Dead Before Dying

“It’s based on the previous experience of my commanding officer, colonel. at this stage we have to investigate all possibilities.”

“Don’t give me that official smokescreen, Joubert. you’re just shielding de Wit.”

“Colonel, I would appreciate it very much if you and your staff would provide murder and robbery with any information which could cast more light on the possibility.”

“Ah, now I'’ve got it. You’re under orders. Awright, you have my sympathy, Joubert. If we uncover a Chinese smuggling ring in the next two hundred years, you’ll be the first to know.”

* * *

The investigating officer had to be present during the postmortem. That was the rule, the tradition— no matter what the state of the remains.

Joubert had never enjoyed it, not even in the good old days. But he could erect barriers between himself and the unsettling process that repeated itself time after time on a marble slab in a white-tiled room in Salt River, where the dead lost the last remnants of dignity.

Not that Professor Pagel forced his scalpel and clamps and saws and forceps through skin and tissue and bone without respect. On the contrary, the state pathologist and his staff approached their work with the seriousness and professionalism that it deserved.

It was Lara’s death which had destroyed his barriers. Because he knew she had also lain there. Images recalled from past experience had helped to reconstruct the scene. Naked, on her back, clean and sterile, her lithe body exposed to the world, to no effect. The blood washed from her face, only the small star-shaped bullet wound visible between the hairline and the eyebrows. And a pathologist explaining to a detective that it was characteristic of a contact shot, the point-blank killing. Because the compressed gases in the gun’s barrel landed under the skin and suddenly expanded, like a balloon bursting, the Star of Death was awarded, so often seen in suicide cases . . . But not in Lara’s. Somebody else gave her the star.

Every time he walked down the cold, tiled passages of the mortuary in Salt River, his mind screened him the scene, a macabre replay he couldn't switch off.

Pagel was waiting in the little office with Walter Schutte, managing director of Quickmail. Joubert introduced himself. Schutte was of medium height with a deep voice and hair that protruded from every possible opening— his shirt collar, the cuffs, his ears. They walked to the theater where James J. Wallace lay under a green sheet.

Pagel stripped off the covering.

“Jeez,” said Walter Schutte and turned his face away.

“Is this James J. Wallace?” Joubert asked.

“Yes,” said Schutte. He was pale and the line of shaven beard showed clearly on his skin. Joubert was astonished by the hairiness of the man. He took him by the shoulder and led him back to Pagel’s office, where Schutte signed a form.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions in your office later on.”

“What about?” Schutte’s self-confidence was slowly reasserting itself.

“Routine.”

“Of course,” Schutte said. “Anytime.”

When Joubert walked back, Pagel switched on the bright lights, thrust his short, strong fingers into the transparent plastic gloves, took off the cloth covering the late James J., drew the arm of the large mounted magnifying glass toward him, and picked up a small scalpel.

The pathologist began his systematic procedure. Joubert knew all the

mmm

sounds the man made, the unintelligible mutter when he found something important. But Pagel only shared his discoveries when he was quite certain about his conclusions. That’s why Joubert waited. That’s why he stared at the sterile washbasin against the wall, where a drop of water pinged against the metal container every fourteen seconds.

“Head shot could’ve caused death. Entry through the left frontal sinus, exit two centimeters above the fontanel. The exit wound is very big. Soft-nosed bullet? Could be . . . could be. Must have a look at the trajectory.”

He looked at Joubert. “Difficult to judge the caliber. Entry wound in the wrong place.” Joubert nodded as if he understood.

“Relatively close shot, the head shot. Two, three meters. The thorax shot probably equally close. Could also have caused death. Wound is typical. Additional signs less obvious. The clothes, of course. Heat absorbed. Powder particles. Smoke. Through the sternum. Bleeding absent.”

He looked up again. “Your man was already dead, Captain. After the first shot. Doesn’t matter which one it was. Dead before he hit the ground. The second one was unnecessary.”

Fuel for de Wit’s Mafia mania, Joubert thought. But he remained silent.

“Let’s go in,” Pagel said and picked up a larger scalpel.

* * *

Walter Schutte didn't get up when Joubert and Griessel were escorted in by the secretary. “Sit down, gentlemen.” He swung a jovial arm at the modern leather and chrome chairs in front of the big desk with its sheet of glass. “Tea or coffee? I’m having something so please don’t hesitate.” The pale uncertainty in the mortuary had disappeared.

They both chose tea and sat down. The secretary closed the door behind her.

The morning wasn'’t far advanced but Schutte’s beard already cast a shadow over his cheeks. His teeth flashed white when he gave a quick, bright smile. “Well, in what way can I assist you?” Then the smile disappeared like a light that had been switched off.

“We’d like to know more about James Wallace, Mr. Schutte. You must’ve known him well?” Joubert asked.

“I met James for the first time two years ago, when Promail appointed me here. He was a wonderful man.” Schutte’s voice was loaded with veneration.

“Is that what you called him? James?”

“Most of us called him Jimmy. But now it sounds so . . .” Schutte flashed a gesture and a smile.

“What were his relations with the people at work?”

“We all liked him. Oh, hang on, I see what you’re driving at. No, Captain, you won’t find his murderer here.” Schutte waved both hands in front of him as if warding off an evil spirit. “We’re like one big family, I always say. And James was a part of the family. A much loved part. No, Captain, look for your murderer somewhere else.”

“Do you know whether the deceased had any other business interests?”

“No . . . I don’t think so. Jim . . . James told me that all his money was invested in unit trusts because he didn't want to worry about it. As far as I know he only had Quickmail, his cricket, and his family.”

“Has your firm done any business for Chinese firms?”

Schutte frowned. “No. What has that—”

Griessel interrupted him. “Have you seen this morning’s

Burger

?”

“No.” Schutte was off balance.

“The way in which Wallace was murdered, Mr. Schutte— it’s similar to the modus operandi of the Chinese drug dealers. Did he have any contact with people from Taiwan?”