“Oh, nothing. Just work-a-day stuff.”
“So what’s going on? What do the results say?”
“Well, Jimmy,” said Pat, “it’s a wee bit complicated, but you appear to have a rare syndrome where you have inherited your father’s mitochondrial DNA as opposed to your mother’s, which would be the normal case.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Well, we don’t know, and that’s the honest answer. I’m sure you realize yourself that your case is more than a little unusual, and that we’re bound to discover some odd things as we go along, but we’ll stick to it.” Pat grinned his silliest grin, and James felt better. “I feel the need to explore. There are a lot of things we can try here on several fronts. Are you up for a bit more experimentation there, Jimmy?”
James shrugged. “My calendar seems to be free.”
~* * *~
Karen got on Rich’s trail, and was surprised at how simply Googling “Alan Richardson—Medecins Sans Frontieres” brought him up straight away. There was information on Dr. Richardson all over the ’net, hundreds of pages chronicling his career after he had left St. Francis. Karen had known he had gone back to Africa, but that was about all she had heard since she’d seen him last.
One link after another sang Rich’s praises. An early pioneer in AIDS research, he’d taken his expertise to the people of Africa. There appeared to be a bit of a political firebrand in him as well, giving drug companies hell over their policies in the Third World. The accolades went on and on.
And then Karen saw it: Dr. Alan Richardson, renowned physician and philanthropist, died Monday in Port Harcourt, Nigeria, of unknown causes. The article was six months old. She found several obituaries, but none had any substantial information except to say that it was a natural death, or that he had succumbed to an unknown ailment.
Karen found Médecins Sans Frontières’ website and called the contact number. After a few transfers, she was put through to a woman whom the operator thought could help.
“Hello, you are wanting information on Dr. Richardson?” The woman had a thick French accent.
“Yes, please, I would like to know how to reach his next of kin, and obtain any information you might have about his death.”
“With whom am I speaking, please?”
“My name is Dr. Karen Weems. I was a friend. I’ve only just found out about his death.”
“Well, Dr. Weems, I am afraid I cannot release information to anyone except immediate family.”
Karen hesitated, tapped her nails on the desk nervously, and then said, “Well, Dr. Richardson and I had a child together. He never knew.”
Silence from the other end, and then, “Do you have a number where you can be reached?”
Sixteen
A little to the north of the rain-drenched Niger Delta, a creaky, corroded old 747 descended into the soupy, wet darkness that is African night. Detective Inspector Francis Albright peered out the small window at a towering thunderstorm, the sinister pillar illuminated from inside by almost constant flashes. Dozens of huge orange clouds blossomed in the surface mist to the west—chimneys belching burnt natural gas from the refineries into the low clouds. The scene was unreal—ethereal—and it made him feel as if he were visiting another planet. The old Boeing turned and twisted through the brutish storms until they were at last on final approach, where they were battered and rocked until they touched down in firehose-like torrents. As they braked to taxi speed, there was so much water on the windows that all that was visible was a twisted black and green blur, punctuated by the blip of runway lights.
The storm moved on as Detective Inspector Albright and his team descended the steps onto the soaked tarmac. His first impression was the smell: a strong, earthy musk. There was something primal about it. Something that connected him to some forgotten memory.
Waiting for them was Colonel Elijah Biabaku, his police liaison in country.
“Greetings, Inspector; you are very welcome in Nigeria,” Biabaku said. He snapped his crispest salute.
Albright rendered his own tired, but sincere salute. “Thank you, Colonel. I wish I were here under happier circumstances,” he replied.
“Naturally, sir. I think perhaps you would like to rest?”
Albright wanted nothing more. Colonel Biabaku motioned for the men to board the waiting, armored Range Rovers, and they wound their way through a sleeping market district en route to their hotel. The shops were small stalls made of wood and tin, lit by oil lamps or small fires, and a new odor of fragrant firewood mixed with the smell of the land. Each of the shops had someone leaning against it, on guard. The hour-long ride was like a dream.
