Deadly Harvest (4 page)

FOUR

B
Y THE TIME HE'D
navigated around the crowd of reporters and was heading back to Millenium Park, Kubu was ravenous. Mabaku would just have to wait for his report; Kubu needed lunch. He settled for the Wimpy at Game City and had steak, eggs, and chips, but skipped dessert because he was pushed for time. Then he rushed to see Mabaku and was glad to find him free. He had to fetch Joy at 3 p.m.

Mabaku glanced up from the paperwork that seemed to be swallowing his desk and waved Kubu to a chair. “What did you find out?”

“Not much. I haven't had a chance to check with Zanele, but there are no obvious clues.”

“Do you think it was political?”

“It was political all right, but not necessarily the BDP. The smaller parties fight even more bitterly between themselves.” He hesitated. “Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if Marumo set it up himself for the publicity.”

Mabaku's eyebrows shot up. “What? Decapitate a dog and leave it for his girlfriend to find? That's pretty extreme.”

Kubu shrugged. “He's a born showman. He was performing for the reporters when I arrived. And we only have his word that his girlfriend, Jubjub, found the thing. I want to question her about that. He's not at all worried, either. Apparently he's destined to be president of Botswana. No one can stop him. Can you believe the arrogance of the man?”

“Kubu, I know you dislike him, and I can't say his politics appeal to me much, either, but he
could
become president of Botswana. We have to take this seriously.”

Kubu nodded. “I'm going to follow up with Zanele once she's had a chance to look through what they collected. And we'll go door-­to-­door around the area to see if anyone saw anything. And the dog's a mongrel. No hope of tracing it unless someone comes up with the rest of the body.”

“Well, keep on it.”

Kubu climbed to his feet, but Mabaku had a question on a different topic.

“Have you spent any time with Detective Khama? I suggested she chat with you to get some guidance.”

“Yes, actually I spoke to her this morning. She's on the lost-­girl case from Mochudi. A bit much for a novice, I'd say.”

“Maybe you can keep an eye on her. Mentor her a bit. Give her some tips.”

“I haven't really got the time to mentor a new detective, and I'm not sure she'll listen.”

Mabaku paused. “Is that how she came across? It can't be easy for her settling in here as the only woman detective. She's very persuasive and talked me into letting her take on that case, but I know some ­people wouldn't mind seeing her in trouble with it. Give her a chance, Kubu.”

Kubu said he'd see what he could do. He hesitated and then turned to another matter.

“Mr. Director,” he said. “Is it true that Deputy Commissioner Gobey is retiring?”

Mabaku stared at him for a few moments. “Yes. As of the beginning of June, I'm told.”

“Will you be the new deputy commissioner?”

“It's impossible to know what the commissioner will do. There'll be others in the running, too. I'm not sure I really want the job, in any case.”

“You're the best man for the job, Director. I'll be very disappointed if you don't get it. You deserve it.”

“Thank you, Kubu. If I get it, it may open an opportunity for you, too.”

Kubu looked at the sea of paperwork threatening to drown the director's desk. “Thank you, Jacob, but I'm happy with my role as detective.”

Kubu checked his watch and left in a hurry. It was already a quarter to three.

A
S HE DROVE,
K
UBU
thought about Seloi, the young woman whose funeral he was about to attend. She was the older sister of one of Joy's charges at the day-­care center and hardly more than a child herself. They were orphans; their parents had already succumbed to the same killer. Kubu fumed. How had this been allowed to happen? Why had Seloi not been on a stable regimen of antiretroviral drugs? Why had she been allowed to waste away before their eyes? What crack had opened in Botswana society for these unfortunate ­people to fall through? Now Seloi's little sister Nono—­also HIV positive from birth—­had lost the last of her family and was alone in a frightening world.

Joy and Tumi were waiting when Kubu arrived. He kissed Joy, and picked up Tumi to receive a big kiss and a huge hug around his neck. This, Joy would say with amusement, was the only part of Kubu's anatomy that the three-­year-­old could reach around. Kubu would just laugh.

Once Tumi was settled in the car seat, they headed to the cemetery. The traditional and religious parts of the funeral had already taken place; only the actual burial remained.

“What did you do today, Daddy?”

“I was at work, darling.” Kubu didn't think Tumi would want to hear about a severed dog's head.

There was a moment of silence, and Joy took her opportunity.

