by Mario Bolduc
On a desk, photos of his son, Samuel. Many of them taken on the golf course: a young boy goofing off on the greens, or hiding behind a cart. Another picture, more recent, showed him at the Bugando School of Nursing, diploma in hand, a wide smile on his face.
Max pushed open the door to the bedroom. The bed was undone. He was about to continue his exploration when he noticed, on the floor, a drop of blood. Fresh blood. Max wheeled around: a body curled up on itself. Two arms tied by the elbows behind its back by a belt that circled its rib cage.
The kandoya.
He felt nauseous. Surely, that was how they had found Valéria and her daughter. They, too, had been tortured, like Musindo. But here, no machete. The man’s suffering had come to an end with a bullet through his heart.
Max approached the body. Musindo’s death was recent. The killer had gotten to him only minutes earlier; he might still be in the house. Max straightened, listened carefully. Total silence. Nobody in the other rooms.
Musindo had been tortured. Someone wanted information out of him. A slow, painful death, the work of a professional, thought Max. The killer had taken his time. He started on the parts of Musindo’s body he could maim without causing the victim to die or black out. He’d worked him over, trying to get something out of Musindo. Just as he’d done to Valéria. She hadn’t said a thing, clearly, since Musindo had suffered the same fate.
The Ugandan rebel group of which the doctor had spoken in Okambo’s plane on the return from Kigali? No. He didn’t think Kilonzo and his team were responsible this time, even if the policeman and his friend, Walter, were undoubtedly killers. Someone else’s work then. He’d beaten Valéria and Sophie to death, gone after Zuberi next, and now Samuel Musindo’s father.
A single connection between the killings: Clara Lugembe’s murder by the young nurse. The four victims were tied to it one way or another.
Max decided to go through the house, even if the murderer hadn’t thought it useful to ransack the place. What the killer wanted was in Musindo’s head, not any information he could find in the home. He recalled the hypothesis of the doctor he’d met in the Cessna: what if Clara Lugembe’s murder had been only a pretense, a conspiracy to force Komba’s hand and re-establish the death penalty?
Max had no doubts about the nurse’s guilt but was now beginning to have his suspicions about Valéria’s innocence. Blinded by her activism for albinos, believing decision-makers were giving up on the fight, she might have orchestrated the kidnapping and murder of the daughter of the minister of home affairs, or perhaps, had manoeuvred to throw this first-class albino into the arms of Samuel Musindo. Once this death march had been put into motion by Valéria, it had grown out of control — in the media, among the president’s closest aides — and it simply couldn’t be stopped. Thomas Musindo’s son had been led to the slaughter in the interest of Valéria’s philanthropic ambitions.
What if, after his son’s death, the father, having learned of Valéria’s role, had threatened to alert the authorities? To buy his silence she needed money, a lot of money. The cash Max had extracted from the pockets of Jonathan Harris, Sunflower’s CEO.
Who had killed all of them? And what role did the victims play in this story?
The phone rang, tearing through the quiet of the place. Max hesitated. On the fourth ring, he answered.
“Mr. Musindo?” a feminine voice asked. She sounded professional, hurried, and a little impatient, as if she was accusing Max of having taken his sweet time to answer the phone on purpose.
“This is him.”
“South African Airways. We’ve had a problem with our web server. That’s why the two tickets you purchased haven’t been emailed to you yet. They’ll be available at the South African Airways counter at the airport.
Two tickets, thought Max.
“Mr. Musindo?” the woman insisted.
“I’m sorry. Yes, I … I’m listening … do you think …”
“Yes?”
“Can the person I’m travelling with get the tickets for me?”
“Of course. I’ll put a note in your file that Ms. Katala will pick them up, right?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“They’ll be available at one p.m. Thank you, Mr. Musindo. Have a good day.”
On the drive back to the hotel, Max called the customer service number for South African Airways and explained the delicate situation he found himself in: there had been an error with his wife’s first name. They couldn’t well take the plane with that mistake now, could they? Might it be possible to have it fixed?
“I’m Thomas Musindo, by the way. My flight leaves tomorrow afternoon.”
“So Janeth isn’t the correct first name for Ms. Katala?”
“It’s actually Janice,” Max improvised.
“Okay, same for the passport and visa?”
“Visa? I didn’t know we needed a visa!”
“For South Africa? Absolutely.”
“You’re right, of course. I have it right here. Sorry.”
“So I’ve made the changes. Anything else I can help you with, Mr. Musindo?”
“That’ll be it for now. Thanks.”
Thomas Musindo was murdered as he was getting ready to leave for South Africa with a woman named Janeth Katala. The name meant nothing to him. Back at his room at the Kilimanjaro, Max went through the phone book and searched the Internet. Nothing, not a trace of Janeth Katala. Musindo had rushed through the sale of his golf course after a surprise visit by Valéria before purchasing two tickets for South Africa. He’d been getting ready to flee but had been one step behind. Why hadn’t he disappeared immediately after the death of the lawyer and her daughter? Perhaps Musindo was waiting for someone. Janeth Katala, for example.
