by Sean Huxter
“Yes, she was our daughter.” She was white. So was the man. Adopted?
The woman seemed eager to open up and open up she did. She sat on the staircase and the man sat with her, rubbing his hands together helplessly. I came closer, but not too close.
“Your daughter?” I asked, tentatively.
“Her name was Rosine Uwera,” she said. “We adopted her as a teenager, and she wanted to keep her name. And rightfully so. Her name was important to her.
“Jonas and I were volunteering in Rwanda in the late '80s, you see, until 1994. We were there during the Rwandan civil war. We were helping out in the refugee camps. It was awful. The ethnic hatred between the Hutu and the Tutsis was like nothing I've ever imagined was possible.
“Rosine was not even fourteen when the civil war started. The Hutu began a campaign to wipe out the Tutsi once and for all.
“This started months of genocidal attacks throughout Rwanda, and the girls got the worst of it. Rape gangs would tear through refugee camps and villages killing the boys and men, raping and mutilating the Tutsi girls. I can't begin to describe what happened.”
I was alive in the 1990s. I had heard about the genocide, but I confess I didn't exactly go out of my way to learn the details. Wasn't on my list of priorities at that time in my life.
Jonas took over. “Rosine was raped by a gang of over twenty Hutus. They beat her senseless and left her for dead, and just because they could they hacked her hands off with machetes. This was their way of utterly destroying the Tutsi population, so they would be rid of what they saw as their problem forever.
“Anne and I met Rosine in a hospital and swore we would not leave there without her. That very day we began proceedings to bring her to the United States to live with us.”
Anne spoke. “There were so many, Mister... uh...”
I told them my name, then reverted to deferential silence, prompting her to continue her story.
“There were so many victims. And we could do nothing to help them. But we chose to do this one thing for this one girl. There was no way we
could leave there without her.
“We got onto the consulate and within weeks we were flying back to the US with Rosine on a stretcher, arms bandaged but healing. I'm not sure how she found the strength to continue, but I think it was her determination not to let those bastards win. She knew their intention was to destroy her completely, and she refused to let them.
“She braved the legal proceedings, the interrogations here with lawyers for the State Department and told her story repeatedly and resolutely. She stood and told her story strongly over and over again until she was hoarse. The determination in her eyes was a sight to see.”
“And she's lived with you ever since,” I said.
“Yes. She began educating herself through the college system and when the internet became commonplace she took online courses. The child was amazing. She learned English fluently, she even took lessons in Spanish and German, she already knew French of course. She got her degree in education and has been working at Brookline high schools teaching ESL courses.”
Jonas said “She was an inspiration. When she wasn't teaching she was telling everyone she could about the Rwandan genocide and was instrumental in getting the UN to do something.
“But the UN response was a shambles. The peacekeepers completely ignored what was happening. Their only orders were to defend themselves and each other if their lives were threatened. One night orders came down for the UN Peacekeepers to concentrate on getting foreign nationals out, and that caused the Belgians to abandon the Don Bosco Technical School which was housing two thousand refugees inside. Meanwhile, outside, hundreds of Hutu were waiting, swilling back beer and chanting, waiting for their opportunity to strike. The Belgians left and they stormed the place, killing every last one of those two thousand. Hundreds of children.
“If it weren't for Rosine and her pleas to the UN that would have been it. But her continued pressure got the UN to deal with the situation directly, and thanks to the Canadians, Ghanians and Dutch, tens of thousands of Tutsi were saved.
“She's spent the last fifteen years making sure the world never forgets what happened in Rwanda, and to make sure it can't happen anywhere else.”
Anne said, “And now she's gone. All that work, all that inspiration...”
“...certainly will never be forgotten,” I suggested.
They smiled.
“Thank you for listening,” Anne said, calling me by my first name. “She was like our daughter. We took care of her, fed her, clothed her, supported her, almost coddled her, because, well, we felt she deserved never to have to fear anything ever again.”
“And then she's … cut down like a dog on the street,” Jonas interjected bitterly. “Raped and...” he faltered, sobbing.
“Jonas, don't...” Anne said, hugging her husband. “We can't dwell on the last moments of her life when she gave the world so much for so long.”
Jonas wiped tears from his eyes.
Raped and dumped on the streets of Boston after what she went through. Where is there justice?
“Thank you for listening,” Anne repeated. “You're a kind man, I can see it in your eyes. You have kind eyes. And you're so good to indulge a couple of old sentimentalists. But we've taken up enough of your time.”
They got up and walked towards a gray Volvo wagon parked on the opposite side of the street. Before they reached their car something made me say “I know some of the police around here.”
“Pardon me?” Jonas turned.
“I said I know some of the police. I can try to find out what happened...”
Jonas smiled, almost patronizingly and said “Thanks. We appreciate it.”
“Corner of Dartmouth and Boylston. Near the ticket kiosk. That's my corner. If you feel the need, you can sometimes find me there.”
“Well, we sure appreciate it,” said Jonas. He handed me a business card with a Brookline address and phone number on it. “Don't hesitate to phone if you find anything.” He got into the car with his wife and drove off down Chestnut Street.
