Deadly Harvest: A Detective Kubu Mystery

by Michael Stanley

  He found a key that opened the locked desk, then handed the bunch to Samantha. “I’m sure the cabinet keys must be here, too,” he said.

  Within a minute, she’d opened the cabinets and pulled out the top drawer of the first one. While she checked the dozens of files, Kubu carefully examined each desk drawer. Here too everything was in order, everything in place. Kubu whistled. “What a strange mind to have—paying such attention to every detail.”

  “It’s the same in the files,” Samantha responded. “Everything in order—files by alphabet; contents by date. And an index of contents at the front of each file. Amazing.”

  When Kubu reached the end of the last desk drawer, he leaned back in the very comfortable chair and took a deep breath. “Nothing so far! And you?”

  “Nothing also,” Samantha replied. “Most of it is medical stuff. Files of his patients, and so on. I’ve taken out all of his bank statements and some other financial records. We can look at those later.”

  Kubu stood up. “Okay, one last place, then we can leave. The bookcase.”

  In addition to the numerous medical texts and meticulously labeled journal boxes, there was a set of Reader’s Digest Classics, an Encyclopaedia Britannica, a number of what looked like university texts on biology, botany, and chemistry, and several biographies and autobiographies, mainly of nineteenth- and twentieth-century military leaders. But what caught the attention of both Kubu and Samantha was a single photograph cut from a newspaper displayed in an old silver frame. It was of an older man and a teenage boy in front of a building. They were obviously related. The man was in a suit, and the boy wore a shirt and shorts that looked like a school uniform. He looked as though he was crying. The man was holding the boy’s hand, but the boy was turned away from him and seemed to be trying to pull away.

  “Pilane and his father, I would say,” Samantha said.

  Kubu nodded and picked up the frame and scrutinized it. The building didn’t look familiar. He looked at the back of the frame to see if there was an inscription. Nothing. He tried to remove the cardboard backing but found it impossible to do one-handed. He handed it to Samantha, who carefully opened the clasps. There was a child’s writing on the back of the cutting. She read it out loud.

  “December the eighth, 1986.”

  “What a strange photo,” Kubu said. “The only picture we’ve found in the house, too.”

  “That date sounds familiar. Maybe we can find out the story behind it,” Samantha responded. “It could give us an idea of who he really was. I’ll check the newspapers for that day. They may even be online.”

  Kubu nodded and thought briefly about how lucky he was to have caring parents. “Okay, let’s go through all the books. You’ll have to do it, I’m afraid.” He held up his bandaged hand, wincing as he did so, and sat down at the desk.

  It was hard work, particularly for the lower shelves. Samantha took each book off the shelf, riffled through the pages to check whether anything had been slipped inside, and returned it to its same position.

  She was halfway through the second shelf when she noticed a safe behind the books. Kubu stood up for a closer look. “I wondered about that,” he remarked. “There is one unusual key in the bunch. I thought it might be for a safe.”

  Samantha took down enough books to give him access and he inserted the key. Sure enough, it turned, and he was able to open to door. There was only one item—what looked like a photo album. He slid it out, took it to the desk, and opened it. On the front page, in neat letters written with a fountain pen, were a name, Jacob Mampe, and the same date: December the eighth, 1986.

  Kubu turned the page. On the left was a moth, pressed below the cellophane. Its wings were separated from its body. On the right page was a butterfly, similarly dismembered. Neither Kubu nor Samantha said a word. Kubu turned the page. Two more moths. The next page was the same. Kubu frowned, wondering what the album was all about.

  He turned the next page. This time it was a dried frog, with all four legs separated from the body. And on the right, there was a sparrow with its body crushed flat. Again the wings were off. Kubu looked carefully at both the frog and the sparrow. The separations had been done very cleanly, with a knife or something similar.

  “This is very scary,” Samantha whispered. “He started killing things very young. I wonder why he took off the legs and wings and so on.”

  Kubu shook his head, but said nothing.

  The next page had the furs of a mouse and a rat, again with the limbs separate.

  “How did he dry them out?”

  “Probably left them in the sun,” Kubu replied. “It’s so dry here that it wouldn’t take very long.”

  On the next page there was a photograph of the boy with a pet dog. Scribbled at the bottom was the name Tau.

  “Doesn’t look like a lion,” Kubu murmured.

  On the right there was a photo of the dog alone, tongue hanging out.

  Kubu turned the page. Samantha gasped. There was a photo of a dog’s head—clearly Tau’s. Underneath was the name Tau again, this time scratched out.

  “Well, that may explain one of our cases,” Samantha said. “But why did he do it?”

  “Maybe he was toying with Marumo.” Kubu didn’t sound convinced.

  “I wonder if he also set up Witness Maleng to murder Marumo then,” Samantha continued. “By abducting his daughter and suggesting that Marumo had done it.”

  “But there’s no evidence that the two ever met.”

  “Maybe he did it through the power of suggestion?”

  Kubu glanced at Samantha surprised. “Do you mean through a spell?”

  Samantha hesitated, then shook her head. “You’re right. It couldn’t have been that. Let’s go on.”

  Over the page, there was another photograph of what appeared to be Pilane’s father. This time alone. On the right page was a large photograph of a tombstone—quite elaborate.

  “They must have had money,” Kubu said. “A headstone like that is very expensive.”

  He peered more closely. “Hold on. This can’t be of Pilane’s father. The name is Sampson Mampe. Not Pilane. The date of death is December the eighth, 1990.”

  “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 commissioner’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 scrapboo
k 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.”