Free Breeders by Arno Joubert

address. Phone first to make sure someone’s home.”
    “Thanks,” she said and strode to the car, Neil following close behind. “Let me know if you find anything,” she said before slamming the door.

Jake’s mom greeted them at the door with a suspicious look in her eyes. She stuck out a hand, and her golden bangles jangled around her arm. She was a tall woman with short-cropped blonde hair and long bangs. “Marie Petzer, and you are?”
    Neil showed his Interpol ID badge and introduced Alexa before he shook her hand. She had a strong grip. “I’m sorry for being so pedantic, but I am concerned about Jake’s well-being, you must understand,” she said over her shoulder as they followed her inside. She was lean and suntanned; she wore high heels, a short floral skirt, and a furry top that looked like someone had fed a large, hairy animal a hand grenade and then stitched together what was left after the explosion. Haute couture, Neil guessed.
    Alexa nodded. “We understand, Mrs. Petzer. We want to get to the bottom of this.”
    Marie placed a hand on Alexa’s arm. “I know. We all have a job to do, my dear. Who does your makeup? It’s beautiful, so natural,” she said before she rapped on Jake’s door. “Jake, someone’s here to see you,” she called. Deep, rhythmic booms resonated from inside the room. Neil swore he could see the door rattling on its hinges.
    No answer.
    She opened his door. It was dark inside. The curtains were drawn. She flicked a switch, and a bright LED light illuminated a pigsty, clothes and crumpled-up towels scattered across the floor. In the corner stood a large hi-fi with even larger speakers, blaring what sounded like a band trying to tune their instruments. CDs and CD covers lay strewn in front of the hi-fi. On the walls were posters of bands called Slipknot and Morbid Angel. They all seemed to have an infatuation with skulls and headings that were written in blood. The noise reverberated through Neil’s spine. He could feel it in his balls.
    “JAKE, SOMEONE’S HERE TO SEE YOU.”
    Jake was stretched out on the bed, fully dressed. He turned his head and stood up slowly, wiping his eyes. He stretched and yawned as he sauntered over to the stereo, almost fell as he slipped on a CD, and turned a dial down on the noise machine. The endless screeching mercifully abated.  
    “Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” his mother said with a smile. “Did the sedatives that dad prescribed knock you out?”
    Jake nodded then focused on Alexa. Neil had to force himself not to avert his eyes. The kid had been pierced by someone who hadn’t known when to stop. Each of his eyebrows had several studs, and Neil counted five earrings in each ear as well as several in his lips and nose. To complete the maimed look, the boy had stuck two black thumbtacks through the top of each ear. This kid must have an extremely high pain threshold.  
    “This is Captain Guerra and Sergeant Neil Allen from Interpol. They’re here to ask you a couple of questions,” she introduced them sweetly.  
    Jake stepped up and stuck out his hand. “Jake Petzer,” he introduced himself with a smile. Neil took it apprehensively, expecting to be impaled by something sharp and shiny. He had the same firm handshake as his mother.
    He was a tall boy; Neil’s eyes settled on his chin. Marie ushered them to the living room and then bustled to the kitchen to prepare some tea and cupcakes. Jake flopped down onto a sofa.
    “Tell me about the letter,” Alexa said.
    Jake shrugged, stood up, and disappeared into his room. He returned with two sheets of paper, which he handed to Alexa. “These are photocopies. Inspector Moolman has the originals. He said he wanted to check them for fingerprints.”
    Alexa nodded then read the poem. It had been written in Afrikaans, and she recognized it immediately. It was by the famous South African poet, Ingrid Jonker:

    The child is not dead
    the child raises his fists against his mother
    who