A Carrion Death & The 2nd Death of Goodluck Tinubu Read online

  Thirty minutes later he roused himself and dressed in a colorful African shirt, size XXXL, khaki slacks, a size even larger, and sandals. He examined the result in the mirror. A broad face looked back at him with a cultivated, slightly stern expression belied by laughter crinkles around his eyes. I need a shave, he thought, rubbing his well-filled cheeks, but he couldn’t be bothered. The shirt had no buttons, and he didn’t tuck it in. It was cooler and less constraining that way, leaving a little extra room for expansion.

  Satisfied, he headed for the dining area. A number of the guests looked around at the large black man who had come to join them for dinner. Kubu was sure that it was already well known that he was a detective investigating a murder. Since neither Andries nor Ian was there, he was shown to a small table at the far end of the room, near the door to the kitchen.

  It was nearly nine when Kubu left the dining room. He had contemptuously rejected the mopane worm starter—clearly only there to titillate the tourists—but the springbok stew with local vegetables had been excellent. Apparently it was the chef’s specialty, and he had indulged himself with a second helping lest that worthy gentleman be offended. Now he carried a large brandy out to the lounge to join his coffee. So what if he was on duty, he thought. He had already been working for nearly fourteen hours, and there was more to come. He deserved a little something.

  As Kubu was leaving, Ian MacGregor walked in, obviously recently showered.

  “Did you just get back?” Kubu asked.

  “About half an hour ago,” replied Ian. “I had to have a wee Scotch to calm my nerves. You are a rascal leaving me with that maniac driver, Andries. He insisted on driving the police Land Rover!” His accent had thickened noticeably. “He was verra upset with you, bossing him around like that. And he took it out on me and the rangers.”

  Kubu suppressed a grin. “Did you get everything you needed? Any idea when you will have your report?”

  “We spent a wee bit more time sifting sand than we expected, but found nothing. Strange, those missing teeth! Recently knocked out, without doubt; some of the roots are still in the jawbone. There are a few other things that seem odd too, but I don’t want to speculate now. It certainly looks like a murder, though. Killed by a blunt instrument to the skull, I should think. Anyway, I should have your report done the day after tomorrow.”

  “Many thanks, Ian. I always appreciate your good work,” Kubu said. “I have to do another interview, so I’ll leave you to your dinner. See you in the morning.”

  “I doubt it,” Ian replied. “I’m going to leave at six—before your rising time, I should think. Get the body to the mortuary as soon as possible.”

  “Definitely!” Kubu said. “Have a good trip back.”

  He walked onto the veranda and looked around to see if he could spot Bongani.

  Away to his left sat a young black man, nervously sipping what looked like a Coke. He was in his late twenties, early thirties, Kubu thought. Of average height, lean but not muscular, he wore small reading glasses with no rims. He reminded Kubu of a black John Lennon. He was casually dressed in a T-shirt and shorts.

  Kubu walked over. “I’m Assistant Superintendent David Bengu. Are you Dr. Sibisi?” He addressed Sibisi in the vernacular rather than more formally in English, hoping Setswana would make the interview feel more like a chat than an interrogation.

  Bongani stood up, shook hands, and introduced himself. “Bongani Sibisi.”

  “I am delighted you have a first name.” Kubu smiled. “No one seems to know it. Least of all Mr. Botha!” Kubu dangled an ice-breaker, which Bongani accepted.

  “Ah, yes. Andries isn’t sure what to make of me. But I think he’s a solid guy. Just a little old-fashioned in his views perhaps. Likes to be in charge.”

  “So what are you doing out here in the middle of the bush?” Kubu inquired, watching Bongani closely.

  “I’m a conservationist doing research on animal populations and distributions. It’s related to carrying capacities in arid environments, so it’s particularly important for the Kalahari.”

  “What are carrying capacities?” Kubu asked.

  “Carrying capacities are the amounts of animals of different species a particular area can accommodate in reasonable health.”

