Guilty

When death comes unexpectedly,
is it really better to go quickly,
without suffering?
Do most people not need these final moments
to confess and beg forgiveness?

A middle-aged dentist found executed in his living room. On the wall, a single word, written in blood. Warrant Officer Colin Menck looks about the ‘clean’ scene and is convinced that it was the work of a professional killer.

Who hired him? The main suspect is the victim’s wife, who seems just a bit too unaffected by the murder. But what did he do to deserve such a death?

Less than a week later, Menck finds himself looking at another wall with six bloody letters written on it. The only connection is another unhappy woman, an ex this time, their son a constant source of conflict.

How many names remain on this killer’s list? How many men still have to write GUILTY in their own blood?

Characters

Excerpt

The man was lying face down, his legs slightly bent, head turned to the left. His left arm was stretched across his lower back, his right arm at his side. He was wearing light brown trousers, darker brown leather shoes and a blue shirt. His hair was dark, streaked with more grey than his well-groomed beard. The hole in his forehead was slightly to the left, small and neat. Red runners of blood trailed down to the pool that had coagulated in the carpet’s fibres. His left eye was open halfway, the other hidden beneath the blood. The air smelled of copper, and something chemical—cerebrospinal fluid.

Warrant Officer Colin Menck looked around. It was a family room. Dark brown leather sofas, relatively large TV screen, DStv decoder and home-theatre system, built-in fireplace with a rectangle of tiles in front of it, Car Magazine on the coffee table. There were no signs of a struggle. Even the magazine had been neatly placed on the table, at one corner, evenly spaced from the two edges. There were no signs of forced entry either. The sole evidence of violence was the body on the carpet.

And the blood.

Menck turned his attention back to the man’s open eye. Why hadn’t he fought back?

‘Casing’s not here.’ The technician of the Local Criminal Record Centre got up off his knees. He was wearing a light blue papery overall, almost-matching paper socks over his shoes and latex gloves several shades darker. ‘Revolver?’

Menck only wore gloves and a pair of overshoes. ‘Or he picked it up.’ The scene had a professional feel to it.

‘Hole is about eight and a half, anyway. So it’s a thirty-eight, three-fifty-seven. Or a nine mil if he cleaned after himself.’

‘If anything’s stolen, it’s not the obvious stuff.’ Warrant Officer Derek Winters stood with his arms crossed, his sharp chin pointing in the direction of the electronic equipment.

Menck shook his head. ‘Robbery wasn’t the motive.’

‘No, probably not.’ Winters stepped closer and studied the cream-coloured wall next to the victim. As usual, he was wearing his blue CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATOR vest. Menck had noticed early in their partnership that Winters had a fondness for police paraphernalia.

Dr Sinette Killian entered the room, crime-scene kit in hand. She had on an overall similar to that of the LCRC—only white—her brown hair stuffed into the white hood, cream-coloured latex gloves and bright orange vest marked FORENSIC PATHOLOGY SERVICES on the back.

The more experts arrived at the scene in their proper attire, the more it looked like a Christmas tree decorated by children. They were only missing the captain in his red vest.

Dr Killian studied the wall with raised eyebrows. ‘What have we here?’

‘Why is it that someone always have to die before we see you, Doc?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s the only time you invite me.’

Menck pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘When have we ever waited for an invitation?’

‘Never. But you only come when you want something.’

Menck dropped his jaw. ‘That cuts deep, Doc. Deep.’

The pathologist chuckled, looked back at the wall before dropping to one knee beside the body. ‘One entrance wound to the forehead. Some tattooing surrounding it.’

‘Shooter was standing back. Didn’t want to get blood on himself.’

She looked at the back of the man’s head. ‘No exit wound.’

‘Looks like the head wound was the only shot, Doc. Nothing in the walls or furniture. Tidy.’

