Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  A few minutes later, as the priest blessed the deputy commissioner’s passage into the afterlife, and the casket was lowered into the ground, haunting ululations so common at African ceremonies filled the air. Kubu felt goose bumps all over. They certainly get into one’s soul, he thought.

  As the crowd slowly dispersed, he made his way to the area of the awning to pay his respects to Mma Gobey. As he passed Joshua Gobey, he offered his condolences, and then went to wait in the line.

  “Mma Gobey,” Kubu said when he reached the front, “once again I want to say how much we will miss your husband. He did a great deal of good for the police force and for the country. He set a very high standard for all of us by always choosing the right course of action rather than the expedient one.”

  Maria Gobey looked at him sharply, then lowered her eyes. “Thank you, Assistant Superintendent. I will miss him more than anyone can know. He was a wonderful husband.”

  “God bless his soul,” Kubu said quietly. “And may He look after you, too.”

  He turned and walked toward the entrance to the cemetery, where he was to meet Joy.

  “That was very moving.” Dr. Pilane was again at his side. Kubu nodded.

  “I hear you’ve caught the man who murdered Bill Marumo.”

  “I think so. The evidence is very strong.”

  “Has he said why he did it?”

  “No,” replied Kubu. “He’s in hospital. He had a car accident as he tried to evade the police.”

  “From what they were saying the other day, the Freedom Party thinks you are covering things up.”

  Kubu bristled. “They can think what they like,” he said sharply. “We don’t take political sides in murder investigations.”

  At that moment he saw Joy ahead, holding her girls by the hand. She let them go and they came running over to Kubu. “Daddy, Daddy!” they cried. They flung themselves at him and each hugged a large thigh.

  He patted them on the head as Joy kissed him and took him by the arm.

  “Dumela, Dr. Pilane,” she said.

  “Dumela, Joy,” he replied.

  Before Kubu could say anything, the doctor waved. “Well, I must be off. Good afternoon to you all.” He turned and headed toward the parking lot.

  “You know him?” Kubu asked as soon as he was out of earshot.

  “Of course, darling. He’s a pediatrician and is involved in the fight against AIDS. He gives Nono her antiretrovirals.”

  Kubu shook his head. Gaborone was certainly a small town.

  FIFTY-ONE

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT KUBU sat in his garden and gazed up at the stars. The Milky Way was bright, as were Orion and the Southern Cross. There were the Seven Sisters—­the Rainy Pleiades—­and Orion’s Belt, and Canis Major, the Dog, with its bright eye, Sirius—­in fact the brightest star in the sky.

  The kids were in bed, and Joy had offered to wash the dishes. The stars offered some balm to Kubu’s churning mind.

  Earlier in the day, Kubu and Joy had changed the direction of the normal Sunday visit by fetching his parents from Mochudi to have lunch in Gaborone. This had been carefully planned by Joy and Amantle, because they wanted Wilmon to be assessed by a doctor—­something he had vigorously resisted. He was unaware that Kubu’s additional guest was their family doctor, Dr. Patel, who had agreed, after some persuasion, to have Sunday lunch with the family so he could assess Wilmon’s failing mind.

  “I can only be sure after the appropriate tests, but I’m pretty sure it’s Alzheimer’s, not dementia,” he told Joy and Kubu in the kitchen after lunch. Then he went on to explain the difference to them. “It’s worse than dementia, because he is likely to lose his temper and become intolerant. He’ll remember less and less as time passes. You are going to have to look after Amantle—­it’s extremely hard to have a husband who declines the way he’s likely to. She’ll feel guilty and angry, as well as lonely.”

  Kubu had felt a great sadness when he heard this. His memories of his father were all good—­a loving man, born poor, but with a vision of what he wanted for his only son, namely the best education he could afford; a man who was revered for his kindness and ability with traditional medicines; a loving husband.

  As Kubu gazed upward, a satellite moved slowly across the sky, growing bright then fading into nothing. Even now, Kubu felt he was losing part of himself as his father lost his memory. They had shared so much, just the two of them. Now the only person with whom he shared so many memories was fading away. Less and less the laughter of mutual reminiscences.

  What would that leave for him? Kubu wondered. Would those memories be as sparkling without his father’s participation? Or would they wane in his head, too, shriveling for lack of stimulation.

  As Kubu gazed into the heavens, he felt a great emptiness.

  Slowly he pulled himself back to the present. He had a family to look after, a job to do. And he would do those things in a way that would make his father proud.

  He looked around. Joy hadn’t joined him, had left him to his thoughts. What a wonderful woman she is, he thought.

  He leaned back and gazed up to the night sky again, his mind beginning to engage.

  Was Rampa actually the witch doctor? They had circumstantial evidence, but nothing really incriminating. And Rampa had access to bodies, which he could use for muti. But which bodies? Where were they? The cemeteries were large, with many new occupants. They couldn’t dig them all up, even if they received permission from the minister, which was unlikely with the little evidence they currently had.

  Rampa also could hide bodies in the coffins of others. Kubu had a hunch that was why Seloi’s coffin seemed so heavy—­two bodies not one. Again, the minister would never give permission to exhume based on Kubu’s intuition.

