A Death in the Family

by Michael Stanley

  Kubu battled to keep his temper. “Mr. Davidson, if you want to challenge the evidence and make speeches, save it for the trial. We want to interview Mr. Shonhu about the death of Goodman Kunene.”

  “I certainly will raise it in court. I’ve asked for an urgent bail hearing, and we’ll see what the judge thinks of these goings-on. Mr. Shonhu is a senior executive at the Konshua Mine—hardly a flight risk. In addition, my client claims he was manhandled by the police.”

  Kubu suppressed his irritation and concentrated on Shonhu. “Do you know Mr. Goodman Kunene?” he asked.

  Shonhu glanced at the lawyer, who nodded.

  “Yes. He worked in the Department of Mines for the head, Mr. Mopati. But he’s dead.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “One time. I went with Mr. Hong to see him about the mine expansion.”

  “When was that?”

  “End of January. I can’t remember date.”

  That was a couple of weeks before Kunene was killed, Kubu thought. “What car did he drive?” he asked.

  “Car? I know nothing about his car.”

  “A sample of your hair was found in his car after Kunene was killed.”

  “Impossible!” He hesitated, then added, “Maybe from documents I gave him?”

  “And your fingerprints were found on the hose used to gas him!”

  Davidson held up his hand again. “Do you have a question for my client or are you just listing alleged forensic facts that he’s unable to challenge here? If the latter, I will advise him not to answer any further questions.”

  “All right, I have a question for him,” Kubu said. “Where were you on the night of February sixth? The night Mr. Kunene was murdered.”

  “I play mah-jongg with Mr. Hong. We play every week on Thursday. Sixth of February is Thursday.”

  “Who won?” Edison asked.

  Shonhu paused and looked at him. “I don’t remember. It was weeks ago. We play for fun. Not to win.” He shrugged.

  “So my client has a solid alibi,” Davidson commented. “He was in Shoshong. Kunene died here in Gaborone. This is just a fishing trip, gentlemen. Is there anything else?”

  “Oh, yes, there’s a lot more,” said Kubu. “Mr. Shonhu, I’d like you to tell me about the various items we found under the false bottom of your cupboard.”

  “What items? I know nothing about this.”

  “Don’t waste our time, Shonhu. Among other things, we found knives and a firearm. Do you have a permit for that, Mr. Shonhu?”

  Shonhu shrugged. “You make up another story like the assault? I have no gun.”

  Kubu took out his notebook. “It’s a Chinese-manufactured QSZ-92 pistol, common in the Chinese military. Director Mabaku, our interpreter, and myself were all present at the time it was found.”

  Shonhu shrugged again. “If this true, maybe man who lived there before left it. He is in China now. Perhaps you can ask police in Shanghai to find him.”

  Kubu glanced at Davidson, who obviously wasn’t pleased by this new revelation about the hidden weapons.

  “One of the knives we found in the cupboard in your room has traces of blood on it. Whose blood is that, Mr. Shonhu?”

  Davidson jumped in. “How would my client know that? He’s already said he knows nothing about what you claim you found in his rooms.”

  Kubu fixed his attention on Shonhu. “So you say that you know nothing about the hidden compartment? That you didn’t know it existed?”

  “Yes. That’s what I said.”

  “Then how come we found your fingerprints on an item inside that compartment? Did they get there by some form of Chinese magic, perhaps?”

  Kubu was delighted to see the smug look drop from Shonhu’s face. Yes, you made a mistake, didn’t you? he thought. And if you made one mistake, you made others.

  “Impossible!”

  “The box of latex gloves, Mr. Shonhu. You handled the box to get the gloves out. You shouldn’t have put it in the compartment.”

  Shonhu turned to Davidson. “He’s making it up. This isn’t true! Why would I have gloves, guns, knives? I’m engineer, not a criminal.”

  Davidson now looked really sour, and Kubu pressed his advantage.

  “Why did you have Rohypnol in your bathroom, Mr. Shonhu? What was that for?”

  “What is Rohypnol?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “Rohypnol is a drug. Sometimes, it’s called a date-rape drug because men who can’t get a girl to agree to sex use it to knock them out. But you can use it to knock a man out too. Like Mr. Kunene. Is that what you used it for?”

