by Mark Graham
****
Steenkamp sat behind a desk filled with specimen jars, slide samples, and two high-powered microscopes. He hunched forward, worn but determined, the picture of an aging Atlas bearing his burden. He applied an eye to one of the microscopes, studying tissue from the heart muscle. He started with the eyepiece at 10X. He rotated the objective lens carefully.
The chief inspector’s message, Steenkamp realized, conveyed much more than the written words indicated. Mansell suspected something. A missing link more than a hunch; an oversight as opposed to a mistake. The chief inspector of homicide did not call for an organ review on a body due for burial in four hours based on a hunch.
The staff toxicologist, a thirty-one-year-old Afrikaner with a crew cut and a weak chin, charged into the room. Steenkamp’s posture remained fixed. He explained the nature of their inquiry, and they set to work.
Methodically, they finished analyzing the heart. Then they set about tissue-sampling the kidney. A picture is a layered affair, thought the pathologist, with hope as the only clear fixture in the distance. The toxicologist took cuttings from the victim’s liver. His excitement swelled as the examination progressed, while Joseph Steenkamp’s depression grew exponentially.
He had missed something. He felt deflation, not disappointment. Police pathology called for teamwork. He knew that. The head of the investigation, Mansell, was just another member of the team. His skills, meshed with those of the other team members, led to a discovery. Correct and logical. Yes, Steenkamp thought, but if Anthony Mabasu had died senselessly . . .
Footsteps—staccato, crescendoing—announced the arrival of Nigel Mansell.
“We’ve narrowed it down,” was the extent of Steenkamp’s greeting. “Poisoned?”
“Exactly.”
The toxicologist ran tests, first according to classification. Irritants, mineral acids such as hydrochloric and organic acids such as hydrocyanic, were dismissed out of hand; redness or ulceration of the intestinal tracts would have been detected in autopsy. Gases such as phosgene and carbon monoxide produced certain asphyxiation symptoms, but death was time-delayed. This didn’t fit the M.O. surrounding Ian Elgin’s death.
The most commonly used poisons in cases of murder were found in the metallic group, arsenic and antimony. They started there, spent the better part of an hour at it, and found the results uniformly negative.
Finally, they pinpointed their poison among the organic and vegetable groups at 4:59. The toxicologist, his voice serene, said, “I’ve never encountered such a mixture.”
“Nor I, young man,” agreed the pathologist. He hailed the chief inspector, and Mansell turned aside as the remains were hastily removed. “We’ve found our villain, Nigel. The victims were poisoned by a minute mixture of ricin and atropine. Between a grain and a half and two grains, I imagine. A very rare combination. I don’t understand how I missed it. I must be getting old.”
The toxicologist intervened; a restoration of face. “Excuse me, Doctor. I must beg to differ. A poison of this nature, Inspector Mansell, in such a small dosage, is undetectable in the first twelve to eighteen hours after death. I believe the first autopsy was performed the day of the murder, and the second, on the woman, three days after death. After sixty hours, absorption is complete, detectable only through chemical analysis. And the poison would be most effective administered in the neck area. Point of entry was disguised by the rope.”
A suggestion of a smile crossed Mansell’s lips. In time, he said, “Atropine is obtained from the belladonna plant, is it not?” “It is, yes sir. It’s a poisonous crystalline alkaloid.”
“Death by respiratory failure,” added Steenkamp. “Ricin is an extremely toxic protein. Comes from the castor bean. It has the effect of clumping red corpuscles together.”
“Internal strangulation,” said Mansell.
“It is initially isolated as a white powder,” the toxicologist said. “It can be liquefied by heat treatment, and, under those conditions, I daresay, its potency magnifies.”
The toxicologist stored his equipment and packed tissue samples. Mansell stripped off his coat. His appetite had returned for the first time in three days. Across the room, he spied the tea kettle, steam rising from the spout.
“Fine work, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ll expect a complete report from Toxicology by morning. Possible?”
“Seven o’clock on the dot,” were the young man’s parting words. In private, Mansell poured tea. “Mabasu didn’t kill anyone,” he said.
