The Tanzania Conspiracy

by Mario Bolduc

  The trial took place over the course of a few weeks. Chagula attempted to show that Clara Lugembe’s murder was not linked to the trafficking in albinos. A particularly clumsy approach, clearly improvised, that revealed how panicked the lawyer actually was. Seeing the jury unmoved by this argument, Chagula changed direction. He spoke of Musindo’s health problems, his chronic allergies that required constant medication. Temporary psychosis was invoked — it was a potential side effect of ephedra. The nurse had been a victim of the illicit substance he’d ingested. The drug had made him feel invulnerable, he’d lost control. In other words, the accused needed medical care, not a prison term.

  That approach wasn’t too convincing, either.

  Chagula’s last try was to paint Musindo as a sympathetic character, getting local farmers to testify about the exceptional health services he’d dispensed. Among the clinic’s employees, he was the most devoted, especially to his poorest patients.

  But it was too little too late.

  Of course, media speculation in Tanzania and elsewhere only complicated the case. Fuelled by rumours and secrets spilled by anonymous informants, the press in Dar es Salaam didn’t hesitate to publish the wildest accusations. It sold papers — what else needed to be said? A hopped-up nurse had killed the minister of home affairs’ daughter and now faced the ultimate punishment. Thanks to Valéria’s lobbying, among others’.

  As the defence tried to spin its yarn, Valéria realized that Musindo’s cause was lost, which meant a golden opportunity to reinstate the death sentence.

  The trial followed its course without political interference — at least not publicly. In private the state was preparing to kill a man. If the young man was found guilty, which everyone expected, the sentence would have to be quickly applied. He couldn’t be kept behind bars for years. His punishment had to be exemplary, his crime used as a symbol.

  The execution was set for December 2002, one month after the verdict was announced, in accordance with the new Tanzanian law the National Assembly had adopted at top speed. Chagula appealed, delaying the process by a few months. But the lawyer had nothing new to bring to the court’s attention, so the initial verdict was upheld.

  Musindo’s family tried everything to save his life. In vain. They even contacted Joseph Lugembe personally, demanding mercy, clemency. The final decision was up to President Komba.

  And Komba refused to budge.

  On July 23, 2003, in a room specially set up at the Ukonga Prison, Musindo was rolled in on a gurney. He wouldn’t be hanged, but executed by lethal injection. The nurse’s family had visited the night before. They’d barricaded themselves in a hotel room soon afterward and were now awaiting the bad news.

  Musindo, meanwhile, seemed resigned to his fate. He didn’t fight. His eyes were glassy, dull, as if his soul had already left his body.

  At six o’clock the first injections were administered, and the condemned man’s face convulsed as if a nightmare had overtaken him. Then, after a last injection, Musindo’s face became a mask forever frozen.

  Clara Lugembe’s killer was dead.

  Valéria left the room, emotionless, under the machine-gun flash of reporters’ cameras. She wasn’t happy, no. She was sad instead, Mwandenga recalled. She hoped that the punishment, publicized as it had been, would put an end to the traffickers’ horrible trade and those who profited from it: bush healers and witch doctors first and foremost, but also their clients in Tanzania and elsewhere in Africa.

  Max’s visit to Ukerewe hadn’t helped him with the other facets of his investigation. He had been the victim of Valéria’s scam, and he wondered why she’d needed the money and where it had ended up. And there was the matter of her secret trip just before her death. Valéria had told the accountant she’d visited Ukerewe, but according to the school’s principal, she hadn’t set foot in the school in years.

  Where had Valéria gone … and why?

  She had made an effort to keep everyone out of the loop, including her own accountant and the principal of Sandy Hill School. Wanting to keep her destination a secret, she’d travelled by road. A commercial flight would have left a paper trail. She could have asked Roosevelt Okambo for his air taxi, but it seemed she didn’t want any witnesses. The Land Cruiser gave her the freedom to come and go as she pleased, with no one the wiser. She’d mentioned Ukerewe, a plausible destination, but only to avoid questions. But she’d gone somewhere else.