~* * *~
On the outskirts of the town of Buguma in the Niger Delta, nine-year-old Friday Jakande stood before Betty Abdu Mbunda, a self-styled Christian minister.
“You are accused of witchcraft of the first order, boy. What do you to say to this accusation?”
“Please, Mama Reverend, I am no wizard, please!” the boy wailed. He was pinned on his knees by two men from the village. Dozens more stood in a circle around him, each offering his opinion on the boy’s guilt or innocence. The advocates for innocence were few, their arguments half-hearted.
“I have a message from God that you are in the service of a demon. It is said that your father was also a slave to this demon. Admit your shame in this that I may expel the wickedness from you, boy.”
“I am no witch, Mama Reverend!” Even a boy of nine knew that to confess would mean almost certain death. Friday’s father, Okonkwo, had confessed to the same crime of Ju-ju several years before, and had disappeared. The Reverend Betty had offered to treat the boy, but the fee of ten thousand naira was more than his family saw in two or three years, so his mother had no option but to protect the boy as best she could by hiding him. On that night his luck had run out, and he was captive in a remote clearing while his mother searched Buguma for him, wailing his name up every lane.
The Reverend Betty was draped in brilliant blue and white satin robes that gave her the appearance of a Biblical saint. On her breast was a huge gold crucifix festooned with violet gemstones.
“I will address the demon inside of this child now!” Betty bellowed, her face to the sky. “Demon, if you do not surrender this boy, you will be expelled by ordeal. Do you understand that the power of God will force you out of this child?” She raised her arms, and allowed the adjuration drift to the heavens.
“I am not possessed!”
“It has been observed that you practice Ju-Ju. Do you deny that you have made this woman sick with fevers?” Betty pointed to a thin woman in the crowd, who displayed every indication that she wished to spit on young Friday.
“I do deny it. I have not made her sick, I have only seen the sickness in her.”
There was a gasp from the crowd. All eyes turned to Betty.
“Ah-ha. You admit you can see the sickness? This is a known trick of Ezembe.”
The crowd nodded as one.
“If you are good, I may wish to cleanse you with God’s power.”
“But my mother, she can no pay for this! She has no monies.”
“God’s work must be done, and this requires the tithe, as it say in the Bible. Everyone know this. If your wish to be rid of the demon is pure, then God will provide the money.”
“I do not have. I am not demon, I swear!” Friday shrieked, struggling impotently with the men pinning his calves to the ground with their feet.
The Reverend Betty raised her face again and said, “Almighty God, this demon, he does not want to leave the child!” Then to Friday, “I will give you one chance to be saved, boy. We will make the ordeal.” The crowd hushed. Betty nodded to one of the flock, and a large ebony cup was brought to her. She ran her fingers through the cup, and a dozen or more large brown beans trickled over her fingers. She passed the cup to a man, a deacon, dressed in an orange and black robe. Friday kicked and screamed until he was squirming on the ground. One of the men holdi
ng him squeezed his mouth open, and the Reverend Mamma’s deacon began shoving beans into his mouth. Friday spat and spluttered, making muffled screams through the mushy mouthful, but the man pushed the beans down and forced him to swallow until the cup was empty.
~* * *~
Francis Albright idly pushed his cold toast around the plate. His stomach fluttered from the anti-malarial drugs, and the heat and humidity in his room had kept him from sleeping much. The other three members of his team were in more or less the same shape, though none of them griped. Their purpose in Buguma: to investigate the apparent “medicine murder” of an unidentified young boy found in the Thames a year before. All that had remained of the unfortunate child was a dismembered torso. Analysis of his bone chemistry and DNA revealed that his origins lay in the Niger Delta region, and specifically, the small peninsula where the ancient capital of the Kalahari region, Buguma, lay. The case had met with nothing but dead ends in London, and Scotland Yard hoped that this operation might yield a new lead.