“Impossible,” agreed Steenkamp. “It would take a chemistry lab to concoct that mixture, as lethal as it was and in such minute quantities. Good Lord, I doubt Mabasu ever heard of ricin and atropine.”
The pathologist led Mansell into his office. A backgammon board dominated his desk. Mansell scooped up the dice.
“How would it be administered?” he asked.
“Our youthful colleague was right. Injection. The tissues of the neck are particularly susceptible.”
“Very professional.” Mansell saw the inside of the ladies’ lounge. The worn linoleum. The water-stained walls. The drab olive lockers. The smell of disinfectant. The killer lying in wait in a shower stall. Ian Elgin enters, woozy from alcohol. He calls out Sylvia Mabasu’s name; no answer. Satisfied, he hangs his jacket in the sleep room. He returns to the lockers, sipping a soda. He hears footsteps. Anticipating his rendezvous, he is startled at the sight of another man. Still, the man’s manner placates him. Discovering that this is the ladies’ bathroom, the man displays embarrassment. Laughing. Well dressed. He carries a cane, or an umbrella. Perfect. The pellet containing the poison is concealed in the end. The man apologizes. He gestures with the cane, in an instant bringing the point against Elgin’s neck. A triggering device releases the pellet. Apologizing again; how clumsy. Elgin stumbles. The blow to the neck. Dazed, feeling the effects of the poison. The blow to the nose; he crumbles. A minute later, he is dead. The man proceeds with his portrayal of strangulation and robbery.
Mansell cupped the dice. Answers, he thought, but even more questions. He shook the dice lazily and tossed them across the board; four on three.
****
The Honda Civic sat amid spotlights and flood lamps in the gas-station parking lot in Theescombe.
The interior of the car seemed to be layered in huge multicolored moth wings, an effect created by painting every inch of exposed surface with black, silver, dragon’s blood, and aluminum powders, using fine camel-hair brushes. The finish on the outside of the car resembled silver peach fuzz, the result of a light spray of ninhydrin. A technician switched on an ultraviolet lamp and the fuzz crystallized, turning purple.
Photographing and lifting proceeded swiftly, the unfortunate result of a lack of evidence.
Another member of the forensic unit inked and mounted each tire. He made an impression of each on special photographic paper. An acetate overlay would serve as a comparative print for enlarged photos. He used silicone rubber to cast the left front tire.
Floor and trunk mats were secured for lab analysis. Beneath the front hood, the oil filter, the distributor, the spark plugs, the carburetor, the oil cap, and the dipstick were all sprayed and photographed.
Bobby Verwaal, the station attendant, spent ninety minutes with a sketch artist. A face materialized.
Eventually, the car was laid to rest on the back of a tow truck, facing further examination in Port Elizabeth.
An Allenfield-XM helicopter transported Joshua Brungle and a sketch of John Martyn back to the city as the sun set a thousand kilometers to the west.
****
The funeral procession meandered over manicured hills of grass newly mowed, hedges meticulously sculptured, and jacarandas majestically postured. The narrow road cut a path through fields of chiseled headstones and elaborate mausoleums. At last, the hearse came to a halt at the foot of a neatly fenced plot. A sprawling canopy hovered above pearly arrangements of roses, mums, and proteas. Neat rows of folding chairs flanked
an open grave. Above this rectangular tabernacle, a bronze casket hung, an object in temporary suspended animation thanks to a luckless hoist and four aching chains.
The processional caravan doused headlights and parked haphazardly along the shoulder of the road. Delaney had rejected a half dozen offers of transport in favor of her own rental, knowing there was far more to this occasion than simple grief.
As it was, an elegantly dressed man with a pencil-thin moustache approached her the instant she stepped from the car. The general secretary of the United Dock Workers Association. So it begins, she thought. Word had already gotten around, and if rumors were to be believed, Delaney was a cinch for Ian Elgin’s position with the Affiliated Union, while the mining union was said to be considering her for the chief negotiating position left vacant by Elgin’s sudden demise. Certainly she should have felt honored. So why, she asked herself, didn’t she?
“The aborigines,” he said, offering her his arm, “leave their honored dead in the outstretched branches of the acacia tree. It makes the task of burial so much easier.”
