Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  Soon the prints disappeared again. As he searched for them, he came to the top of a donga, a steep ravine cut by an ancient stream through the gray calcrete. The soft rock at the edge was crumbling.

  Ndoli looked down. At the bottom of the donga, some fifteen feet below, Monzo was lying on his back, not moving. Next to him squatted a Bushman. Two others stood and watched. When they saw Ndoli, there was consternation; then they waved and shouted to him.

  Ndoli let out an exclamation and scrambled down the scree slope. A few moments later he was kneeling next to the prone game ranger. One of the Bushmen was trying to pour water from an ostrich shell into Monzo’s mouth, but the liquid appeared merely to be running over his face. Grateful for his first-aid training, Ndoli felt the throat and found a faint pulse. He thought he detected shallow breathing, so he spread fine Kalahari dust on his palm, held it to Monzo’s nose, and was relieved to see it move. Next he felt for injuries, but found no obviously broken bones. But the back of Monzo’s head was a mass of congealing blood; he must have sustained a vicious head blow when he fell into the donga. And he would have sunstroke as well.

  Ndoli turned to the Bushman. “When you find?” he asked slowly in Setswana.

  “Soon.” The man shrugged. It was obvious that his knowledge of Setswana was limited.

  “Move him?”

  The man shook his head. “Give water.”

  Ndoli wondered if it was safe to move the injured man, wanting to get him out of the sun. It would be difficult to do carefully even with the Bushmen’s assistance. Monzo was large, big-boned and overweight. After a moment he decided not to try and pulled off his damp shirt, using it to protect Monzo’s head and arms from the marauding sun. Then, asking the Bushmen to wait, he went back to his vehicle and radioed for help.

  Vusi was not overcome by sympathy. What was Monzo doing wandering around in the desert and falling into dongas anyway? Serves the bastard right! But, of course, it would create more work for Vusi and difficulties for his staff. How typical of Monzo! Perhaps he would be rid of him for good. But he shook his head to dispel such uncharitable thoughts. The man was in critical condition. He was suffering from heatstroke and dehydration in addition to concussion from the bad head wound. He had not regained consciousness, and the doctor who had seen him in Tsabong thought his skull might be fractured. Now he was being taken by helicopter to the hospital in Gaborone. And whose budget will pay for all that? Vusi fumed.

  He heard the outside door open. Ndoli must be back. He went out to the main office and found the manager looking tired, hot, and depressed.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I stopped at Monzo’s house to tell Marta about the accident.”

  Vusi paused. He should have done that himself. “I want a report on what happened,” he snapped.

  “I don’t know what happened. The Bushmen found him lying in the donga with his head bleeding. I told you everything on the radio.”

  “Did you get their names? The Bushmen?”

  Ndoli shook his head. “They’re not going anywhere. I’ll recognize them when I see them.” He wondered if that was true. There was something generic about the small, yellow-brown people and, if they wanted to, they could vanish into the desert in a few hours.

  “But what was he doing there? How did he fall into the donga? It was broad daylight!” Vusi winced, thinking of the blinding sun.

  “Maybe he was looking for the Bushmen, or discovered the donga, wanted to take a look, and got too close to the edge. It was very crumbly. Perhaps it broke under him. He’s heavy enough.”

  “Maybe. How long will it take to get him to Gaborone?”

  “Should be there. They left well over an hour ago.”

  Vusi was silent. An unpleasant thought had occurred to him. Perhaps Monzo had found the Bushmen and had picked a fight with them. Maybe he got a rock in the back of his head and a shove into the donga for his trouble. Still, Bushmen weren’t aggressive. They were peaceful people. They had tried to help. But Monzo could make anybody mad. Perhaps there had been a struggle and Monzo fell. Well, they would know what had happened soon enough, once the man regained consciousness.

  Vusi’s thoughts were interrupted by his radio phone. He grabbed it and listened for a minute. Then he thanked the caller, disconnected, and turned to Ndoli who was waiting in the doorway. “Monzo died on the way to the hospital. God rest his soul.”

  Ndoli nodded and walked away, the talk in the office suddenly stilled. Vusi scowled. There would have to be an investigation. Intuitively he knew that while his difficulties with Monzo were over, his real problems were just about to begin.

  Chapter Two

  Vusi stopped his car in the sandy track leading to the last in the row of comfortable homes that the Wildlife department supplied to its staff members at Mabuasehube, courtesy of a large grant from the European Union. White plastered walls, roofs of thatch, and even lawn and small gardens fighting the desert sand, the dryness, and the heat.

  Ndoli had offered, but this was a duty Vusi felt obliged to handle himself. He knocked quietly, and Monzo’s wife, Marta, let him in and offered him a seat. She folded herself onto the couch and started comforting a small boy. Vusi felt the first pang of regret at Monzo’s death; the boy could not be more than six. Vusi took in the short, busty woman sitting opposite him on the threadbare sofa. She looked good in a dress with traditional touches, and large loop earrings framed an interesting face. Behind her on the wall were two faded prints, and to the side was a table holding mounted photographs and a crude carving of a woman’s head, perhaps done by one of her boys. The room was tidy and clean despite the kids, and clearly the center of the home.

