A Just Scrutiny?

By Heinrich Swanepoel

Sam, Native American DEA agent, uses his extraordinary abilities in the fight against organized crime in South Africa. Reading of body language, out of body travel and second sight - these abilities may seem surreal to some; but this author (ex-soldier and ex-prosecutor) knows them to be natural abilities available to those (few) with unfettered, inquiring minds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heinrich Swanepoel
• Release date: Apr 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9780620564267

Heinrich Swanepoel

Previously: Defence Force, Old Mutual, Department Justice as Prosecutor, Property Manager Southern life Properties (Anglo American), Property Broker, Management Software Marketing. Has read body language for past 30 years, now down to micro expressions.

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A Just Scrutiny?

by

Heinrich Swanepoel

Published by Heinrich Swanepoel at Smashwords.com

Copyright ©2013 Heinrich Swanepoel

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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ISBN number: 978-0-620-56426-7

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A JUST SCRUTINY?

By

Heinrich Swanepoel

Chapter 1

Shafts of light from the setting sun reached into the deathly silence of the living room. A frozen audience breathed air that showed up as a soup of dust motes in the golden rays. The centre stage was occupied by a single actor. Seated on one of the dilapidated, faded sofas, he looked unaware of the fear in his audience. With glassy, unfocussed eyes he flicked the large knife from one hand to the other.

Foamy spittle dripped from the open corners of his mouth, forming rivulets down his dirty shirt, slipping over his bulging stomach. Words of hatred and suffering, promises of impending murder and soft gurgles of laughter vied to reach their ears.

The verbal tone changed subtly to one of urgency, then lifted in force to an emotional storm. Ripples of a major seizure coursed through his body and his eyes turned upwards in their sockets. He fell sideways on the sofa, gagging and suffocating on his own tongue.

The dark opera, well-executed because of numerous previous performances, ended with a surprising new twist. When his audience eventually saw the knife slipping out of his hand, saw it kicked into a corner by the social worker and deemed it safe to help, he was dead.

*************************

Cecily Smith sat on one of the grimy sofas and sighed with inadequacy.

An ambulance had carted the body away. Hopelessness remained, etched on the faces of those left behind. Cecily felt small when she compared what she could do with what she wanted to do for this family. Somehow she must, when the tears of loss stop flowing, motivate this family to live again. Her studies had made it sound easy and logical, but those concepts were wrenched from her on her first day as a social worker. Since then her two years’ experience felt more like ten years, for all the misery she had witnessed.

Five years of school at a Johannesburg convent had instilled the requisite compassion for her work. In grade twelve, she had toyed with the idea of becoming a nun. Her first boyfriend after school had clarified the immensely strong calling that one has to feel before submitting to the gentle requests from the nuns. She had declined and it was, to her mind, no longer an option.

Taking her file on the family, she said her goodbyes.

***************************************

Heat was rising off the baked asphalt. It was early September in the South Hills area of Johannesburg, the air filled with scents of flowers, pine trees and petrol. The Sunday afternoon was quiet, with few cars on the road. Sam McHone was walking behind a group of detectives and uniformed police towards large blocks of apartments. They had parked their vehicles a block away.

Sam glanced back at a group of three uniformed police that were staying with the vehicles. The setting sun shone on their faces. His instincts went on high alert. The three policemen were closely huddled, sitting on the ground with their heads close to each other. They were watching him with expressions that included conspiracy, glee and malice. This ‘heads in one hat’ position always spelled trouble. Sam scanned the police closest to him. He gave a few men returning his gaze a thumbs-up. Their facial micro muscles contracted to form masks of similar malice. He seems to have become a target.

They gained access to the premises through an unguarded, open gate. Captain Singh, heading the line of police, indicated the nearest block of apartments, similar to four other. Uniformed police moved to the head of the group, pistols drawn. They crashed through an apartment’s door.

Shots rang out. A few minutes later Captain Singh beckoned to Sam. Standing in the doorway, he could see the bloodied bodies of a man and a woman lying in the living room area. No fire arms were visible near their bodies. They looked about twenty five years old.

Sam kneeled near the bodies and closely scrutinized their arms and legs. No needle tracks on the arms and legs. None between the toes. Their postures in death reminded him of people having begged for their lives on their knees. Similar scenes came from Hitler’s death camps.

