A Death in the Family (22 page)

He took out the body of a young man who was not a policeman. One of the rioters, he supposed. There was no surprise here either. A bullet wound in the chest. Fortunately this was the only death from police fire, but he'd been told several people were in hospital also with bullet wounds. He sighed as he closed the drawer—the man had died so young.

There were two left: Chief Koma and another elder. He left the chief until last; he might as well start the autopsies with him. When he looked at the elder, he was intrigued. He had also been beaten, but not as badly as the others, and the lividity and lack of bleeding indicated that the wounds may have been postmortem. Ian's professional curiosity was peaked. Here was an issue worth investigating. Probably the old man had died of fright, as a layman might say. Ian would find the physiological cause of that.

Then he checked Chief Koma. He, too, had been battered, but there was a curious patch of blood on the back of his shirt. Suspecting a stab wound, Ian cut away the shirt to expose the flesh. Then he realized at once what the wound was.

*   *   *

MABAKU FELT THEY
were making progress. Leads were coming together; people were starting to talk. He was hopeful that by the end of the week, they could tell the president that the investigation was essentially complete and the perpetrators of the violence brought to book. His positive mood was interrupted by his cell phone. It took him a moment to fish it out of his pocket, and he answered without checking the caller.

“Mabaku.”

“Director, it's Ian McGregor here. I've taken a look at all the bodies. Very preliminary at this stage, but there's something you should know at once.”

“Go on.” Mabaku didn't like the sound of this.

“From a superficial examination, I would say that the two policemen and two of the elders died from repeated blows from a blunt weapon, possibly a knobkierie or the like. No surprises there. The other elder seems to have been battered
after
he died. I'm guessing he had a heart attack or a massive stroke. I'll be able to confirm that later. But Chief Koma…” He paused. “Chief Koma was shot. Shot in the back. The bullet lodged in the spine. That would have killed him. He was also battered, but maybe after he was shot. I can't be sure at this point, though.”

For a moment Mabaku was speechless. Suddenly, the whole scenario had changed.

“Director? Are you there?”

“Yes, yes. Was it a stray bullet from a police weapon?” Mabaku realized this would be a public-relations nightmare, but at least that wouldn't be his problem.

“That's what I thought at first, but it's not right. I extracted the bullet. It's not police issue. The weight is more appropriate for something like a .22.”

Mabaku sighed. Now it certainly was his problem. He asked Ian for more information, but the pathologist didn't have anything else to give him.

“I'll do a full autopsy on the chief now and try to determine whether the other wounds were postmortem. But I'll need some time, Director.”

Mabaku sighed and signed off with, “Thank you, Ian. You've really made my day.”

 

CHAPTER 38

The flight was every bit as uncomfortable as Kubu had expected, even though a flight attendant had offered the passenger next to him an alternative seat—an offer that was hastily accepted. After pecking at his tasteless dinner, Kubu had difficulty finding a comfortable position to sleep and anyway was concerned that if he did fall asleep, he would start snoring. So he read every word of the in-flight magazine, perused the emergency procedures, and read
The Star
, which he borrowed from a neighboring passenger.

Even walking up and down the aisle was problematic, though Kubu attempted it every thirty minutes or so to keep a promise he'd made to Joy, who was concerned about deep vein thrombosis. It was almost impossible to progress without brushing against the shoulders of passengers who were trying to sleep or stepping on feet that had strayed from under the seats. Kubu found himself apologizing at every step of the way.

The situation worsened when the plane landed at Dakar, which Kubu had not realized was a scheduled stop. Nobody left the plane, but quite a few boarded, filling the plane completely. The passenger originally seated next to Kubu was forced to return, and Kubu had to lower the armrest between them, which was no mean feat.

After takeoff, Kubu asked a flight attendant whether, in the interests of harmony in his row and the one in front of him, he could use one of the flight-attendant seats until they started the descent into New York. A quick glance at his bulk convinced her that a small violation of the rules was acceptable, and Kubu at last found a modicum of comfort.