  “Ah. So why did you get Andries to take you out to Kamissa yesterday morning?”

  “The Bushman people say that the Kamissa waterhole is a sacred place. They call it ‘the place of sweet water.’ They say that’s why it’s the favorite place for all the animals. We’ve done some satellite imaging, and the grazing and browsing is very poor there—suggesting higher concentrations of herbivores than at nearby waterholes. There must be something about the water that attracts them. I want to find out what it is.” He paused. “I have ordered much higher-resolution satellite data over the area for correlation purposes.”

  Kubu had read about that sort of work. This fellow is clearly a respected scientist, he thought, if he uses such expensive technology in his research. He wondered if Bongani also had the common sense to be a good problem-solver.

  “So what happened when you got to the waterhole?”

  Bongani fidgeted with his glass of Coke, rattling the ice cubes. Kubu thought he should at least have asked for a twist of lime or lemon.

  “Well, we saw the vultures circling and dropping down behind the dunes, so we went to have a look. Andries thought it might be some poaching going on or maybe a lion kill. When we got there, we saw immediately that the kill was a person, not an animal. A hyena had been chewing on the bones. It was horrible.” Bongani took a deep breath and rushed on. “Andries thought it was a poacher, but I pointed out that the body seemed to have long, straight hair, which made it a white man. I also noticed that there were no clothes or boots to be seen. The only logical conclusion was that it was a murder, and the murderers had taken the clothes to avoid identification.” Bongani said this all in one breath and then gasped air.

  “Take it easy, Dr. Sibisi,” Kubu said. “This is not a race. We’ve plenty of time. Anyway, it seems that you should be in my shoes—you’d make a good detective.”

  Bongani looked at him with his shoulders still taut and hunched. He was very tense, and not about to relax. Kubu wondered why.

  “You said that there were no clothes or boots to be seen. In fact, there were no clothes hidden nearby either. I had the sandy area near the body either dug up or probed with a pole. I think we can assume that it was a murder.” He hesitated for a moment. “Don’t you think it’s an odd coincidence that the murder should be near the area you are studying?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking what you think.”

  “Well, maybe it’s not a coincidence at all. Where there are lots of animals, there will be predators. That dry culvert is a highway to the waterhole. A good place to get rid of a body, I would guess.”

  Now that, thought Kubu, is an interesting idea. It seems Bongani has the analytical skills of his chosen profession. Kubu was impressed. “That’s quite possible, I suppose. Is it common knowledge that the area attracts so much game?”

  Bongani nodded.

  Kubu continued. “How did you spot the vehicle tracks?”

  “When we were standing at the body, I noticed that there was a different texture to the sand on one section, near the top of the dune. I thought it was strange, so Andries and I walked to the top, and we found the tracks. They’d tried to smooth them out at the top. I’m sure there was more than one man by the footprints.”

  Kubu nodded. “Did you touch the body at all?”

  “No. We took a big loop up the dune in case we disturbed something that might be significant. We did have to put the tarpaulin over the body, but were very careful where we stood. Our tracks should be quite obvious—all the rest were there when we arrived.”

  Kubu nodded and smiled. “I’m impressed! Good job. As I said, if you ever want to change professions….” Bongani still loo
ked tense, but managed a weak smile.

  Kubu closed his notebook. “Thanks for all your help, Dr. Sibisi. I’ve kept you up late, and it’s probably been a long day for you too. Have a good rest.”

  After Bongani had gone to bed, Kubu beckoned a waiter and ordered another brandy. It had been a tiring day, and he didn’t have a lot to show for it. When the brandy came, he took a sip, closed his eyes, and gently swirled it around his mouth. He loved its gentle sharpness, the hints of sugar and fire, and of course its delicious smell. He breathed in and out of his nose several times to enhance the taste. He sighed with pleasure.

