stating a fact,' said Arnold defensively.

Carefully Jimmy pulled the fibres out of the wound with tweezers. 'Her name is Amore,' he said.

'It's Amor, I'm telling you. So this ou climbs on the stage with her and ...'

'What ou? asked Vusi.

'I don't know. Some ou that went to see one of her shows. So he grabs the microphone and says "you've got the best tits in the business", he says to Amor and Joost was the moer in, heavily upset.'

'What was she doing on the stage?' asked Griessel.

'Jeez, Benny, don't you read the You magazine? She's a singer.'

'So Joost grabs him after the show and says, "You can't talk to my wife like that", and the ou says to Joost, "But she has got nice tits" ...' Arnold laughed uproariously.

Jimmy hee-heed along. Tiffany October walked off towards the wall, clearly annoyed.

'What?' said the short one innocently after her. 'It's a true story ...'

'You should say "bosom",' said Jimmy.

'But it's what the ou said.'

'Now why didn't Joost just klap him?' 'That's what I'd like to know. He tackled Jonah Lomu till his teeth rattled ...'

'Jonah who?' asked Vusi.

'Jeez, Vusi, that huge New Zealand winger. Anyway, Joost breaks booms at security gates when he's the hell-in, he's hell on wheels on the rugby field, but he won't smack a guy that talks about his wife's t... uh, bosoms.'

'Let's be reasonable, how is he going to get that past the magistrate? The guy's lawyer just has to whip out a stack of You magazines and say "Your Honour, check this out, in every photo her exhibits are displayed, from Tittendale down to Naval Hill". What can you expect, the guys will talk about your wife's assets like they belong to them.'

'That's true. But I'm telling you, it's Amor.'

'Never.'

'You're thinking of Amore Bekker, the DJ.'

'Nuh-uh. But let me tell you one thing: I wouldn't let my wife walk around like that.'

'Your wife doesn't have the best tits in the business. If you've got it, flaunt it...'

'Are you finished?' asked Benny.

'We have to finish the path and do the wall,' said Jimmy and got to his feet. Vusi called the photographer over. 'How soon can I get my pictures of the face?' The photographer, young, curly-haired, shrugged. 'I'll see what I can do.'

Tell him not a damn, thought Griessel. Vusi just nodded.

'No,' said Griessel. 'We need them before eight. It's not negotiable.'

The photographer walked away to the wall, not bothering to hide his attitude. Griessel looked after him with disgust. 'Thanks, Benny,' said Vusi quietly.

'Don't be too nice, Vusi.'

'I know ...'

After an uncomfortable silence, he asked: 'Benny, what am I missing?'

Griessel kept his voice gentle, counselling. 'The backpack. It must have been robbery, Vusi. Her money, passport, cell phone ...'

Ndabeni caught on quickly. 'You think they dumped the backpack somewhere.' Griessel couldn't stand around like this any more. He looked about him, at the pavement where the spectators were getting out of hand. 'I'll handle that, Vusi, let's give the Metro guys something to do.' He went up to the wall and called to the uniforms. 'Who's in charge here?'

They just looked at each other.

'This pavement is ours,' said a coloured Metro policeman in an impressive uniform, emblems of rank all over it. Field Marshal at the very least, Griessel mused.

'Yours?'

'That's right.'

He felt the anger rise. He had an issue with the whole concept of the city police, fucking traffic cops that didn't do their jobs, total absence of law enforcement on the roads. He restrained himself and pointed a finger at a SAPS Constable: 'I want you to seal off this pavement, from down there to up to here. If people want to stand around they can do it on the other side of the street.'

The Constable shook his head. 'We don't have any tape.'

'Then go and get some.'

The SAPS man did not like to be the one singled out, but he turned and went off through the crowd. From his left-hand side an ambulance approached with some difficulty through the crowd.

'This is our pavement,' said the heavily ranked Metro policeman stubbornly.

'Are you the chief in charge here?' Benny asked him.

'Yes.'

'What is your name?'

'Jeremy Oerson.'

'And the pavements are under your jurisdiction?'

'Yes.'

'Perfect,' said Griessel. 'Make sure that the ambulance parks here. Right here. And then I want you to inspect every pavement and alley within six blocks of here, livery dustbin, every nook and cranny, got that?'

The man gave him a long look. Probably weighing up the implications should he refuse. Then he nodded, sourly, and began barking orders at his men.

Griessel turned back to Vusi.

'You need to look at this,' the pathologist called from where she was crouched by the body.

They went over to her. With a pair of tweezers, she held up a clothing label, the one from the back of the girl's T-shirt.

'Broad Ripple Vintage, Indianapolis,' she said and gave them a meaningful look.

'What does that mean?' asked Vusi Ndabeni.

'I think she's American,' she said.

'Oh fuck,' said Benny Griessel. 'Are you sure?'

Tiffany October's eyes widened somewhat at his language and her tone of voice confirmed it: 'Pretty sure.'

'Trouble,' said Ndabeni. 'Big trouble.'