Juba Good (4 page)

I smiled back. I asked their parents questions.

No one had seen anything. I suspected a couple of the guards had been asleep at the time.

Finally, I knocked on the door of one of the townhouses. We could hear music playing and people laughing inside. Deng muttered something about wasting time. A man opened the door a crack. When he saw me, he relaxed slightly. I wear my RCMP uniform shirt to work. A UN patch is sewn on the sleeve.

The man greeted us in a plummy British accent. “Help you?” The door opened a bit farther.

“I hope so.” I asked if he'd seen any sort of trouble outside an hour or two earlier.

“No. I've guests, so I've been at home fixing dinner.”

“Could I speak to your guests?”

“Sure.” He stepped back and invited us in.

It was a mixed-race group of six people, men and women. They held crystal wineglasses and sat around a large table. Candles and white linen napkins and china. A tray of soft cheeses, crackers and chutney was in the center of the table. Plus a bowl of mixed nuts. I almost drooled.

Instead, I asked my question.

One woman nodded. “I might have.” She was the color of milky coffee and had an American accent. She held a wine glass in long thin fingers. “It was around nine. I'd been held up at work and was late getting here. I saw a car pulled over. Against the wall, at the bend in the road.”

“Can you describe it?”

“A Land Cruiser. White. I remember thinking that was odd. There's nothing there. Not in the nighttime, when the water trucks aren't lining up. No one would park there.”

My heart sped up. That familiar feeling I never get tired of. “Notice anything about it? A name, maybe? License plate prefix?” Most of the NGO vehicles have the name of the group printed on the side. Many have a symbol of a gun with a red line through it—no weapons on board. Some NGOs have special plates. Government vehicle plates begin with
GOSS
. The army's say
SPLA
.

She thought some more. She shook her head. “Sorry. No. Nothing.”

“Did you see anyone inside the car? Or around it?”

“No. I'm sorry. It was dark. I wouldn't have noticed except for the damage to the back.”

North America or Africa. Sometimes it could be like pulling teeth.

“What sort of damage?”

“To the rear bumper. On the left side. It was twisted. Some of it bent in and some sticking out. Like it had been rear-ended. I remember because that's what my car looked like after someone ran into me in LA.”

“Thanks.” I scribbled my cell number on the back of my card. My RCMP one with a phone number in BC. I handed it to her. “Call me, please, if you remember anything more.”

“Sure.”

“What happened, Sergeant?” the Brit asked.

I didn't bother to answer as Deng and I showed ourselves out.

“That was good policing, Ray,” Deng said. “Let us go out and find a white Land Cruiser with a damaged bumper.” He laughed heartily, teeth white in his black face in the black night.

“Shut up,” I said.

There are hundreds—thousands—of white Land Cruisers in Juba. I'd be surprised if any of them
didn't
have damage.

“It's all part of building a case,” I said. “You never know what's going to be important until it is important.”

I wasn't fooling even myself.

Chapter
Eight

Coincidences do happen. But they're rare.

I was making breakfast the next morning. Nigel came into the common room.

“Hear about Sven's car?” he asked, chuckling.

“No. What happened?”

“Stolen.”

“When?”

“Last night. Fool couldn't get parking in front of a restaurant. He left the car around the corner.” Meaning out of sight of the restaurant guards. “Gone when he got back.”

“He musta been pissed.”

“Oh, yeah. In more ways than one.” Nigel chuckled. “It was his own vehicle.”

My toast popped up. I ignored it. Sven had bought a used car. Fixing up old cars was his hobby, he'd said. “Remind me again what it looked like.”

Nigel laughed. “What, you're going to put out an
APB
? Get real, Robertson. You're too keen for your own good. You're not getting any brownie points for being a good copper here, you know.”

“You've got nothing to do today?” I said.

“As little as I can get away with.” He took a Coke out of the fridge and left.

Peter was in his usual place. In front of the
TV
, watching soccer.

“It was a white Land Cruiser,” he said. “Sven bought it from an NGO, painted over the logo.”

“What sort of condition was it in?”

He shrugged. “Not bad. Had been in an accident. Rear-ended, I think. But the engine was good.”

“Is Sven around?”

Peter laughed. “He's got no place to go, does he? And no way to get there.”

Sven was sitting in his plastic garden chair when I walked up to his container. He glowered at me. He didn't lower his sunglasses. His pale blue eyes hurt in the glare of the African sun.

“What do you want, Robertson?”

“Heard about your vehicle. Stolen, eh?”

“You find it?”

“No.”

“What business is it of yours then?”

It was no secret that he and I didn't get along. Didn't bother me. Sven didn't get on with many people. Not even his fellow Swedes.

“I had an incident last night. An unmarked white Land Cruiser might have been involved. What time was yours taken?”

“Early. Around seven. Barely dark. I was going to meet some friends at the rugby game later. Had dinner, came out, my car was gone.” I don't speak Swedish, but I know a string of curses when I hear one.

“Who'd you have dinner with?”

Sven lowered his sunglasses. Piercing blue eyes trimmed with pale lashes studied me. He searched for a reason to tell me to get lost. Not finding one, he said, “My date canceled. I ate alone. I like to be alone. Get it?”

I got it. I left him stewing.

I went back to my room to check my email, hoping for something from my daughters. It was entirely possible Sven's vehicle had been stolen. Leaving it out of sight of the restaurant guards had been a dumb move.

If that's what had happened.

But what if it hadn't been stolen? What if Sven had to ditch it for some reason?

Like the passenger seat was full of blood.

Chapter
Nine

The sixth killing came two days later. The same as the others. No sign of sexual interference. A white ribbon around the neck. But this time, there was something very different. The tips of two of the fingers on her right hand had been chopped off.