“Did you think about what we discussed, Kubu? About Nono? There's no one to look after her, now her sister's dead. She's with a distant relative now, but they don't want her. They're very poor, and there's no room, and they can't afford another mouth to feed. They say she has to leave.”

“I didn't have much time today, darling, with all the fuss about Marumo.” He hesitated. “The social ser­vices—­”

“Will just dump her somewhere. She'll lose her friends and the ­people at day care—­the only ­people who still care about her. That's all she has left, Kubu. She's only four. If we can just look after her for a few weeks, a month at the most, we can find her a proper home. And Tumi loves her.”

“Please, Daddy. Please can Nono visit us for a while?”

So Joy had enlisted Tumi in this plan, too. Well, he couldn't deny that the child desperately needed help, and who else could she turn to?

“I suppose we could do that,” he said at last. Joy leaned over and hugged him, and Tumi yelled with pleasure from the backseat.

When the excitement died down, it was quiet for a few minutes while Kubu negotiated the traffic. Joy checked her watch. “I hope we're not late for the funeral.”

Tumi piped up. “What's a funeral, Daddy?”

“Where we go to say goodbye to ­people who've left us. Like Seloi.”

“Where has she gone?”

Joy said nothing. She'd had this all day; it was Kubu's turn.

“She's died, Tumi. Gone to another place.”

“Mummy says she's with Jesus.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's right.”

“Can we go, too? To Jesus?”

Kubu glanced at Joy imploringly, but she just smiled.

“One day, darling. Not yet. We've a lot of fun to have together first.”

“Why must we wait?”

Joy took pity on Kubu. “We have to wait till we are called, darling. Now let Daddy drive. The traffic's bad.”

T
HE CEMETERY WAS S
EVERAL
acres of grassless sand, with mounds in straight lines like soldiers on parade. The graves of the more affluent had an awning supported by a metal frame. A few had elaborate gravestones, but most were inexpensive wooden crosses. The area where the burial was to take place had many small mounds—­a sad reminder of the scourge of AIDS.

There was quite a crowd of mourners at the graveside, many of whom had made the traditional walk from the girl's home. Kubu and Joy greeted the few ­people they knew and took the opportunity to socialize. Tumi was somber, clinging shyly to Joy's dress. She kept staring at the open grave with the large pile of sandy soil next to it.

After about half an hour the undertaker arrived, driving a black pickup truck with the coffin, covered by a black cloth, strapped down on the back. The undertaker parked as close to the grave as possible—­still about a hundred yards away—­and climbed out of the cab. His white shirt was sweat-­stained, and he mopped his face with a handkerchief. While he straightened his tie and struggled to put on his jacket, he shouted for some strong men to come to help him.

At the sight of the coffin, the women gathered around the grave and started to cry out and ululate. Some wept.

Kubu watched as four fit-­looking men headed for the truck. The undertaker untied the coffin, carefully folded the black shroud, and slid the cheap pinewood box toward the volunteers. The men struggled to lift the coffin to their shoulders and carried it along the sandy path to the graveside. By the time they rested it on the waiting ropes slung across the hole, they were breathing hard. The wailing rose to a crescendo as they braced the ropes and lowered the box into the ground. Kubu glanced at Tumi, but she seemed intrigued, rather than frightened. He could just imagine the questions ahead.

Most of the mourners threw a handful of soil into the grave, and then they all waited while the men filled the grave and topped it with stones. The wailing died down, and ­people started to talk again. Joy went off with Tumi to comfort Nono.

Kubu found himself standing next to the undertaker, who was watching the final stage of the burial with proprietary interest.

Kubu said, “I suppose you have a lot of funerals for young ­people these days.”

The man nodded. “I'm sorry to say we do. It's the plague. AIDS. The government should do something to stop it.”

Kubu was irritated. Why was it always the government that had to take action? Why couldn't ­people help themselves and each other? But he just nodded.

The undertaker introduced himself. “I am Kopano Rampa, rra. Professional undertaker and director of Funerals of Distinction.”

Kubu turned to the pompous little man and replied with the same formality, “I am Assistant Superintendent David Bengu of the Criminal Investigation Department.”

Rampa took a step backward. “The police? Is there a problem?”

Kubu relented. “Not at all. My wife is a friend of the deceased. The funeral went quite well, I thought.”