A detective pointed towards the kitchen area, where a baking tray stood next to a container of bicarbonate of soda and a small tin of white powder. The tray had a layer of a crackled substance, presumably crack cocaine. On the outside of the gleaming new tray was a half a price tag.

The interior ceiling and walls were very clean for a laboratory that supposedly produced large quantities of crack. Sam turned around and congratulated Singh on the bust. He showed a packet of Camels to the captain, indicating he was going for a smoke. The micro-expression on Singh’s face was one of farewell and good riddance. This was all the confirmation Sam required.

Sam had observer status as a senior agent with the US Drug Enforcement Agency. His presence had been requested by the Minister of Police. Increasing amounts of cocaine and other illegal drugs found their way to the USA from South Africa. Drastically increased amounts were confiscated at US borders and the origin easily established. The request from the South Africans had been brought about by pressure from the US.

Animosity towards Sam could have this pressure at its roots, Sam had initially thought. South Africa’s present leaders openly criticized the US for having co-operated with the Apartheid structure. His being a Native American could be seen as an underhanded ploy at pacifying this animosity. He got used to being called ‘Red Indian’ with more than a derogatory note.

The attitude he was picking up on now, far transcended animosity. These police intended to kill him. This thought did not worry him. His work normally placed him on many a drug lord’s wish list. Death was an ever present companion. Maybe he could handle its closeness better because of his background, but it was not a concern. This did not detract from the attitude that he will not give up life without a fight.

The sun had set. Sam strode to the vehicles. Sidewalks close to their vehicles bordered individual private houses, too public for firearms. He checked the wind direction, which was blowing from him in the direction of the three men. Street lamps were about every fifteen yards apart. While he was still a good distance from them, all three glared at him.

While extracting his BlackBerry with his right hand, he simultaneously reached for a cylinder in his left jacket pocket. He kept on walking, now very close to the three constables. He had a loud conversation with the silent ‘‘phone, willing his attackers to wait for the call to end. Sam’s body exuded relaxation and confidence. The three constables were now avoiding eye contact with him and their upper bodies were turned away, with their feet pointing towards him. As soon as he was level with them, he stopped breathing and sprayed a fine mist towards their faces. Two men crumpled to the ground. The third man lunged towards him with a knife. Sam shifted just enough to his left to avoid the knife and dropped the ‘‘phone and cylinder. Using the movement of his assailant, Sam grabbed hold of the knife-wielding arm, sank to his haunches while shifting slightly back and simultaneously turning to his right, and threw the assailant on the ground. Picking up his canister where he dropped it, he sprayed a short burst into the man’s face.

**************************

Cecily walked out the front door, deep in thought, wondering what a more experienced social worker would have done differently. Before turning to her official car, which she had parked in her client’s driveway, she noticed a civilian walking in her direction on the pavement. Three policemen were standing in his path. The next moment, two of them fell to the ground, while he struggled with the third. The third one also fell down.

Her work brought her in close contact with the police and she did not think twice. Reaching in her handbag, she grabbed her pepper pistol and hurried towards the civilian. As he got into a Jeep, she sprayed him in the face. He strangled her.

Chapter 2

The last strident notes of a classic jazz recording played through the large NAD speakers. Edwin Magedula sipped his Johnnie Black, mixed with ginger ale, and felt at peace with the world.

He looked at the numerous award certificates against his lounge walls and thought the female objections to the placement were no more. His divorce had been finalised two months before. Marriage ties are overrated. Criticism about his long work hours and ten thousand other sources of irritation is no longer welcome. He stretched weary muscles and thought about food and music.

Jealous denouncements about his contracts for consulting to the State kept surfacing. He had to fend off another a month ago. His results, the subject of the certificates, were however extremely good. The fact that he had studied with many of the present government Ministers did not unduly influence them. It was just coincidence.

Edwin’s specialty was change management. Real, dramatic, measurable change. Not the minimal change management that consultancies normally contracted to do. Their results, as well as their remuneration, were measured in a few percentage points. They would have increased turnover by, say, four percent and their contract would make them eligible to receive a small percentage.

His results were measured in total turnaround of strategy or increases in turnover or profit margins by hundreds of percent. He was trained by the best UK change managers and his track record spoke for itself. Then his friends came to power in South Africa and they needed change in various arenas.

