Patrolman DeBrine’s current situation had given him a whole new perspective on that phrase, and its implications. Because George was on his sergeant’s shit list now, good and sure. Late for roll call three times in a month, George had been. Showed up for his shift once or twice a bit under the weather (all right, hung over and fit to die, truth be told). And when Sergeant Wilson had upbraided him about all of this (got right in his face, the bastard had, and told George he was a disgrace to the uniform), George had experienced a sudden attack of near-suicidal bad judgment and told the sergeant to fuck off.
Which is how George had found himself stationed outside the double doors of this hospital morgue, with orders to make sure that nobody made off with some kaffir’s dead body. Eight bloody hours, apart from his lunch and two piss breaks, standing there. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he was also expected to visually check every corpse that was removed from the room, to be sure that the remains of said kaffir, one Miles Nshonge, was not among them.
That detective, Van Dreenan, had been very explicit in his instructions. Maybe too much so. He’d taken George inside the large, cool room and pulled open one of the sliding metal drawers, looking for all the world like a bloody great filing cabinet. Made him study the face of the dead kaffir, as if they didn’t all look alike.
“You don’t go just by the morgue tag,” Van Dreenan had told him. “Somebody wheels a corpse out of here, you make them zip open the body bag far enough for you to check who’s inside it. Got that? The autopsy on this gentleman is not scheduled until the day after tomorrow, maybe later, so there is no reason for his body to leave this room until then. And it had better bloody not.”
George DeBrine liked his job—most days, anyway. He certainly didn’t want to lose it and have to start fresh with something else that would probably offer less money and far less authority. So he had decided, reluctantly, to reform. No more boozing. At least, not when he had work the next day. He’d not had a drop of anything stronger than his tea the night before this boring, useless assignment.
Which is why George was so astounded when he groggily awoke to find himself in a corner, back against the wall and his legs straight out before him, hands folded peacefully in his lap, his neck with a painful crick in it. He got unsteadily to his feet and began brushing dirt from the filthy floor off his khaki uniform. He had no memory of getting down there to have a snooze in the corner. Christ, he couldn’t remember even thinking about doing something so incredibly stupid. It was only by a stroke of luck that none of the hospital staff had come along and found him—
George stopped brushing himself off and just stood there like a statue, as a horrible thought flashed through his mind. He looked toward the double doors of the morgue and then, after a long moment’s hesitation, began to walk slowly toward them.
Ordinarily, being in this room all by himself would have given George the creeping willies, but this time he was glad to be alone. He remembered clearly the number of the drawer containing the remains of Miles Nshonge: 1408. A few seconds later he stood in front of it, one hand wrapped around the cool metal handle. George knew that, one way or another, the course of his life from this point forward was going to be determined by whether the dead kaffir was in there or not.
In his mind, he offered a brief, beseeching prayer to his Creator, whom he had not addressed in quite some time. Then he took a deep breath and pulled the drawer open.
Apart from the bloodstained sheet upon which the body of Miles Nshonge had once lain, the drawer was as empty as George DeBrine’s future with the South African Police Force.
“IF THIS ISN’T a fokken cock-up, then I don’t know what one would look like,” Van Dreenan said. “The Chief is so pissed off he’s about ready to spit blood. Trouble is, he isn’t quite sure who to be mad at. Apart from that poor bastard DeBrine, that is. He’s for the chopper, that much is for sure.”
“And well he should be,” Sergeant Shemba said, as he slid into the chair behind his desk; his and Van Dreenan’s were pushed together front-to-front, so the two of them sat facing each other from a distance of about four feet. Shemba twisted the cap off a cold bottle of mineral water he had brought in with him.
“Think so?” Van Dreenan asked. “I’m beginning to wonder.”
“Are you? Why?”
“Tell you in a bit. First things first. Jerome Lekota is as clean as they come—officially, anyway. I found the record of his birth from forty-six years ago, and that’s all. Never been convicted, arrested, questioned, or even farted in public, far as I can tell. Model citizen, is our Mister Lekota.”
“Officially,” Shemba said.
“Right. And, as everybody knows, that’s all that bloody matters. How about you? Turn up anything?”
“I know that Lekota is a tagati,” Shemba said. “He lives in the next township over from Thokoza. Those who know what he is, and they are few, fear him.”
“Works powerful witchcraft, eh?” There was a time when Van Dreenan would have said that with a condescending smile. He was not smiling now.
“Most powerful. Those who have incurred his anger, they are said to have died, all most unpleasantly.”
“Any particular way?”
“My informants mentioned several, although it is impossible to separate rumor from fact when one speaks of such things.” Sergeant Shemba took a long swig of water, then placed the bottle on the desk in front of him and stared into it glumly, as if it were a crystal ball revealing a future he didn’t much care for. He did not look up when he said to Van Dreenan, “But two different people did say to me they had heard of enemies of Lekota who developed uncontrollable bleeding in the night, from all their bodily orifices, and soon bled to death.”
The two men were silent for a time, until Van Dreenan cleared his throat and said, “Ja, well, in addition to checking Mr. Lekota’s nonexistent criminal record, I spent some time with the tapes from one of the hospital surveillance cameras.”
