Deadly Harvest

by Michael Stanley

  “The same date!” Samantha exclaimed.

  “And the same last name as the one at the front of the book!” Kubu peeled back the cellophane and turned the photo over. In thick black letters was written the word Amandla. “Freedom. Freedom from what, I wonder?” Kubu asked.

  “Maybe he disliked his father. The newspaper cutting seemed to show that. Perhaps he was happy he was dead.”

  “Maybe it was his stepfather. It’s a different name.” Kubu turned the photo over again, and another thought struck him. “Maybe he killed him!”

  “Killed his stepfather?”

  Kubu glanced at her. “Do you think that date’s a coincidence?” He replaced the photo and turned over the page. “At least this isn’t strange.” They both peered at a University of the Witwatersrand certificate for the degree of MBBCh, awarded on December 1, 1994.

  “What’s MBBCh?” Samantha asked.

  “That means he’s a doctor.”

  “Look at the bottom—­in pencil.” Samantha pointed. “It’s that date again. A week after the degree was awarded. What’s going on?”

  Kubu frowned. “I’ve no idea. But it’s obviously significant. And look at the opposite page. It looks like the pocket of one of those white medical coats. And it has the same date as the penciled one at the bottom of the certificate.”

  Kubu turned the page. “This looks like his Botswana Health Professions Council authorization to practice medicine in Botswana.” He turned the page again.

  “Oh no!” Samantha gasped. Under the cellophane was a small square of fabric—­obviously from a dress. Under it, neatly written, was the date: December the eighth, 1998. The next page had a different dress remnant, but this time the date was June the fourth, 2001.

  Horrified, the two paged through the rest of the book. “There must be a dozen or more entries,” Samantha said.

  “Seventeen, actually,” Kubu retorted.

  Samantha turned back a ­couple of pages. “That’s why the date seemed familiar. This must be Lesego. She disappeared on the eighth of December last year. And the next one is Witness Maleng’s daughter, Tombi; and the last one is the day the albino disappeared.”

  Kubu said nothing, anger and tears welling up.

  “It’s too bad he’s dead,” Samantha cried. “He deserves to be tried for each one of these!”

  Kubu nodded and continued flipping through the pages. All were blank after the date Owido had disappeared. He reached the last page and under the cellophane was a newspaper clipping. He lifted the cellophane and carefully unfolded the paper. A square had been cut out of it. It was from the Sowetan of December 8, 1986.

  Traditional Healer’s Wife Laid to Rest

  Evelyn, the wife of well-­known traditional healer Sampson Mampe, was laid to rest this afternoon at the Avalon Cemetery in Soweto. She was 32 years old. The funeral was attended by local businessmen and politicians, as well as by about 100 other mourners.

  Mrs. Mampe was taken ill on the 4th of December and died late that night. Mr. Mampe told The Sowetan that she had been suffering from bouts of an undiagnosed illness for about three months. “I gave her powerful herbal potions but they didn’t help. When I took her to the Baragwanath Hospital, they said it was too late.”

  Mr. Mampe rose to prominence after two prominent businessmen publicly thanked him for his assistance in making them successful.

  Mrs. Mampe left one son, Jacob, who is fourteen years old.

  “Look at that!” Samantha pointed to a caption below the missing square. “Sampson Mampe tries to console his son Jacob after Mrs. Mampe’s burial,” she read. “The photo at the front comes from this clipping.”

  “The boy looks more angry than sad,” Kubu said, turning back to the photo. “Let’s go back to the office. I can’t take any more of this.” He picked up the book and walked out. “Please lock everything. I’ll wait in the car.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  THE CARAVELLA IS AT the dead end of Mokgosi Street, near the city center, and it’s one of Kubu’s favorite restaurants. He can take his own wine for a small corkage charge, and the fare ranges from excellent Portuguese fish dishes to large succulent steaks. It’s not the sort of place Jacob Mabaku frequents, however. He prefers more traditional Batswana dishes, preferably cooked by his wife. So Kubu was surprised when Mabaku walked into his office the day after the discovery of the gruesome photo album and said, “I’ll take you to lunch at the Caravella. You’re always talking about it.”

