by HJ Golakai
“Um … we happened to be around when the staff members found the body, so the police wanted to question us too,” Chlöe said.
“Really? And how’d that happen? That you were around?” Aneshree studied them, eyes probing. “You’re journalists, right?”
Vee opened her mouth, thought better of it and stuffed in the last bite of scone. She got to her feet. “I’m heading out to finish doing the thing. You stay here and …” she eyed Chlöe over Aneshree’s head, “rub shoulders for a while.”
“But – should I – what if –”
“Won’t take long.”
“She really didn’t place me,” Aneshree muttered.
“Aaagghhhhh …”
Insides knotting up in distress, Chlöe watched Vee’s retreating back as it hustled into the foyer. What the hell could be in central Oudtshoorn, besides more trouble and drawing unwanted attention to them? What was she supposed to do in the meantime? Call Nico? Try me and dare call Nico, so I can wire your flat butt good, Vee’s voice growled in her mind. Chlöe gulped. Between a tongue-lashing from the top and the mere threat of an ass-whupping from the middle, she made the easiest hard decision she’d made all week and tucked her cell away.
“Her.” Aneshree flicked her dark head in the foyer’s direction. “She didn’t make me out in the slightest.”
Chlöe blew a weary breath. “Sorry, was she meant to?”
“I thought so, but …” Aneshree shrugged and smirked. “Considering she’s the one keeping my brother’s dick in her purse.”
Chlöe coughed toast into a napkin. “Say what now?”
Aneshree giggled, preening. “You two seemed pretty close. Or maybe you’re not.”
“We are.”
“Then come on. Chowdri. As in …” Aneshree hiked her eyebrows and let them hover. “Joshua Allen Chowdri. His sister.”
Chlöe gawped. “Huh?” Joshua Allen has another sister? Wait, Joshua’s other surname is Chowdri?! She’d absorbed enough info from Vee to recall a vague mention of a younger Allen sibling, an overprotected model wannabe working in catalogues somewhere in America. This one was neither black, not even partly, nor American. “How are you here? How do you know Vee?” Squinting now, Chlöe leaned closer, teeth bared. “Are you following her?”
Aneshree broke into raucous laughter. “Geez, calm down. What are you, her pitbull? No-one’s following anyone. I don’t know know her but I know of her; Cape Town’s small enough. Besides,” one shoulder tugged in a semi-guilty, semi-proud way, “I tend to follow my brother’s antics with some interest. Depending on what it is.”
“So how …” Chlöe threw a quizzical look around the dining room.
“Oh, how am I part of this motley crew?” Aneshree popped a forkful of orange wedges into her mouth. “Work.”
“Work as in …”
“Software developer. Graphics here and there.”
“Ah, you’re with …” Chlöe took a shovel to the terrain of last night’s memory, already fallow under layers of hangover, little sleep and a healthy dash of morning trauma. The plump, older lady, waterfall hair, what had been her name? “Mishra? Moodley? Moodley, mm-hmm. Thought she was in catering or something like that. Oh I get it, you do their website.”
“Events management. And no, I don’t work for them. Not all Indians are in business together. She’s my aunty’s friend.”
“I didn’t mean –”
“I’m here as an independent observer. Humouring my boss, you could say. So far …” She flip-flopped a hand.
“Not good, I’m guessing? Like, I don’t know jack about any of this, but this new development hardly bodes well for a smoothly running process.”
“Well, let’s just say I didn’t expect it to be an easy ride from the beginning and it hasn’t been one. Didn’t expect a dead body served up with breakfast, that’s for sure.”
“Can say that again.” Chlöe licked her yoghurt spoon absently as she cast her mind to Vee, out there stirring up plumes of drama. She scratched her scalp until she flinched. First things first: get cleaned up. Thoroughly. Then she could think clearly, probably along the lines of an escape route, party of one if it came to that. Vee could chase villains on her ace if that’s what she wanted.
Aneshree shifted her chair closer. “How long has she been frolicking with my so-called brother? Is she really from Libya? That’s so hectic. What with this Arab Spring going on right now, and all the, like, Arab rage, how crazy is that. She must be worried sick about her family.”
