knife.”
Zembe starts to worry. A 28 killing is bad enough, but with a white man as the victim? She cannot imagine worse.
The man’s wallet hangs out of the jacket pocket. Zembe takes a piece of cloth from her bag and uses it to open the leather. Inside are four or five credit cards and a green I.D . card with holograms shimmering over the lettering. He is not from here.
She steps away from the body. The skin looks plastic, shiny, and too white. His eyes are blue, one closed, the other open. She takes a deep breath and turns to see that detective services have already sent down two uniformed officers. The older one informs Zembe that the national office has also requested that provincial crime intelligence pull men onto the case. White deaths cause trouble, forcing government attention onto her district, a place they are otherwise content to ignore. The national officers will ask her why there weren’t more police patrolling the streets. They will demand to know how a white businessman managed to get into the township without Zembe’s knowledge. She will point to her aging buggies. She will complain about gas allowances and sprawling shantytowns that expand her district but justify no extra funding for law enforcement. But she knows her answers won’t satisfy them. And they will be looking for someone to blame.
I T TAKES ALL DAY FOR THE CORONER AND IMPORTED officers to finish at the scene. The sun intensifies and then wanes, slipping below the horizon. The small side yardchanges colour, from yellow to deep orange to a delicate purple reflection of the evening sky. By eight, Zembe is exhausted. The morning meeting feels like a lifetime ago. The energy it takes to investigate a scene, keep the stomach still while they prod and shift and finally remove the body, train the eyes on another small square of sand, surprises Zembe every time. By the time they are ready to seal the scene for the day Zembe still knows very little: the dead man is Peter Matthews, fifty-two years old, from Toronto, Canada. Here on business with Amanzi’s parent company. A water man. Zembe warns her officers to keep this to themselves and then threatens with only one last dark look that lets them know she is serious.
It is imperative the rest of the township know nothing about the return of the 28s or the attack on a water company official. Gang killings are fodder for news crews. A foreigner will ensure even more attention.
The national team finishes, too quickly for Zembe’s taste, and she is forced to dismiss her own officers. Men scuttle about, double-checking labels and closing evidence kits before getting into their white sedans. Zembe is the last person to leave. She takes a moment to survey the scene as darkness falls, the way the 28s would have seen it. Hidden from the street, but surrounded by sleeping households, it is a risky place to leave a body.
Zembe takes the long route home. She enjoys the rhythm of the car on the drive and the way she can feel the township settle in around her. When she turns into her own drivewayall the doors on her street are closed. She steers her car into the parking pad behind her house and double-checks the gas level. Years patrolling the highways have taught her that keeping the bare minimum of gas in the tank is the best protection against car theft. Anyone who managed to break into her car wouldn’t get far on the half-litre she leaves.
The front windows of her house are dark, but a yellow light illuminates the front walk and the keyholes in both locks. Once inside, Zembe bolts the door, drops her purse, and walks directly to the bedroom. She changes into her nightgown, folded neatly that morning, and kneels next to the bed.
In the dark house it is easy to slip into prayer. The day washes away. She forgets the cool metal weight of the gun on her hip, the constriction of the suit jacket, and the dust in her eyes. When she prays it is a chance to digest the day and then interpret it according to
Zembe starts to worry. A 28 killing is bad enough, but with a white man as the victim? She cannot imagine worse.
The man’s wallet hangs out of the jacket pocket. Zembe takes a piece of cloth from her bag and uses it to open the leather. Inside are four or five credit cards and a green I.D . card with holograms shimmering over the lettering. He is not from here.
She steps away from the body. The skin looks plastic, shiny, and too white. His eyes are blue, one closed, the other open. She takes a deep breath and turns to see that detective services have already sent down two uniformed officers. The older one informs Zembe that the national office has also requested that provincial crime intelligence pull men onto the case. White deaths cause trouble, forcing government attention onto her district, a place they are otherwise content to ignore. The national officers will ask her why there weren’t more police patrolling the streets. They will demand to know how a white businessman managed to get into the township without Zembe’s knowledge. She will point to her aging buggies. She will complain about gas allowances and sprawling shantytowns that expand her district but justify no extra funding for law enforcement. But she knows her answers won’t satisfy them. And they will be looking for someone to blame.
I T TAKES ALL DAY FOR THE CORONER AND IMPORTED officers to finish at the scene. The sun intensifies and then wanes, slipping below the horizon. The small side yardchanges colour, from yellow to deep orange to a delicate purple reflection of the evening sky. By eight, Zembe is exhausted. The morning meeting feels like a lifetime ago. The energy it takes to investigate a scene, keep the stomach still while they prod and shift and finally remove the body, train the eyes on another small square of sand, surprises Zembe every time. By the time they are ready to seal the scene for the day Zembe still knows very little: the dead man is Peter Matthews, fifty-two years old, from Toronto, Canada. Here on business with Amanzi’s parent company. A water man. Zembe warns her officers to keep this to themselves and then threatens with only one last dark look that lets them know she is serious.
It is imperative the rest of the township know nothing about the return of the 28s or the attack on a water company official. Gang killings are fodder for news crews. A foreigner will ensure even more attention.
The national team finishes, too quickly for Zembe’s taste, and she is forced to dismiss her own officers. Men scuttle about, double-checking labels and closing evidence kits before getting into their white sedans. Zembe is the last person to leave. She takes a moment to survey the scene as darkness falls, the way the 28s would have seen it. Hidden from the street, but surrounded by sleeping households, it is a risky place to leave a body.
Zembe takes the long route home. She enjoys the rhythm of the car on the drive and the way she can feel the township settle in around her. When she turns into her own drivewayall the doors on her street are closed. She steers her car into the parking pad behind her house and double-checks the gas level. Years patrolling the highways have taught her that keeping the bare minimum of gas in the tank is the best protection against car theft. Anyone who managed to break into her car wouldn’t get far on the half-litre she leaves.
The front windows of her house are dark, but a yellow light illuminates the front walk and the keyholes in both locks. Once inside, Zembe bolts the door, drops her purse, and walks directly to the bedroom. She changes into her nightgown, folded neatly that morning, and kneels next to the bed.
In the dark house it is easy to slip into prayer. The day washes away. She forgets the cool metal weight of the gun on her hip, the constriction of the suit jacket, and the dust in her eyes. When she prays it is a chance to digest the day and then interpret it according to
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