“In homicides, people found at the scene are often involved. There were Bushmen at the scene.”
“But this was an accident! He fell into the donga!” Ndoli exclaimed.
“We have to consider every possibility. I’ll want to know where everyone was that morning. Another fact is that most murders involve family, or friends, or persons who knew the victim.”
“Murder? That’s ridiculous!” Vusi had an uncomfortable feeling that he was losing control of the situation. Where was I yesterday in the morning? he wondered. I was late. Monzo had already left when I got in.
“You can’t think one of us was involved!” Vusi said. “We’re a team.”
Lerako ignored him and changed tack. “Who benefits from Monzo’s death?”
Vusi swallowed, hesitated. “Well, he had a wife and family. Marta and the two boys. There will be pension and insurance benefits for them. Little enough to bring up two young children, I’m sorry to say.”
Ndoli looked at his boss sharply, but Lerako appeared not to notice. “How much?”
“I can’t say yet. It depends on certain things . . . Perhaps fifty thousand pula.”
“I need to see the place where he was found. Will you take me?”
“Ndoli will do it,” said Vusi, firmly. The day was already hot. “He’s the one who found Monzo with the Bushmen anyway. He can tell you about it.”
Lerako nodded. Turning to Ndoli, he indicated the Bush-man. “I’ve got a tracker with me. He may be able to help if we can’t find these Bushman suspects. I’ll get my stuff, and we’ll meet you at the vehicle.”
When they had gone, Ndoli turned to his boss. “Do you know Marta wasn’t Monzo’s wife?”
“Yes, I know. Just a technicality. Nothing to worry about. I don’t think we should bother the police with it.”
“He had another woman too. Not the wife. More a pay-asyou-go.”
Vusi winced at the term. “So what? We need to get this over with. It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
Ndoli nodded and went to join the detective. Vusi was left wondering why he felt guilty and a little scared.
It was hardly a pristine crime scene. There were scuff marks and footprints everywhere. Monzo had been strapped to a stretcher, carried out of the donga at a point where it was less steep, and driven to a spot where the helicopter could land, so the whole area had been trampled. The entire staff must have been here milling around, Lerako thought with dismay. Anything could have happened at the edge of the donga. He dumped the evidence bag he had carried from the vehicle and turned to Ndoli. “Tell me how it was.”
Ndoli hesitated, looked down, and then met the detective sergeant’s impatient look. “Well, the vehicle was back up there where we parked”—he indicated the location vaguely—“and Monzo was over here.” He pointed at the precise spot. He remembered the scene perfectly, and it was clearly marked by the efforts to get Monzo onto the stretcher. What else should he say? “I’m not sure what else you want to know, Sergeant Lerako.” Lerako was an odd name. He wondered if it somehow matched the man’s personality. He had no intention of asking, though.
“Why did you move it? Monzo’s vehicle?”
“Why abandon it out here? We thought it was an accident.” He looked down at the glaring sand. “I still think it was an accident.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Well, I stopped when I saw Monzo’s bakkie. Then I followed his footprints. I lost them once or twice, but eventually they led me to the edge of the donga.” He pointed to a position above them at the top of the steep incline. “Monzo was lying down here, and one of the Bushmen was squatting next to him. The other two were standing over there. I thought he was dead. When I got to him, one of the Bushmen was trying to give him water. Why would you do that if you were trying to kill him?”
Lerako ignored the question. “Did you notice footprints? Were there any up there except for Monzo’s? Any down here except for the Bushmen’s?”
Ndoli frowned. He’d just assumed the ones at the top of the donga all belonged to Monzo. Once he’d spotted the ranger lying crumpled below, he’d forgotten about footprints. Now, with all the prints from the rescuers, it was unlikely that anything could be identified. He shook his head, feeling foolish.
Lerako made him describe the scene exactly and then nodded. “I see it,” he said. “Wait. I’ll call if I need you.” Puzzled,
Ndoli did as he was told, finding a thorn tree with a thick canopy nearby. If only there was a breeze!
Lerako photographed the scene and then started walking upstream from where Monzo had fallen. The tracker walked with him, a few paces to his right. Here there were no footprints. Only the tracks of buck—springbok judging by the size—and some old hyena spoor. Nothing recent. Their eyes scanned the ground. From time to time one of them would stop for a closer look before moving on.
Ndoli wiped sweat off his face with his sleeve wondering what on earth the policeman hoped to find. The sun didn’t seem to bother him. His clothes looked fresh despite the oppressive heat and the journey from Tsabong. By comparison, Ndoli’s khaki uniform already felt like wet rags.
About fifty yards from where Monzo had lain, Lerako stopped and bent over for a careful look. He called the tracker over and pointed something out before walking back for his evidence bag. Then he retraced his tracks back up the river, yelling for Ndoli to join him. When he caught up, Lerako pointed to a chunk of calcrete, a convenient shape to hold. It was partially covered with a russet stain. There was no doubt about what that was. Even after a day and a half of drying in the sun, there were several flies.
“That’s what killed your friend,” Lerako said. “Someone smashed his head with that. Then threw it here, probably from the top of the donga.” He shook his head. “It’s very unlikely he’d kill himself falling down that slope. Break a few bones, yes. Bash his head, yes. But smash open his skull, no. And why fall anyway, in broad daylight?” He didn’t mention that the doctor in Gaborone felt a deep skull fracture was unlikely from such a fall. He turned away, took pictures from different angles, and then pulled a latex glove onto his right hand and carefully lifted the rock into a plastic bag.
He turned to the tracker and said slowly in Setswana, “Find tracks. One hundred yards all ’round. Here and up there.” He pointed to the top of the donga. The tracker nodded and set off upstream, examining the ground closely.
Lerako turned to Ndoli. “We may as well wait in the Landie. Then we’ll go and find your Bushman friends. I suspect they know a lot more than they told you. What do you think?” Ndoli started to answer, but Lerako was already walking back to the vehicle. Clearly he wasn’t really interested in Ndoli’s thoughts on the matter.
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Carrion Death (9780061871610). Copyright © 2009 by Michael Stanley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payments of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
The Second Death of Goodluck Tinubu (9780061883248). Copyright © 2009 by Michael Stanley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payments of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retriev
al system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Excerpt from Death of the Mantis (9780062000378). Copyright © 2011 by Michael Stanley. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payments of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition August 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-212272-8
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