Dr Killian nodded. ‘This blood on his trousers’—she indicated just below the calves—‘looks like spatter. Shirt is tucked in.’ She lifted the man’s left hand, studied the fingers and wrist. ‘No defensive wounds.’ A deep cut stretched across the palm of his right hand. Blood was smeared across his fingers and had seeped into the cuff of his shirt, turning the fabric a dark purple. ‘Single, clean incised wound. Deliberately made.’

‘Any possibility that he did it himself?’ Menck raised his eyebrows. ‘The wife could’ve removed the firearm and knife.’

‘This is not a typical shot for suicide. But can’t discount it completely at this stage. Doesn’t feel like a suicide, though.’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to have his hands tested before I cover it?’

Menck nodded and called the LCRC tech over. ‘Would you test for primer residue, please?’

‘I’m a djin in a bottle,’ said the tech.

‘Gin? What the hell does gin have to do with anything? Don’t tell me you’re drinking on the job.’

‘Djin as in genie. Aladdin?’

‘Oh. So why didn’t you just say so, man?’

‘Cause why, my daughter loves Arabian Nights, and “djin” is the correct word if you read it in Afrikaans.’

‘Oh,’ Menck said again. The things you learn because of your children. ‘Don’t genies come in lamps?’

‘Not on the Cape Flats.’

‘Not in Christina Aguilera songs, either,’ added Winters.

‘Well.’ Menck grinned. ‘Just as long as you understand I won’t be rubbing you in any weird places.’

The tech laughed and pressed his sticky samplers on several areas of the man’s hands, focusing his efforts between the thumb and index finger. Of course, it had to go all the way to Pretoria for analysis and Menck would be elated to receive the results within six weeks.

‘Listen, genie, would you tag along when I go talk to the wife and test her hands as well? And you’ll go through the entire house and look for those weapons, hey?’

‘We’ll come tomorrow when there’s daylight and go through everything.’ The tech beamed. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s your three wishes.’

‘Come on, man, have a heart. I didn’t even ask anything for myself.’

Dr Killian slid a brown paper bag over each hand, followed by a rubber band to close it off at the wrist. She looked up. ‘Can we roll him over?’

They turned the man onto his back. The blood from the pool clung like syrup to the right side of his face.

‘All his buttons are on and fixed. I see no other bullet wounds.’ Dr Killian removed a scalpel from her kit and made a small incision in the man’s right side. One thermometer was inserted under his liver while a second measured the ambient temperature.

Menck noticed a bloodstain on the man’s trousers, at the right pocket. Palm print. The faint outline of fingers. Made after he’d written on the wall?

Because it was obviously the hand he’d used to write the six dark scarlet, uneven letters on the cream-coloured wall: GUILTY.

‘Okay.’ Menck walked over to one of the first responding uniforms currently standing at the door to the family room. ‘Where’s the wife?’

‘Sitting room, Warrant. It’s down the hallway, second door on the left.’

Menck took the LCRC tech along and found the other uniform, a female, sitting on the sofa with the victim’s wife.

‘Mrs Vorster.’

The woman looked up slowly.

‘I’m Warrant Officer Menck. I’m sorry about your husband.’

She just looked at him. Also in her late forties, neatly dressed. Her auburn hair suggested a recent visit to the salon. The shock had made her face taut, but her eyes were dry, with no trace of smudged mascara. She sat up straight, knees together, hands in her lap. Her right thumb was rubbing her left hand.

‘I know it’s difficult, but I have to ask you a few questions.’

She looked past him, nodded slowly.

‘Can we phone someone for you? A family member? A friend?’

‘I phoned her daughter, Warrant,’ said the uniformed officer. ‘She’s on her way.’

‘Okay.’ Menck sat down on a chair and took out his notebook. ‘Mrs Vorster, when did you last see your husband?’

‘Earlier this evening.’ Her voice was soft, her eyes rigid, cast downwards, still looking past him. ‘I am a member of a reading circle. We meet every third Thursday of the month.’ Her pronunciation was very proper.

‘At what time did you leave?’

‘Quarter past six. We start at half past the hour.’

