Читать книгу The State Vs Anna Bruwer - Anchien Troskie - Страница 6
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Superintendent Bulldog Webber has just come out of the shower and the towel is still around his waist when the call comes. He dresses quickly, grabs his service pistol and cellphone, bends down to give his sleeping wife a kiss on the forehead and walks to his Toyota Corolla.
Two blocks further on he stops in front of the house. Sunrise is just beginning to colour the sky. He looks for a moment at the garden in front of him, allows his eyes to wander over the flowers and shrubs on the left, the rose garden on the right. There are already two police vehicles in the driveway, as well as the car from forensics.
Thirty-five years of service, he thinks as he climbs out of his car, thirty-five years during which he has earned the nickname “Bulldog”. Because he can latch on to the scent of his quarry and not let go until the case is solved. Thirty-five years of service, and he still has to prepare himself mentally for each and every murder scene. Because the colour, the feel and the smell of blood nauseate him. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.
Of course there will be blood, he says to himself, and yes, it will have that strange metallic smell. There may be more than just blood. But: there inside the house is a human being lying dead. And he is here to find out what led to that. Just that. Not to become involved.
He climbs the steps to the front door. Nods to the other members of the police force, the man and the woman from forensics, the pathologist.
The deceased man is lying right at the front door, on his stomach, slippers on his feet, long pyjama pants, the right leg of the pants wet. The smell of urine mixed with the smell of blood. A short white vest, thin old-man’s arms, the one arm lying along his side, the other bent over his head. He is lying in a pool of blood that has already begun to dry, his blood-smeared face unrecognisably mutilated. Around him and underneath him are shards of red glass, and flowers, as if someone wanted to adorn the corpse, conduct a premature funeral.
Superintendent Webber glances at the table behind the body. Red glass fragments are strewn across the top, a few flowers are still lying there, water is drip-dripping to the floor.
“Supe.” Inspector Jantjies is standing in the doorway leading to the interior of the house.
“Inspector.”
Jantjies steps closer, open notebook in his hands, pen poised to write. “Supe, there are eight shots in total. It looks as if the deceased was standing when the first six shots were fired. They hit the red vases behind him. He must then have thrown himself to the ground and pissed himself.”
Webber looks up sharply.
“Sorry, Supe, he must have urinated,” Jantjies corrects himself quickly. “Then two shots were fired at close range in quick succession.”
Webber nods. “That’s also the way I see it. The weapon?”
“No weapon on the scene. Constable Mbane phoned, a woman handed herself over at the station, with the pistol. She says she committed the murder. The deceased’s wife says it’s her daughter.”
Webber nods again. Becomes aware of a weeping sound, looks questioningly at Jantjies.
“It’s the deceased’s wife. She is waiting in the lounge.”
“Let Mbane know I’m on my way. I first want to talk to the widow.”
“She just handed herself over without a lawyer.” Jantjies shakes his head. “Never heard of such a thing.”
“Nor me, but there’s definitely a first time for everything.”
Webber walks through to the lounge. He indicates with a nod that the constable sitting next to the woman on the couch may leave. The woman is wearing a dressing gown, presumably pyjamas underneath, bed socks on her feet, her hair rumpled from sleep.
“Ma’am?”
She lifts her head slowly, stares at him with reddened eyes.
She looks familiar. For a moment he considers asking her about this, but then decides against it. This is not the time or the place, and there is no sign of recognition in her eyes.
“I am Superintendent Webber. The deceased was your husband?” he asks just to make sure.
She nods.
“I am sorry about your loss, ma’am.” He always feels strange when he says this, as if he should actually know the person in order to feel any sorrow. “I must ask you a few questions.”
“That’s fine,” she says in a monotone.
“Ma’am, please tell me what happened here.”
She waits until he is sitting down. “We were woken by the ringing of the doorbell.”
“What time was that?”
“I don’t know. Three o’clock? Four o’clock?”
He nods.
“My husband got up to go and open the door. I stayed in bed. Then I heard such strange popping sounds. I came to have a look. She was here. Anna. She shot him. In front of me she shot him dead.”
He makes a note. “Anna?”
“My daughter.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you phone the police?”
“Yes.”
Bulldog can hardly hear her whisper, so he holds his head closer to hers.
“Did you touch anything?”
“No.”
“Can you think of any reason why your daughter would shoot her father?”
“He wasn’t her father.”
“Stepfather?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you think your daughter would shoot her stepfather?”
She begins to cry, in spasms. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”
Bulldog shuts his notebook. “That’s all for now, ma’am. I’ll talk to you again later.”
He is certain that she does know why.
