Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Green Shirt smirked. “It better be.”

  Bumaya watched him waddle off, and said, “Apparently, I have offended someone.”

  “They probably don’t like tall, dark strangers,” said Milo.

  “Black people?”

  “Maybe that, too.”

  Bumaya smiled. “I had heard this was a progressive city.”

  “Life’s full of surprises,” said Milo. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Bumaya?”

  Bumaya started to answer, stopped himself as the drinks arrived. “Thank you, sir,” he told Green Shirt.

  “Anything else?”

  “If you’ve got some salted peanuts,” said Milo. “If not, just a little peace and quiet, friend.”

  Green Shirt glared at him.

  Milo downed his Scotch. “And another of these, too.”

  Green Shirt took Milo’s shot glass, crossed over to the bar, brought back a refill and a bowl of nubby pretzels. “These salty enough?”

  Milo ate a pretzel and grunted. “Gonna earn my stroke honestly.”

  “Huh?”

  Milo flashed his wolf’s grin. Green Shirt blinked. Backed away. When he’d reclaimed his stool, Milo gulped another pretzel, said, “Yeah, it’s a real progressive city.”

  Protais Bumaya sat there, trying not to show that he was studying us. In the miserly light his skin was the color of a Damson plum. Wide-set almond eyes moved very little. His hands were huge, but his wrists were spindly. Even taller than Milo, six-four or -five. But high-waisted; he sat low in the booth, gave a strangely boyish impression.

  The three of us drank for a while without talking. Frankie Valli gave way to Dusty Springfield only wanting to be with us. Bumaya seemed to enjoy his gin and T.

  “So,” said Milo, “what’s with Albin Larsen?”

  “A progressive man, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

  “You know different.”

  “You were at the bookstore observing him,” said Bumaya.

  “Who says it was him we were observing?”

  “Who, then?” said Bumaya. “George Issa Qumdis gives political speeches all the time. He is a public man. What could a policeman learn from watching him? And that fellow in the Navy jacket. Impulsive, but not a serious criminal.”

  “That’s your diagnosis, huh?”

  “He sprays paint,” said Bumaya, dismissively. “You questioned and released him. You are a detective, no?”

  Milo reread Bumaya’s business card. “Special Envoy. If I call this number and ask about you, what are they going to tell me?”

  “At this hour, sir, you will get a recorded message instructing you to call during regular business hours. Should you call during business hours, you will encounter another recorded message replete with many choices. Should you make the correct choice, you will eventually find yourself talking to a charming woman named Lucy who is the secretary to Mr. Lloyd MacKenzie, Esquire, an articulate, charming San Francisco attorney who serves as de facto West Coast Consul for my country, the Republic of Rwanda. Mr. MacKenzie, in turn, will inform you that I am a legitimate representative of my country.”

  Bumaya flashed teeth. “Should you choose to avoid all that, you may simply believe me.”

  Milo drained his second Scotch. Strong, abrasive stuff; I was working at getting the first shot down.

  “Special envoy,” he repeated. “You a cop?”

  “Not currently.”

  “But?”

  “I have done police work.”

  “Then cut the bullshit and tell me what you want.”

  Bumaya’s eyes glinted. He wrapped long, manicured fingers around his glass, poked a finger into the drink, pushed the lime wedge around. “I wish for Albin Larsen to get what he deserves.”

  “Which is?”

  “Punishment.” Bumaya reached into an inner pocket and produced his shiny black billfold. Flipping it open, he fingered what appeared to be a stitched seam. The stitching parted, exposing a slit. Reaching into the slit, he drew out a tiny white envelope.

  Gazing across the table, Bumaya flicked the edge of the envelope with a shiny fingernail. “How familiar are you with the genocide that ravaged my country in 1994?”

  “I know that lots of people died and that the world stood by and watched,” said Milo.

  “Nearly a million people,” said Bumaya. “The most frequently quoted figure is eight hundred thousand, but I believe that to be an underestimate. Revisionists who wish to minimize the horror claim only three hundred thousand were butchered.”

  “Only,” said Milo.

  Bumaya nodded. “My belief, backed up by observation and knowledge of specifics, is that when deaths from severe injuries are factored in the final number will be closer to one million, or perhaps even more.”

  “What does any of that have to do with Albin Larsen?”

  “Larsen was in my country during the genocide, working for the United Nations in Kigali, our capital, during the worst of the atrocities. Consulting. A human rights consultant.”

  “What did that mean, in the context of your country?”

  “Whatever Larsen wished it to mean. The United Nations spends billions of dollars paying the salaries of people who do exactly as they please.”

  “Not a fan of world bodies, Mr. Bumaya?”

  “The United Nations did nothing to stop the genocide in my country. On the contrary, certain individuals on the U.N. payroll played active and passive roles in the mass murders. International bodies have always been good at condemning tragedy after the fact, but staggeringly useless at preventing it.”