‘Did your husband say anything before you left? Was he expecting someone?’

‘No. He did not say much. I told him that his lasagne was in the oven. He always eats something from Woolworths on circle evenings.’ She still didn’t look at him.

‘Has he been acting strange in any way the last few days?’

‘Not that I noticed.’

‘Did he mention a name you hadn’t heard before?’

‘No.’

‘Did he have difficulty sleeping?’

‘Not that I am aware of.’

‘Okay. How did you get to the reading circle?’

‘I drove.’

‘Did you notice anything when you left? Someone lingering on the pavement? Sitting in a parked car? Anything that, in hindsight, may seem suspicious?’

‘No.’

‘Did you lock the door when you left?’

‘Yes. I always lock the door. It was a source of some irritation for …’—her mouth pursed into a small, tight circle—‘… Willem.’

‘And what time did you get back?’

‘Between quarter and half past nine.’

‘Do you always return around that time?’

‘The circle ends at nine o’clock. Sometimes it goes on a little longer.’

‘Did you come in through the front door?’

She nodded. Once.

‘Was it locked?’

Her eyes moved to the left, slightly up. ‘Yes.’

‘I know it’s difficult, Mrs Vorster, but could you tell me what happened after you entered the house?’

‘I walked down the passage. Looked in as I passed the TV room. And …’ She closed her eyes.

‘Was the TV on?’

She shook her head. ‘Everything was off.’ Her thumb stopped moving and she swallowed. ‘It was silent.’

‘Had the TV been on when you left?’

She nodded. ‘Willem was watching the news. The British channel.’

‘Are there any firearms in the house?’

‘Willem has a pistol.’

‘Where does he keep it?’

‘There is a safe in the bedroom.’

‘Do you know if Dr Vorster had any enemies? Did he ever get any threatening messages? Strange phone calls?’

She shook her head.

‘What about patients? Do you know of any patients who—’ Menck heard loud voices and got up. ‘Please excuse me.’

Lida Vorster didn’t seem to register what was happening around her.

Menck left the sitting room.

‘This is my house!’ A female voice from the direction of the front door.

He saw the source of the commotion: the uniforms trying to placate a young woman. How had she managed to slip past the captain?

‘I’m Warrant Officer Menck. Are you the Vorsters’ daughter?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was harsh. ‘I’m Riëtte. Where’s my dad?’ Her orange-brown eyes were intense and wild.

‘Come with me, please. Your mom is in the sitting room.’

‘I don’t care where my mom is. Where is my dad?’

‘Ms Vorster, I’m sorry—’

‘Where is he?!’

‘Come with me. Please.’ He touched her upper arm.

She relented, but the snap in her shoulders made it clear that it was begrudgingly. As they made their way down the hallway, Menck kept to the young woman’s right, between her and the door to the family room, but she slipped behind his back and had taken several steps into the room before he was able to grab hold of her.

‘Come, Ms Vorster, you don’t want to be here.’

But she was screaming her father’s name, fighting to free herself. Winters stepped forward to help and she kicked his notebook from his hand. It flew up in the air and dropped to the floor.

‘Ms Vorster, please, calm down.’ Menck managed to drag her from the room.

Finally, she broke free and raced down the hallway into the sitting room. ‘So I guess you’re happy now, aren’t you? You wanted him gone!’

Menck entered just in time to witness Riëtte Vorster grabbing a vase and hurling it at her mother. Leaving a trail of dark red roses and water, it shattered against the wall behind the sofa. Shards, droplets of water and more roses scattered in every direction.

‘You got your wish at last!’ She spun around and stormed from the room.

Lida Vorster just sat on the sofa. For a moment, her eyes remained fixed on the doorway where her daughter had just been, then turned to a point on the wall. The female uniform’s eyes were huge, her mouth open.

Menck turned to follow the daughter. ‘Test her hands,’ he whispered to the LCRC tech in the hallway, motioning towards Lida Vorster with his eyes.