Death of the Mantis

by Michael Stanley

  “Get hold of Zanele and her forensics team,” he told Miriam. “Tell her to get them ready as soon as possible. I want to take apart the suspect’s home piece by piece until we understand what this is all about. I’ll supervise it myself.”

  Khumanego’s apartment was on the second floor of a building close to the center of Lobatse. The caretaker was expecting them. She was full of questions; the police presence over the last few days had caused quite a stir. Mabaku brushed her concerns aside, showed her the warrant, and waited for her to unlock the front door. He wasn’t talkative. His mind was focused on whether the key to the Kalahari murders would be inside this modest dwelling.

  When they went in, it looked like a typical Motswana apartment: two small bedrooms, an open-plan lounge/kitchen/dining area and a single bathroom. Zanele and her team went to work while Mabaku stood in the middle of the lounge area. He looked around, but touched nothing, trying to get a feel for the Bushman’s life.

  On one wall was a bookcase containing three shelves of books and two display shelves. Mabaku called Zanele over. He wondered how she could look so attractive swaddled in her shapeless white laboratory coat. He pointed at the top display shelf.

  “Those look like Bushman arrowheads. They may be harmless, but they may be poisoned. Tell your people to treat them as if they are. Even if the arrows are just collector’s items, those poisons can last a long time. Use forceps and put them in strong bags, not flimsy plastic ones. Remember Haake.”

  Zanele nodded. “Do you want us to collect them all?”

  “Yes, do that. And those little containers with them, too. They probably used to contain poisons. Maybe they still do.”

  Mabaku examined the books. Most were textbooks concerned with human rights and legal issues. He spotted a copy of Ditshwanelo’s report on the Maauwe and Motswetla affair, In the Shadow of the Noose. But there was nothing untoward, nothing to suggest that Khumanego was anything other than what he claimed to be: an advocate for the Bushman peoples. The second display shelf was more interesting. It was empty but for six pebbles of white calcrete laid out in a straight line, each separated by about an inch. Other than the arrangement, and the fact that they were free of sand and powder, there was nothing unusual about them. Except that they were there. Why collect nondescript stones from the desert?

  “Zanele! Please get pictures of the arrangement of everything here and then collect these stones as well.” She was talking to a man searching for fingerprints with an ultraviolet light, but she nodded.

  Mabaku wandered around the apartment. He came across one of Zanele’s men going through a desk in the second bedroom, carefully sorting through normal office items with latex-gloved hands. It appeared that Khumanego used this room as a study. They had already dusted and fingerprinted his computer and printer and packed them in boxes to be checked later.

  “There’s a GPS in here,” the man told Mabaku. “A Garmin. I think we should take that.”

  “Definitely. Why would a Bushman need a GPS in the Kalahari? There’s a good chance it’s Haake’s. Don’t turn it on. We’ll get the technicians to try to extract his last route.”

  Mabaku moved on to the main bedroom, which had a narrow balcony facing the back of the opposite building. The small area was crowded with a variety of plants growing in reddish Kalahari sand contained in unattractive plastic pots of the sort nurseries use. Mabaku unlocked the steel-framed glass door and stepped out. Prickly and scraggly, they were hardly the pot plants a garden lover would have chosen for a balcony. Were they a homesick Bushman’s reminders of the Kalahari? Or something more sinister? He asked Zanele to collect them too. Carefully.

  A constable searching Khumanego’s clothes cupboard called Mabaku over.

  “Take a look here, Rra. Look at the shoes.”

  Mabaku glanced at the floor of the cupboard, seeing a collection of shoes and boots neatly arranged in pairs. For a moment he didn’t get the point, but then he whistled.

  “That one pair of boots is almost twice the size of the others—I’d guess size ten. The rest look like kids’ shoes. Let’s see the soles of those boots.”

  The man turned them over displaying smooth undersides. Mabaku nodded.

  “Take those. Definitely.”

  They found nothing else. Several hours later they packed up their stuff, carried out the items they wanted to test or examine further, and headed back to the CID in Gaborone. They didn’t have much to show for most of a day’s work, and nothing that pointed to the motive Kubu sought.