  The Land Cruiser was still in the backyard. No one had moved it.

  “Do you have the keys?” Max asked.

  Mwandenga opened a small drawer, took out a set of keys from a metal box, and handed one to Max.

  According to the accountant, one of the village’s mechanics checked the vehicle once in a while to make sure it was in working order. Max thought he should visit the man in case Valéria had brought him the Land Cruiser before her long trip, but he doubted she would have revealed anything of interest to the man.

  He unlocked the door, got into the driver’s seat, and quickly rifled through the glove compartment, looking under the seats and then in the back. The vehicle was spotless, contrary to Valéria’s habits. Sophie, sure, but not Valéria. She’d taken the precaution of cleaning everything once she returned. Valéria had suspected someone might check.

  So she’d had her guard up.

  Max examined the inside of the car. Nothing. He stepped out of the vehicle and peered at the frame: it was beat-up, covered in the telltale battle scars of potholed roads, though no recent major damage. He crouched and gazed at the bumper: stray splotches of red, chalky mud — laterite, which gave him no indication of Valéria’s destination. Vast regions of Tanzania were covered with the clay-like soil, inlcluding many streets in Dar es Salaam.

  Particles of laterite in the tires, as well. Scrutinizing them closely, Max noticed a tiny object stuck in the dried mud. He pulled it out, wiped it clean, and inspected it. Made of yellowish wood. Curious, Max wondered how this small piece of wood came to be lodged there.

  Suddenly, he understood. It was a piece of golf tee, broken in half lengthwise. Cleaning it further, Max noticed a half-erased letter B, traced on the tee’s head. While he might not know where Valéria had gone before her death, he now knew she’d driven on a golf course or at least near one.

  B for Bahari Beach Golf Course, perhaps.

  Whose owner was Thomas Musindo, the father of the man who’d murdered Clara Lugembe.

  20

  Roselyn stayed in the restaurant after her son-in-law left. Alone at the table, she tried to wrap her head around what had happened, and especially, what had sent her husband on this murderous rampage. According to Peter, Albert had strayed from his role as executioner: he’d become judge and jury. She could only conclude that he’d been motivated by some injustice or violence done to him or a member of his family. Norah or Adrian perhaps, or Roselyn herself. Since she had no memory of any deep wrong done to her, or Albert, for that matter, she cast her suspicions on something Angel Clements might have done to Norah or Adrian, or both.

  Norah, most likely.

  Roselyn recalled what Glenn Forrester had heard Albert murmur at the cemetery: I’ll do it for you, Norah. Just for you.

  Clements had done something to their daughter, caused her some harm, and Albert had decided to mete out his own brand of justice by killing the man. Roselyn could very well imagine that the person with the blond hair had suffered the same fate. If only Roselyn could figure out what these men had done to her daughter, she might better understand her husband’s secret life. And perhaps, if these events were connected to his disappearance, she might uncover the clues that would help her find him.

  That evening Roselyn forced Peter into a long conversation about Norah. Usually, Peter avoided the topic: his wife’s illness and death were taboo to him, casting him too easily back to his darkest moments. Roselyn had mourned and managed to continue on her way, though not easily or lightly. For Peter it was the complete opposite. Each time Norah’s
name was mentioned, Roselyn saw him well up, and she changed the subject quickly, fearing she might start to cry herself.

  But now she needed to know what had happened. How were Clements and Norah connected?

  Peter furrowed his brow. “Why don’t you let the police do their job?”

  Roselyn knew he’d handed over everything they’d discovered to Kenneth Brownstein, including Albert’s strange hair collection. She’d expected that Peter’s colleague would be intrigued by the information and investigate the case with newfound vigour, but Brownstein’s reaction had unsettled her. She had the impression that he saw her as a crazy old lady who bothered the police every time the wind blew the lid off her trash cans.