Bulldog sees red when Constable Mbane admits with embarrassment that the suspect, his suspect, washed her hands. This will bugger up the PR test for sure. He will have to ring forensics.
He controls himself with great difficulty. He has an overwhelming urge to grab the constable and shake him out of his uniform. But he knows from experience that this will only lead to trouble.
“Where is she?” he barks.
“In the top office, Supe.”
Bulldog is startled when he sees the young woman sitting in front of the desk. She is small, obviously terrified, and she is covered in blood. Sticky dry blood. The whole place smells of it.
He takes a deep breath and exhales before he can enter. “Miss Bruwer?”
She looks at him, frightened.
“I am Superintendent Webber.”
“I shot him. I had to. I did it for Carli. And for myself. I had to. I had to.”
He walks over to the telephone, rings the forensic division, arranges for a female constable to be sent to the top office.
“Who did you shoot?”
“Danie du Toit. I had to, Superintendent, believe me, I had to.”
“Where did you shoot him?”
She looks at him uncomprehendingly.
“In his leg, arm – where?”
“In his head. I had to.”
He looks up with relief when the door opens. It’s Constable Naudé.
“See that she is formally arrested. And I want all her clothes. Also look for trace under her nails, forensics is waiting.”
The woman with red hair leads me down the passage, past the toilet, down the steps to an untidy office where a desk is piled high with files. The constable with the soft eyes who found me in the bathroom is also there. He smiles encouragingly at me, but I am not able to smile back.
The woman leaves me standing, does not offer me a chair. I feel as if I’m about to collapse with exhaustion.
“Anna Bruwer, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney . . .”
I shut my ears, keep my eyes open, I do not want to hear. Not that, not those words. The right to remain silent. The right? Sometimes it’s all that you can do. Shush. Don’t talk. Don’t say anything. Shush. Anna who remains silent, mute.
The redhead opens a book, looks up at me without interest. “Name, date of birth, height, weight, eye colour, allergies, medication, doctor?” she rattles off the list.
I answer slowly, because I have to consider each word before I can allow it to pass my lips.
“Any distinguishing features?”
When I do not respond, she asks impatiently: “Tattoo? Birthmark?”
“Tattoo.”
“Where, what?”
“A dolphin, on my right shoulder.”
I had first considered angel wings. So that I could look into the mirror every day and know that I have goodness in me too, not only badness. But that would have taken too long, and I did not like the idea of having a stranger’s hands on my body. The dolphin was small, quick. The elegant curve of its leap out of the water represented freedom to me. Because I still thought then that I was free of the past.
She makes a note. “Handbag?”
“No.”
“Any personal items on you?”
My dignity? My pride? My clothes? The car keys in the pocket of my jeans? My cellphone?
I reach for my pockets, but her hands shoot out in a flash. “No, I’ll do that.”
What on earth is the woman thinking? That I’m going to yank out a pistol and start shooting?
Naturally they would think that. Murder is a sin. And sins cleave to a person. Like a stain that you cannot remove, but that grows every time you try to. They see it, this murderous stain on my skin. This woman, the man with the soft eyes, the superintendent with the booming voice. They all see it. Why can’t I see it?
Because the thing that I did was right.
My pockets are emptied. Car keys, cellphone and peppermints are placed on the table in front of the redhead. “Where’s your purse?”
“In my car.”
“I’ll fetch it,” says the constable with the soft eyes.
“No,” says the redhead, “you’re already in deep shit. Let forensics fetch it. But you can drive to her house and fetch clothes for her. Her clothes need to be bagged, she’ll have to have something to put on.”
“I live in Knysna,” I say.
“But surely you brought some clothes with you?”
“No.”
“You drove all the way from Knysna without any extra clothes? Fuck! This is not some kind of spa, you know! What are we going to do now?”
“I can fetch some from my wife,” the constable suggests.
“No, that will take too long, and Supe is already mad as hell.” The redhead sighs, takes some keys from her bag. “There’s a gym bag in my car.”
She draws an ink pad closer, places a sheet of paper with blocks on it in front of her. “Come here.” Finger on the pad, then on a block on the sheet of paper. All the fingers, palm, thumb, sides of hands. She turns round, takes a black koki from the desk and reaches for a small whiteboard. Writes on it with her back to me, turns to face me and hangs the board round my neck.
She picks up a camera. “Look to the front.” Click. “Turn to the side.” Click.
I look down at the board, read the words upside down: Case Number 232/2004, Anna Bruwer. Murder.
So that’s it, I think. Murder. This is what it looks like. This is what it feels like.
“Uncover your shoulder so that I can take a photograph of the tattoo.”
I do so.