  That night, Kubu found himself overtired. So he lay on the bed and tried to organize his thoughts. Bongani is a good chap, he thought, and very smart. He could be a big help. But what makes him so nervous? Some family or youthful indiscretion with the police? It seemed unlikely. After about fifteen minutes, he forbade himself to think about it anymore. He needed his rest. As he lay with his eyes shut, Mozart took over, and he chased different tunes back and forth in his head. He even found his hand conducting an aria from The Magic Flute. At last he gave up and allowed his mind to return to the gruesome riverbed.

  There were many important questions needing answers. First, who was the victim, and second, why had no one come forward looking for him? The third question was why the murderers had gone to so much trouble to make the body difficult—perhaps impossible—to identify. And the fourth question…but the fourth question eluded him. It had slipped out of his mind and taken even The Magic Flute with it. All that remained was the rhythm of his impressive snoring. Joy Bengu loved him dearly and missed him when he was on a trip, but when she went to her lonely bed, it was with guilty relief.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning Kubu took the fourth question to breakfast: Why had the body been dumped where it had been found—relatively close to a waterhole visited by tours from the game lodge? He guessed that Bongani had supplied the answer with his sweet water theory. It was the perfect place to get rid of a body. The water attracted game. Where there was game, there were hyenas, and hyenas ate everything, including the bones.

  As he helped himself to a large plate of fresh fruit salad—the perfect way to start breakfast—Kubu acknowledged that there were, of course, many more questions. His skin tingled—a sign the chase had started.

  Spotting Bongani on his own, Kubu ignored the waiter’s efforts to show him to his out-of-the-way table and walked up to Bongani’s instead.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked. Bongani nodded with his mouth full and indicated a chair. He didn’t look very enthusiastic. Kubu put down his fruit salad and rewarded the unsuccessful waiter with an order for lots of coffee, with hot milk, and brown toast. He then went back to the buffet to place his order for eggs, bacon, tomato, mushrooms, and fried bananas. When he returned, Bongani had finished eating and was sipping his coffee.

  “Where did they come from, the murderers, and where did they go?” Kubu asked as he settled into his food. “They obviously weren’t living around here. This is a major conservation area. How would they get in and out of it without anyone seeing them or checking their credentials?”

  Bongani had thought of this too. “This is a huge area, one of the largest controlled areas in the world. Dozens of tracks lead into the reserve from the surrounding hunting and cattle areas. If you know your way around, it’s easy to drive in without being seen.”

  Kubu digested this information along with the last piece of bacon. He called the waiter over for more coffee, but changed his mind and instead ordered a plate of hot mielie-meal porridge with full-cream milk, sweetened with honey.

  “My wife is always putting me on diets at home,” he explained to Bongani. “So I try to get just a little extra when I travel.”

  Bongani folded his paper napkin and prepared to leave. Kubu said quickly, “You know, you may be onto something about the sweet water at the waterhole. A ready-made disposal system for dead bodies could well be worth a bit of a drive. I didn’t see it as that important yesterday, so we didn’t stop at the water. That may have been a mistake. Is there a ranger who could take me out there?”

  “I’ll take you,” said Bongani immediately and unexpectedly. “I didn’t have a chance to get the water samples I need to find out why the animals like it so much. Andries was in too much of a hurry to get back after we found the body. We can go as soon as you’re ready. I’ll get the Landy and meet you outside.” And he was off before the surprised detective could even offer his thanks. Bongani seemed relatively at ease this morning. Perhaps he had been so nervous the previous night because of something that had happened during the day.

  On the drive back to the waterhole Kubu learned a bit more about Bongani’s background. He came from a small Kalahari town called Sojwe and had a spectacular school and university record. After graduating from the University of Botswana, he had won a scholarship and completed a PhD at the University of Minnesota, in its renowned Ecology Department. His current research project was linked to the Department of Wildlife and National Park’s thrust on the carrying capacity of arid regions.

  “I am based at the University of Botswana, but spend much of my time in the field. I’ve seen most of Botswana now.”