*   *   *

WHEN THE CAPTAIN
announced that they had commenced their descent into New York, and Kubu had returned to his seat, he started to feel excited. The Big Apple! JFK! Manhattan! The Metropolitan Opera! Central Park! The Empire State Building! Forty-Second Street! The Museum of Modern Art! Carnegie Hall! Broadway! All these places that he'd heard about for years were now going to become real.

He closed his eyes and imagined himself standing in the snow, eating roasted chestnuts and warm pretzels on the pavement—sorry, sidewalk. He smiled. He would go and watch people skating at Radio City Music Hall, wrapped in colorful scarves and holding hands, Strauss waltzes playing over the loudspeakers. For the first time in weeks, he felt a pang of hunger as he saw himself walking into a deli and ordering a Reuben sandwich and a blintz, whatever that was, to be washed down by a root beer float. And he would sit there and read the
New York Times
review of the current opera at the Met, surrounded by visitors from all over the world speaking languages he didn't understand. How sophisticated. And nobody would know he was just a boy from Mochudi.

*   *   *

HIS ENTRANCE INTO
the land of the free was not quite what he'd anticipated. He noticed that passengers whose skin color was not white seemed to take much longer to clear immigration. And when he reached the front of the line, he was interrogated as though he were a terrorist—until he produced his police identification. “Why didn't you say so right away,” the immigration officer muttered, banging his stamp onto Kubu's passport.

Then Kubu was pulled aside by a customs officer with an inquisitive dog and asked if he had any foodstuff. Kubu shook his head. “No, sir,” he said politely.

“Open your suitcase, please.”

Kubu complied, and the officer pulled clothes out and piled them onto the table. Eventually, his hand emerged grasping a small, gift-wrapped parcel.

“What's in here?”

“I don't know,” Kubu said, beginning to feel a little guilty. “My wife must have put it in my bag.”

“Open it.”

Before doing so, Kubu read the little tag attached to the parcel. On it was written “I love you” in Joy's handwriting.

“See, Officer. It is from my wife.”

“Please open it.”

Kubu tore the paper to find a small packet of sliced biltong and another note: “You won't find any biltong in New York.”

Now Kubu felt embarrassed.

The customs officer told Kubu that he couldn't bring meat into the country, even if it was cured. He took the packet and threw it into a large barrel. “Next time, remember you can't bring foodstuffs with you. Welcome to America.” He walked off, following the sniffing dog, leaving Kubu wondering how he was going to get everything back into the suitcase. Next time, he'd watch Joy packing more carefully.

It was just getting light outside when Kubu emerged from the arrivals hall. He followed the signs for the taxi stand and walked through the sliding doors out into a cold New York winter's day. The few snowflakes didn't bother him, but he was totally unprepared for the cold. His coat was designed to ward off cold Botswana desert nights, where the temperature rarely fell below freezing. But it was nearly useless for the -3° F temperature that he had stepped into, made much worse by the howling wind that pushed cold air right through it. For the first time in his life, Kubu understood the meaning of the windchill factor. He gasped, thinking his lungs were going to freeze, and staggered back inside the terminal.

He stood recovering for a few moments, then decided he needed to find a place that sold hats and gloves. I couldn't care what I look like, he thought. I'm going to find a stocking hat—and a big one at that. And if all they have is garden gloves, that's what I'll wear.

*   *   *

“HOW CAN PEOPLE
live like this?” Kubu asked the Somali cabdriver, as he unsuccessfully contorted his neck to see the top of the buildings. “Everyone living on top of each other.”

“People don't see other people. Just concentrate on where they're going.”

“And the traffic! We've moved two blocks in fifteen minutes. How long till we get to the hotel?”

“Nearly there. Only a few more blocks.”

Kubu leaned back and closed his eyes. A power nap when I get to the hotel will be in order, he thought. But there was too much to see to keep his eyes shut, so he spent the rest of the time gazing in awe at the masses of people, the thousands of shops, the lights, and the slow-moving traffic, which was occasionally punctuated by cyclists weaving their way between the cars. And the noise! Everyone seemed to be hooting at everyone else. The cabbie behind nearly went apoplectic when Kubu's driver looked down for a few moments and failed to close the ten-foot gap ahead of him. As though it made any difference!