“Yeah, that's me. Big help,” I said to a cat in a window. She agreed.
Chapter 4 “You seem to know a hell of a lot more about the vic than I do,” Turley said as he leaned against his cruiser on Tremont, just outside the Common next to Park Street T Station.
“Yeah. The old couple who adopted her needed a shoulder, and I had two, so...”
“Ain't you the man,” he said.
“No clues? Nothing?” I asked.
“Negative. Look, this is probably just some punk rapist. But we've put out alerts to all the colleges and schools telling women not to travel alone, not to turn down dark streets, the usual. Hopefully they'll take extra precautions until we catch this bastard.
“But let's face it. Random rapists are rarely caught, unless they're stupid enough to become serial rapists and then they always fuck something up and we nail them. Too bad it usually takes a handful of victims before they get so lazy that they do though.” “Amen, Officer,” I said.
We mimed clinking beer glasses in the air.
“Listen,” I said. “If you find out anything, would you let me know? I kinda told her parents that I'd keep them posted.”
“Sure. I'll just give you a photocopy of the report,” he said sarcastically.
Chapter 5 A week of beautiful fall weather had passed and it was a bit cooler now. Part-way down Alley 437, my place, I saw someone rifling around my dumpster.
I didn't know him. His skin was that very dark brown that's almost ebony, so dark he blended into the shadows very effectively, especially with that beige camo jacket.
I ran up to stop him. He had my blue tarp in his hands, and I said “That's mine. You can't have it.” Look, you have to have rules on the street, otherwise it would be anarchy.
The guy turned, and froze me with his eyes. Cold, dead eyes. Damn. A new guy. Didn't respect the rules probably because he didn't know
the rules.
Without a word he had a blade in his hand, and he pointed it at me. “Ok, ok, you can have it,” I said, backing away. He folded my tarp up noisily, took several steps back before turning and walking casually down the alley towards Berkeley Street without once looking back. I let him go.
Fucking new guys. You don't fuck with other people's shit. Period.
I knew two things. He would learn; and I would not be the one to teach him.
Damn. Now I had to go find a new plastic tarp. I checked my pockets. Twenty-three bucks and some change. I could buy a new tarp for less than ten. But shit, I shouldn't have had to.
I headed with resignation towards Downtown Crossing to see if I could buy a new tarp somewhere.
Chapter 6 Several days passed. It was a bit cooler in the morning when I picked up the next issue of Loose Change. I sat on a bench near my corner on Copley Plaza reading my first copy, as is my custom, before starting to sell some.
Flipping through the smaller news columns I saw a story that caught my attention. “Search For Missing Super”. Reading through I found that the building superintendent for a condo complex on Myrtle Street disappeared two weeks ago. They gave his name as Robert Batiste. Haitian immigrant. The report was flimsy but mentioned there was no sign of a break-in, and nothing was stolen from the condominiums under his care, so it's not likely he pulled a snatch and grab and took a runner. Police fear he may have met with violence. The public is asked to keep a lookout, and if anyone knows of Mr. Batiste's whereabouts, to call Boston PD tip line.
I kept my eye on the ticket kiosk expecting to see the Heimberg couple. Or perhaps a unicorn or two. Well look, you never know do you? One of those might show.
After getting to the end of the paper I started calling out “Loose Change”, holding the paper out to passersby. I sold five copies in the next hour which isn't bad.
I gave up on the ticket kiosk and wandered up to my alley and walked the length of it to Arlington, into the Public Garden, over the bridge, past the “Make Way For Ducklings” bronze statue installation – a place I visit often – across Charles and into the Common by the baseball field.
I was looking for Old Fernie, usually out crying out the scores, but sign of him I saw none. I asked the Duke, seated on a bench not far from Fernie's usual place, and he said Fernie was in hospital.
“What? What happened?” I asked.
“Fucking new guy got into a tussle with him. He fucking stole Fernie's cup and its contents.”
“New guy?”
“Yeah, new guy. Camo jacket. Hit Fernie over the head with some
kinda metal rod. Stole his money and dashed, leaving Fernie on the ground bleeding.” God dammit. Fernie's harmless. Fucking new guy again – doesn't know the rules. You do not fuck with one of us. Not if you ever want to be one of us.
“Turley was close by, so he called in the EMTs and they got Fernie into a truck and off to hospital. Didn't catch the guy.”
“Is he ok?”
“Turley said he's fine. He'll be in for a few days. Under observation in case of concussion.”
That was a relief. I didn't know whether to hunt down New Guy and hand him an education about the rules or to continue to diligently avoid him. For now I figured I'd choose the latter. The more I thought about it, the more I realized my decision was one of self-preservation. That guy looked dense. Like all muscle. I wouldn't like my chances if we ever got into it.
“Thanks,” I told the Duke. “If you see him first, tell him I was concerned about him.”
“Will do.”
I wandered for a bit, hawking the paper here and there. Sold about a dozen copies in a few hours. But I couldn't stop thinking about Rosine and the Heimbergs. What was she doing in behind Beacon Street?
I had to know.
