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Authors: Thomas H. Cook
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wasn’t Somali,” I reminded him.
“Anyway, from Africa,” Regal said, dismissively shrugging off the entire continent.
It was a grim assessment, but in terms of Africa’s recent history, I couldn’t entirely contradict it. As Martine’s Open Letter had enumerated, in nation after nation the trajectory had been remarkably similar. The struggle for independence had first lifted the great father figures: Nkrumah, Kenyatta, and the like. These had been followed by the Amins and the Bokassas, the Mugabes, the Mobutus, rulers so psychopathic, their tyrannies so operatically over-the-top, they’d brought a funhouse mirror into Hell.
“I presume you canvassed the hotel,” I said.
“Did you get your knowledge of police procedure from television or do you have some experience on the job?” Regal asked with a slightly mocking smile.
“Strictly television,” I answered. “Did anybody talk?”
“One guy,” Regal answered. “He lived across from the victim, and they had a few talks here and there, but according to this guy, Alaya was very closemouthed.”
“Would you mind giving me this man’s name?” I asked.
Regal hesitated. “You know, dipping your toe into a murder investigation could be dangerous. I presume Rudy told you that.”
“He wouldn’t have to,” I said, “but I’ll take my chances.”
Something in the tone of this answer seemed to convince Regal that I’d figured these risks and accepted them. He took a notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped through it before he found the man’s name.
“Dalumi,” he said. “Herman Dalumi. Room 14-A.”
“Thank you.”
Regal closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket. “There’s one more thing.” He drew a paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “It’s a picture of the tattoo we found on the victim’s back. The ME said it was done right before the murder.”
I looked at the photo and suddenly felt not nostalgia, but its chilling opposite, not a sweet or even bittersweet return of old feelings, but a wrenching, aching one.
“Is the tattoo some kind of symbol, like those machetes?” Regal asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered softly.
“It seems to strike a chord,” Regal said. “Like you recognized it.”
I nodded. “It’s an oyster shell,” I told him. “There was a woman in Tumasi who used to carve shells like that out of wood. She would tie one to the other, so that they could be clicked together like castanets. She gave them to children who passed by her farm, and in return, the nomads always gave her something. A little cheese, maybe. Some goat’s milk or a gourd.”
In my mind I saw Martine on one of those scorching afternoons, a group of Lutusi gathered in the front yard of her farmhouse, the children dancing around her, clicking the wooden shells she’d just given them. An old man, wrapped in flowing orange robes, had strolled over to her with something covered in a sack. She’d taken it and bowed to him, then turned toward me. “The Lutusi do not accept handouts,” she said in that softly pointed tone of hers. “They always give something in return.” With that she unwrapped the cloth to find a small pot that clearly delighted her, turned, and spoke to the man in the Lutusi dialect.
“What did you tell him?” I asked, once he had returned to the other Lutusi lingering beside the road.
“I told him that what he gave me is useful,” Martine answered. She turned the pot in her hands. “And it is useful.”
A scraping sound brought me back to the present. It was Regal’s chair as he scooted it forward. “So, what was this woman to Seso?”
“He knew her,” I said. “That’s all.”
Regal looked disappointed. “So, that’s a dead end then, that tattoo?”
“Probably.”
We talked on for a time, though mostly about other cases Regal had known, odd ones he’d never solved or had solved by accident. He clearly believed Seso’s case would be one or the other. During all of
“Anyway, from Africa,” Regal said, dismissively shrugging off the entire continent.
It was a grim assessment, but in terms of Africa’s recent history, I couldn’t entirely contradict it. As Martine’s Open Letter had enumerated, in nation after nation the trajectory had been remarkably similar. The struggle for independence had first lifted the great father figures: Nkrumah, Kenyatta, and the like. These had been followed by the Amins and the Bokassas, the Mugabes, the Mobutus, rulers so psychopathic, their tyrannies so operatically over-the-top, they’d brought a funhouse mirror into Hell.
“I presume you canvassed the hotel,” I said.
“Did you get your knowledge of police procedure from television or do you have some experience on the job?” Regal asked with a slightly mocking smile.
“Strictly television,” I answered. “Did anybody talk?”
“One guy,” Regal answered. “He lived across from the victim, and they had a few talks here and there, but according to this guy, Alaya was very closemouthed.”
“Would you mind giving me this man’s name?” I asked.
Regal hesitated. “You know, dipping your toe into a murder investigation could be dangerous. I presume Rudy told you that.”
“He wouldn’t have to,” I said, “but I’ll take my chances.”
Something in the tone of this answer seemed to convince Regal that I’d figured these risks and accepted them. He took a notebook from his shirt pocket and flipped through it before he found the man’s name.
“Dalumi,” he said. “Herman Dalumi. Room 14-A.”
“Thank you.”
Regal closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket. “There’s one more thing.” He drew a paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “It’s a picture of the tattoo we found on the victim’s back. The ME said it was done right before the murder.”
I looked at the photo and suddenly felt not nostalgia, but its chilling opposite, not a sweet or even bittersweet return of old feelings, but a wrenching, aching one.
“Is the tattoo some kind of symbol, like those machetes?” Regal asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered softly.
“It seems to strike a chord,” Regal said. “Like you recognized it.”
I nodded. “It’s an oyster shell,” I told him. “There was a woman in Tumasi who used to carve shells like that out of wood. She would tie one to the other, so that they could be clicked together like castanets. She gave them to children who passed by her farm, and in return, the nomads always gave her something. A little cheese, maybe. Some goat’s milk or a gourd.”
In my mind I saw Martine on one of those scorching afternoons, a group of Lutusi gathered in the front yard of her farmhouse, the children dancing around her, clicking the wooden shells she’d just given them. An old man, wrapped in flowing orange robes, had strolled over to her with something covered in a sack. She’d taken it and bowed to him, then turned toward me. “The Lutusi do not accept handouts,” she said in that softly pointed tone of hers. “They always give something in return.” With that she unwrapped the cloth to find a small pot that clearly delighted her, turned, and spoke to the man in the Lutusi dialect.
“What did you tell him?” I asked, once he had returned to the other Lutusi lingering beside the road.
“I told him that what he gave me is useful,” Martine answered. She turned the pot in her hands. “And it is useful.”
A scraping sound brought me back to the present. It was Regal’s chair as he scooted it forward. “So, what was this woman to Seso?”
“He knew her,” I said. “That’s all.”
Regal looked disappointed. “So, that’s a dead end then, that tattoo?”
“Probably.”
We talked on for a time, though mostly about other cases Regal had known, odd ones he’d never solved or had solved by accident. He clearly believed Seso’s case would be one or the other. During all of
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