“And of course the scavengers of the bush are always quick to oblige, aren’t they?” Delaney replied, glancing at him with raised eyebrows.
“The job is yours, you know,” he said as they approached the grave site. “Board consultant? The title fits you well, Mrs. Blackford.”
“I’m flattered, I’m sure.” Delaney removed her hand from his arm. “Though I was thinking it a trifle obscure. Now, vice-president; that has a ring to it, don’t you think?”
The family of the deceased was escorted to seats immediately adjacent to the grave. A wife unveiled, stoic, distant. Children grown, undisturbed, pampered. They’d come as well-planned addenda to Elgin’s busy life, articles well managed by a mother with no other interests and thus, he had told Delaney, not to be tampered with.
The minister stepped in front of the casket. A hush worked its way through the gathering.
Prayers were offered. A eulogy spoke to the heart of Ian Elgin’s better side. Delaney observed that tears were a rare commodity among the English, and the Afrikaners seemed more embarrassed in their attendance than sorrowful of the occasion. Black mourners, an elite few, observed the ceremony in much the same way as the English who had educated them. But well away from the site, beneath a tall linden, stood a black woman—young, hatless, tastefully dressed. She was lovely, even at this distance. A concourse of tears was readily apparent on each cheek. Delaney watched her dab at the streaks with a crumpled handkerchief. She saw erect shoulders sag, and then, as if suddenly aware of this display of weakness, drawn soldier-taut again, head high.
Delaney knew her face; familiarity without a name. There was recognition in a brief exchange of glances. Delaney nodding, the woman inclining her head quickly and hiding behind the folds of her handkerchief. Yes, she’d seen the face before. The name would come to her.
The minister bowed his head. The Bible closed with the ominous thud of a dead bolt. The hoist lowered its burden into the waiting arms of the earth. Watching the casket as it disappeared, Delaney couldn’t help but wonder if anointment oils and a silk shroud were provided for one subjected to the grim ways of a murderer and the rotary saw of a pathologist. For some reason, she doubted it.
The daughter tossed a single rose into the grave, the son a handful of dirt. The wife turned quickly away. A man in a gray overcoat with matching gloves took her arm and whispered eagerly in her ear.
Ian Elgin would have found the charade comical, if not telling, Delaney thought. She watched the exchange and felt an ache deep inside.
“Delaney. A terrible thing, Ian’s death. Absolutely shocking.” The black man was enormous in all proportions, but his voice was angelic. Daniel Masi Hunter. The president of the Affiliated Union of Dockers, Stevedores, and Rail Workers.
“Daniel, hello.” Delaney took his hand. “It seems your opinion would be in the minority here, but I happen to agree.”
“Yes.” Hunter glanced at the dispersing crowd and then at the grave, chuckling. “Ian once told me that embalming was too good for the bloody Afrikaner and mummification was just short of adequate for the proper Englishman. If I recall, we were drinking ouzo at the time, or something equally lethal.”
“That sounds like Ian. I hope he’s not too disappointed.”
“And I’m hoping,” Hunter said, facing her, “that we can make the transition from Ian’s death without losing too much ground in our talks with the Harbour Association, or in this contract hassle with International Consolidated. Are you prepared for that?”
“I’m prepared to take the ball and run with it, if that’s what you’re asking, Daniel. I’m not prepared to tread water, however.”
“The reply. I was hoping for, thank you.”
They shook hands again and the union head lumbered away.
The name came to her. Lea. Lea Goduka. Delaney wheeled around quickly, but there was no one beneath the linden tree now. The woman was gone.
****
Debris and broken glass littered the streets. Torches lit the air. The demonstration spread from City Hall into Main Street and Court Street and finally joined forces with the throng besieging the police station. The crowd numbered three thousand by now. Police in riot garb, armed with bird shot, rubber bullets, and tear gas, formed a cincture around the buildings. Armored cars and army troops patrolled the streets. Helicopters hovered overhead. Sharpshooters armed with automatic rifles and high-powered scopes kept vigil from surrounding rooftops.
As yet, no arrests had been made.