By now, even the brass couldn't ignore the fact that we had a serial killer on our hands. I told them we needed men on this. They gave me three. Ex-SPLA. Young guys with old eyes. They smiled at me and saluted smartly.

I had them do a search near where the body had been found. It was farther down the road this time, close to where a path leads through the bush to the banks of the Nile. I strung some rope between bushes and fenceposts to secure the area.

An excited crowd gathered to watch. The adults were good to stay out of the search zone. I couldn't do much about the dogs and goats and chickens though. And I had to allow parents through to chase after laughing toddlers.

We call a detailed sweep of a specific area a fingertip search. This time, the term was meant literally.

I wanted her body parts. If the killer had a fetish, he would have been taking trophies before this. There had to be a reason he'd taken the fingers. I was guessing it was because his blood was on them.

At home, I'd assume the killer knew we could get
DNA
evidence from blood traces. We'd run a computer search for matching
DNA
. He'd know he had to get rid of the evidence.

But here? Would a local know that?

He would if he watched
TV
or movies. Or read a modern detective novel. People who live in the countryside, and many in town, don't have electricity. But they still have access to
TV
and
DVD
s. Many South Sudanese and other Africans can read English as well as I can. Plenty of government and army high-ups have been educated in Cuba or the west.

Shows on
TV
give the impression that getting
DNA
evidence is fast and easy. It's not. You need a fully equipped lab, trained staff and a connected computer network. Otherwise, all you have is a drop of blood. Not usable information.

I looked around. The police officers were sifting through garbage. They were being trained by the UN. They'd know something about . But probably not much.

My men found a lot of plastic water bottles, scraps of cloth, discarded packaging and rotting vegetable peels. They did not find the tips of any fingers.

I had one week until I was done here. On my way home. I wanted this guy. I wanted him dead or in jail before I left.

I was afraid I'd never find out what happened.

I instructed my men to ask questions. I didn't expect much. Deng and I went back to the main police station. I intended to make more noise.

We drove by the prison. It is a truly hellish place. A landscape of concrete walls, plastic bags caught in razor wire, weeds and scrub brush. Wary-eyed guards toting AK-47s.

A skinny white guy was standing on the cracked sidewalk outside the prison. I glanced at him as we drove by. I shouted at Deng to stop the car. The damn fool was taking a camera out of his backpack.

I leapt out of the truck, yelling, “Put that away.”

He blinked at me. His glasses were thick and streaked with dust. “What?”

“Put that camera away. Unless you want to see what's inside that building.”

Guards began to pay attention. One of them swung his rifle off his shoulder. He walked toward us. Deng called to him in a language I didn't understand.

“Now!” I yelled.

The man stuffed the camera away. “I just wanted a picture,” he whined.

“Why are you here?”

“I'm out for a walk.”

“I mean here. In Juba.”

“I'm visiting a friend.”

“Didn't your friend tell you not to take pictures? Not when there are soldiers or police around.”

“He said no pictures of the military. I thought that meant like tanks and bases and stuff. What is that building anyway?”

“Hope you never find out. Get going. I'll tell that guy I know you.”

He seemed to finally understand that I wasn't kidding. He hurried away. He glanced over his shoulder every few yards. He couldn't have looked more guilty.

Deng said something and the prison guard looked at me. He laughed heartily.

Then he and Deng shook hands and he went back to his post.

Most of the police and security guards here are ex-army. Many suffer from untreated
PTSD
. One of the symptoms of
PTSD
is paranoia. Distrust of anyone and everyone. It is forbidden to take pictures of anything official. They decide what is official.

I know of a woman who got in trouble for taking photos of the big-horned cows in the cattle pens. If that guy had been caught photographing the prison, of all things, I wouldn't want to be in his shoes.

I climbed back into the truck. Deng said nothing. I'm sure he thinks we white people are all crazy.

We took seats in the police station. We waited for someone to agree to see us. A man came storming through the doors. He was Indian, short and thin. He had thick black hair and blazing black eyes.

He began yelling about a stolen car. My ears pricked up.

I went over and introduced myself. It wasn't easy, but I got him calmed down enough to tell me his story.

He'd been visiting a friend. His eyes shifted, and I could guess at the nature of this friendship. Not my business. When he'd come out of his friend's apartment this morning, his car was gone.

Stolen. Right from under the noses of the building's guards. I took the description of the vehicle. He ranted and raved for a few minutes. I told him someone would be with him shortly. Then I signaled to Deng and we left.

“What?” Deng said once we were outside. He was getting good at reading me.

“Stolen cars. There's a connection, I'm sure of it. He's stealing a car and using it to transport the women.”

“One stolen car doesn't make a pattern, Ray.”

I hadn't told him about Sven. I decided to keep that under my hat for a while.

The question was, had the thefts been followed by the murders all along? Or did that start when the killer had to ditch his own vehicle?

Chapter
Ten

I decided I didn't much care that the boss was too busy to see us. Our shift was over and I wanted to head home. On the way, we spotted a crowd forming at the side of the road. Deng pulled over.

A small black man was standing beside a new
SUV
. His back was pressed up against the car door. Two light-skinned brown women peered out the windows. The man must be their driver. A police officer was yelling at the small man. The officer waved his finger in the air. He was about a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than the driver.

I was out of the truck before Deng had fully stopped. I pushed my way through the chattering crowd. People called to me. They said there'd been an accident. I didn't see another car or anyone hurt.

It was a shakedown, probably. The women looked like NGO or embassy employees. The driver was Kenyan or Ugandan.

“What's the problem here?” I said.

“I didn't hit her,” the driver said. His voice squeaked with fright. “I didn't. She came out of nowhere.”

I glanced around. “Who?”

“She left. She wasn't hurt.”