“Yes, thank you, rra.” But Rampa seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “Well, I'd better finish things up here. Please excuse me. It was good to meet you.” He moved off and started loading the truck.

Kubu shrugged, then went to find Joy. It was time to take Tumi and Nono home.

FIVE

D
ETECTIV
E
S
AMANTHA
K
HAMA CLIMBED
the steps to the third floor of the Social Sciences building at the University of Botswana. The staff offices were on the upper floors, but she wasn't sure she was in the right place. Spotting a receptionist, she asked for help.

“I'm looking for Professor van der Meer. He's an anthropologist. He's writing a book . . .” Her voice trailed off because the secretary was nodding.

“Do you have an appointment?” she said. “Professor van der Meer is very busy.” She obviously took the casually dressed policewoman for a student.

“Yes. I'm Detective Khama of the Botswana CID. Tell him, please.”

The woman's attitude changed, and she guided Samantha to the professor's office. He rose to greet her and extended his hand. She shook it, touching her right forearm with her left hand in respect. He did the same unselfconsciously. He must have been in Africa for some time, she thought. He had frizzy red hair and a light complexion that was freckled by the Botswana sun. A half-­buttoned shirt and khaki shorts completed a casual image.

He looked at Samantha appraisingly and offered a friendly smile, which the policewoman did not return.

“
Dumela
, Detective. Kees van der Meer. I am very pleased to meet you. I want to help you,” he said in labored Setswana.

Samantha replied in English. “Thank you for seeing me, Professor. It's good to meet you, too.”

Relieved, Van der Meer switched languages. “Actually, I hope I
can
help. I'm not sure what it is you want. You weren't very specific on the phone.” He smiled again and waved her to a comfortable chair. His English had a strong accent; Dutch, she guessed.

“I'm sorry, Professor, I wanted to explain it to you in person. I'm investigating the disappearance of a young girl. She's been missing for about four months. I believe she was abducted.”

Van der Meer saw the point at once. “You think she was taken by a witch doctor? For
muti
?”

Samantha nodded. “That's possible. It could also be a sex crime, but then I think we would have found her by now, though perhaps not alive.”

The professor paused. “A lot of African children are taken and sold overseas as prostitutes or sex slaves. You'd never hear about what happened to them.” He shrugged. “Anyway, just what do you want to know from me, Detective? I study traditional healers and why their remedies and spells are often more effective than Westerners would expect. That's what my book is about. Healers, not witch doctors.”

“But you must know about them, too, if you're studying that part of our culture.”

He sighed. “Yes, of course the two blur. It's the border between black magic and white magic, as a Westerner would say. What do you want to know?”

Samantha hesitated, then decided to start at the beginning. “The trail is cold now. Months have passed, and the police in Mochudi found no clues to what happened. If I'm right, the girl's been dead for a long time. I'm going to investigate the crime again, but I'll be surprised if I find anything new. I'm hoping you can help me understand the motive. If I can find out who is most likely to have benefited, perhaps I can find some connection, some insights.” She hesitated, realizing that her idea was pretty tenuous. But the professor just nodded.

“What's the girl's name?”

“Lesego.” She was glad he cared enough to ask.

The professor shook his head. “It's not a good name.”

“It means Lucky. A nice name, I think.”

Van der Meer paused. “How much do you understand about how witch doctors operate, Detective? Do you believe in some of these things yourself? And please don't be embarrassed; it may actually help if you do.”

Samantha shook her head angrily. “It's nonsense. It's only for ignorant ­people and children!”

Van der Meer's eyebrows rose. “I've heard stories—­and experienced things myself—­that make me wonder whether the world
is
as rational as we like to think. May I tell you a story? When I came to Gaborone I rented an apartment near here. At first I was comfortable there, but after a while I started to develop a bad cough and allergies, like hay fever. I thought it might be dust. The apartment wasn't very clean, and I felt better when I went out. My doctor prescribed antihistamines and for a while I was okay, but then it started up again. My maid said it was a curse—­that a witch doctor had put a spell on the apartment. I thought it was nonsense, but as you say, I'm interested in such things. So partly just to observe what he'd do, I contacted someone who had a reputation for detecting spells. He came to the apartment and walked around for a while, sometimes stopping as if he were hearing something in the distance. Eventually he got a kitchen chair and lifted one of the ceiling panels. He took out a packet of something wrapped in cloth. After he'd removed it, I started feeling better. Now I have no problems.”