  On the way to the restaurant, Kubu gave the director a full report on progress in the case against Joshua Gobey. “We’re certain Gobey was directly involved in the killing of the albino, Owido. Zanele found his prints on a scalpel at the house and blood traces on a pair of his trousers at his home. The blood is a match with Owido’s. We think he went to see the witch doctor in order to get rid of the only witness. That would’ve left him in the clear. Or maybe the witch doctor was blackmailing him. Either would be a strong motivation.”

  Parking at the Caravella is always difficult, but the parking attendant recognized Kubu and directed them to a prime spot, under a tree, and close to the entrance.

  “You’ve been here a few times, I see,” Mabaku commented.

  “Once or twice,” Kubu responded with a smile.

  They chose a table in the walled courtyard in front of the restaurant, shaded by the large trees that share the area with the diners. Mabaku tossed Kubu the wine list and told him to order whatever he liked. Kubu bypassed the French and Portuguese offerings and chose a red blend from South Africa’s iconic Kanonkop estate. He added a jug of iced water to the order—­the sun was sneaking through the leaf canopy, and the day was already hot.

  Once they had ordered, and Kubu had tasted the wine and pronounced it acceptable, Mabaku got to the point.

  “The commissioner has decided to appoint someone from the uniformed branch as deputy commissioner. He says he feels the CID is too isolated from the mainstream to make me ideal for the job.” He didn’t meet Kubu’s eyes as he spoke.

  Kubu bristled. “He found out how we used him to get to Joshua, didn’t he? And he’s not big enough to appreciate that we were protecting him by keeping him in the dark.”

  Mabaku nodded. “I felt I had to tell him the truth. He’s satisfied with the outcome but says he can’t trust someone who would use him that way. I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed but, in many ways, I’m not sorry. The things you and I do are the reason I joined the police force, not to push paper and sit in pointless meetings with senior politicians.”

  Kubu was not so easily mollified. “You deserved the recognition! The commissioner had no right to treat you that way.”

  Mabaku took a sip of his wine and rolled it in his mouth. “Kubu, I’ll have other opportunities, and so will you. The commissioner will be retiring in the next five years. You’re upset because the idea to use Joshua to catch the witch doctor was your idea, so you’re blaming yourself. Don’t. It was a good idea, and it worked. That’s what’s important.”

  Kubu started to protest, but Mabaku interrupted. “Mind you, once Joshua found the tracking device, it only worked because you’d already guessed the witch doctor’s identity, and we were tracking him, too. What made you decide it was Dr. Pilane?” He shook his head. “A medical doctor was the last person I would’ve suspected.”

  In spite of himself, Kubu laughed. “If this were a mystery novel, I’d say that was the reason. Actually, initially I didn’t suspect Pilane at all. Like you, I found it impossible to believe a medical doctor could do the things the witch doctor was doing.” There was silence for a few moments as they thought about that. Then Kubu continued. “Something about Nono kept nagging at my thoughts.” He paused. “Remember that we believed that Lesego and Tombi recognized their abductors? They would never have known Rampa or Molefe, so it had to be someone else. When I was at the assistant commission
er’s funeral, Joy greeted Dr. Pilane. I never knew she knew him. When I asked how, she said he was a volunteer medical officer at Nono’s day care. That’s where my nagging thoughts came from. It turns out he also volunteered at several other schools—­including Lesego’s and Tombi’s. That put him in an excellent position to spot suitable victims.”

  The peri-­peri chicken liver starters arrived, so Kubu broke off until they had both cleaned their plates.

  “Then I kept worrying about the briefcase. How did it get to Rampa? I was sure Marumo had it with him when he was murdered. At first I thought Witness Maleng must’ve taken it.” He paused, thinking of the lonely, broken man dipping in and out of reality and probably facing a lifetime in a mental institution. Another of Pilane’s victims. “But why would he take it, and then how did Rampa get it from him?” He shook his head.