But the cover of night, thought Mansell as he climbed the back stairs to his office, has a way of drawing sparks from smoldering coals. As he reached for the doorknob, he saw Jennifer standing at the window. Her eyes were fixed on the street below. She wore a cotton blouse, a soft rose color, and a cream knee-length skirt. Shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back and held by acrylic barrettes. By all appearances, she had come straight from school.
Mansell pushed past the door, and Jennifer wheeled around. “Hello,” he said. “You’ve come down to watch the festivities.”
“I’ve been here for an hour and a half. The festivities get boring pretty quick,” Jennifer retorted, her narrow face taut with annoyance. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been doing the job I get paid to do, remember? Two murders and a suicide equal an extra hour or so. Sorry you had to wait.”
“It’s too bad you don’t get paid for that extra hour or so.”
“Dedication. You know.” Mansell stepped behind his desk. The carving out of territory, he thought. He loosened his tie. He dug for a cigarette. The timbre of crowd noise seeped through the walls, making the room feel smaller, less private. “But I don’t suppose you came down here to talk about departmental wage discrepancies. You could sit down.”
Mansell gestured to an office chair, and Jennifer abandoned her station at the window.
“Why don’t you do something about the theatrics out there in the street?” she said. “It’s disgraceful.”
Gazing into blue eyes that were more angry than disgusted, Mansell wanted to tell her how disgraceful Anthony Mabasu looked splattered across the sidewalk in front of the Hall of Justice. Five years ago, he thought, Jennifer would have been out there in the street herself, demanding an explanation for Mabasu’s death. But five years ago, on July 29, her youngest sister, Irene, was killed during a riot at a soccer match in Grahamstown. “Trampled to death,” was the official ruling. And a part of Jennifer was trampled that day, too. A part of the fire extinguished. She gave up teaching that fall in favor of administration. Now she was the assistant administrator at Donkin Elementary.
“Let’s get some dinner,” Mansell said enthusiastically. “The cafeteria’s got fish-and-chips on Mondays. Real fish, I’m told. Or better still, we could slip downtown to Ivory’s for swordfish. What do you say? Shall we do it?”
Jennifer rummaged through her purse. “I can’t, Nigel. Not tonight. We
have a faculty meeting at school.”
“Skip it. Let’s be daring.”
She found cigarettes and a lighter. Her voice was cold, distracted. “I’m speaking tonight. If you were home once in a while, you’d know that. I came about the weekend. Harriet called. She really wants us to come.”
“Still trying to save us, is she?”
“Christ, Nigel. You’re an asshole. We could use the time.” “True. We should talk.”
“You mean that?”
Joshua Brungle tapped at the door. Jennifer turned away, uttering something under her breath. Mansell held up five fingers, and Joshua nodded.
“I do mean it, Jennifer, but then I’m not the one giving tours of my darkroom to men in gold chains and talcum powder.”
“Fuck you, Nigel.” Jennifer blew smoke aggressively from her lungs. Standing again, she marched back to the window. “Jason happens to be a colleague and a friend. A damn good friend. And lately, he’s been there when I needed someone a helluva lot more often than you.”
Mansell raised his arms above his head and drew a deep breath. “Then maybe you should invite friend Jason to Oyster Bay for the weekend.”
“Is that what you want?” Her voice was at once calm and suggestive.
“You know, we used to lie in bed for hours together. Remember? With the fan on low. Making love. Talking. Laughing. What the hell did we used to laugh about? We’d take our paddleboards down to the schoolyard, and in ten minutes you’d have a bunch of kids playing with us. We’d plant a vegetable garden every spring, and you’d sprinkle zinnia and marigold seeds everywhere without telling me. How long did it take me to realize all those tiny sprouts weren’t weeds? Cucumber-and-tomato salads. Laying out our sleeping bags on the root just staring at the stars for hours.”
Jennifer stood apart, her back to him.
“Things change, Nigel. People change,” she said in a low voice. “They have to. I have to. Change or suffocate. I need to do something more with my life, Nigel. I need, I don’t know, something more to hang on to, something more to fortify myself with. Do you understand? And yet these last few years, it seemed like less was better, less painful. Feeling less, thinking less.”