  “You really think your colleague is criss-crossing the malls and bus stations, searching for a lost old man? He probably just opened a case and filed the basic paperwork.”

  “He’s a conscientious officer.”

  “I don’t doubt it. All I’m saying is that we need to take care of the matter ourselves. That we shouldn’t wait for Kenneth, or anyone else.”

  “You think Albert’s disappearance might be linked to Norah?”

  “I don’t know. I’m looking, thinking, exploring.”

  Peter sighed. “Norah was a wonderful woman. She would never have had anything to do with a scumbag like Clements.”

  “Sure, but Clements might have approached Norah.”

  “She would have mentioned it.”

  “Maybe not. Not if she was ashamed …”

  “Ashamed?”

  “Imagine this. Clements makes her believe he’s got some medical miracle if only she has the money to spend. She loses a fortune on his treatments and feels like a fool for being had. She talks about it to Albert, who decides to act.”

  “Clements was killed months after Norah’s death.”

  “True.”

  “She was always on her guard and would never have fallen for a scam like that.”

  “I was only trying to give you an example, Peter.”

  Roselyn understood that she wouldn’t be able to get any information from her son-in-law except for a fairy-tale version of Norah and Albert. No matter which tack she tried to take, Peter kept avoiding the crux of the issue, visibly pained by her insistence.

  “Try to remember,” she urged him. “Something must have happened. I don’t know what exactly, but Norah must have come into contact with Clements.”

  “To my knowledge, she never went to Georgia. Maybe before we met, but we never took a trip to Georgia or to anywhere else.”

  They hadn’t even had a honeymoon, Roselyn recalled. Peter was walking the beat the day after their wedding.

  And every other trip they’d planned remained just that — a project. They’d only travelled together, at the end, to Houston and back.

  “What about the hospital?”

  Peter shook his head. “How could Norah have met this criminal there?”

  “A patient? Or maybe even a staff member?”

  He shook his head again. “It’s possible, but we’d have to go through a list of every staff member and every patient.”

  “What about Adrian? Maybe Clements went after him.”

  Peter stared right through Roselyn, preoccupied all of a sudden, then turned white as a sheet.

  “Are you okay, Peter?”

  He glanced away, got up, leaned against the window.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Adrian might have met Clements.”

  Roselyn jumped to her feet.

  Peter turned toward her. “At Camp Connally.”

  “What?”

  Peter massaged his temples. The conversation was taking a painful turn. In a few words, Peter told her what had happened to Adrian in the summer of 2003 when he went to camp. He was seven and would be away from his family for the very first time. Norah and Peter had driven him to the camp one Saturday morning. At first everything seemed to go well, but one day Peter received a call from the director: Adrian had gotten lost in the woods during a treasure hunt. Immediately, Peter and Norah rushed to the camp. Everyone was looking for him … in vain. The other children and the staff were in a state of shock. Rangers from Big Thicket were searching the area. They feared the worst.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Roselyn exclaimed. “Did Albert know at least?”

  “We didn’t want to worry you. What would’ve been the point? How could you have helped?”

  “Where was Albert?”

  “Off hunting with Glenn Forrester near Bosque River.”

  Roselyn sighed. “So the Rangers found Adrian?”

  “We searched for two nights. A helicopter was being called in to assist from Houston when a farmer contacted the police. He’d found a child lost in his fields.”

  Adrian hadn’t remembered a thing. He’d fallen while in the woods, and his first memory was of the kind farmer who’d taken him in.

  Roselyn was furious. How could her son-in-law have kept this from her? “A pedophile?” she whispered. “Clements took Adrian? Abused him for days while he was unconscious?”

  “A doctor examined Adrian. There were no traces of rape or assault. Not a single mark or injury.”

  A strange, incomprehensible situation. But her grandson was safe and sound, in good health, and hadn’t been mistreated, or so it seemed. The doctor claimed he could have suffered a concussion that left him unconscious for hours.