  But Mabaku was satisfied. He was sure they had found the boots that had made tracks around three murders, and he had a strong hunch they’d found Haake’s GPS.

  Chapter Forty-one

  For Willie Taro, the gas attendant at the Kgalagadi Filling Station in Hukuntsi, life had become one of constant fear. He did his job every day, filling cars with gas, but his enthusiasm and pleasure in it were gone. He dreaded seeing the Bushman who called himself Piscoaghu. That was a name from Bushman legend, and Willie didn’t believe it was the man’s real name. At first it had almost been a game, watching the travelers come through the gas station, chatting with them and asking where they were going. And the money Piscoaghu paid him for the information had been most welcome. But after Haake’s murder by a Bushman arrow, all that had changed.

  He felt guilt too. He would never have said a word if he’d thought Haake was in danger, but it was too late now. He wondered what sort of game Piscoaghu was playing. And was the game over? He hoped so. But he’d heard enough about murderers to know that they didn’t like to leave people alive who could connect them to their victims.

  He’d sought advice from an elderly Bushman who lived in the town and knew things. He had listened carefully to Willie’s story, and his response was immediate. Willie must go to the police. They would be fair to him, and they would help him. But Willie was scared of the police, so he didn’t take the advice. Then he noticed that Bushmen in the town started giving him odd looks and seemed to be avoiding him. Had the old Bushman spread the story? He was scared of that too.

  And Willie wasn’t stupid. When the news broke of the policeman who’d died in the desert so near where Haake had been exploring, he put two and two together. And when he saw Piscoaghu’s face staring out of a Wanted poster, he was terrified.

  Now it was Sunday. Almost two weeks had passed since Detective Tau’s corpse had been found. His body had still not been returned to the family. People said doctors were cutting it up to find out how he’d died. Willie shuddered, thinking about what those doctors were doing.

  After church, the villagers who had known Tau gathered in the courtyard of his modest home for an afternoon of prayers and speeches in his honor. Tau had always been polite to Willie, and he went to the prayer meeting, sitting on the ground near the back of the gathering. He was scared to be there as the house was in the police compound, scared that if he was noticed he might be chased away. And he was scared of not being noticed lest people felt his absence showed ill will to the late detective. Willie’s life had become one of constant fear.

  The afternoon dragged on as one person after another rose to speak well of the deceased or to call on Jesus to reward their departed friend. When at last a break came in the proceedings, Willie stood up, stretched, and almost bumped into a tall, well-built man wearing an immaculate police uniform with a fine medal. Willie was in awe. This man must be a very senior officer. Perhaps even the commissioner of police! He looked down and muttered a humble apology in Setswana. Unexpectedly, the man stopped and spoke to him.

  “There is no problem,” he said. “We are all here together as children of God to honor our friend Detective Tau.”

  The policeman started to move on, but suddenly Willie felt this man would hear his story and be fair to him. He ran to keep up, fearful that his opportunity to speak might be lost.

  “Rra, I beg your pardon for disturbing you. I know you are an important person with much to do, Rra, and this is the day of re
st, and we must pay our respects to the departed. But I have information which may be important to the police.” The policeman looked down at him, quizzically. “Rra, it is about the murder of a man called Haake,” Willie gabbled on, scared that if he hesitated his courage would desert him. “Perhaps I know who killed him. Rra Haake was a man from Namibia . . .”

  The area chief of police knew very well who Haake was. Without further ado, he steered Willie into the adjoining Tshane police station.

  Chapter Forty-two

  On Monday Kubu was happy to get back to his office. The hospital had been a trial, and in desperation the doctor had discharged him to still his stream of complaints. Then he’d been stuck at home, bored and alone during the day except for the police constable outside, and sidelined in the evening while Pleasant and Joy focused on organizing the engagement party. He tried to keep out of their way, playing with Tumi and Ilia, who both appreciated his attention. The weekend had been better; they had taken a trip to Mochudi to visit his parents.