The constable comes in and puts a gym bag and my purse on the table.
The redhead opens the bag. “You’re lucky that I was planning to go to the gym, otherwise you’d be sitting in the cells stark-bloody-naked,” she says without looking at me. She takes out tracksuit pants, T-shirt, panties and socks. “I’m certainly not giving you my tackies.”
She opens my purse, takes out everything and puts it on the desk, writes down each item in the book, looks up at me. “Everything has been written down, so that you can’t say later that we stole anything from you. Check and sign.”
I don’t even look at the list, just sign shakily where she points. She tears the page out neatly along the perforated line and holds it out to me.
She removes the board from around my neck. “Come.”
We walk down the passage again, turn left this time and go into a bathroom. It’s cold inside, a window is ajar and I can hear the wind whistling outside. Two men are standing there, waiting.
I stop abruptly, but the redhead shoves me forward. “They don’t bite.”
“Hold out your hands,” one of the men says, not unfriendly.
I hold out my hands, note that they are still shaking slightly. He scrapes under the nails of my left hand; the other man scrapes under the nails of my right hand. There’s still blood on my arm that I didn’t wash away, and they carefully scrape some of it off.
Once they leave, the redhead orders me: “Undress.”
I hesitate. I do not take off my clothes in front of other people.
“Get a move on, it’s late, I want to go home.”
She picks up my clothes from the floor, places them in a bag. My tackies too. Underwear. Gives everything to someone outside the door.
I’m standing naked in front of this strange woman, trying to cover my private parts as best I can.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please, do you really think I haven’t seen that before?”
I stare at the floor, hear the slap of the latex gloves as she slips them on. Struggle to hold back the tears of humiliation while the stranger’s cold hands probe me. In my mouth, my ears, my nose, my vagina, my anus.
“Get dressed,” the redhead says as she drops the gloves into a refuse bin.
I stand uncertainly with her panties in my hand.
“They’re clean.”
I nod. Nevertheless. “I’d prefer not to wear them, thanks,” I whisper.
She just shrugs. “Your loss.”
The tracksuit pants are hopelessly too long. T-shirt and socks, no shoes.
The redhead opens the door. “Do you want to phone your lawyer?” she asks in the passage.
I shake my head. I want to phone nobody.
“Come on, then. Supe Webber is waiting.”
He is in the same office as before, but not alone this time. Opposite him sits a man with dark hair whose dark eyes are fixed questioningly on me. I hesitate.
The stranger stands up. I have to look up at him.
“I am Joubert van Heerden. I am a lawyer.”
When I remain silent, he adds: “I am your lawyer.”
“I don’t want a lawyer.”
“Miss Bruwer,” the superintendent interrupts, “you need a lawyer.”
“No. I don’t want one. I have committed a murder, I admit guilt. I do not need a lawyer.”
The strange man nods. “Very well, Anna. May I then sit here while Superintendent Webber questions you?”
“Who are you?”
“Joubert van Heerden.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Uncle Retief Roodt phoned me.”
“Uncle Retief! How does he know . . . ?”
“Your mother told him.”
My mother.
I nod. He can stay.
He turns to the superintendent. “Could I have a few moments to consult with my client?”
Webber stands up, gestures towards the other chair in front of the desk. “I’ll wait outside.”
Joubert van Heerden leans over to me. “Anna, I’m here to help.”
I shake my head. “It’s too late for that. I don’t think anyone can help me any longer.”
He sighs. “But I can try. Allow me to try?”
His dark eyes are not friendly, also not hostile. His large frame projects a sense of calm. Uncle Retief sent him to me.
“Okay then.”
“Why did you shoot Danie du Toit?”
I look down at my hands. “Because he deserved it.”
“Tell me.”
I cover my face with my hands, shake my head.
He places a hand briefly on my shoulder. “We can talk about this some more later.”
He stands up and opens the door for the superintendent.
Bulldog takes the dictaphone from the top drawer of his desk. He deliberately does this very slowly, so that he has a chance to bring his emotions under control. She is wearing clean clothes, the blood on her hands and body has been removed. Yet the metallic smell pervades the office.
Once he has laid out everything in front of him, he clears his throat and switches on the machine. Loudly and clearly he states the date, the case number, his rank and name. “Also present is the accused’s legal representative, Mr Joubert van Heerden.”
He looks at Anna. “Name?”
“Anna Bruwer.”
“You will have to speak more clearly.”
His words come out more harshly than he intended, he sees how she shrinks back. He shifts the dictaphone closer to her and asks her to repeat her name. Then he sits back comfortably and folds his fingers together.
“Miss Bruwer, did you aim a firearm at Danie du Toit?”