“Uhhh …”
“Not that she looks Libyan. Maybe she’s from one of those nomadic sects who look black. Hey, is it true my so-called brother got her knocked up and deserted her, then she had an abortion and a crazy meltdown?”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
Chapter Ten
Vee chewed a toffee, gaze fixed on the sour-faced woman behind the desk, rewarding her every time she looked up with a disconcertingly slow grin that displayed all her teeth. Eventually the receptionist-slash-security guard rolled her eyes and waved her over.
“Who did you say you want to see?”
“Dr Marielise Coetzee, the forensic pathologist,” Vee said for the fourth time in over thirty minutes.
“She’s busy with cases, I told you. Don’t you want to come back later?”
Vee’s eyes popped. “No. Pleeaase. I really can’t.”
The horrors of getting there in the first place! Animated and refreshed of spirit following the ministrations of a cool shower, toothbrush and comb, her verve had soon faltered to ashes. Magical powers of persuasion had worked at convincing the camp’s security that the circumstances of her stay had changed sufficiently to grant her freedom of movement in and out of the grounds. That accomplished, it had been a hot, dusty trek to the nearest main road and a half-hour hitchhike before a driver finally stopped. Easy enough after reaching town to find the brick building on Baron van Reede Street that was Oudtshoorn Police Station and the nearby coroner’s office, but she now had to face this prickly reception.
“Sisi, you can’t just stop here and speak to whoever, neh.” The heavyset woman – ‘Felicia Phiri’ declared her name badge – scanned her up and down, distaste crinkling the skin around her nose and mouth. Vee sensed a moderately acute infection of SGS coursing through her veins. Security guard syndrome: the intense and sadistic need experienced by the chosen ones in uniform behind desks and gates continent-wide, to exert power, however puny and fleeting, over all who had the misfortune of crossing their path. No wonder Felicia was so sour – her braids had been pulled so tight, tiny buds of follicular white peeped through the roots. Your hairline won’t thank you when you take those out, Vee thought.
“You need to have an appointment or give a reason why you want to go inside, before I can help you. Or leave a message and I’ll give it to Dr Coetzee.”
“I know, but –” The adjoining double doors burst open and suctioned closed behind a harried-looking brunette in a white lab coat and heavy-duty galoshes, goggles round her neck, eyes downcast as she glided past. “Is that … ?” Vee began. Felicia pursed her lips and crossed her arms, eyes resting a moment too long on the woman’s retreating form. Vee broke into a jog.
“Dr Coetzee?” The woman was a head shorter but had a hell of a stride; Vee was a little breathless when she caught up. She looked down into a pair of pale brown eyes with a faraway look that she suspected was somewhat permanent. “I was wondering if I could bother you for a moment, if you have time.”
“Not much time.” Coetzee frowned. “What’s it about? Who are you?”
“Uhh …” Vee scanned the long corridor. From one end, a uniformed officer and duo of lab coats strode towards them. She palpitated at the thought of running into Sgt Ncubane. “It’s a lil hard to explain standing out here. And it’s private. I swear I’m not here to waste your time.”
“Well …” Coetzee motioned her to follow and soon stopped short, opened a door down the hall and ushered her
into a tiny office with walls of a nauseating green.
“Coffee? Sorry, instant’s all I have,” she said as she flipped on the kettle, to which Vee nodded. Under the scent of potpourri, the room had a distant reek of uncooked meat, old fat and a drug-y odour, all deeply marinated into the walls. Mug in hand, Vee dipped her lips in the liquid but didn’t sip. Coetzee gave a questioning smile (was the coffee okay?) and Vee flipped a thumbs-up (perfect). The doctor had ponytailed chestnut-brown hair that Vee was sure she was sick of hearing would look pretty if she combed it, and lively eyes, like she enjoyed talking but didn’t often get the chance with the like-minded.
“I really don’t have a lot of time. It hasn’t been a hectic morning, really I should be done by now, but I got another one coming in before I can wrap up. Young kid, fell out of a tree and broke his neck.”
Vee winced. “Sweet Jesus.”
Coetzee nodded. “Yeah. Terrible nature of the job.” She sipped her own brew, throwing a perplexed look over the rim. “Sorry, who did you say you were again?”