  “Once I decided Rampa was telling the truth, it was likely that he was being set up by the real witch doctor. Think back to the night of Marumo’s murder. Pilane hears a scream, runs next door, and discovers Marumo dead. He’s worried because Marumo has muti that’s traceable to one of his victims. He takes the opportunity to grab the briefcase—­probably takes it with him when he fetches medication for Marumo’s girlfriend. He discovers that it contains nothing important, but he can’t take it back—­too risky with the police on the way. When the dust settles a bit, he tries Marumo’s desk. He’s very nearly successful, but I interrupt him. Later he has the idea of using the briefcase to frame Rampa in case anything goes wrong. That was a mistake. It was way too clever.”

  Mabaku nodded. The stupid ones made stupid mistakes; the clever ones made clever mistakes.

  “Once I thought it through, it all seemed to fit,” Kubu continued. “And it turns out that Pilane was much worse than I ever imagined. We think he probably killed at least seventeen ­people.” He took a mouthful of wine and proceeded to describe Pilane’s house and the ghoulish scrapbook they’d found pointing to a stolen identity.

  “You mean he wasn’t a doctor?” Mabaku asked incredulously.

  Kubu shook his head. “We’re pretty sure he killed the real Dr. Pilane just after he graduated and took his identity. Nobody here bothered to check. When we contacted the Wits Medical School, they confirmed that a Jacob Mampe had been enrolled at the medical school, but had been expelled the year before Pilane graduated for stealing parts of cadavers. So Mampe had enough background to pull it off.”

  “But why did he turn to killing?”

  “We’re not sure, but it looks as though it must have been something that happened at home. After his mother died, he started dismembering insects. Then we think he killed his father. Maybe he thought his father killed his mother or abused her. And all of these happened on the same date—­the eighth of December, which was also the date his mother was buried. Then he killed the original Dr. Pilane—­also on December the eighth. It is really bizarre.”

  “And you say you think he killed seventeen ­people?” Mabaku asked.

  Kubu nodded.

  Now it was Mabaku’s turn to take a gulp of his wine.

  MABAKU’S MAIN COURSE WAS a skewer of fish, prawns, and calamari, hanging from an arm over the plate. It looked delicious. Kubu received a plate heaped with thin, succulent pork chops and vegetables, carefully cut by an attentive waiter who noticed Kubu’s injured hand. The excellent food lifted them a little from their depressed state.

  “What’s going to happen to Joshua Gobey?” Kubu asked, when he’d sucked the last morsels of pork off the chop bones.

  Mabaku shrugged. “We’ll charge him with the murder of Owido. I think we would have had enough to convict him with the DNA matches, withdrawals from his bank account, and the fingerprint on the scalpel. But Zanele found a gourd of muti in his house. She just told me that DNA found in it matches Owido’s. It’s an open-­and-­shut case.” He gulped down the rest of his wine. “Anyway, that is out of my hands now. The commissioner has it, and he’s furious that his police force has been tainted by Gobey’s actions. He’ll push for the death penalty, I think.”

  “What a waste! Driven by greed—­that’s all it is,” Kubu said.

  Mabaku nodded. “At least we’ve rid the country of one child killer. That’s a start.”

  Now it was Kubu’s turn to nod. “And it’s thanks to you for letting Samantha follow her quest. With her in charge of missing-­children cases, I’m sure we’ll see more progress made.”

  Mabaku nodded. “Samantha had a suggestion, and I think it’s a good one. Even with the information Rampa’s given us, we won’t find all of Pilane’s victims. And we won’t find the victims of other witch doctors, either. She thought we should hold a ser­vice for the parents and relatives of all the ­people who’ve disappeared. I think it will bring closure for them—­they deserve at least that.”

  “Good idea,” Kubu said. And perhaps it will bring closure for us, too, he said to himself.

  The two policemen sat in silence for a few minutes, lost in their separate worlds.

  Eventually Kubu signaled to the waiter and ordered Dom Pedros for each of them. Those whisky and ice-­cream drinks were one of Kubu’s favorites.

  Lunch eventually over, they walked to the car. Kubu stopped, enjoying the sun while Mabaku tipped the car attendant. Pilane is dead, Kubu thought. But the killing of children for muti won’t stop until ­people stop believing in the witch doctors, their magic, and their promises. And how long will that take?