She nods.
“You have to answer the questions, the machine can’t see.”
“Yes.”
“Louder, Miss Bruwer. Did you do this on 9 February 2004?”
“Yes.”
“Did you do this in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Was the firearm a 9-millimetre pistol?”
“Yes.”
“Did you murder him with the firearm?”
“Yes.”
“Did you intend to murder him?”
She hesitates a moment. “I don’t know.”
“Why then did you pull the trigger?”
“Because I had to.”
For the moment he leaves it at that. “Do you live in Knysna?”
“Yes.”
“Did you drive here in your car?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been in Bloemfontein?”
“I arrived here this morning. I am very tired, Superintendent. Can’t I please get some sleep?”
“You can sleep later.” He leans back further, so that the chair creaks. “You drove all the way from Knysna to shoot him?”
“Yes.”
“For no other reason?”
“No.”
“In your car there was an attaché case with gloves, a balaclava and a torch.”
She does not answer.
“Miss Bruwer, please explain to me why you took the trouble to pack all these things but did not use them.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Your purpose was to come here and to murder him.”
She does not answer.
“Was your plan to do this unseen and without making a sound?”
“I wanted to make it look like a robbery,” she admits.
“Why didn’t you?”
“All of a sudden I no longer saw the use.”
“Why a silencer?”
“So that the shots would not be heard.”
He fixes his eyes on her, stretches his long legs out in front of him. “Why did you give yourself up?”
“Because I shot someone dead and you would have caught me anyway.”
“That’s true.”
For a moment there is silence in the room, with only the rumble of early-morning traffic coming through the open windows. Very strange, Bulldog thinks to himself, usually suspects immediately try to exonerate themselves. She just sits there, resigned and frightened. Very frightened. Her shaking hands and the fact that she regularly has to swallow give away her state of mind.
He leans over. “Why, Miss Bruwer? Why did you shoot him?”
“I had to. For Carli. And for myself.”
“Who is Carli?”
“My sister.”
“Where is she?”
“She is dead. He murdered her.”
“He murdered her?”
“She committed suicide, but he might just as well have put the rope around her neck. I did not have a choice, I had to do it.”
“Is the murder weapon, the pistol, your own?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Uncle Retief bought it for me, some years ago already. So that I could protect myself, if necessary.”
“Have you had any training in the use of weapons?”
“Yes. I’m tired, Superintendent, please?”
He ignores her plea. “In other words, you know how to use a weapon. Would you describe yourself as a good shot?”
“Yes. I am really tired, Superintendent.”
He nods slowly. “Explain to me, Miss Bruwer, why it was necessary for you first to shoot the vases behind Mr Du Toit to smithereens?”
She does not answer.
“Let me explain to you how I see it. You can correct me anytime. You ring the bell, Du Toit opens the door. You stand there, without your balaclava, without your gloves, weapon in hand. A good shot. You first shoot the vases behind him to pieces. He dives to the ground, lies on his stomach, his arms trying to protect his head. You watch him wet himself out of fear, only then do you come closer. By that time he must have tried to get up, perhaps onto his knees?”
When she does not respond, he continues: “Only then do you shoot. And one shot, from someone trained to use a firearm, from close up with a 9 mill, won’t do the job. You shoot him twice, through the head.”
Joubert van Heerden leans forward. “Superintendent.”
Bulldog hears the cautioning tone in the lawyer’s voice, but ignores it. “Why was this necessary, Miss Bruwer?”
Silence.
“Why was this necessary, Miss Bruwer?” he repeats. “This . . . drama beforehand?”
She just looks down at her hands, fumbles with the piece of paper she is holding.
“Miss Bruwer, are you prepared to make a confession in front of a magistrate that you are responsible for the death of Danie du Toit?”
Joubert stands up. “Supe, if you think I’m going to allow you to drag her out of here to a magistrate for a confession, you are making a mistake. The question – as you should know – is whether she is accountable. And that can only be decided – as you should also know full well – by a psychologist. In other words, the only place where Anna Bruwer is going to now is to the cells, until I can get her to a psychologist or psychiatrist. And you,” he turns to Anna, “you don’t say another word.”
This is the reason he dislikes lawyers, Bulldog thinks to himself, and switches off the machine.
Only then does she look up. “Sometimes, Superintendent, you don’t have a choice. It was my fate – I was destined to shoot him.”
Suddenly Bulldog feels the energy drain out of him. He feels exhausted and it’s only morning, the whole day still lies ahead.
“One always has a choice, Miss Bruwer.” He reaches for the telephone, dials a number and says curtly: “Come fetch her.”