  Bumaya raised his glass and took a long, hard swallow. The small white envelope remained wedged between the fingers of his free hand.

  “You’re saying Larsen was involved in the genocide?” said Milo. “Are we talking active or passive?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Humor me, sir.”

  “I do not know, Detective Sturgis,” said Bumaya. “Yet.” He glanced at the bar.

  “Want another?”

  “I do but I will decline.” Bumaya flicked the white envelope again. “In January of 2002, a man named Laurent Nzabakaza was arrested for complicity in the Rwandan genocide. Prior to that, Nzabakaza had served as administrator of a prison on the outskirts of Kigali. Most of the prisoner were Hutus. When the violence began, Nzabakaza unlocked their cells, armed them with spears and machetes and clubs and whatever firearms he could find, and pointed them at Tutsi homes. It was a family outing; Nzabakaza’s wife and teenage sons participated, cheering the murderers on as they raped and hacked. Before all that finally came to light and Nzabakaza was arrested in Geneva, he found himself a new job. Working as an investigator for the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda. Albin Larsen helped him obtain that position. Larsen has done the same for other individuals, several of whom have subsequently been identified as genocide suspects.”

  “The bad guys are working for the court that’s supposed to be trying them.”

  “Imagine Goering or Goebbels being paid by the Munich tribunal.”

  “Is Larsen some sort of bigwig among the Hutus?”

  “Larsen was— is an opportunist. His credentials are impeccable. Doctorate in psychology, a professor both in Sweden and the United States. He has been on the U.N. payroll and that of several humanitarian organizations for over two decades.”

  “Human rights expert,” I said.

  Bumaya opened the little white envelope and removed a small color photo that he laid in the middle of the table.

  Two smiling boys in white shirts and plaid school ties. Gleaming ebony skin, clear eyes, cropped hair, white teeth. One slightly older than the other; I guessed nine and eleven.

  “These lads,” said Bumaya, “are Joshua and Samuel Bangwa. At the time this picture was taken they were eight and ten. Joshua was an excellent student who loved science and Samuel, the older boy, was an excellent athlete. Their parents were Seventh Day Adventist elders who taught at a church school in the vi
llage of Butare. Shortly after Kigali fell to the Hutu insurgents, Butare was targeted because it had been a primarily Tutsi town. Both of the boys’ parents were hacked to death by Laurent Nzabakaza’s troops. Their mother was repeatedly raped, pre- and postmortem. Joshua and Samuel, hidden in a closet and watching through a crack in the door, escaped and were eventually spirited out of Rwanda by an Adventist minister. As crucial witnesses against Nzabakaza, they were taken to Lagos, Nigeria, and put up at a U.N. boarding school that catered to diplomats’ children and the offspring of Nigerian government officials. Two weeks after Laurent Nzabakaza was apprehended in Switzerland, the boys failed to show up for breakfast. A search of their room found them in their beds. Their throats had been cut ear to ear. A single stroke of the razor for each child, no wasted energy.”

  “A pro,” said Milo.

  Bumaya extracted the lime wedge from his glass, sucked on it, put it back. “The school was a guarded, secure facility, Detective, and there were no signs of forced entry. The case remains unsolved.”

  “And Albin Larsen—”

  “Was a psychological consultant to the school, though seldom on the premises. However, one week before the boys were slaughtered, he arrived in Lagos and took a room in the faculty wing. The alleged reason for his visit was a U.N. site certification. While he was there, he engaged in other local activities, as well.”

  “Such as—”

  “Allow me to finish. Please,” said Bumaya. “It has been learned that Larsen was not due to inspect the school for several months and chose to step up the schedule.”

  “You think he killed the two kids?” said Milo.

  Bumaya’s brow creased. “I have learned nothing to indicate that Larsen has ever acted violently. However, he is known to have associated with violent people and to facilitate their actions. What would you, as a detective, say about the following confluence of facts: Larsen’s friendship with Laurent Nzabakaza, the threat the boys represented to Nzabakaza, Larsen’s unexpected presence at the school.”

  Milo picked up the photo, studied the smiling faces.

  Protais Bumaya said, “I’m certain Larsen hired someone to slaughter those children. Am I able to prove it? Not yet.”

  “You were sent here to prove it?”

  “Among other assignments.”

  “Such as?”

  “Fact-finding.”

  “Find any facts?” said Milo.

  Bumaya sat back and exhaled. “So far, I have not accomplished much. That is why when I saw you observing Larsen I thought, ‘Aha, this is my opportunity.’ ” He flattened his hands on the table. His knuckles were gray. “Would there be any way for you to share information with me?”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Long silence.

  Bumaya said, “I see.”

  “What else do you know about Larsen?” said Milo.

  “In terms of?”