  “Oh,” Shonhu said to the lawyer. “He means…” and he used a Chinese word. “It’s to make me sleep. I don’t sleep well.”

  Kubu shook his head. “Let’s go back to the knife. The knife with blood on it that we found in the compartment. Was that the knife you used to attack Mr. Peter Newsom? We’re tracing Mr. Newsom and will soon have a sample of his DNA to confirm that. Then we will charge you with that attack also. I’m not surprised you don’t sleep well with all the vicious crimes you commit!”

  “I don’t know this man, Newsom.”

  “Mr. Shonhu, I think you know that Mr. Newsom represents the American company that is in competition with your mine for the land in Shoshong. He was an obstacle to your plans, wasn’t he?”

  Shonhu didn’t respond.

  Kubu leaned forward and raised a finger. “One. We’ve already charged you for the assault on Mma Jasmine Modongo.”

  He raised a second finger. “Two. We’re also going to charge you with the murder of Goodman Kunene.”

  He raised a third finger. “And, three, when we have a DNA match from the blood on the knife we found in your room, we’ll charge you with the attempted murder of Mr. Peter Newsom.”

  He leaned back and glared at Shonhu. “Your lawyer will confirm that murder is a capital offense in this country, Mr. Shonhu. That means we execute people in this country for murder. Isn’t that so, Mr. Davidson?”

  Shonhu looked at his lawyer, who barely nodded.

  “I strongly advise you to tell us what happened, Mr. Shonhu,” Kubu continued. “Admit what you’ve done. It will be best for you.”

  “I want to talk to my client alone,” Davidson interjected.

  Shonhu ignored him and stared at Kubu, expressionless. “You think you scare me, fat man? I not scared. Nothing you say is true. I admit nothing.”

  Kubu felt a wave of anger. Shonhu was the murderer! The hair and fingerprint placed him at the scene of Kunene’s death, and Rohypnol was found in Kunene’s body. And surely the blood on the knife belonged to Newsom. Zanele had confirmed it as human blood. Who else? Unless … unless it was his father’s blood! Suddenly, he recalled the boots. Those Shonhu couldn’t deny.

  “We found a pair of boots in your cupboard. Chinese make,” he said in a voice suddenly hoarse. “Are those yours?”

  Shonhu looked surprised. “Yes, the boots are mine. Not allowed to have boots in Botswana?”

  “What size are they?”

  “Seven.”

  That was the size Zanele had estimated from the boot prints near where his father had died! Now Kubu was absolutely certain that he was sitting opposite his father’s murderer. His anger turned to uncontrollable fury.

  “You killed my father!” he yelled at Shonhu. “You killed Wilmon Bengu with that knife, didn’t you? Wearing those boots? Admit it! Admit it, damn you!” He leaned across the table to grab Shonhu by the shirt.

  “Who is Wilmon Bengu?” Shonhu asked, pulling back, and then everyone was talking at once. The lawyer was objecting; Kubu was shouting about his father; Edison was shouting at Kubu. Then Edison grabbed Kubu by the arm and dragged him from the room, still yelling accusations.

  CHAPTER 52

  When Mabaku was shown into the office of the president of Botswana, he knew immediately why he was there.

  “Director Mabaku,” the president said, “may I introduce you to Ambassador Jiu
from China. You know the commissioner of police, of course. Please sit down.” Mabaku shook hands with the other two men and settled himself in the only remaining chair.

  “Ambassador Jiu has come to see me because he says that the police arrested a Chinese national on Tuesday on a trumped-up charge of assault,” the president continued.

  Mabaku remained impassive and said nothing.

  “He also says the police dragged this man from his office in Shoshong. Then they threw him in prison here in Gaborone and treated him badly.”

  “Does this Chinese national have a name, Mr. President?” Mabaku asked.

  “His name is Shonhu Wei Long,” the ambassador said. “He is a senior official at the Konshua Mine.”

  “How does your country treat men who beat up women, Mr. Ambassador?” Mabaku asked angrily.

  “In my country, entrapment is not allowed, Director.”

  “What does that mean?” spluttered the commissioner.

