Neil Sonnekus CATCH ME A KILLER by Micki Pistorius (Penguin) Micki Pistorius is this country’s top profiler and has written a book about her six years’ experience in the South African Police Services. She tells us she has a kind of sixth sense (cryptesthesia) about these things and has apparently helped catch more serial killers than anyone else, including the renowned United States expert Robert Ressler. She also mentions that he said after him she is the best in the world. But there was a price to pay for that extra sense, because it took her into what she almost-compulsively refers to as “the abyss”, which nearly destroyed her before she left the police. She probably wisely resorted to religion to help her cope with those dark areas, which she convincingly argues have everything to do with psycho-sexual disturbances in children’s formative years. But there is a deafening silence about why this country has so many serial killers or why they are all male, just as there is no conclusion to the Hammer/Wemmer Pan killings, where the two modi operandi are vastly different. The man who was arrested for both sets of deaths, unlike the others, refused to admit to either series of killings, but there is no explanation or theory why this could be the work of one killer.
When she is on a case, however, Pistorius is at her most fascinating and informative; she is even prepared to admit to her mistakes. But this is not just a record of a period of work. It’s also a kind of autobiography, a confession; and a book, like a violated body, is full of clues about its author. This one has some disturbing signs that by their very nature seem to invite comment. Firstly, she does not generally like the press and comes out with patronising charmers like: “The funny thing about the press is that they phone you when you are busy, not when they should.” And, since she makes a generic sweep of it, one assumes she includes that part of the press that exposed quite a few of her father-like buddies from apartheid picnic spots like Vlakplaas and the Brixton Murder and Robbery Squad.
Secondly, the cover has an obscured photograph of a woman on it, but whether it’s the author or not we as cold readers wouldn’t know, but cannot help wondering. Inside the book there are more photographs of, among others, the author. But her face is obscured by a hand, or hair, or distance. If she is protecting her identity, why does she put herself in the book at all? Is this a tease, a power game or a cry for help? Why does she make such dangerous statements as “I actually missed having a killer in my head”? Whatever the case, one would expect a little less self-pity and bragging and a great deal more emotional and intellectual rigour from a doctor of psychology.