  And that was all they had. Very little indeed.

  Kubu lifted his arm and ran his finger along the Milky Way. He tried to remember the bright star in the middle. Canopus? He couldn’t remember. Then he traced the outline of Orion’s big dog, Canis Major, and the little dog, Canis Minor. He was surprised he could remember any of the constellations—­it was nearly twenty years since he had attended the Astronomy Club at high school.

  Was there an Undertaker constellation? he wondered. Probably not. If there was, would it have Coffin Major and Coffin Minor as appendages? He smiled. Coffin Major and Coffin Minor! That was funny. Stupid, but funny.

  Suddenly a thought crystallized in his mind. Coffin Major! If Rampa needed to bury Owido, he would never be able to double up in someone else’s coffin. He was an adult—­too big. The others were kids. He would have to bury Owido in a coffin by himself.

  Kubu sat upright, his mind in high gear.

  How could he do that and get away with it? There had to be a part of a cemetery where unclaimed bodies were laid to rest; where ­people were buried whose families had no money. Surely the undertaker could bury the body there without questions being asked?

  He stood up, an idea forming in his head.

  He started to hum—­a melody from Pirates of Penzance, he thought. It was the first time in several weeks that he felt encouraged.

  He walked inside. Where was Joy? He looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. He’d been outside for four hours. He walked into the bedroom. Joy was snoring quietly. He wanted to give her a big hug, kiss her, hold her, caress her. He stood, undecided.

  Eventually, he undressed, climbed into bed, and fell asleep.

  “DO YOU HAVE TODAY’S newspaper?” Kubu asked the receptionist at CID headquarters as he arrived on Monday morning. The man nodded and pulled it from under the counter. Kubu went to his office and opened it to the classifieds section. Funerals. He ran his finger down the list until he found one by Funerals of Distinction. Eleven o’clock at the Gaborone Cemetery. Perfect! Rampa’s assistant was about to have a visitor while his boss was supervising a buri
al.

  ROBERT TIBONE WAS SITTING behind his neat desk when Kubu walked in.

  “Good morning, rra,” he said. “Rra Rampa is not in at the moment. I expect him back about one.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Kubu replied. “I’m sure you can help me.”

  “Please sit down.” Tibone jumped up and dragged a chair in front of his desk. “What can I do?”

  “I’d like some information about how you organize your records. For example, how would I know how to find the grave of a particular person you had buried?”

  “That’s easy. You would go to the right cemetery and ask. They’d give you the location of the grave—­which row and plot, etc.”

  “If my father died, what documentation would you need in order to bury him?”

  “Also easy. We’d need a letter from the city that all the formalities had been completed.”

  “And how about, if I wanted to know who was buried on a certain day?”

  Tibone frowned. “Why would you want to know that?”

  “It’s just hypothetical. I’m trying to understand how everything works.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’re trying to trace someone who may have died recently. We don’t know if he had any family and we don’t know his name.”

  “Ah, so you would be interested in indigents and unknowns buried on a certain day?”

  “Yes. Or perhaps between two dates. Say between the seventh and tenth of May.”

  “Hold on a second.” Tibone tapped away on his computer. A few seconds later he continued, “I can tell you only who we dealt with. There are several other funeral ser­vices. So you may be better off going to all the cemeteries. They could tell you about everyone who’d been buried. Amongst our clients, we had three funerals on the seventh, but they were all regular ­people. On the eighth there was a man from the Broadhurst area and one unknown male. On the ninth there were two brothers who were hit by a train two weeks earlier. And on the tenth a female, Agnes Taung, who died from AIDS.”

  “And where was the male of the eighth buried?”

  “I can tell you which cemetery, but you’ll have to go there to find out which plot.”

  “May I see the documentation that came from the city?”

  Tibone stood up and went into a side room. Kubu could hear filing cabinet drawers being opened and shut. A few minutes later, Tibone returned with paper in hand. Kubu glanced at it. It seemed genuine.

  “Do you remember how the body got here?”

  Tibone shook his head. “When I came to work on the eighth, the body was already here. Rra Rampa said it had been dropped off the evening before, after I left.”

  “Did he say where it came from?”

  “I assume it came from the morgue. That’s where a body like that would end up before being buried.”

  “Rra Tibone, you’ve been very helpful. Thank you. Could you make a copy of this document, and then I’ll be off.”

  KUBU CLIMBED INTO HIS car and slumped in the seat. He’d hoped that his insight the previous evening would have yielded some dramatic results, but that hadn’t happened. He felt like returning to his office.

  If I’ve come this far, I’d better follow up, he thought without enthusiasm. So he headed for the city offices. When he arrived, he explained that he was trying to find more information about the man whose documentation he had. The receptionist was obviously displeased with the interruption, but disappeared, clutching the copy. Kubu sat down and waited.

  About ten minutes later, the woman returned with an elderly man, who walked over and introduced himself.

  “I’m manager here. May I ask where you got this document?”

  “Why do you want to know that?” Kubu asked. “Is there a problem?”

  “Well, it’s not genuine. We have no record of such a person.”

  Kubu jumped to his feet and snatched the document. “Are you sure?”