  “Apparently, one of your detectives lured Mr. Shonhu into having sex with a prostitute so they could arrest him.”

  The commissioner turned to Mabaku. “Is that true?”

  Mabaku shook his head. “Absolutely not, Commissioner. No policeman or policewoman spoke to or contacted Mr. Shonhu about having sex with any prostitute. Mr. Shonhu has had a longtime association with a prostitute and has assaulted her on several occasions. He visited her on Sunday and assaulted her again. She has a damaged eye and bruises on her face. We arrested him for that.”

  “But the police were waiting there.”

  “It is the job of our police to protect all our citizens—and visitors—irrespective of their profession.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, we will obviously get to the bottom of this. It seems most irregular,” the commissioner said. “But let me ask you a question. How was Mr. Shonhu mistreated?”

  “Mr. Shonhu says he was beaten.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Shonhu, Mr. Ambassador?” Mabaku asked.

  “Not in person. His lawyer gave me a note he had written.”

  “Let me tell you, Mr. Ambassador, the Botswana police do not mistreat prisoners.” Mabaku’s anger showed. “If you provide proof that someone mistreated him, we will make sure that person is disciplined appropriately. Do you have such proof?”

  The ambassador shook his head.

  “How well do you know Mr. Shonhu, Mr. Ambassador?” Mabaku demanded. “Do you normally spend time with men who commit murder? With men who try to kill their competitors? Who incite locals to violence?”

  “Director Mabaku,” the commissioner intervened, “calm down. Your accusations are very serious. Can you back them up?”

  For the next few minutes, Mabaku laid out the evidence that Shonhu murdered Goodman Kunene.

  “We’ve determined that the assistant director of mines, Goodman Kunene, did not commit suicide as reported in the media. He was murdered. He was sedated with a drug called Rohypnol. Then he was left in his own car with the exhaust fumes being fed inside through a hose attached to the muffler. When we searched Shonhu’s home, we found Rohypnol.” He looked at the ambassador. “What would a mining executive do with something that is regarded as a date-rape drug, Mr. Ambassador? Also, a partial fingerprint on the hose matches Mr. Shonhu’s right thumb and a hair found in Mr. Kunene’s car matches samples taken from Mr. Shonhu’s head.”

  Mabaku stared at the ambassador. “Would you like me to go on, Mr. Ambassador?”

  The ambassador didn’t reply.

  “And what’s more,” Mabaku continued, “we may have a second assault charge filed against Shonhu—a knife attack on an American citizen who was representing a mining company in competition with the Konshua Mine. We found a knife at Mr. Shonhu’s home with traces of human blood on it. The blood type matches that of the victim, and we’re going to do a DNA analysis to confirm it.”

  The ambassador shook his head.

  “I’m not finished, Mr. Ambassador. I want you to know everything about this man who is accusing us of mistreating him. When we searched Mr. Shonhu’s rooms, we also found a firearm. Does he have a permit for it, Mr. Ambassador? You can guess the answer. He does not. Why would a mining executive want a firearm in Botswana, where it’s illegal to have a handgun?” Mabaku paused, then continued, “I don’t think Mr. Shonhu is a mining executive, Mr. Ambassador. I think he’s a thug, who’s here in Botswana to intimidate people to do what’s in the best interests of China.”

  “If what you say is true, Director Mabaku,” the ambassador said quietly, “then Mr. Shonhu must be punished. We will deal with it immediately. He will go before a tribunal in Beijing, and I’m sure if they find he has dishonored his country, then the punishment will be severe.”

  “Mr. President,” the commissioner said, “that is not how we see justice done in Botswana. Mr. Shonhu will have a fair trial. If he’s found guilty, he’ll be punished accordingly. If he is found innocent, he’ll go free. But it is important that the trial is held where the alleged crimes took place.”

  “Director Mabaku,” the president said, “you also mentioned earlier that Mr. Shonhu may have incited men to violence. Is that in connection with the riot at the kgotla at Shoshong?”

  “Mr. President, we’ve arrested two men on charges of murdering people during the riot. They’ve told us they were paid to cause trouble. At this time, we’ve no proof that the mine was involved, but the biggest beneficiary of getting rid of the old chief is the mine. It would not surprise me if Mr. Shonhu was involved in that too.”

