The Skinner's Revenge. Chris Karsten
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the investigating officer.
“The photos will do, along with a statement,” Ella replied.
“And Dorcas?” asked Dr Koster. “Do you need to keep her body in the archives as evidence?”
Ella shook her head. “I’ll get a warrant or something … a permit, a legal document to have her reburied in the same grave.”
“Buried,” said Dr Koster, “not reburied. She was never buried in the first place. Only her coffin was committed to the grave.”
“Have you completed your autopsy, Doctor?”
“There was no need for an autopsy. Her medical records were in the hospital archives. A death certificate was issued in 2005. She died of natural causes a few months after suffering a severe stroke. Apoplexy due to a haemorrhage of the brain. Shortly before her seventy-fifth birthday.”
“Then her son had her embalmed,” said Silas.
“To preserve her for all eternity,” said Ella.
“The embalmer did an excellent job,” said Dr Koster.
“Mr Poppe Junior,” Ella nodded. “They still think she’s in the coffin. They don’t know Abel removed her during his night-long vigil.”
Dr Koster motioned to his assistant to remove the coffin from the autopsy room. “Dump that with the refuse for the municipal truck to pick up.” He turned to Silas and Ella. “Do you want to see her, Ella?”
She nodded. She was relatively new at the job, slowly getting used to dead bodies. She wondered if it ever got easier. And this one had been embalmed for years. A mummy. She drew a deep breath, stepped nearer as Dr Koster opened a fridge door and pulled out a steel drawer.
“I saw her on her bed in Abel Lotz’s house,” said Silas. “He took a lot of trouble with her, special air conditioner and humidifier in her room, even a marble slab for her to lie on.”
“Yes, he took good care of his mother. She would have lasted a long time.” Dr Koster pulled the sheet away from Dorcas Lotz’s face.
Ella stared at the old woman, at the two deep lines between her eyes, carved into her forehead, the muscles fossilised after decades of frowning, fixed in place by habit, rigor mortis and embalming fluids. The grim, severe face of a mother who had produced a monster. Just visible under the sheet was the neckline of an old-fashioned nightgown, once white, now sepia, the starched lace bib stiff against the wrinkled parchment of her neck.
“Should I let Poppe & Son know to fetch her for the reburial? Ella?”
She looked up at Dr Koster, her fingers stroking her stomach. He, too, presumed that the case was still hers.
She nodded. “I’ll arrange for the documentation. Phone the undertakers.”
“Actually, Ella’s still on sick leave,” said Silas, “not officially back on the job.”
“Then let her arrange for the documentation unofficially.” Dr Koster’s glasses had slipped down his nose as he’d lowered his head to study Dorcas’s face. Now his eyes flashed over the frame. “Or are you going to give Ella’s case to someone else, Silas? And mess up our entire investigation?”
Our investigation. Ella avoided looking at the colonel, waited for his reaction. The forensic pathologist and he had come a long way. They hadn’t always got on, as might be expected of two grumpy old men. And now she was part of their team. By default, having stepped into her father’s shoes.
“As long as she doesn’t come to the office before the counsellor has signed her off. General Pitso –”
“Bloody bean counter,” muttered Dr Koster. He pulled the sheet back over Dorcas’s face, shoved her back into the fridge.
“It’s my case,” said Ella. “And I won’t give up until I’ve caught him. I’ll arrange with Poppe & Sons. I’ll be at the graveside – unofficially – to witness her burial. I’ll make quite sure that she’s lowered into the grave this time and covered with soil.”
“Well, we’re done here for now,” said Silas. “Let’s go home. It’s pitch-dark outside.”
As he headed for his office, Dr Koster stopped and called, “Ella!”
Ella turned. Silas sighed.
Dr Koster beckoned with a crooked finger. “Come.”
“See what he wants,” said Silas. “I’ll wait in the car.”
She followed the pathologist into his office, where she found him in front of a large safe. He handed her a mask.
“This was on Dorcas’s face when they discovered her body in that house. Must be symbolic or something. You might want it as evidence.”
“I saw the police photos of her with the mask on her face.”
“Authentic, I think. Perhaps you should have it analysed, trace its origin. Might give you new insight into Abel Lotz’s psyche.”
She knew about Abel’s passion for masks; she’d visited his gallery. He’d even left one of his masks on a victim’s face after stripping off the skin. He seemed obsessed with faces.
Following her near-fatal confrontation with Abel, she’d been given no choice: it was mandatory sick leave and counselling. The stomach wound had healed, but not the scars, nor the psychological wound. That was Fred Lange’s diagnosis: a wound to her psyche. Ella suspected he’d heard or read it somewhere. Dr Landsberg called it psychological trauma.
Standing orders – and there was no leeway. Every member of the force who’d been involved in a violent situation had to undergo trauma counselling, she knew that. It was not negotiable. Stress levels in the police were high, and there was reason for worry. Every time a member was buried, the commissioner was in attendance, embracing and consoling grieving relatives. At every funeral the battle cries rang out. The commissioner had had a large bouquet of red gladioli delivered to her hospital bed, accompanied by a get-well card, incorrectly addressed to a Warrant Officer Anna Nasser.
She’d wanted to get back to the office, back onto the trail of the Nightstalker, but she’d been stopped.
“Not a good idea, Ella,” Silas had come to tell her at home. “Take a proper break. Your thoughts and feelings are in turmoil. You’ve had a brush with death, remember? Let Dr Landsberg help you.”
“Please, not Dr Mimi Landsberg,” she’d sighed.
Mara Alkaster, who’d come along, had placed her hand on Ella’s. “You’re like a daughter to us, Ella. Listen to Silas.”
Silas and his merry widow, who couldn’t get round to tying the knot.
He had personally made her first appointment with Dr Landsberg, a clinical psychologist and trauma counsellor consulted by the police. And then the Murder and Robbery team had called on Ella in a steady stream. Fred Lange had brought beer – that was how old hands dealt with trauma, he’d said. Jimmy Julies from Forensics had brought milk tart – his wife baked the best milk tart in the universe, he’d said. Tabs Makgaleng from Fingerprints had brought Midnight Velvet – chocolate soothed the emotional centre of the brain, he’d said. Young Stallie Stalmeester from Dispatch had brought a sheaf of white chinkerinchees and blue forget-me-nots, kissed her cheek and said he missed her. Even Gen. Pitso had arrived at her humble home – with bath oil from Pick ’n Pay, forms in triplicate (for mandatory sick leave), which she had to sign for his IN basket (the one next to his OUT basket) and the standing orders about cutting expenditure.
* * *
The trauma counsellor’s consultation room had been cosy and comfortable, the wooden furniture radiating warmth; fresh flowers in large vases, framed family photographs, magazines, inspirational books, bright, fluffy cushions, landscapes painted with flowing,