Dead Before Dying

“That’s all as regards my credibility. Colleagues, we’re all afraid of change. You know Toffler says one can never underestimate the impact of change on the human psyche. But at the end of the day we have to manage change. The first manifestation is for me to tell you what I expect of you. If I prepare you for change you can facilitate it more easily . . .”

Benny Griessel banged the palm of his hand against his head just above the ear as if he wanted to get the wheels turning again. De Wit missed the gesture.

“I expect only one thing from you, colleagues. Success. The minister appointed me because he has certain expectations. And I want to deliver the kind of input that will satisfy those expectations.”

He thrust his forefinger into the air. “I will try to create a climate in which you can achieve success— by healthier, more modern management principles and training in the latest crime- combating techniques. But what do I expect of you? What is your part of the contract? Three things . . .”

The forefinger acquired two friends held dramatically in front of de Wit.

“The first is loyalty. To the service and its aims, to the unit and your colleagues, and to me. The second is dedication. I expect quality work. Not ninety percent but one hundred percent. Yes, colleagues, we must also strive for zero defect.”

The detectives started to relax. The new man spoke a new language but the message remained the same. He expected no more than any of his predecessors. More work at the same inadequate pay. Results, as long as his back was covered with the higher-ups. And his promotion was assured. They were used to it. They could live with it. Even if he had been a member of the ANC.

Joubert took the red packet of Winstons out of his pocket and lit up. A couple of others followed his example.

“The third is physical and mental health. Colleagues, I firmly believe that a healthy body houses a healthy mind. I know this will make me unpopular in the short term, but I’m willing to take the chance.”

De Wit knotted his hands behind his back and straightened his shoulders again as if expecting an attack. “Each one of you will have to undergo a physical examination twice a year. The results remain confidential between us. But if the doctor finds certain . . . deficiencies, I expect you to correct them.”

The hands behind the back were released. The palms turned out as if he wanted to ward off an approaching attacker.

“I know, I know. It was the same at the Yard. I know how difficult it is to be fit all the time. I know your stress levels, the long hours. But colleagues, the fitter you are, the easier it is to overcome the obstacles. I don’t want to be personal, but some of you are overweight. There are those who smoke and drink . . .”

Joubert stared at the cigarette in his hand.

“But we’ll tackle it together. Together we’ll change your lifestyle, help you to get rid of your bad habits. Remember, colleagues, that you’re the cream of the service, you project the image both here and outside, you are ambassadors, PR representatives. But most important of all, you have a duty toward yourself to keep your body and mind in shape.”

Again the slight hesitation, the pause for applause. Joubert killed the cigarette. He saw Vos dropping his head into his hands. Vos didn't smoke but he had a beer gut.

“Right,” said Colonel Bart de Wit. “Let’s handle today’s workload.” He took a notebook out of his jacket pocket and opened it.

“Captain Marcus Joubert . . . Where is Captain Joubert?”

Joubert raised his arm to half-mast.

“Ah, we’ll meet formally a little later on, Captain. Is it Marcus? Do they call you . . . ?”

“Mat,” said Joubert.

“What?”

“Like in rug,” said a voice on the other side of the room and a few detectives gave a subdued laugh.

“I’m called Mat,” Joubert said more loudly. De Wit misheard him.

“Thank you, Captain. Very well, Captain Max Joubert will lead the standby team for the coming week. With him are Lieutenant Leon Petersen, Adjutants Louw and Griessel, Sergeant O’Grady, Constables Turner, Maponya, and Snyman. I’ll get to know you all, colleagues. And Captain Gerbrand Vos led the standby team over the festive season. Captain, is there anything you want to discuss?”

* * *

The professional life of a Murder and Robbery detective didn't leave much time for extended sympathy when a colleague lost his grip. There was comprehension because it could happen to anyone. There was gratitude because it hadn't happened to you. And there was sympathy, which lasted for a month or two, until the fated colleague became a millstone round your neck in the execution of your duty.

Two colleagues in Murder and Robbery had retained their sympathy for Mat Joubert for two years— each for his own reasons.

For Gerbrand Vos it was nostalgia. He and Joubert had started together at Murder and Robbery as detective sergeants. The two shining new stars. Willy Theal allowed them to compete, to strive for more and more accolades, but they were promoted together to adjutant, to lieutenant. In the force they were a national legend. The Afrikaans Cape newspaper,

Die Burger,

wrote a quotable piece about them on the center page when they were promoted to captain simultaneously. Always simultaneously. The young reporter was obviously impressed by them both. “Captain Vos is the extrovert, the big man with the face of an angel, dimples in his cheeks, baby blue eyes. Captain Mat Joubert is the quiet one, even bigger, with shoulders that will fill a doorway and the face of a hawk— brown eyes that can look straight through you,” she had written dramatically.

And then Lara’s death came and Vos accepted that his colleague no longer wanted to compete. And waited for Joubert to complete the grieving process. Gerbrand Vos was still waiting.

Joubert was busy with the first case dossier of the morning. Seventeen more stood in three piles on his desk, yellow-gray SAP3 files that regulated his life. He heard Vos’s purposeful tread on the bare gray floor tiles, heard that the footsteps didn't end at the office next door. Then Vos was in the door, his voice subdued, as if de Wit was in the vicinity.

“General forecast deep shit,” he said. Gerbrand Vos used language like a blunt weapon.

Joubert nodded. Vos sat down on one of the blue-gray government-issue chairs. “Patriots. Patriots! Jesus, it makes my blood boil. And Scotland Yard. What does Scotland Yard know about Africa, Mat? And ‘colleagues’ all the time. What kind of CO calls his people ‘colleagues’?”

“He’s new, Gerry. It’ll blow over.”

“He wants to see us. He stopped me at tea and said he wanted to see each and every one of us alone. I have—” Vos looked at his watch—“to be there now. And you’re next. We’ve got to hang together, Mat. We’re the two senior officers. We’ve got to sort out this fucker from the start. Did you hear him on fitness? I can see us doing PT in the parking area every morning.”

Joubert smiled slightly. Vos got up. “I’ll call you when I'’ve finished. Just remember: band of brothers. Even if we’re not fucking patriots.”

“It’s okay, it’s only jam, Mat,” Vos said thirty-five minutes later when he walked in again. “He’s waiting for you. Quite friendly and full of compliments.”

Joubert sighed, put on his jacket, and walked down the passage.