Father Confessor - For the Motherland

Chapter 8

Tsholo closed her eyes and took a long breath, her mind working furiously. She did not know if Maboetsi had known Garikai's name, from their interactions a few weeks earlier. It was possible he had seen the video which had raised the ire of many Batswana, since they had erroneously believed the Zimbabwean was responsible for the gruesome deaths of over a dozen people.

When Tsholo opened her eyes, Vice President Merika was venting his anger and confusion at Nariti, while her superior was busy comforting his wife, who was weeping openly. Maboetsi did not seem to connect the name with anybody he knew, so Tsholo decided not to enlighten him as yet as she joined the apparently popular chorus: "who is this Garikai Rukope?"

Nariti said, "I'm going to try the police database, maybe we will find somewhere to start."

A hoarse voice from the lounge doorway surprised everyone. "You can try that, my dear, but I don't think you will find him that way."

The voice belonged to an old man, whose hair and face brought an image of an aging monkey to Tsholo's mind. He leaned on a walking stick, slick in an expensive two-piece suit, a grin, showing a surprising number of teeth, on his face.

VP Merika broke the questioning silence that had fallen in the room. "Comrade Bob!"

"Here in the flesh." They shook hands, and Tsholo felt that the strength in the grip was incongruent with the appearance of frailty the man projected. "Mr Rukope is someone I'm familiar with. Let me make a call."

He swiftly turned on his heels and headed out, leaving the assembled company collectively agape.

"Comrade Bob," VP Merika explained, "is a long time member of our intelligence service."

Tsholo felt that was explanation enough. She briefly wondered if Garikai would be like that in old age. Her cell buzzed and she excused herself. Once in the hallway, she read the text message from Captain Moyo.

Can you and the DCI come to Central Police station asap?

Tsholo mulled for a moment before squaring her shoulders and reentering the sitting room. She beckoned to Nariti, who was deep in conversation with the vice president. With clear dislike on her face, the Zimbabwean cop came to her.

"Detective Baboloki, what do you want?"

"Detective Chief Inspector Nariti, I have just received a message from Captain Moyo of your Duty Uniform Bureau. She has something she wants to show us at the Central Station."

"Really?" Nariti's tone could have cut through a glacier. "And why, pray tell, didn't the esteemed captain tell me that?"

Tsholo sighed inwardly. "Well, I don't know. Maybe because you left your phone in the car."

The misplaced anger on Nariti's face vanished and she said harshly,"Well, don't just stand there gawking at me. Let's go."

***

When they got to the precinct -- a motley of nineteenth century whitewashed buildings standing cheek by jowl with the Magistrates Court on H. Chitepo Street -- they made way to Captain Moyo's office on the first floor of the double storey building.

A number of uniformed officers saluted smartly as Tsholo and Nariti walked through the cops' workstations. Neat desks with modern desktops and digital printers lined the bullpen. Tsholo noticed that only a skeleton crew manned the precinct. No doubt the rest were out on the streets, showing around the pictures of the kidnapped kids and conducting impromptu searches on suspicious vehicles.

Moyo's desk faced a large open window with a view of the precinct's parking lot, and upon entering the office, Tsholo found herself looking at the captain's decorated left shoulder epaulette as the latter rose in greeting. Behind the desk stood a varnished wood file cabinet with all doors closed. Above her right shoulder, a portrait of the president glowered accusingly at the doorway as if saying, "now what have you done?"

On the desk stood an HP desktop computer, a few neatly arranged folders and three Eversharp pens in an orderly row.

"Sir." Moyo greeted her superior crisply, before favouring Tsholo with a friendly smile. "Detective."

"What have you got, captain?" Nariti asked.

"Bad news, I'm afraid." Moyo handed them each a slim file. "This is what we found at Gadzanani's house. That's his wife and kid."

The first of the A4 sized color photographs showed a full length image of a woman lying on her back, an infant held tightly onto her bosom. The second was a close up of her upper torso and was so gory Tsholo felt bile rising up her throat. A single bullet hole on the forehead marred a once beautiful face, a face now contorted in rictus of fear. The forensic team's camera had picked up every minute and horrific detail: the lines around the mouth, the strands of a wig now blown haphazardly across the face. However, it was on the closeup of the infant that the full brutality of the scene was displayed. Half of the child's head had been blown off, and Tsholo took one look and put the glossy prints down, excusing herself to go to the bathroom.

When she got back, Moyo was putting on a bulletproof vest. Tsholo accepted one and put it on over her casual clothes. "Where are we going?"

"Chikanga. We found Gadzanani." Surprisingly, it was Nariti who answered, a look of determination on her face. "Let's go get some answers."

They shuffled out in single file. Tsholo wondered if they were taking backup. "Do we have a SWAT team?"

Moyo nodded as they filed into a Ford Ranger. "Support Unit, already in place."

Their convoy screamed westwards, the gumballs lit and klaxons blaring. With the captain in the shotgun seat, Tsholo and Nariti were by necessity forced to share the backseat. A few minutes out, Tsholo posed the questions that had been bothering her since the previous night.

"DCI Nariti, can I ask you something?"

The other cop raised her eyebrows.

"Why do you hate me?"

Nariti stared at her for such a long time that she thought he was not going to answer. Then she shook her head and said, her voice breaking and her face a mask of hurt and hate, "It's true what they say.Chinokanganwa idemo, muti haufi wakakanganwa."

"What does that mean?" Tsholo queried.

"You are a hotshot detective, figure it out."

Tsholo was confused. The anger and enmity from Nariti was more than just professional competition or even mild xenophobia. It seemed purely personal and yet Tsholo did not have any contact with Nariti, nor had she even heard of her prior to the conference.

Whatever it was, Tsholo decided as the truck came to a stop, could wait.

Rows of medium sized houses stood on both sides of the compacted gravel road. They all looked the same: fading light blue walls, red corrugated iron sheets and with each unit surrounded by a mesh wire fence.

A navy blue armored truck was parked at the gate to Unit 23, with a number of heavily kitted officers keeping wary lookouts at the house. One of the officers detached himself and approached their trio. A single word was stitched to his breast pocket flap. Svomho.

As he saluted, a commotion broke out in the line of sentries. A shout reached their ears.

"He is running!"

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