“I didn’t say.” Vee took a breath and plunged on: “Vee Johnson. I’m a journalist. In Cape Town. For City Chronicle newspaper.”
Coetzee put down her mug and leaned back in her chair, slowly ‘ahh’ing. “Before you start thinking anything, probably the wrong thing, let me explain. I’m in Oudtshoorn on a business trip, doing a travel piece on The Grotto Lodge. That’s where I’m staying; it’s about five, six kilometres from here. Very strangely, since I’ve been there …” Speaking succinctly and leaving no room for interruption, Vee gave a rundown of both deaths.
“Berman was brought in early this morning. That’s an open police investigation.” Coetzee’s expression morphed from interest to one of serious affront. “You can’t possibly think –”
“I don’t! I’m not here about that, believe me. Wouldn’t be so stupid as to think the pathologist would discuss a fresh murder case even if I wanted to. It’s the other one. The woman, she worked at the lodge.” Vee left a pause, adding, “It felt off to me.”
Coetzee guarded a long silence that followed a long sigh. “Very unorthodox. I suppose since it’s not a murder investigation … it depends on what capacity you’re asking in. And what you ask as well. I can’t supply confidential information. You’re not a family member.”
“Asking as a concerned citizen who isn’t officially investigating the matter.” Vee pulled out the Nokia and flipped to the photo gallery. “Who also happened to be in the vicinity when these were taken.”
Coetzee leaned in, both eyebrows high. “A concerned citizen has this on her phone?”
“The person who found her asked for my help. So I … please don’t make me lie to you. This woman was long dead before I got anywhere near her.”
Coetzee closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “I’m not liking this but …” She dropped her hands. “I myself didn’t do the autopsy on Greenwood, but I went through the final report. What I can tell you is there’s not much I can tell you. Or can’t tell you. Or can’t not tell you.” Eyes still closed, she frowned, shook her head, finally issuing a dismissive wave. “I mean the results were pretty definitive. But okay, ask. This isn’t on the record, by the way.”
“There’s no record for it to even be on.” Vee hoped eagerness for information wouldn’t come back to bite her down the line.
“Fine. What didn’t seem right to you?”
“First of all, was there anything to suggest someone else might’ve been involved?”
“It wasn’t ruled murder or foul play, if that’s where you’re angling.”
“But was there a suggestion of foul play? Even a little bit?”
Coetzee funnelled her lips, pulling at an earlobe. She muttered a few noncommittal words and Vee plunged on, positioning the phone between them. “Alright, look at that. It’s not a great picture but that’s the big bruise behind her ear. Couldn’t it be that she got hit on the head?”
The pathologist’s head was shaking before she’d finished her sentence. “Right but wrong. Look here. You see that slight V-shape of the wound through the dried blood? That’s more consistent with falling onto a hard, pointed surface than a blunt blow. The statement given by the maid that found her gave us a pretty clear description that allowed us to assess what could’ve happened. The working theory was she was thoroughly inebriated, which was confirmed by her blood work, fell asleep, rolled off the bed and hit her head on the sidetable, which caused the contusion. As far as I know, the evidence supports this.”
“She was drunk?” Vee said half-heartedly, remembering the wineglass by the bathtub and the stale booze cloud surrounding the body. “So drunk that she rolled off the bed, bashed her head, and couldn’t move to the point where she died? Of what? Needing to pee?”
Coetzee pulled at her lower lip with her teeth disagreeing or indecisive as to whether she could say more. Finally she puffed, relenting: “Not just drunk. Thoroughly pissed. As in, blood alcohol in the stars. And she didn’t die from the fall. She asphyxiated. The inebriated can often fall semi-conscious into precarious positions from which they can’t self-rescue. It’s a form of positional asphyxiation and is more common than people think.”
“Uh-huh. What if I agreed but had a slightly different theory? As in, she was drunk and died from suffocation, but it wasn’t accidental. What if someone made sure she couldn’t breathe?”
“A possibility, but …” Coetzee flip-flopped a hand and issued a ‘meh’. “For instance, you see …” She took the phone away and scrolled to the next picture that better satisfied. “Great that you took this one, shows you what I mean. That dried foam around her mouth is likely vomit that got into her lungs. Imagine she’s struggling for air but immobile. She threw up, fluid filled her airways and she choked on it. She would’ve been well past it by the time she fell onto the dresser. If anything, the fall, or a blow, might’ve helped put her out of her misery faster.”