  His colleagues greeted him like a hero, which he found embarrassing. Edison was particularly effusive.

  “All right, Edison, I’m fine now. What’s happening with the case? Any sign of Khumanego?”

  Edison shook his head. “But we searched his apartment a week ago, and I’ve got the reports back. How did he pull it off, Kubu? How did he get to all those places in the middle of nowhere? How did he know where the victims were?”

  They were good questions, and Kubu had spent lots of time thinking about them. “Let’s get some tea and go to my office and bring each other up to date. Also please find some muffins. I lost a lot of weight in the desert. I need to build up my strength.” He was going to have a proper lunch too. There had been no more nagging at home about dieting.

  Kubu settled himself at his desk. His in-tray was full, and his computer had a demanding air about it. He ignored them both and waited for Edison, who arrived a few minutes later with six muffins. They both set to work on them.

  “So what’s in the forensics reports?” Kubu asked through a mouthful.

  Edison searched through his file. “The arrowheads were clean, but one of the containers held something possibly very toxic, perhaps even what was used on Haake. And the plants Director Mabaku found were indeed the source of poisons and hallucinogens, including the one that killed the two students. The boots we found in Khumanego’s cupboard match the prints found at each of the three murder scenes pretty well, and the size is right.”

  “Anything on the fingerprints on Haake’s vehicle?”

  Edison nodded enthusiastically. “Khumanego’s fingerprints were on the gun and on the back of Haake’s vehicle.”

  Kubu was about to ask about the GPS when Mabaku came in and muttered something about everyone having a party. However, after enquiring about Kubu’s health, he helped himself to a muffin.

  “I’m feeling fine, Director,” said Kubu, after swallowing the rest of his muffin. “We were discussing how Khumanego pulled this off under our noses. Under my nose, I suppose I should say.”

  Mabaku grunted. “I got an urgent message this morning to call Lerako about the case. I thought we could do it together.” He tossed Kubu a slip of paper with the message in Miriam’s handwriting.

  Kubu dialed the number, reached Lerako, and put him on the speaker.

  “Kubu! Are you recovered? You’re lucky to be alive. The Kalahari is a dangerous place.”

  “I’m fine, Lerako. Glad to be alive.”

  “Detective Tau’s body has been returned to his family now. Will you be coming to the funeral this weekend?”

  “Yes, I need to be there. I want to tell the family what happened in person.” He owed the man at least that much. “I’ve got Director Mabaku and Detective Banda here with me,” he continued. “Do you have some news for us?”

  “I do! I was right about the Bushmen. Perhaps I had the wrong ones originally, but yesterday I arrested one of the right ones.”

  Kubu’s heart jumped. “You’ve got Khumanego?”

  “No, but an accomplice. A chap called Willie Taro who works at the gas station in Hukuntsi. He’s admitted everything.”

  Kubu felt some doubt mix with the elation. Lerako didn’t have a good record with Bushman arrests.

  Mabaku chipped in. “You’d better tell us the whole story from the beginning.”

  “Willie’s been spying on people for another Bushman who called himself Piscoaghu and who paid him for the information. All tourists and visitors coming through Hukuntsi pass through the gas station where he works. It’s the only place to get fuel in that whole area. He reported everything he could find out, but this Piscoaghu was particularly interested in people heading south, especially if they came more than once.”

  “What did this other man do with the information?” Kubu asked. “Why did he want it?”

  “Willie doesn’t know. I think he’s telling the truth about that. He’s been very cooperative.” From the way Lerako said it, Kubu had no doubt cooperation was in Willie’s interest.

  “And this other Bushman, this Piscoaghu, was Khumanego?”

  “No doubt about it. Willie recognized the picture of him on the Wanted poster right away.”

  “Who did he give information about?”

  “Well, he doesn’t know most of their names. But he knew Haake all right. And here’s the punch line. Khumanego was in Hukuntsi the evening Haake was killed. And Willie told him where Haake was.”