  “So they fund you for all this travel and so on?” Kubu asked him.

  Bongani laughed. “Oh, no, the university doesn’t have money for research, and Wildlife and National Parks has its own people. They just open doors for me—like this lodge.”

  “It must be expensive,” Kubu commented, “traveling around like that. Petrol is so expensive these days.”

  “Oh, I don’t pay for it. I have a grant from the Botswana Cattle and Mining Company. It’s important for them to be seen supporting conservation.” Bongani looked a little embarrassed. “I’m not proud of where my money comes from, but there are no strings attached, and it allows me to do what I want.”

  Kubu said nothing. A second connection with BCMC, he thought.

  Bongani decided to turn the tables. “What about you?” he asked. “What made you become a detective?”

  “I was very lucky, really,” Kubu replied. “I went to primary school in Mochudi and thought I would have to drop out to earn money for the family. But our priest, Father Thekiso, thought I had the brains to go further and managed to arrange a scholarship to the new private school in Gabs—Maru a Pula. It was wonderful. My parents wanted me to be a teacher when I finished, but I had a hankering for something more exciting, so I joined the police. I was lucky again, because they sent me to university to study criminal justice. I studied full-time and spent as much time as I could at the offices of the Criminal Investigation Department. We call it the CID. They had offices just down the road from the university. As soon as I graduated, I became a detective. I never even was a constable on the beat. I’ve been a detective all my career.”

  After exchanging further tidbits of personal information, the two lapsed into a comfortable silence. After a while, Bongani turned off the main road, and soon they pulled up under the trees close to the waterhole.

  “This is it,” said Bongani. Kubu clambered out of the truck. He stood concentrating on the area around the waterhole. A small herd of springbok stood nervously around it.

  “What do you expect to find?” asked Bongani. Kubu took in the mass of tracks around the water.

  “People always talk about the perfect murder,” he said. “There isn’t any such thing. Murderers always make mistakes. It’s not a natural thing to do—kill another human being in cold blood. It never works out quite the way you expect. You’re tense. You’re nervous. You make mistakes. You leave clues.”

  “But not all murders are solved,” Bongani commented when it seemed that Kubu had nothing more to add.

  “Ah, but that is because the police don’t always pick up the mistakes, don’t always find the clues. They don’t always find the pieces of the puzzle you need to see the complete picture. The only way to find them is to look. And most of
the places you look won’t have any pieces.”

  With this, he stomped off toward the water. Bongani was sorry he hadn’t gone first; Kubu walked over all the interesting animal and bird tracks. But when Bongani caught up, Kubu was carefully examining a variety of boot tracks still visible in the sand around the trough. He hadn’t disturbed any of those.

  “They came down to the water,” he said. “They were careless. They left tracks. At least two people.” He pointed to two different boot prints. “It wouldn’t have been a neat business, you know. It never is unless you are a comfortable distance away with a gun. You wouldn’t believe the amount of blood you’ll get by smashing someone’s skull. Then there is the business with the teeth and the jaw. The killers wouldn’t have been very presentable after that.” Another thought struck him. “But of course the victim was probably dead when they got him here.” He paused and pointed out an area slightly away from the trough. “Look at this spot here, Bongani. What do you think?” The area looked as though it had a slight stain that made it a little rustier than the gray of the riverbed.

  “It could be anything,” said Bongani. “Perhaps it’s animal urine that’s dried there. Maybe just a slightly different composition in the sand.”

  “Could it be a stain remaining after water mixed with another liquid has dried there? Could that liquid have been blood, do you think?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.” But Bongani didn’t really believe it.

  “Let’s take a sample anyway,” said Kubu. “Won’t you get my bag from the vehicle? It’s got some sample bottles in it.” He stood looking at the stain as though it might escape if he fetched the bag himself. When Bongani returned, Kubu made casts of two different boot prints. Then he opened a sample bottle, kneeled, and carefully scraped the surface stain into the container with a spatula.