His present contract, given by the Minister of Finance and the Minister of Police jointly, was for him to change perceptions.

South Africa was perceived to be a crime infested country where criminals ruled, narcotics were smuggled to the detriment of the world and lines between crime and law enforcement threatening to disappear.

South Africa was also perceived to have a lazy, belligerent, indifferent workforce. The perceived difficulty of getting something done effectively and efficiently was keeping overseas companies from investing in SA and from using the workforce.

Edwin poured another whisky and reflected on the meeting he had with the two Ministers. He did not pull punches for the sake of their longstanding friendship.

He had told them that both perceptions were based on fact. He could not act as a spin doctor in hiding what was wrong with glib publicity and advertising. The only effective way to fulfil his contract was to change what was wrong, which was really the work of the South African government. A change manager would have to convince those in power to do an about-turn.

The Minister of Finance, Joe Pieterse, had looked at the Minister of Police, Charl Raphalala and they had nodded to each other. Joe had said Exactly our thoughts, Ed. That is why you have the contract. We need someone to cut through the requirements of unions and Reds and the lethargy in our own ranks

Edwin had gaped at Joe for a few seconds and at last spluttered Thank you very much for the vote of confidence but how on earth should I do that? You are talking about a scale of change normally brought about by revolution

Charl Raphalala had waved his index finger We do not want you to start a revolution, but otherwise you are on the right track. You will receive very generous monthly retainers, non-refundable in the event of failure, and massive bonuses if you can pull it off. And you have two whole years. With regard to your question on how to do it, we don’t have the faintest. That is bloody why you have the contract. You are the expert

Edwin had sat speechless in thought. Eventually he asked Do you have any idea what causes change on a large scale? I cause turmoil which threatens the existence of every person in that workplace. I let them stew in the fruits of their imaginations and eventually lead them out of the mess on my terms

Joe laughed We have been scrutinising your work. You won’t believe the main reasoning behind the contract Joe said and looked at Charl for support Every big contract you have pulled through depended on a certain amount of luck. Everything had to happen at a certain time, otherwise you would have failed to put it all together, not so, Ed?

Edwin just stared at Joe.

Joe smiled A while ago, Charl’s daughter Rachel showed me an article on synchronicity. In esoteric speak it is exactly your ‘luck’ I referred to. We know the task is mammoth in size, but if someone can put all the opportunistic threads together at the right time, it will be you

Edwin had been speechless for a few minutes. At last he had said That was the most inspired tripe I have ever heard. It was so scientific, that you two should be given Honorary Doctorates, by mail of course Edwin still had looked dazed If you really meant that, then I am going to enjoy a two year holiday paid for by the State. I shall only start looking for another contract eighteen months from now. By the way, I guarantee my failure on the present contract

************************

Cecily slowly became aware of her surroundings. Her head pounded with an ache at the base of her skull. Her vision was blurred. This increased as she sat up. She fell down on her back again. Nausea churned her stomach. A dull pain in her neck throbbed softly. Slowly, images manifested in her memory. She had been at one of her regular clients. Why then is she on a bed? Lying back against a cushion, she relaxed all her muscles in an attempt to remember.

A few minutes later her memory kicked in. She grimaced. Why on earth did she always interfere? The pepper spray was for self-defence and supposedly effective against bear attacks in the USA.

She was not bound in any way. Her watch showed it was half past eight the evening and she had left her client’s house at half past seven. An hour of her life is now unaccounted for. Mentally she checked her body. Her clothes were intact and she felt that she had not been molested while unconscious. The grogginess worried her. The clients she worked with constantly used drugs. Was she drugged? The only way to be sure would be a blood test. If her suspicion was true, the real nightmare will only begin now, once her assailant realizes she is awake. Horrible images of rape, murder and mutilation flitted before her mind’s eye. She took in her surroundings. Light was shining in from the passage beyond a half-closed door.

A bare dressing table with mirror and seat were against one wall. Her nose confirmed that there was only male testosterone and aftershave in the air. A shiver of apprehension went through her. She must find a weapon.

She tried to get up again. Fighting waves of nausea, she sat on the side of the bed. Gradually, the nausea retreated and she got to her feet. She slowly walked towards an en suite bathroom and noticed a golf bag against the bath. With her heart racing, she took out a heavy driver. As she turned around, a chalk white face surrounded by