  “The police opened a case,” Peter said. “Nothing came of it.”

  The happy denouement convinced Norah and Peter to simply stay quiet about the incident. Soon Adrian’s misadventure was behind them, and they forgot all about it. The rest of the summer passed without a hitch. The following year Adrian didn’t return to Camp Connally.

  Roselyn and Peter were silent for a long time, looking out the window.

  “I’d like to know where Clements spent that summer,” Roselyn finally said.

  Peter hurried to his office to read through the ex-con’s file. “After coming out of prison, he was assigned to a halfway house, which means we should have details on his movements.” He shuffled through the files and cleared his throat. “Still in Savannah. He never left Georgia, at least that’s what’s written here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It was a condition of his release. He was closely followed. The authorities knew he was no saint.”

  Another dead end. Dejection filled Roselyn.

  “Wait a minute,” Peter muttered. “It’s written here that he asked his parole officer for permission to leave Savannah to do a job interview.”

  “Where?”

  “In a garage in New Orleans. He took an auto repair class while behind bars.”

  Roselyn jumped. “When?”

  There were no specific dates. Sometime during the summer of 2003.

  “New Orleans is pretty far from here,” Peter said.

  “From here, sure. But Camp Connally is just north of Beaumont. That’s thirty miles from the state line.”

  “You’re saying Clements used this pretext to come to Texas, take Adrian, drug him in some way, then free him after a few days before disappearing altogether?”

  Peter wasn’t wrong. It did seem beyond belief.

  However, for a reason they still didn’t understand, Albert somehow came to learn of Clements’s actions. What had happened in November 2006, months after Norah’s death, to convince Albert to take out Roselyn’s old Beretta, learn how to shoot on the sly, then drive to Savannah and put a bullet in Clements’s head?

  The next morning Roselyn was on the road to Louisiana. She’d written down the name and address of the garage where Clements had interviewed for a job as a car mechanic. Since he’d returned to Georgia, that meant he hadn’t gotten the position. It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was the only one she had. As she drove to New Orleans, she thought that perhaps she’d shed light on the strange ties between Albert and Clements and that Adrian might be the key to the mystery.

  Roselyn
had taken her grandson aside before he left for school. She’d asked him a few questions, but he’d given no more answers than he had after his disappearance.

  She’d been driving east for a while when her cellphone rang. It was Peter. He asked her if everything was going well so far. He hadn’t been very enthusiastic about her going off on the trip, and Roselyn knew why. He wanted to come along, wanted to be invited. It wasn’t a good idea, according to her. Anyway, he had to stay in Huntsville to take care of Adrian. Over the past few days, she realized, Peter felt he had to play the role of protector toward her.

  “You promise you won’t take any risks?” he now asked.

  What risks could she take? Angel Clements was long dead. It was ancient history, the lot of it.

  “Just be careful, that’s all.”

  Roselyn promised.

  Two hours later the silhouette of New Orleans skyscrapers stood in the distance.

  The Whitney Hotel was the sort of old building Roselyn loved. Clean, anonymous, well managed, without frills, but with charm to spare. She felt calm as she walked through the crowd in the lobby toward the elevator, then went up to a spacious, sun-filled room. Roselyn had feared the noise from the hordes of tourists in the streets, but the windows were soundproofed. She took a shower, discovered a comfortable bathrobe behind the bathroom door, slipped it on, and lay on the bed, exhausted by so much travel in a few short days. Albert would have fitted well in this room, this hotel, this city. Why hadn’t they ever come here? Why had he chosen to remain behind the walls of his memories of the penitentiary? She imagined him waking up in the middle of the night to rifle through his album full of locks of hair, while she slept soundly upstairs. They could have travelled together, like most couples their age. Maybe go back to Mexico, even spend a romantic weekend in this city. Roselyn had to admit that her husband hadn’t been in love with her for a long time, perhaps as far back as Norah’s death. As if their daughter had taken to the grave every ounce of love Albert had been capable of.