On the news that night, no mention of Thomas Musindo’s murder, or Zuberi’s, for that matter. Two killings, neither of which attracted media attention. Max looked at the schedule for South African Airways’ flights to South Africa. There was only one, early the next morning. Destination: Johannesburg.
25
Roosevelt Okambo’s cousin had a way into Julius Nyerere International Airport. Among the warehouses, behind the major installations, an employees-only entrance. The place was monitored like the rest of the airport, but with less zeal, according to the cousin. Security guards there didn’t want to take the chance of asking the wrong questions to a minister or a high-ranking civil servant trying to get from point A to point B with some discretion. So they did little more than routine checks, and with not much enthusiasm.
Max managed to get into the departures hall through the back entrance and made his way to the South African Airways counter without being bothered by security or police. If his description had been passed around, no one seemed to have paid it any attention. Despite the early hour, the place was busy already. Max saw that the office to the far right seemed quieter. A woman behind a pane of glass, frenetically typing away at a keyboard, ignoring the bustle of the airport. In the window, her name: Linda Henning.
From the souvenir shop facing her office, Max called the South African Airways general number and asked the employee to use the public-address system to call Janeth Katala’s name, his travel companion. She was at the airport, but he couldn’t find her. He was afraid she might miss their flight to Johannesburg. He was waiting for her with their tickets in front of Ms. Henning’s office.
“And you are?”
“Thomas Musindo.”
Soon Janeth Katala’s name rang out over the sound system. No one appeared. Max was worried Musindo’s assassin might have gotten to Katala. But after ten minutes or so, a young woman arrived at Linda Henning’s office and popped her head inside. The employee seemed confused. The woman pointed to the ceiling, indicating the public-address system. Anxious, she scanned her whereabouts. She had a wheeled bag beside her.
Max left the souvenir shop and approached the young woman. “Ms. Katala? I’m the one who called you. Sorry for the bother.”
“What
do you want?”
She seems more worried than scared, Max thought. “Robert Coppersmith, South African border services. For a visa verification. If you would follow me …”
Katala looked around for Thomas Musindo. Max knew nothing of the nature of their relationship. This was not the time to ask.
He offered his widest smile to Henning, his involuntary ally, then bent down to take Katala’s travel bag. He led her toward a coffee shop where Godfrey was waiting for him with a handful of other cab drivers.
As they walked, she rifled through her handbag searching for her passport and visa. Max stopped and turned to her. “Thomas Musindo won’t be joining you this morning.”
She glanced up at Max. “What’s going on here? Who are you?”
“A friend.”
“Where’s Thomas?”
Max sighed. “He was killed. And your life is in danger, too.”
Fear flashed in her eyes. She scanned the terminal again, hunting for someone perhaps. Fear had won over worry. Then her eyes returned to Max. “And what do you want from me?”
“First and foremost, to bring you somewhere you’ll be safe.”
“I’m not leaving the airport.”
Around Max, an oblivious crowd of hurried travellers. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention. “I was a very good friend of Valéria Michieka. She was killed with her daughter, just like Musindo.” Katala didn’t seem surprised. Max reassured her. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me. Let’s just not stay here.”
Godfrey approached and picked up Katala’s bag. She followed him outside the terminal. When they reached the taxi, she hesitated, but ended up slipping into the back of the cab next to Max.
He waited for the car to leave the airport before continuing his conversation with the young woman. He kept glancing behind and around him, fearing Musindo’s killer might be trailing them.
Once they were on the main road, convinced they weren’t being followed, Max started to relax. “We’ll be okay now.”
“Where are we going?”
“To a hotel. Outside the city. I’ve reserved a room for you under a false name.” Then he added, “Do you have family in Dar es Salaam? People who could be in danger?”
“No. My mother lives in Mwanza.”
“Did you tell her about your trip?”
“I was going to call her and tell her once I was in Johannesburg.”
“A wise decision.”
“What happened to Thomas?”
“While I was investigating Valéria Michieka’s murder, I discovered that Valéria had visited Thomas Musindo a few days before her death.”
“Who killed him?”
“The same person who murdered Valéria, her daughter, Sophie, and the witch doctor Zuberi. Though I don’t have conclusive proof yet.”
A specialist in the finer points of torture Ugandan-style.
Max summarized how he’d discovered her name, and why he’d decided to reach out to her. Clearly, Thomas Musindo hadn’t revealed Katala’s existence. That had saved her life.
“And what’s your role in this story?” he asked.
“I have no role at all.”
“Did you know Valéria?”
“Only by reputation.”
“How did you hear of her? Was it the foundation, her work with albinos?”
“Through my brother, Lewis.”
“Your brother?”
“He died last year.”
“And why would anyone want to harm you?”
“Because I know things. Things Lewis told me.”
Max waited for the rest.
“My brother is the man who executed Samuel Musindo at Ukonga Prison.”
Max couldn’t believe his ears.
Valéria Michieka and her daughter, Awadhi Zuberi, Thomas Musindo, and now Lewis Katala, all linked one way or another to the nurse’s death.
