Forensic rules of evidence tend to be a bit wobbly in South Sudan. We wouldn’t be joined by a crew of techs in hairnets and white booties. No police tape. No fingertip search of the vicinity. No lab analysis. No DNA samples taken. No databases checked for similar cases. The body would be carted away and that would be the end of that.
Deng and I did what we could to examine the scene.
It looked as if she’d been taken by surprise. Strangled with the white ribbon. Left where she fell. No defensive wounds on her hands or arms. No signs of sexual activity.
Deng crouched down. “What does the ribbon mean?” He reached out one hand and ran his fingers over it very lightly.
“I don’t know. It means something to him. He might not even know what. Sometimes they leave a sign. Sometimes they take trophies.”
“Trophies?”
“Yeah. I don’t see anything missing here. Serial killers usually have a signature. His is the white ribbon.”
Deng shook his head. When you’ve seen so much death and dying, it’s hard to believe someone would do it for…fun?
At a guess—and it would never be more than a guess—she’d been dead about two hours. Not many bugs yet. No rigor mortis.
I’d once tried to explain rigor mortis to Deng and his colleagues. They’d nodded very politely. I’d felt like a total fool. These guys had seen more dead bodies than any undertaker in Vancouver. They knew the process of decay, thank you very much.
Sometimes they could be so goddamned polite. Why didn’t they just tell me to shut the hell up? Suggest we take the time allocated for the lecture to go for a beer?
Deng and I shone our flashlights around the area. I made notes in my notebook. And then we left. What else could we do? The carcass would be loaded into the back of a van and that would be the end of her.
The bend in the road was close to Notos. A good bar with a great Indian kitchen. I suggested we stop in for a drink. Deng looked surprised. We UN advisors told them drinking on the job was a bad thing. I winked and said it was all part of the job.
Which wasn’t a lie.
Notos was a popular spot. Aid workers and foreign government staffers hung out there. They might have seen something. The rest of the road was made up of tin shacks and cardboard houses. Plus a few of the traditional mud and grass huts called tukuls. No one there would help the police.
The fire in the pizza oven blazed. Spices filled the air. The bar hopped with good jazz.
The restaurant was full. I nodded to a couple of Canadian embassy staff. We went to the bar. I ordered two orange Fantas. Deng tried not to look too terribly disappointed.
The bartender was named Shirley. A knockout in a neat white shirt and black pants, with short-cropped black hair. She passed the bottles over with a soft smile. The smile was directed not at me but at Deng. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Busy tonight,” I said.
“Usual.”
“Some trouble out on the street earlier. A couple of hours ago. Maybe around nine. Did you hear anything, Shirley?”
She glanced at Deng from under her eyelashes.
He said, “Did you?”
“Can’t hear anything over the noise in here.”
“Did anyone go out for a break, maybe? Smoke. Get some air?”
A silent shake of her head. She slid down to the end of the bar to take an order.
That’s the problem with policing here. You don’t know what experiences people have had. In Canada, we get suspicious if someone avoids police questions. Most people want to be helpful. Whether they have anything to be helpful about or not. But here, with the trauma some of these people have experienced?
Maybe they’re as guilty as sin.
Maybe they don’t much care.
Maybe they’ve seen men in uniform slaughter whole families.
You just don’t know.
I visited the tables. I asked the same questions I’d asked Shirley. Got nothing but shakes of the head and questions back.
Only a shy young waitress named Marlene thought hard. I suspected Marlene liked me. I didn’t know if she really liked me or was just hoping for a visa to Canada. I made sure to always keep things light and no more than friendly. Tonight, she had nothing to say that would help us.
Back to the bar. I leaned against the counter and sucked on my Fanta. The restaurant was emptying out. People called good night to their friends in the warm night air.
A tall white woman, blond, pretty, came up to the bar. She dug in her purse. “I need more Internet time,” she said. “Can I buy three hours?” Her English was perfect, the Dutch accent strong. She gave me a smile as Shirley searched for the Internet vouchers. I hadn’t seen the Dutch woman when we came through the restaurant.
“Do you live nearby?” I asked.
“In the townhouses, yes.” Four modern townhouses were next to the restaurant. They were surrounded by a concrete wall. They boasted a rare patch of scrappy lawn and trimmed bushes.
“Were you outside earlier? Say around nine, ten?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Police business.”
Deng refrained from rolling his eyes. He thought I was trying to pick her up.
She laughed through a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “I had dinner with friends. Came home by taxi. Around nine, I think. What happened?”
“There was a killing. On the corner. Where the road bends.”
She lifted her hand to her mouth. “A killing? Who? Someone I know?”
“A local, probably.”
The concern faded from her face. “That’s very sad.”
“It might have been around that time. Did you see anything unusual?”
She hesitated.
“What?” I asked, my tone sharper than I’d intended.
Shirley passed her a slip of paper. “Twenty-five pounds.”
The Dutch woman handed over an orange bill. She chewed her lip. “I heard something.”
“Yes?”
“The air-conditioning wasn’t working in the taxi. The windows were down. I heard someone—a woman—scream.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Just a scream. Once only.” She looked away, embarrassed. “We drove on, and I heard no more. I’m sorry.” She scurried off.
I let out a long sigh.
“What did you expect, Ray?” Deng asked.
A good question. I expected nothing else, really. No one would want to get involved. Not many people would much care. What was the scream of a woman in the hot African night?
In Canada, plenty of people would have rolled up their windows too.
“Helps narrow the time,” I said, not very helpfully. “The state of the body indicated a time of death around nine. The scream was heard at that time.”
“Very helpful,” Deng said. I suspected he was being sarcastic.
I put the remains of my sickly sweet orange drink on the bar and stalked out. Deng followed, chuckling.