Believe it or not, there are still one or two of those
archaeologically rare things mankind used to call telephone booths on the streets of Boston and I found one that was actually working just half-way down to Clarendon.
I dialed the number on the card Jonas Heimberg gave me and he answered after a couple of rings.
I re-introduced myself and he claimed to remember me.
“Mr. Heimberg, can you tell me what Rosine was doing on Branch Street?”
“Jonas, please. She was meeting Professor Richard Philips. He's an author researching a book on the Rwandan genocide. She was invaluable to him. She had so many first-hand accounts of what happened that they would spend at least two hours a week together. She knew places, names, faces. The book is supposed to come out next year.”
“Anything unusual happen the last time they met?”
“She never made it there on her last visit. I drove her in to Boston Common on my way to a meeting and she insisted on walking up to his condominium by herself. She refused my offer to drop her off any closer. She didn't want me to be late. Now I wish I had insisted. It was only a couple of minutes more.”
“Jonas, where does the professor live?”
Jonas gave me an address for a condominium on Revere Street.
“Jonas, I can't thank you enough. I'll keep in touch.” He thanked me and hung up.
Chapter 7
During a not very busy day I strolled up to Revere Street, found the residence of Professor Richard Philips, checked my appearance in the reflection of a nearby window, walked up one of the deeplyrecessed stairwells and knocked on the door. Not a very short time later the door was opened by a man in his fifties, maybe, white hair, tall, elegant-looking, wearing a very light colored casual suit.
“Sorry,” he said. “I usually donate to the shelters. I don't do donations at the door,” and began to close the door.
“It's about Rosine Uwera,” I said, which made him turn and reopen the door.
“Rosine? Did you know her?”
“Not personally. I know her parents, the Heimbergs.”
“And how can I help you, Mr...” I told him my name. Like most people, he was surprised to know a homeless guy had one. But I have to give him credit – he kept the door open.
“Can you tell me if anything unusual happened the day Rosine was supposed to meet you last?”
“Nothing really. She was scheduled to come by at 6:00pm. I was just cleaning up from dinner when I checked my clock and saw it was nearly 6:20 and she had not yet arrived. She's very punctual, so I got worried. I called the Heimbergs. Jonas was out at a meeting, but Anne said that Jonas had dropped her off on time. I hung up so she could call the police. She was terrified something had happened to Rosine.
“The next day the police found her body not a half-mile from here. News moves fast around here, and I heard about it not long after the police found her.”
I looked around. I saw a police detective Turley once introduced me to, walking up Anderson Street with a partner. Interesting...
“Looks like they're barking up the wrong street,” I said.
“Pardon me?” the Professor said.
“Detectives. Walking up Anderson. I would have thought they'd be interested in talking to you.”
“Oh, I talked to the detectives already. No, those are here to investigate the missing building superintendent over on Myrtle Street.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Haitian immigrant, building manager of a condo on Myrtle, up one street. He disappeared about two weeks ago. Different detectives than those investigating Rosine's murder.”
I thanked the professor and left. I walked down Anderson and onto Myrtle. I saw the detectives go inside the condo. It was pointless standing around, and these guys weren't going to tell
me anything, so I headed back to the Common.
Chapter 8 I read and re-read the article about the missing super. “Haitian immigrant?” I thought immediately of New Guy. I wondered why his distinct skin tone seemed somehow familiar. I've met many Haitians at the Cathedral. They form a large part of the congregation. Very dark-skinned, many of them.
Haitian immigrant, has a dec
ent job working in an upscale condo, doing handiwork. No evidence of theft, no reason to suspect he stole stuff and ran. I could think of no obvious reason he'd just leave.
Sure, it could be a coincidence, but he showed up on the Common a couple of weeks after Rosine was found.
So could he have raped and killed Rosine? She would have to have passed within eyesight of Batiste to get to Philips's condo. But something didn't seem to fit. Why risk such a cushy situation? Why wait almost a week to run? What spooked him?
I was making a lot of assumptions. The two incidents might be completely unrelated. Could be that police canvassed the streets around Branch where Rosine's body was found and naturally they would have interviewed Batiste. Maybe this particular Haitian immigrant was illegal? If police began poking around, he might book.
As I pondered this just a mile south of where it all went down, I heard a familiar voice.
“Patriots over the Buccaneers, 5 to 2! Weather's coming! Low pressure system's bringing thunder and heavy rain! Batten down the hatches!”
Fernie!
I hurried my steps until I saw Fernie on his spot on the wall. “Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes!” he said, upon seeing me.
“Fernie, how are you feeling?” I said, sitting next to him. “What the hell happened, man?”
“Some dude jacked me. Stole my cup.”
“Who was it?”
“Dunno. Ain't seen 'im before. Short, stocky, wore a camo jacket. Black guy. Black black. Not like me. Ebony.”
Shit. New guy.
“Yea, I've seen 'im. He stole my blue tarp.”
“Bastard. New guys don't know the rules.”
“I know, right? So what happened?”
“Wish I could tell you. I was just yellin' out the weather when New Guy comes up, pushes me over, grabs my cup. I start yellin' that he oughtn'ta do that and he cursed at me in some African accent. Then he hit me over the head with something.”