Dead at Daybreak

“Yes. And I wanted to warn you.”

O’Grady shook his head. “Should have done that on Sunday.” He looked at the photo again. “This dates from 1976?”

“Yes.”

“There is something you can do, Van Heerden, that would work nicely. And the newspapers will love it.”

“What?”

Nougat took a cell phone out of the big folds of his jacket. “Let me make a call,” he said. “And what I like most about it is that it will drive Military Intelligence nuts.”

He dialed a number, put the cell phone against his ear.

“Mat Joubert tried to call you. He had some information. I don’t know what it was, but there was no answer on that hotline of yours.” Then someone replied on the other end of the cellular network. “Hi, may I speak to Russell Marshall, please.”

¦

He found the place easily – on Roeland Street, a modern two-story office complex opposite the State Archives on Drury Lane. He recognized the logo of a brain with a fuse stuck in it that O’Grady had described. He asked for Russell Marshall at reception and a few seconds later the apparition appeared, a tall, thin man, aged eighteen or nineteen, barefoot, hair down to the shoulders, a straggly growth on the chin, and more earrings per square centimeter than a collection of Goths.

“Are you the private detective?”

“Van Heerden,” extending his hand.

“Russell. Where’s the photo?” Keen, enthusiastic.

He took out the envelope, slid out the photo, handed it over.

“Mmmmm…”

“Can you do something?”

“We can do anything. Come through.”

He followed the man to a large area where ten or fifteen people were working on computers, all young, all… different.

“This is the studio.”

“What do you do here?”

“Oh, news media, Internet, Web. CD-ROM. You know.”

He didn’t know. “No.”

“Aren’t you on the Internet?”

“I don’t even have M-Net. But my mother has.”

Marshall smiled. “Ah,” he said. “A dinosaur. We don’t get many here.” He put the photo on the glass surface of a piece of equipment. “First we’re going to scan the photo. Sit down. Shift all that stuff to the floor so that you can see the screen.”

Marshall sat behind the keyboard of the computer. “This is the Apple Power Mac G4 with the new Velocity Engine,” he said with a tone of awe, and looked at Van Heerden for a reaction. There was none. “You don’t even have a computer.”

“No.”

Marshall tossed his hair over his shoulder in despair.

“Do you know anything about cars?”

“A little.”

“If computers were cars, this would be a cross between a Ferrari and a Rolls.”

“Oh.”

“Know anything about aircraft?”

“A little.”

“If computers were fighter planes, this would be a cross between a stealth bomber and an F-16.”

“I think I understand.”

“State of the art.”

He nodded.

“Cutting edge, my mate, cutting edge, mother of all – ”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

The photograph appeared on the screen of the Rolls/ Ferrari/ B-2/ F-16/ G4.

“Fine. Just get the levels right, get Adobe Photoshop going with every plug-in ever designed by man…”

“Cutting edge,” said Van Heerden.

“State of the art.” Marshall smiled. “You learn fast. The photo is a bit old. Repair the color balance, like this. Nougat said you want to make the guy a little older.”

“More or less forty to forty-five. And long hair. Long and blond, down to his shoulders.”

“Fatter? Thinner?”

“About the same. Not fatter but…bigger.”

“Fuller?”

“Fuller. Sturdier.”

“Fine. First the age. Here, around the eyes…” He moved a mouse with unbelievable dexterity, chose the applicable area on the screen, clicked here, clicked there. “We’ll give him a couple of wrinkles, just get the right color mix. He’s very pale…” Small lines drawn like rays of the sun at the edge of the eyes. “And here, around the mouth.” More movements with mouse and cursor. “And then the face, a little jowlier around the chin. It could take a little time. The skin color and the shadows have to be right. No, that’s wrong. Let’s try…that’s better, just a little, ah, how about that? What do you think – wait, let me zoom in, it’s too far. What does he look like now?”

Bushy Schlebusch, older, sturdier, not quite a bull’s-eye, more of an impression. He looked for a face that would match the voice: You have a mother, policeman. Do you hear me? You have a mother.

“I think the face is too fat.”

“Okay. Let’s try this.”

“Hi.” He heard the voice behind him, turned. Small, slender, brown-haired girl.

A multitude of earrings.

“We’re busy, Charmaine,” Marshall said.

She ignored him. “I’m Charmaine.”

“Van Heerden.”

“Your jacket. It’s so…so retro. Don’t you want to sell it?”

He looked at his jacket. “Retro?”

“Y-e-e-e-s.” With feeling.

“Charmaine!”

“If you ever want to sell it…” She turned away, unwillingly, walked to a desk.

“What does it look like?”

Schlebusch’s face filled the whole screen, the lip still curled in derision, the eyes, older, still…

“It’s better.”

“Who is this dude?”

“A murderer.”

“Oh, cool,” said Marshall. “Now for the hair. It’s going to take a little longer.”

¦

“Jeez,” said the night editor of Die Burger when he looked at the photographs. “You should’ve told us earlier. The front page is full. So is page three.”

“Can’t we move the Chris Barnard story?” the crime reporter asked.

“Lord, no. His new girlfriend is a scoop and the posters are carrying the story.”

“And the Price Line pic?”

“The chief will kill me.”

“If we have a Price Line kicker on the front page and move the photo inside?”

The night editor scratched his beard. “Hell…” He looked at Van Heerden. “Can’t we put it on hold for Friday’s