“They had one pointed at the morgue?” Shemba looked surprised.
“No, but they’ve got one covering the corridor just around the corner from it. There’s a storeroom there where they keep drugs, so they want to know who’s coming and going. I went over there this morning and walked around a bit, just to be sure that my memory of the place was correct, and it was. There is no other way out of the morgue except through that corridor. No doors, no windows, not even a bloody mouse hole. Nothing. It’s in the cellar, remember.”
Shemba nodded slowly. “That would appear to simplify matters for us.”
“Think so, wouldn’t you? Well brace yourself for the bad news, my friend, because nobody took a body out of that morgue between when I was there the first time and when DeBrine sounded the alarm.”
“No autopsies were done? None at all?”
“They’ve only got one pathologist on staff, and she’s sick. Flu, or something. Been out a couple of days. Several bodies went in, all right. They’re all on the tape and supported by the hospital records. But nobody wheeled a corpse out of there, or brought out anything that might have hidden a corpse inside it, like a crate, a trash container, or even a bloody steamer trunk.”
“Could Nshonge’s body have been moved to another drawer in the morgue, perhaps?” Shemba asked. “Whether by accident or design?”
Van Dreenan shook his head. “The hospital people thought of that, too. Checked every fokken one. No Miles Nshonge.”
“Is there an incinerator near the morgue, where the body could have been burned up?”
“No, sorry. Oh, they’ve got an incinerator, all right. But it’s on the other side of the building, with no access from the morgue that doesn’t take you right through that corridor with the video camera. And before you ask, I checked with the video boffins upstairs: there’s no sign that the tape has been tampered with. None.”
Shemba took another drink, then sat back in his chair. He was looking right at Van Dreenan now.
“Almost like it was magic,” Shemba said qu
ietly.
Van Dreenan would have, not so long ago, greeted such a pronouncement with derisive laughter. Now he only grunted.
“This man, this tagati, has wiped out a whole family. Five human beings. And who knows how many others before that?”
Van Dreenan just stared at him.
“Left alone, this Lekota, he will surely kill again in pursuit of his dark purposes.”
“We can’t arrest him,” Van Dreenan said. His voice was now as soft as Sergeant Shemba’s. “There’s no fokken evidence a crime has even been committed. And I don’t fancy asking the Prosecutor to charge some bloke with murder by witchcraft.”
“I agree. We cannot arrest him, even though we know he is guilty of murder.”
Van Dreenan leaned forward suddenly, his mouth a thin hard line. “Then what the bloody hell can we do?”
Shemba hesitated before saying, “If you wish to know, I will tell you. But be certain, my friend, that you really wish to know.”
In the space of the next few seconds, Van Dreenan thought fleetingly about many things—his pension, his wife and children, his deep regard for Shemba, his own conservative Christian upbringing. But mostly he thought about Miles Nshonge and his family.
Van Dreenan walked slowly to the office door, and closed it. Then he sat back down and said to Sergeant Shemba, “Tell me.”
From The Pretoria Times
March 8, 2003
MOB KILLS ALLEGED “WITCH”
UMLAZI TOWNSHIP (SANS). A mob of local residents attacked and murdered a man here last night, using a method often associated with so-called “witchcraft murder.”
Jerome Lekota, 46, died from being “necklaced,” meaning that a gasoline-soaked tire was placed around his neck, then set alight. He received massive burns about the face and upper torso, which proved fatal. He was pronounced dead at the scene.
Several residents of the township, who did not wish to be identified by name, said that Mr. Lekota was believed to be a “tagati,” or practitioner of black magic. Residents say he was alleged to have been responsible for several murders in recent years, all using magic as a means.
The question of why local sentiment seemed to turn against Mr. Lekota only recently has not yet been answered to the satisfaction of investigating officers.
Rumours that a white male was part of the mob that killed Mister Lekota are being discounted by police as unsubstantiated and highly unlikely.
The murder by mobs of alleged “witches,” usually using the method known as “necklacing,” has been an unfortunate aspect of life in the country’s black townships for many years. A police spokesman said today that...
CHAPTER 24
“AND THAT IS why,” Van Dreenan said, “I began to reassess my views on what I once considered ‘superstitious nonsense.’”
“Wait a second,” Fenton said. “You’re telling me that you and this African cop—”
“Sergeant Shemba is his name. And we both consider ourselves to be ‘African cops,’” Van Dreenan said mildly.
Foley made an impatient gesture. “Whatever. The two of you went out there and killed this guy? Burned him alive?”
“I said no such thing, Fenton. A mob killed Jerome Lekota. Just as the newspapers said.”
“But you and this Sergeant Shemba, you got them stirred up.”
“Did we? Even if such were the case, I would not burden your sense of professional responsibility with such an admission.”
“Yeah, but you’re a—”
“Fenton, as you sometimes say, give it a rest. Whatever happened out there, it is outside your jurisdiction, beyond your responsibility, and, in any case, long over with.”
“Then what the fuck did you bring it up for?”