  He wondered how to begin. Marta looked composed; she had not obviously been crying, but she wouldn’t have seen Monzo after the accident. Perhaps she doesn’t know how serious his injuries were, Vusi thought. Also some women don’t show their emotions. “Mma Monzo,” he began. “I have some news. I’m afraid it’s not good.” She nodded and sent the boy outside to play with his brother.

  “He died?”

  Vusi nodded. “I’m very sorry. He was a wonderful colleague and friend, really. He never regained consciousness, you see. He wouldn’t have felt any pain.” He wondered what would be an appropriate reaction if she started to sob.

  But Marta just shook her head. “Your wonderful colleague and friend was a lousy husband, Rra Vusi. Well, actually, he wasn’t a husband at all. You’ll find out when you check his records. He never married me. I discovered he already has a wife somewhere in South Africa. I’m his mistress. Isn’t that what you men call us? They’re his children, though.” She nodded to the boys playing in the yard. It looked like a game of hide-and-seek, but the younger one had forgotten to hide in time, and a quarrel looked imminent. “I suppose now I go with nothing but the two kids. When must I leave?”

  Vusi was horrified by this development. Another problem, a scandal! The paperwork to determine insurance and pension payouts! How like Monzo. Causing trouble from the grave. He pulled himself together.

  “No, no, Mma Monzo, that is, er . . . you can certainly stay for the moment. No rush to leave the house. It will take us time to get a replacement for your husband . . . I mean Monzo. And there will be some money, I’m sure. You’ll be the common-law wife and, of course, these are his children. We’re definitely on your side. You mustn’t worry.”

  She gave him a strange look with a mixture of emotions. Then she folded her arms, lifting her generous breasts, and smiled.

  “Thank you, Rra Vusi,” she said. “You are very kind.”

  The detective was taking his time, Vusi thought with irritation. The man settled himself into a chair and glanced around the office, peering at the wall calendar. He looked relaxed despite the two-hour drive from Tsabong through the sand and heat. A Bushman of indeterminate age, wrinkled and wizened, leaned against the office wall. Detective Sergeant Lerako had brought him, but hadn’t introduced him. Ndoli sat on the edge of his cha
ir, looking uncomfortable.

  “I understand that Monzo went to meet some Bushmen,” Lerako said at last. “Have you had any problems with them here?”

  “Certainly not,” Vusi replied. “No problems at all, as far as I know.” He looked at Ndoli for confirmation, but was met by silence. “Why?”

  Lerako ignored the question and turned to Ndoli. “Exactly what did Monzo say to you when he left?”

  Ndoli shifted in his chair. “He said he’d had a report that the Bushmen were poaching in the game reserve. Said he was going to put a stop to it one way or another.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  Ndoli shrugged. “He was angry. I guess he meant to chase them off.”

  Lerako turned back to Vusi. “Did he say anything like that to you?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “What’s it matter why he drove out there anyway?”

  Lerako folded strong arms across a broad chest. His neck spread from his head to his heavy shoulders. He looked like a bodybuilder. And he didn’t smile.

  “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 Bushman. “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-as-you-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.

  Chapter Three

  When the phone rang, Assistant Superintendent David Bengu—Kubu to his friends and even some of his enemies—was contemplating how his life had changed. He was holding a desk photograph taken at Tumi’s christening. The baby, of course, was the center of
attention, resplendent in a blue, green, and gray dress, which a neighbor had hand made for the occasion. Tiny curls were threaded with crimson ribbons. It was completely over the top, Kubu felt, smiling approvingly. More suitable for a birthday party. Their neighbor also had a baby, and suddenly she and Joy had become firm friends. We’ve changed our social status, Kubu mused.

  Tumi was being held by Kubu’s mother, Amantle, who had a wide, although not very toothful, grin, and behind her stood Kubu’s father, Wilmon, his usually impassive face cracked into a smile. A scatter of gray invaded the hair around his ears, a sure sign of advancing age in a black African man. Honest was the first adjective that came to Kubu’s mind about his father; warm was the one for his mother. He hoped Tumi would inherit both those qualities.

  In the picture Kubu stood next to Joy, his wife and lover, and now, against the odds, the mother of his child. The two of them luxuriated in the pleasure of presenting the first grandchild. Unusually for an amateur photo, all the participants had their eyes open and their smiles natural. Tumi would be the cause of both.

  Kubu’s pleasant recollections were spoiled by the harsh ring of the phone. How often that happens, he thought—a moment of peace banished by the telephone.

  “This is Assistant Superintendent Bengu.”

  “David? This is Khumanego. Are you well?”

  “Khumanego!” The name unpeeled years. “What a surprise! Are you in Gaborone? It would be wonderful to see you.”

  “I’m in Lobatse. I work here now.”

  Khumanego! They had been friends at primary school in Mochudi even though Kubu was two years younger. They had made an odd pair: the Bushman youth and the share-farmer’s son, one short and slender in the manner of his people, the other big and already overweight.

  Khumanego’s parents, part of a small nomadic group roaming through southern Botswana, had sent him with great sadness to distant and unenthusiastic Christian relatives in Mochudi for good schooling. To prepare him for a different future, they had said. But Khumanego had confided to Kubu how unhappy he was. He disliked his relatives and town life, missing his people and the desert desperately. But it was school he hated the most. He was the only Bushman in the school, and the teachers regarded him as a backward child from the bush, incapable of learning anything but the simplest concepts. The cane was always close to hand.