  The man nodded. “No doubt about it. We send out duplicates of records we keep here. There’s no original for that one.”

  “Is it possible that it’s been misplaced?”

  The manager shook his head. “Of course, mistakes are possible. But the number on the document isn’t in the right sequence. It doesn’t match with the date. That document’s forged!” The man was offended, as though it were a personal insult. On the other hand, Kubu was ecstatic.

  “That’s wonderful news! Thank you. Thank you. I’ll see you later.”

  With that, Kubu almost ran from the building, leaving the manager staring after him, open-­mouthed.

  KUBU HAD PHONED AHEAD, asking that Mabaku and Samantha meet him on his return. So when he burst into the meeting room, they were already there.

  “This had better be good,” Mabaku grumbled. “I’ve got five reports to write today.”

  “It’s better than good,” Kubu exclaimed. “I think we may have him.” He sat down, then jumped up again and told them about Coffin Major and Coffin Minor and his realization that the albino had to have been buried alone in a coffin. He explained how he’d obtained a copy of the burial documentation from Rampa’s funeral parlor for an unknown person buried just after the albino died. He finished by saying that the city told him that the certificate was not genuine. It was a fake; a forgery; they had no record of such a person.

  “Now we have reason to exhume the body! The state needs to know who it is! In the meantime, I’m going to interview Rampa.” Samantha had never seen Kubu so revved up. It was quite endearing.

  RAMPA WAS BUSY PREPARING for a funeral the next day, but Kubu insisted that they talk in private. Once they were in Rampa’s office, he passed him the copy of the document he’d been given by Rampa’s assistant.

  “What do you make of this, Rra Rampa?”

  “It’s a burial document from the city. Where did you get it?”

  “It’s a copy of the certificate for one of your clients. He was buried on the eighth of May.”

  Rampa looked at the certificate again more carefully. He was quiet for a few moments. “Oh, yes. Identity unknown.” He shrugged.

  “How was he brought here?”

  “By ambulance. I accepted the body and the paperwork.”

  “Did anyone help you with this?”

  “The ambulance man brought the body in.”

  “Rra Rampa, that document is a forgery. What do you say to that?”

  “It’s a forgery? I’m very surprised.”

  “Didn’t you check that everything was in order? You told me last time that you do everything by the book.”

  “An ambulance delivers a body with what appears to be genuine documentation. What am I to do?” Rampa was clearly agitated. “I can’t go to the city every time and check. That’s plain nonsense. I’ve a business to run.”

  “Did you recognize the ambulance or the driver?”

  “No. I don’t pay attention to those things. All I’m interested in is the body and the documentation.”

  “Where do you think the body and the ambulance came from? They had to come from somewhere.”

  “From the state mortuary! Where do you think they came from?” Rampa was beginning to raise his voice.

  “I don’t think there was an ambulance. And I think you know very well where the body came from.”

  “What are you saying? That I killed the man? You’re crazy.”

  “Rra Rampa, we have a report of an albino who’s missing. And we have a man who says he helped abduct an albino. During the abduction, his partner sent a text message to your phone. We know that’s true. You say it wasn’t meant for you. How convenient! A ­couple of days after the albino was last seen, a mysterious ambulance delivers a body to you, and you claim you obtained a burial document. Yet there’s no such record at the city. What do you want me to think? That all of these things are unrelated? I don’t
believe in coincidences, Rra Rampa. I think you are using your business to make muti from human body parts. Sometimes you take them from the ­people you are burying, sometimes you kill ­people for them.”

  “You’re crazy! Get out of my office.”

  “Rra Rampa, we are going to exhume the body that you so conveniently buried. I expect a positive response tomorrow. In the meantime, I have a constable stationed at the grave to make sure you don’t disturb it overnight. And I have two others patrolling the cemetery to ensure nobody does anything else to disturb our case.”

  “Get out!” Rampa screamed.

  Kubu got to his feet and leaned toward Rampa.

  “Your spells aren’t going to help you now, Rra Rampa. You’re not an invisible witch doctor anymore. I see you very clearly!”

  With that, Kubu turned on his heel and walked out.

  FIFTY-TWO

  IT WAS 6:30 A.M. on Wednesday, and the sun was still below the horizon. Although the air temperature wasn’t really cold, an unpleasant wind was coming from the west, and the three men standing around the grave were wearing sweaters.

  “Reminds me of Scotland,” said Ian MacGregor, the pathologist. He wasn’t keen on early rising or cold weather, and wasn’t used to either in Botswana. Kubu grunted and returned his attention to the two cemetery workmen who were digging open the grave in front of them. They had used a backhoe to dig down the first three feet, but now couldn’t use it, for fear of disturbing the remains. At least the burial was recent so the ground was relatively soft. Screens had been erected around the grave for privacy and to prevent any inadvertent disturbance to the neighboring graves.

  “I hope this is necessary,” the cemetery officer said. “I don’t like this sort of thing in my cemetery.” Kubu didn’t think it was worth responding.

  The digging continued, and the only sound was of the spades going into the ground and the earth being added to the pile at the head of the grave. Slowly the pit deepened until the workers were in it up to their chests. Then came a different sound.