Vee nodded. “Fine. But what’s this bruising on her nose? Isn’t that consistent with her airway being deliberately blocked, as if someone held a pillow over her nose? Don’t laugh, but I’ve seen forensic TV shows where they demonstrate how bruising like that comes about from deliberate suffocation.”
“It’s not a stupid question.” Coetzee shrugged. “But it’s not one with a definitive answer. Look, for one thing, bruising like that is more helpful in determining cause of death in infants, for instance, who’re much more delicate and not ambulatory, and fall into positions they can’t move out of. For another, Caucasian skin displays bruising a lot easier than darker races, so disruptions in the epidermis tend to stand out quite prominently without necessarily indicating an assault. If I remember correctly …” she paused, eyes on the ceiling, “Dr Marais, who did the autopsy, concluded that the bruise was significant because that’s how asphyxiation resulted. Greenwood, in a drunken pill-induced stupor –”
“Pills too?”
“Unfortunately. Anti-depressants and a sleeping aid; bad mix with alcohol. I gather there was a long history of substance abuse. So she goes out face-down in a pillow. Like I said, not uncommon.”
“But …” Vee pressed the navigator button desperately. “But … Alright, look here, how she’s wrapped up in the sheets. Drunk people pass out on top of sheets. She was wrapped like a cigar.” She tapped the LCD screen emphatically. “That’s significant. If somebody got her drunk, or she was already, then how easy would it be? She’d hardly put up a fight. It would look genuine.”
“I’m starting to worry,” Coetzee frowned. “Should I be worried?”
Vee whipped her hand up. “Please trust me, I’m the innocent bystander that I say I am. I’m just concerned that maybe because it looked one way, it passed because that was the easy explanation. Not that I’m implying y’all don’t know your jobs …”
“No worries. Oudtshoorn is practically a rural outpost compared to Cape Town, but we do get enough traffic through here for mistakes to get made. If I’m being honest
with you, although you didn’t hear this from me, many a medical examiner’s offices can face a lot of challenges. You’d be surprised how often things can get overlooked. Basic, laughable errors sometimes.” Coetzee drained her cup and walked it over to the small metal sink. Taking the cue, Vee rose to her feet.
“Now that you’ve got me mildly interested,” Coetzee said over her shoulder, rinsing the mug, “any other clues?”
Vee brought up the last two close-ups. “This isn’t much but … see her right hand? I was just snapping everything in the room and couldn’t explain why it caught my attention. Look at her index and middle fingers, especially the index one. The nail is completely different from the rest. The others are all fake acrylic, but that one’s her real nail. The finger’s got a fresh scrape, but it’s still got nail polish on it.”
“So what? Maybe she bumped it, the acrylic broke off and the finger got scratched.”
“No, look closer. There’s colour on the actual real nail.”
“Ag, and then? Fake nail breaks off in an accident. For vanity’s sake she paints the same colour on her real nail until next she can go to a nail salon for a touch-up or whatever. Women like to look smart. She was the deputy manager after all.”
“But there’s a new coat over it. One fresh coat, not a full manicure like on the other fingers, and it’s slightly smudged, like it happened very close to the time she died. Nobody’s vain enough to put polish on a sore finger. I think she struggled with someone, her fingers got chipped and messed up, and whoever it was patched it up.” Vee looked up from the phone into the ME’s concerned frown. “You think I’m crazy, right?”
Bemused, Coetzee shook her head with a laugh. “I think my break is over, that’s what I think. If –”
P-Square, belting out ‘E no easy’ over a hipco rhythm, reverberated in the tiny office. Chlöe’s number flashed. Vee interrupted her ringtone, mouthing an apology as she turned her back.
“What’s up? Huh? You found what? Bishop, calm down, I can hardly hear you. Alright, sorry I told you to calm down but you bustin’ my eardrum. You say you found … What?! Girl, how the hell?! Okay, okay … you want me to get … mm-hhmm … Just breathe, I’m coming now-now. Don’t touch any of my stuff, though.”