  “What were his other ‘local activities.’ ”

  “Professor Larsen is a man of far-reaching interests,” said Bumaya, “but for my purposes, they are not relevant.”

  “I care about my purposes,” said Milo.

  “He was involved in programs.” Bumaya uttered the word as if it were a curse. “U.N. sponsored programs, private humanitarian programs. Larsen affixes himself to programs for personal gain.”

  “Misery pimp,” said Milo.

  Bumaya smiled faintly. “I have never heard of that expression. I like it. Yes, that is an apt description.”

  “Are we talking big money?”

  Bumaya’s smile stretched wider. “One would think, that with all the paperwork bureaucracies require, someone would ascertain that there are only so many hours in a week.”

  I said, “Larsen pads his bills.”

  “Consultant here, consultant there. To believe his vouchers, he is the busiest man in the world.”

  Milo said, “What kind of programs are we talking about?”

  “I am familiar only with those in my country and in Lagos. For the most part, we are talking about schools and welfare societies. At least a dozen. When one examines the paperwork in toto, one finds that Larsen was working 150 hours per week.”

  “Any of those programs involve prison rehabilitation?” said Milo.

  Bumaya smiled.

  “What?” said Milo.

  “Prison work is how Larsen came to know Laurent Nzabakaza. He obtained Lutheran church funding for a psychological training program to help prisoners in Nzabakaza’s prison overcome their criminal tendencies. Sentries for Justice. Substantial payments to Nzabakaza helped . . . is the expression, ‘grease the runway’?”

  “The skids,” said Milo. “Grease the skids.”

  “Ah,” said Bumaya. “In any event, the prisoners treated by Sentries for Justice were the exact group armed by Nzabakanza and aimed at Butare. Larsen had already begun an identical program in Lagos, and when the genocide ended his Rwandan activities he began concentrating more on the Nigerian branch.”

  One big, dark hand closed around his glass. “I believe I will take another drink.”

  Milo took the glass, went to the bar, brought it back, filled high.

  Bumaya drank half. “Thank you . . . Larsen attempted to latch himself onto the Bosnian crisis but failed because of too much competition. Recently, he’s expressed considerable interest in the Palestinian issue. Was one of the foreigners who traveled to Jenin to express support for Arafat during the Israeli siege. He supplied the U.N. with stories about the Jenin massacre.”

  “The one that never occurred,” said Milo.

  “Yes, a brief, but inflammatory international fraud ensued, and Larsen was paid for his consulting. His entrée to that region is likely because a cousin of his— Torvil Larsen— is an official with UNRWA in Gaza. When international conflict arises, Larsen will always be there to make a few dollars. If he is not stopped.”

  “You aiming to stop him?” said Milo.

  “I,” said Bumaya patting his chest, “am a fact-seeker, not a man of action.”

  Milo looked at the photo of the smiling boys. “Where in L.A. are you staying?”

  “At the house of a friend.”

  Out came Milo’s pad. “Name, address, and phone number.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “Why,” said Milo, “would you have a problem telling me?”

  Bumaya lowered his eyes. Finished his drink. “I’m staying with Charlotte and David Kabanda.” He spelled the surname slowly. “They are physicians, medical residents at the Veterans Hospital in Westwood.”

  “Address?” said Milo.

  “Charlotte and David know me as a university classmate. I studied law. They believe I’m a lawyer.”

  Milo tapped his pad. “Address.”

  Bumaya recited an apartment number on Ohio.

  “Phone?”

  Bumaya rattled off seven digits. “If you call Charlotte and David and divulge what I’ve told you, they will be confused. They believe I am conducting legal research.”

  “Their apartment your sole place of residence?” said Milo.

  “Yes, Detective.”

  “You’re an envoy but you don’t get hotel chits?”

  “We are a very poor country, Detective, struggling to reunify. Mr. Lloyd MacKenzie, our de facto consul, serves us at a discount rate. A genuine humanitarian.”

  Milo said, “What else can you tell me about Larsen?”

  “I have told you much.”

  “Shall I repeat the question?”

  “A one-way avenue,” said Bumaya.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bumaya showed two rows of even, pearly teeth. “That is all I have to say about the matter.”

  “Okay,” said Milo, closing the pad.

  “Sir,” said Bumaya, “it is in both our interests to cooperate.”

  “Sir,” said Milo, “if there’s something you need to know, I’ll inform you. Meanwhile, be careful. A foreign agent getting involved in an ongoing investigation
wouldn’t be a good thing.”

  “Detective, I have no intention of—”

  “Then we’ll have no problem,” said Milo.

  Bumaya frowned.

  Milo said, “Want another drink? It’s on me.”

  “No,” said Bumaya. “No, thank you.” The snapshot of the murdered boys remained on the table. He picked it up, placed it back in his snakeskin billfold.