In addition to Albright, there was an investigator from the Evidence Collection Unit, Peter Williams, and two constables to assist with the collection of samples and to canvass the locals. The hotel was little more than a large block-and-tin shed, and the men were exhausted from a week in the heat and humidity. The rooms’ air conditioning worked, but persistent power failures meant that it was only on a few hours a day, and hardly at all at night. The only relief from the heat was the frequent heavy showers that offered a few minutes of cool, wet air from above. The four men were very much the worse for wear, and edgy.
“Did you manage to get the gear charged up last night?” Albright asked. The outages had left them with no battery power at all the previous day.
“Yes, sir, we’re good to go today. Got everything up one hundred percent,” Williams replied.
“Good. Maybe we can make a bit of progress, then. Have you checked yesterday’s results?”
“Yes, sir, I did. There weren’t many samples anyway. On the whole, with what we have to date, crossing the Y samples with the mitochondrial, I believe we’re in the right neighborhood. But at the moment we are, at best, five relations removed from the boy.”
“Well, that’s not such a leap. At least it’s progress.”
“Problem is, the more relatives we find, the more relatives we find. We started off with twenty-three people on our list, and we’re up to over four hundred now. God knows how many we’ll have in a few more days.”
“Here’s hoping we hit gold today, then. Right,” Albright said, motioning towards the two Bobbies. “You two can take the north side of the highway today. Accurate parentage of each of the subjects, and do be sure to log each one, Smythe,” he added, pointing to the big, sulking officer across from him.
“Aye, sir, I will, sir. No mistakes.”
“Good. And concentrate on leads that coincide with the list of missing children that the locals have given us. If it smells like a dead end, leave it. Let’s wrap this up and get the hell out of here, eh, gents?”
Obtaining DNA samples was proving to be problematic. Most of the people they approached were suspicious of this business of having their mouths swabbed. The local police would have to cajole them, or as often as not, force them, and that frequently got ugly. D.I. Albright didn’t approve, but they were there to do a job.
Albright’s escort was led by Sergeant Yaya Owegbo, a friendly, bright man who did not suffer fools gladly. His slightly threadbare uniform was as well presented as it could be, and he wore white gloves and carried a swagger stick as well as an unmistakable air of confidence. Albright had been in some rough areas back in England, but they paled in comparison to this place. This man knew his business; of that, Albright had no doubt.
The Land Rover proceeded down the Asari Turu river road, the morning sun charging the neon-like green vegetation and red earth. Faces in the streets of Buguma turned to watch them pass. A further reminder that they were strangers in this strange land.
“I do not think your sci-ence will find this boy’s family, sah,” said Sergeant Owegbo. “There are too many, too many.”
Albright grunted as the car hit a rut. “Well, that’s not going to stop us from trying, anyhow. Our office wants this resolved.”
“Many many children go missing in Nigeria. Many many. You cannot find them once they go.” Owegbo wiped his hands together, and then held them palms up, empty. “If we had the monies you spend looking for this boy, we could do many things here.”
“You’re not wrong there, Sergeant. But maybe this will be a start.”
Owegbo smiled broadly. “Yes, sah, I am hoping, I am hoping.”
The first person on the list that day was Mineema Jakande, a relative of a hit they had gotten several days before. They threaded their way through the crowded streets to a row of ramshackle tin-roofed apartments. Mrs. Jakande eyed the tall blond-haired D.I. and his redheaded companion warily, and flatly refused to allow samples to be taken. Sergeant Owegbo went at her fiercely in the local lingo, and in the end, the woman reluctantly agreed. Albright swabbed her cheek while Peter obtained the family history.
After some more arguing and wheedling, the mother also allowed samples to be taken from her two sons. The portable DNA reader required little more than putting the sample on a credit-card-sized chip and pushing it into a slot in the machine, from where the data could be transferred to a laptop. Peter dutifully checked the results, double-checked them, and then pulled Albright aside. “This woman is not the mother of these boys, gov.”