  He sighed and hurried to catch up with Mabaku.

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  Although this is a work of fiction, it is, as were our three previous books, set on a background of reality.

  Throughout sub-­Saharan Africa, witch doctors hold influential positions in society. Most ­people believe in them and their powers to some extent. Even Western-­trained scientists may carry a residue of belief.

  Most witch doctors are traditional healers. That is, they use a combination of potions and suggestion to help ­people. For the most part, these potions, called muti in southern Africa, are made from a variety of herbs and plants. Occasionally they add some part of an animal’s body, such as the heart of a lion.

  However, there are a few witch doctors, regarded as very powerful, who use human body parts in their muti. They often choose a victim for a specific reason. If a male client wants to be virile, a witch doctor may kill a young boy and make muti from his sex organs to improve sexual energy. If a woman is having difficulty conceiving, a witch doctor may kill a young woman and make muti from her vagina, uterus, or breast. Probably all three. In recent years, a number of albinos have been killed for muti, because they are regarded as providing particularly powerful muti.

  Even more horrific is that the power of the muti is thought to be enhanced if the body parts are removed while the victim is alive.

  The success rate for bringing to justice witch doctors who are involved in muti murders is very low, for several reasons. First, the victim is usually not connected to the perpetrator in any way. The witch doctor finds a person who meets a particular need and kills him or her. So, unlike a normal murder, where there is almost always a connection between the victim and murderer, there is none in the case of muti murders. And second, because almost everyone believes in witchcraft, many in the police, as well as potential witnesses, are scared of unveiling someone as a witch doctor who kills for muti. They are afraid that the witch doctor will put a spell on them, which could lead to bad luck, ill health, or even death.

  In this book, we refer on several occasions to the real-­life muti murder of a young girl, Segametsi Mogomotsi, which happened in Mochudi in 1994. It caused the community to come out in several violent protests, after which one person was shot by a policeman with an AK-­47. The government eventually felt it necessary to conduct an independent inquiry, so it called in Scotland Yard from the United Kingdom. Its report was never released.

 
One of the ­people to whom we dedicated this book is former High Court judge Unity Dow. Her novel The Screaming of the Innocent is a powerful story about a muti murder. It is worth reading.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  WITH EACH NEW BOOK we have more ­people to thank for their generous help and support, because we keep leaning on those who have helped us before while finding new ones to impose upon.

  We are extremely grateful to Claire Wachtel, Senior Vice President and Executive Editor at Harper­Collins, for continuing to support Detective Kubu. Her edits and suggestions always improve our books. We also thank Elizabeth Perrella for her input and Tom Pitoniak for his careful copyediting.

  As always we are grateful to our agent, Marly Rusoff, and her partner, Michael Radulescu, for their efforts on our behalf.

  We were very fortunate to have a variety of readers of drafts of this book giving us input and suggestions and catching errors. Our sincere thanks to: Steve Alessi, Linda Bowles, Pat Cretchley, Pam Diamond, Pat and Nelson Markley, Steve Robinson, Brunhilde Sears, and the Minneapolis writing group—­Gary Bush, Sujata Massey, and Heidi Skarie. With all their comments, it is hard to believe that the book still has mistakes. But it probably does, and we take responsibility for any that remain.

  Many ­people in Botswana have generously given us their time to make the book as authentic as possible. It is amazing to us that so many ­people in Botswana are willing to take the time to be bombarded by odd questions from two authors about muti and muti murders, police procedures, and the like. We particularly want to thank Thebeyame Tsimako, previous commissioner of police in Botswana, for taking time from his demanding schedule to give us comments and advice, and for helping with our requests. Andy Taylor, headmaster of the wonderful Maru-­a-­Pula School in Gaborone, has been extraordinarily patient with all our questions and requests, and invaluable for introducing us to ­people in the know. We received helpful information from Alice Mogwe, director of the human rights organization Ditshwanelo, and Unity Dow, former High Court judge of Botswana. Their input has been invaluable, and we have dedicated this book to them and the work they do for Botswana.