Samantha shrugged. “He could've hidden it there himself.”

“Yes, of course. But the point is that I had no idea it was there. I still have no idea why anyone would put a curse on the apartment. I hadn't offended anyone. Perhaps someone else wanted to rent it, and the idea was to drive me out.”

“Maybe.” Samantha shrugged again. “What I want to know is how these things are supposed to work.”

“Well, let me try to explain the basic principle they use. It's not all that complicated. The idea is to transfer a desired property exhibited by one organism to another through some medium. Let's say you admire the strength and courage of a lion. So you kill it and eat its heart. You believe you ingest its strength and courage with the organ. This concept of transference is widespread in a variety of cultures, especially African and Eastern. But don't think it's restricted to them. I myself take a homeopathic remedy that consists of tiny, tiny amounts of a material that
causes
the symptom I want to cure. The amounts used are far too small to have a measurable biochemical effect. Why does it work?” He shrugged. “Maybe only because I
believe
that it does.”

Samantha said nothing, and the professor could see that she was completely lost.

“Let me give you a concrete example. Let's say Tau is a man who is rich and powerful, but is not successful sexually. As you know, in the culture here it's very important to a man's self-­esteem to have great sexual prowess and many offspring.”

Samantha nodded. “And to a woman's also.”

“Yes. So Tau goes to a witch doctor for help. Tau's a rich man and goes to a powerful witch doctor. It'll cost him a lot, but he doesn't care—­that just shows how successful he is and how powerful the medicine will be. The witch doctor tells him what he needs. He must take the sexual power from another man—­a young virile man, maybe a boy, who hasn't spent any of his sexual power yet.”

“So Tau gets that boy's sexual organs?”

“Yes. Exactly. Made into a potion in a special way, of course. That potion is very powerful
muti
.”

“It's all complete nonsense!”

The professor shrugged. “Physiologically it's nonsense, of course. But think of the effect in Tau's head. He believes he's obtained great power from the medicine. What's more, power that he's caused to be taken from another man by force. That makes it even more potent. Sex is driven by the mind in any case.”

Samantha disliked the story but could believe it. Men always seemed to be looking for power and sex. This was just another example.

“However, this was a young
girl
.”

Van der Meer thought for a moment. “A woman who can't make milk may get
muti
made from the nipples or the breasts of a healthy young woman. If a woman can't conceive, the
muti
must be made from a womb. Someone with a weak heart needs the heart of a healthy person. Young. Fresh.”

Samantha felt a bit queasy. These are my ­people he's talking about, she thought. I'm ashamed for them.

The professor continued, “But I think this case may be different. Sometimes there is something very unusual about the individual, which suggests strong spirit power. For example, it could be a special birthmark on the face. And albinos are thought to have enormous power. Do you see the connection with Lesego?”

Samantha shook her head. “Lesego wasn't an albino.”

“But her name. Lucky. That's why I said it was a bad name. Not many children are called that. The name gives them a power that others want badly, perhaps badly enough to steal. Potions for luck usually involve animals thought of as fortunate for a special reason: the scaly anteater—­safe from attack with its armor plating, the klipspringer—­escapes easily by jumping between rocks on hooves that seem to hold like Velcro. But in this case . . .”

Samantha absorbed this new idea. “So it could be for fertility, young organs to fix unhealthy ones, or even just for luck.” She felt more nauseous. And she was uncomfortable with this white European, who seemed to find all of this reasonable. She stood up.

“You've been a big help, Professor. I need to think about how all this fits with my case. Can I come back if I have more questions?”

“Of course, Detective.” Van der Meer stared at her without smiling. “I just want you to understand something important. Many, many, ­people believe in witchcraft. Not just ignorant ­people and children, but business­people, ­people in the government.” He paused. “And many in the police also believe. That's why so few cases are solved. They're scared the witch doctor will put a spell on them if they get too close.” Samantha didn't react. “Most of these ­people would never dream of using
muti
themselves,” he continued, “but they're scared to death of it. And the few who would use it are powerful ­people, and they use powerful witch doctors. They've a lot to lose.” He paused. “I think you should be careful with this investigation, very careful.”

Samantha clenched her jaw. Another man telling her to go slowly, fit in, be careful.

“Thank you for your time, Professor,” she said and left abruptly.