Owegbo’s ears pricked up, and he confronted Mineema. “Why you lie to us? What you hiding, woman?” he roared. He smacked her face with the back of his hand.
Albright grabbed his wrist before he could strike her again. “Whoa, whoa, none of that, Sergeant.”
“She is a lying woman, sah. She must tell the truth.”
“I am no lying!” Mineema wailed. “These boys are me and my husband issue!”
Owegbo raised his hand again, and again Albright grabbed it. “It doesn’t matter, Sergeant; the DNA is all we really need.”
“Inspector, we’re moving further away here anyway,” Williams said, after he compared the DNA to his baseline. “Waste of time following this any further.”
“Right.” Albright turned to the woman and said, “I thank you for your cooperation, madam. You’ve been very helpful.”
“These are my boys, I tell you.”
“I’m sure it’s our mistake, madam. Thank you again.” As angry as Albright was with the sergeant, he realized that this was a different world. He kept his own counsel as they drove off, but the sergeant was clearly still annoyed.
“A difficult woman, Inspector. She was lying, I am sure.”
“It doesn’t matter, Sergeant. We got what we needed. Why the long argument when we arrived, though?”
“She was worried for the two boys she says are hers. She say that the neighbors want to hurt them, that they are witches.”
“Witches? They don’t look much like witches to me. They can’t be much more than eleven or twelve, either one of them.”
“The people here, they believe there are many children born to Ju-Ju. Many people. Me, I do not know.” Owegbo shrugged his shoulders. “But many are killed in this way.”
“Do you think our boy was one of those?”
“No, sah. This one in London was a medicine murder. He was killed as sacrifice and for his body parts, I think.”
“Body parts? You’re serious?”
“Yes, sah. Many witch use male genital and other parts to make power. It is normal for this to happen.”
Albright was stunned. He had been briefed about some of this before he came, but each day in this place brought new horrors. Small wonder the local police were so brutal. You’d have to be hard to operate in this environment, very hard. Not that he condoned it. A devoutly religious man, Francis Albright tried to maintain the tenets of his faith in every aspect of his life—not an easy thing in his busin
ess.
“But how can a child be a witch? And how can people believe it?”
“Ah, sah, they have been identified by the local minister as witches. They must have deliverance, or they will surely be killed.”
“What sort of deliverance?”
The Rover hit a pothole, and Albright bounced off the worn seat so hard he hit his head on the roof. He shoved his foot hard against the floor to pin himself against the seat back. Owegbo hadn’t seemed to notice, and kept his speed.
“The minister, she will treat them for some months for a fee. It sometime works, you see. She will pray and give the child herbs, but no food, and she will starve the demon. The child is then free from the evil.”
If they survive, Albright thought.
They met up with the other team that evening, and had a few beers while Williams looked through the day’s data. He ran his little finger down the rows of squiggles and figures and said, “No real progress, I’m afraid, but I do have a rather strange anomaly, sir. The other team has collected a set of samples from a cousin of those boys we saw today, and his mitochondrial alleles match theirs on all points.”
Albright picked at the label on his beer bottle. Vile as the local brew was, it was the only thing they had swallowed so far that agreed with them. “Well, they’re cousins. You’d expect that, right?”
“Normally that would be the case,” Williams said, “but they’re supposed to be cousins on their fathers’ sides, and the mtDNA from the two fathers matches in all three boys. That’s not right; mtDNA comes from the mothers, so they shouldn’t match. And they can’t have gotten it from their fathers.”
“And are any of these people bringing us any further in the investigation?”
“No, I don’t think so. They may be related to our boy, but it’s distant. We have lots of other samples that are much closer.”
“Well, log it and forget it. We’ll push on with what we came to do. We can do without getting sidetracked here.”
“Oh, I agree, Inspector. Mostly I was just worried that the equipment was faulty, or that I had made an error. The most likely explanation is that there is some confusion as to parenthood. Aunts on the father’s side raising the boys. Something like that.”
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