“Now you are being deliberately obtuse. Stop it, please. You know why I brought it up.”
Fenton angrily swiveled his chair so that it faced the window. He looked out for several seconds, and did not appear pleased by what he saw. Without turning back, he said to Van Dreenan, “Yeah, I guess I know why. You think this voodoo shit is real.”
“It is not voodoo, per se. In any case, I am not presuming to say what is and is not real. I tell you only what I have seen with my own eyes.”
“Yeah, right.” Fenton was still not enjoying the view.
“The experience which I have related to you was my first with... such matters. It was by no means the last.”
Van Dreenan sat and waited. Eventually, Fenton turned his chair back around. Most of the anger was gone from his face now. “The business with this Lekota guy, is that what got you into the Occult Crimes Unit?”
“I applied to join shortly afterwards, yes. Look, Fenton, the members of the Occult Crimes Unit are not a bunch of superstitious ‘ghostbusters,’ although the tabloid newspapers like to use that term. As I told you the day I arrived here, we are experienced, hardheaded police officers. The principal difference between us and the average member of the South African Police Forces is that we try to keep open minds—to let the evidence determine our beliefs, not the other way around.”
Fenton came up with the ghost of a wry smile. “Must’ve required quite an adjustment.”
“You can have no idea. I was raised in the Dutch Reformed Church, Fenton, and compared to them, your Christian Right over here are a lot of timid, liberal agnostics. But I reached the point where I had to make a choice—between what I had been taught, and what I had seen.” Van Dreenan’s big shoulders twitched in a shrug. “I chose the latter.”
Fenton nodded slowly. “An open mind, you say.”
“That is all that is necessary, I think.”
“Let’s say I’m willing to try for this open-mindedness we’re talking about. That doesn’t mean I’m going to just stand by and let you administer vigilante justice to a couple of criminal suspects in this country—if we can even catch the motherfuckers.”
Van Dreenan spread his hands. “I never thought you would. Or indeed, should.”
“All right, then.”
“But that is why we must be ready to move quickly when—if—we receive word of a fifth child murder.”
“Hard to move fast when the whole damn country is the target zone.”
Van Dreenan rubbed his chin. “Not the whole country, I think. They could have gone anywhere, thanks to your marvelous highway system, but they have chosen to stay in the East.”
“Maybe they’re just lazy.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“No,” Fenton said after a moment. “I guess I don’t.”
“There is a reason why they are staying in this part of the United States. It is probably tied in with the purpose behind these muti murders.”
“I thought you said she’s doing it to gain magical power.”
“Yes, but why here? If all she wanted was the power, she could have—” Van Dreenan’s voice caught for a moment, “she could have committed these atrocities in South Africa. But she made a long, expensive journey to an unfamiliar country. There must be a reason. And I’ll wager that it is the same reason she and her associate are remaining in the East.”
“All right, assume that’s the case. I can put out an alert on-line to all police departments in, say, a twelve-state area. I can request to be notified immediately if a child’s body is found, matching the details we have for the other victims.”
“Ja, that will help. And once we hear something, we must be able to get to the scene quickly. Can you have a helicopter standing by? On the roof of this building, perhaps?”
“Jesus, do you know how much money that’s gonna cost? To have a chopper just sitting there, idle, maybe for days?”
“Do you not think it will be money well spent?”
“Of course I do, but, shit, it’s not my money to control. My boss will have to authorize it, and probably clear it with his boss, and budgets are tight these days, especially for anything that doesn’t have to do with terrorism.”
“This is terrorism of the very worst kind, my fri
end.”
“You know that, and I know that, but my boss doesn’t.”
“Then you should explain it to him. Ask him to visualize the positive publicity, if the Bureau should succeed in bringing two serial killers, murderers of children, to justice.”
Fenton chewed his lower lip. “Yeah, that might get his attention.”
“You might further suggest he imagine the intensely negative publicity that would result if it should become known that the FBI had the opportunity to apprehend such vicious criminals, and did not take it.”
“If I leaked something like that, my career would be over. I know it, and they know I know it.”
“Ja, probably so,” Van Dreenan said. “But if I leaked it, my career would not be over.”
A slow grin made its way across Fenton’s face. He turned his chair and picked up the nearby telephone. “Let me see what I can do.”
CECELIA MBWATO AND Snake Perkins had abducted and murdered four children without any witnesses or interference—either before, during, or after their evil deeds. They had taken great pains to remain unobserved, of course, but they had also had, perhaps literally, the Devil’s own luck.
On a moonlit night near Cranston, Rhode Island, their luck ran out.
“JESUS CHRIST, TOMMY, this is starting to remind me of high school,” Marcie said. The dirt road was reasonably wide, but still overhung by trees. The only illumination came from the car’s headlights and the full moon that peeked between the branches as they drove.
“Not my fault your fuckin’ roomie decided not to go home this weekend,” Tommy Hambledon said. He proceeded slowly, looking for a good spot—something private but not too spooky. “We could’ve gone to my room, you know, like we did last time.”
Black Magic Woman (Morris and Chastain Investigations) Page 22