Eventually, they made it to the hotel on Thirty-Seventh Street. “Broadway is two blocks in that direction,” the cabbie said, probably trying to be helpful to a fellow African. “If you go in the other direction, you end up at the Hudson.”

“Thank you,” Kubu said, paying him.

“You're welcome. Have a nice day.”

The check-in was efficient, and Kubu soon found himself unlocking the door to his room on the twenty-seventh floor. He gazed around. I've paid over two thousand pula for this? he thought. The bed nearly takes up the whole room, and it's only a queen.

He put down his suitcase and squeezed past the bed to the bathroom. He stopped, trying to figure out how he could get in and shut the door. It seemed impossible. After a few seconds, he decided that since he was the only person in the room, it didn't matter if the bathroom door was closed. I understand now, he thought, how there can be so many people in New York. They're packed in like sardines.

Having a shower also posed logistical problems, and Kubu was worried by the amount of water that found its way outside the tiny stall. He hoped that it wasn't leaking into the room below. But what can I do? he wondered. The shower door opens inward, and once I'm in the shower, I can't close it.

After he had dried himself—in itself a difficult undertaking because there was no room to spread his arms—he decided to have a nap, even though it was only eleven in the morning. He reset his watch to local time, set the alarm for twelve thirty, slid between the sheets, and within minutes, the room was filled with the sound of his snores.

 

CHAPTER 39

It was nearly three o'clock when Kubu woke up. He'd slept far longer than he'd planned and was now feeling very groggy. What happened to the alarm? he wondered. He had to rub his eyes several times before he could focus on the numbers on his watch. The alarm
was
set for twelve thirty. Had he slept through it? He'd never done that before. He looked closer. It was set for twelve thirty a.m., not p.m. Damn it! In his fumbling, he must have switched the display from a twenty-four-hour clock to the more conventional twelve-hour one.

He squeezed into the bathroom and splashed water onto his face. Then he found the number Newsom had left on his Botswana phone and dialed it.

“Good afternoon. Newsom Consulting.” This was a live version of the voice that invited people to leave a message, Kubu thought.

“Good afternoon. This is Assistant Superintendent David Bengu of the Botswana police. Please, may I speak to Mr. Newsom.”

“I'm afraid he's not available. May I take a message?”

Kubu left the name and phone number of his hotel, as well as his Botswana cell number. “Please ask Mr. Newsom to contact me as soon as possible. It's quite urgent. It would be better in the evening, because I'm attending an Interpol conference from tomorrow.”

“Certainly, sir. I'll leave him a message right away.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Have a nice day.”

Kubu dressed and prepared to find a clothing store he could afford that had a coat for a real winter. The receptionist gave two recommendations, Marshall's on Sixth between Eighteenth and Nineteenth, and Big and Tall on Sixth between Fifty-Second and Fifty-Third. As he prepared to brave the cold in search of a cab, she shouted out, “I think Macy's also has a big and tall. West Thirty-Fourth between Sixth and Seventh.” Kubu waved a thank-you, pulled on his newly acquired stocking hat and gloves, and pushed through the rotating door. Again, the cold nearly took his breath away.

He stood on the sidewalk and raised his hand when a cab approached. It went straight past. A few moments later, the same thing happened. And again. And again. There was a man nearby who had left the hotel a few minutes after Kubu and was also trying to hail a cab, so Kubu turned to him.

“Why don't those taxis stop?”

“They already have a passenger or are going to pick one up. Look at the cab number on the roof. If it's got a light, it's free. If not, you're out of luck.”

Kubu thanked the man and continued waving his arm. Eventually, a cab veered from the other side of the road and stopped. Kubu moved forward, thankful that he would be protected from the cold for a few minutes. Just as he was about to open the door, the other man nipped in front of him, opened the door, and jumped in. “Have a nice day,” he said as he closed the door. And the cab roared off.