  “The mine would never do such a thing,” the ambassador said.

  “I didn’t say the mine, Mr. Ambassador,” Mabaku retorted. “I said it wouldn’t surprise me if Mr. Shonhu was involved.”

  “The mine manager, Hong Zhi Peng, would have told me about this,” the ambassador said. “I spoke to him just this last Sunday.”

  “Ah, you mention Mr. Hong!” Mabaku interjected. “It would be a surprise if he did not know what Mr. Shonhu was up to, don’t you think, Mr. Ambassador?”

  He turned to the president. “Mr. President, I would like your permission to take Mr. Hong’s passport. He’ll be an important witness at Mr. Shonhu’s trial, and I regard him as a flight risk. I would also ask you to get the ambassador’s word that Mr. Hong will remain in Botswana until we say he can leave.”

  “Mr. Ambassador?” the president asked.

  The ambassador took a moment, then nodded.

  “In which case, I think everything is settled,” the president said. “Thank you all for coming to this meeting.”

  Mabaku and the commissioner left together, not saying anything until they had left the building.

  “The ambassador is as guilty as the rest of them,” Mabaku said. “He didn’t even ask why Shonhu would be doing such things. He knows there are rare earths in Shoshong. He knows how important they are for China. That’s why he wanted to get Shonhu out of the country. I want Hong’s passport for the same reason.”

  “Wise move,” the commissioner responded. “And you’re probably right about the ambassador, Jacob. It seems the Chinese want to take over the world.”

  “And they don’t care who they hurt on the way.”

  * * *

  WHEN MABAKU RETURNED from the president’s office, Edison immediately apprised him of what had happened. Mabaku went straight to Kubu’s office and flung open the door. Kubu was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. He looked up at Mabaku, who was so angry he couldn’t speak.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” Kubu said. “One moment everything was going okay, the next I knew with absolute certainty that Shonhu killed my father. He stalked him with one of those knives and stabbed him to death. I just don’t know why. Why did he do it? Why?”

  Mabaku collapsed into a seat and took a deep breath. “You’ve damaged our case, Kubu. Shonhu may get away because of what you did. Davidson will have a field day.” He sighed. “What made you think Shonhu killed your father?”

  “It’s
obvious,” Kubu said slowly. “The tread of his boots matches the pictures of the boot prints Zanele and Samantha found near my father’s body. Remember the man seen running from the scene wearing a hood? And the knife had human blood on it. My father’s blood…”

  “Kubu, he had a strong motive to attack Newsom. What possible motive could he have to attack your father?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know why he did it.”

  Mabaku sighed again. “Kubu, go home and stay there.”

  “Am I suspended?”

  “Yes! And if I see you anywhere near here until I tell you otherwise, you’ll be more than suspended. You’ll be fired!”

  Kubu just nodded, heaved himself out of the chair, and started collecting his things.

  “I’m sorry, Jacob. I’m sorry I let you down. I really am.”

  Mabaku said nothing more but walked with Kubu to the parking lot and watched as he drove off in his Land Rover. He shook his head. Then he went back into the CID and arranged to resume the aborted interrogation of Shonhu.

  * * *

  THEY RECONVENED AFTER lunch, Mabaku with Edison, and Shonhu with Davidson, who had recovered his earlier confidence.

  “Director Mabaku, it seems the whole CID has some personal grudge against my client. Detective Bengu’s involvement in the search and arrest on Tuesday voids any evidence you found, in my opinion. If I were you, I would keep only disinterested detectives on the case. If you have any.”

  “Don’t tell me how to run my department, Davidson,” Mabaku said through clenched teeth. “And I won’t tell you how to run your law practice.” He turned to Shonhu. “For the record, I want your answers to the following questions. Were you involved in the murder of Wilmon Bengu?”

  Shonhu shook his head.

  “Say it!”

  “No!”

  “Where were you on the first of February?”

  “I was at the mine, like always.”

  “Did you see anyone that night?”

  Shonhu took a few moments to reply. “Was Saturday. I don’t think so, but it was weeks ago!”

  “Did you attack Peter Newsom with a knife?”