The Oyster Bay Hotel on Coco Beach deserved its reputation. A lush garden, a magnificent view of the Indian Ocean, an excellent kitchen. The business people who frequented the Kilimanjaro were nowhere to be seen. Instead, it was all rich tourists, plump pink skin floating in the pool. Or wandering along the beach among the locals. Max had chosen the place because it was far from downtown, and most important, far from the Kilimanjaro Hotel. He had to be careful not to fall into a trap set by Musindo’s killer. Janeth Katala had to be kept safe.
In the room, Max offered her a drink, which she declined.
“Tell me about your brother.”
A graduate of the Tanzania Military Academy in Monduli, Lewis had hoped to become an officer one day, Janeth told him. For a reason she didn’t know — perhaps he lost interest in the prospect of a military career — he eventually applied for a job with the Tanzania Prisons Service, which was looking for new guards for Ukonga. He got the job but first had to follow a six-month training program with other recruits. At the end of his training period, as he was about to begin working in earnest, he was approached by the higher-ups. They offered him a better-paying job, one that many guards had refused: executioner and death row guard at Ukonga.
All this took place during Samuel Musindo’s trial for the murder of Clara Lugembe. The issue of trafficking in albinos was making front-page news, and some media outlets were actively hunting for witch doctors and self-styled healers. Zuberi, in particular, who had been arrested at the same time as Musindo.
When the guilty verdict came down, and the death sentence was being considered, Katala prepared himself for his first execution. There would be others … later. Each harder than the last as he gained experience.
From time to time, Lewis returned to Mwanza to visit his mother. She’d hidden her son’s true occupation from the neighbours, even though he hadn’t asked her to. She didn’t like what he did, but he was paid well and was generous with his family.
What was more, Ukonga’s executioners — Katala had two colleagues — held a certain status in the prison and rather exceptional work conditions.
“And then one day it just became too much for him,” Janeth continued. “He could barely sleep anymore, and when he finally managed to fall asleep, nightmares tormented him. He went to see a doctor and received exemption papers. He was able to return to Mwanza with a small pension.”
Katala’s life and career hadn’t been out of the ordinary, quite the opposite. Predictable, really. Lewis had withdrawn into himself after his time at the penitentiary. He’d always been a jovial guy, ready to laugh. Now he was taciturn, preoccupied, unable to leave his old life as executioner behind.
Janeth had corresponded with him for his first few months at Ukonga. Far from home, he missed his family, and sometimes expressed doubts as to whether he’d made a mistake by accepting the post. But he was trapped by a contract that paid generously and allowed him to offer a better life for his family. As well, he wasn’t allowed to communicate with the outside world, so he suffered alone. At Musindo’s trial, when the death sentence was handed down, and after Chagula’s appeals had been rejected, he’d begun writing more and more to his sister. A sort of diary wherein the executioner described the preparations, and especially, his contact with the prisoner.
Lewis told her about the daily routine on death row, surprisingly workaday. The increasingly frequent visits from Thomas, Samuel’s father, as well as his mother, a discreet woman, always crying, who couldn’t speak three full sentences without sobbing. Thomas would take over then, as distraught but not as brittle. What did they speak about? Everything and nothing, especially nothing. As if talking about the weather might make them forget the true reason of their visit, and why they were in this place.
“Lewis witnessed these conversations?”
“No. Samuel talked with him once his parents left.”
They must have made strange bedfellows indeed: the death row inmate and his executioner. And while Musindo might not have spoken to the media, or gone into much detail with his family, he’d been far more loquacious with Katala. In this singul
ar environment, the two men formed not a friendship but a kind of complicity based on shared solitude.
Max could visualize those long conversations. He imagined Samuel defensive at first and then slowly warming up to his nervous and sheepish executioner.
They had found mutual comfort in isolation behind bars. In Mwanza, Lewis sometimes summarized parts of their conversation to Janeth. He described a Musindo who was a far cry from the bloodthirsty killer portrayed in the media. Lewis spoke of another Musindo, one without animosity for anyone. What the nurse had done was vile, and he regretted it with all his heart, but he couldn’t erase the wrong he’d done to Clara Lugembe and her family. He believed he deserved the death sentence.
Max tried to understand the motive behind this last-minute confession to someone who couldn’t help him. Plainly, Musindo had accepted his fate. His life was over, and Lewis Katala allowed him to take stock one last time. Did he know about his guard’s correspondence with his sister? According to Janeth, he didn’t.
Two letters in particular had shaken her to her core.
One, dated July 15, 2003, a few days before the nurse’s execution. A missive longer than most, written in the urgent moments before the end.
“What he told me in that letter … it’s hard to think back to it. He thought he was losing his mind with all the pressure he was being put under. And then the day after the execution, July twenty-fourth, he repeated the same thing: that if the truth came out, he would lose his job.”
“What truth?”
“Samuel Musindo wasn’t executed.”
Max stared at Janeth Katala, unable to understand.
She quickly added, “I had the same reaction. I didn’t believe it.”