  Mabaku gave a low whistle. “Good work, Lerako! How did you get on to this Willie character?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “Well, he turned himself in, actually. He approached the Tshane station commander at a prayer meeting for Detective Tau. Took his time, though. If he’d come forward earlier, Tau might still be with us.”

  “So what charge are you holding him on?” Kubu asked.

  “Accessory to murder! He’s an accomplice before and after the fact.”

  It seemed to Kubu that Willie had been used and may have had no idea what was going on. But he didn’t feel like arguing. Willie might be safer in police custody than free, where Khumanego could get at him.

  “Did he know where Khumanego stayed when he was in Hukuntsi?”

  “He said he only visited from time to time. But here’s something really important. Willie says that Khumanego occasionally arrived at the filling station on an off-road motorbike.”

  Mabaku whistled again, and Kubu’s brain shifted into high gear.

  Lerako covered a few other points, promised to send them a copy of Willie’s statement, and said he’d see Kubu and Mabaku at the funeral. Then he rang off.

  Kubu turned to the other two. “Now the puzzle pieces are fitting into place. Khumanego was behind all the murders. Let’s see if I can tie things together.

  “First of all, Monzo took the two students into the desert to collect plants. It seems they must have gone close to the koppies—maybe actually visited them—and after that Khumanego set out to kill them. He traced the students to Sekoma and poisoned them. We’ll need to check Khumanego’s movements at that time if we can. He made it look like an accident, and we fell for it.

  “As for Monzo’s death, at our first meeting Khumanego told me he was in the Mabuasehube area around that time. And the phone call that led Monzo to his death came from a public telephone near the Hukuntsi gas station. Either Khumanego called himself with the story about the Bushmen poaching, or he set this Willie guy up to do it. Either way, he headed out the next morning on his motorbike, waited till Monzo reached the place where he said the Bushmen would be and then killed him. After that he wiped out his tracks and went back on his motorbike, keeping the bike’s wheels in one of the tire ruts in the sand, confident that the next car would blot out his tread marks. But he made two mistakes. One was bad luck—that a Bushman group actually was in the area and discovered Monzo. The other was throwing away the rock he used to disguise the knobkierie blow. He wanted the death to look like an accident, but wh
en Lerako found that rock, we knew it was murder. That’s when Khumanego came to me to help free the Bushmen—after making the fake boot prints for me to find.” Kubu paused.

  “We know Haake was looking for the koppies, and now we know Willie was keeping tabs on him. Just before Krige was murdered, Khumanego left me in Tsabong with an excuse about visiting some other Bushmen. Willie probably told Khumanego about Haake’s trip south, and Khumanego followed him, planning to murder him, but came across Krige unexpectedly and killed him instead. Haake must’ve surprised him, and Khumanego—who had found Krige’s gun—tried to shoot him but missed. After that he escaped on his motorbike, the same way as he did with Monzo. By then he knew we were looking for a murderer, so he tried to make Krige’s death look like Monzo’s, even to the extent that he had the same fake boot prints. This time, though, he didn’t do it well enough, and Ian MacGregor could see the knobkierie crater under the blow from the calcrete rock.”

  Kubu took a deep breath. “As for Haake. I was the one who told Khumanego we thought Haake might be in the Hukuntsi area.” Mabaku’s eyebrows rose. This was news to him. “So he headed down there and waited for Willie to tip him off. Then he planted Krige’s gun in Haake’s vehicle—perhaps hoping we’d still believe Haake was responsible for the other murders. And then he killed Haake with a poisoned arrow he knew I’d guess was not a real Bushman arrow. No doubt to deflect suspicion away from the Bushmen, but also to make us keep looking for the man with the size ten shoes.” Kubu shook his head. “And I fell for all of it.”

  There was silence as Mabaku turned everything over in his head. Eventually he nodded. “Yes, it all hangs together. It must’ve been something like that.”

  Suddenly Edison came to life. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you some other good news. We know the GPS we found in the apartment was the one stolen from Haake. It’s got his prints on it. And we’ve got the route for his last trip.” He handed Kubu a printout of GPS waypoints.