When the day ended the other workers would haul the bodies to the surface and throw them in a ditch or leave them out in the jungle. It was rumored that the Congolese government recycled the corpses as meat, claiming it to be beef, and mixed it with real beef to sell in foreign markets. Namdi hadn’t personally seen it, but he had no doubt it could be true. Once dehumanization occurred, anyone was capable of anything against their fellow men.
The medical outpost was off the side of the road about a hundred yards and made of gray cement with a black roof. There was a policeman’s car out front and a tall Indian in a green uniform sat on the hood smoking a cigarette. He put the cigarette out and hopped off the hood when he saw Namdi’s jeep pull in and park. “Dr. Said?” the policeman said in broken English. “Yes.” “I am Inspector Singh, we spoke on the phone.” “Yes, I remember.” “The bodies are kept inside. There is no icebox. It is not cold.” “I understand. Please take me to them.”
Namdi followed the policeman into the building. The reception area was one open space with a nurse sitting behind a large gray desk. There were two corridors going off in different directions and the policeman led him down the left one and into a small room tiled white from floor to ceiling.
On a metal autopsy table were the remains of a woman. The body was torn apart. The only things left were part of a leg, the ribcage, and a skull with shoulder length blond hair still attached. The face was gone.
Namdi’s heart raced at the sight. He took out a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and put them on before approaching the table. “Could you hand me those rubber gloves please?” Namdi said, pointing to a shelf loaded with supplies.
The officer didn’t move for a time, obviously not accustomed to doing favors. He took the gloves down and handed it to him without saying a word.
The rubber gloves were tight and pulled on the hair of Namdi’s wrist. He ignored it and reached into the woman’s ribcage, looking at the marks on the bone that covered the underside. All the organs were missing and part of the spine was gone. “When did you find her?” “Two days ago.” “Where?”
“Outside a rented home. The rich can stay in those homes. They are for tourists. She has a husband. He said his two children are missing.” The policeman leaned back against a sink and folded his arms. “I’ve seen tigers there. I think they must have been very hungry to attack a person close to the city.”
“This was not a tiger,” Namdi said, running the tip of his finger over deep markings carved in the bone.
“How do you know?”
“Part of the spine and ribs has been eaten; tigers do not eat the bones. The bite marks are too large as well,” Namdi said, flipping off his gloves and throwing them in a nearby trash bin. “What do you think it was?” Namdi put his glasses back in his pocket and stepped away from the body. “I do not know. Can you take me to the husband?” The policeman pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “Yes.”
Namdi followed the police car along the bumpy road for half a mile before they turned off and began driving through the edge of the plains. There were lush green bushes and immense rock formations, boulders stacked one upon the other that looked like giants in the distance. It was a warm day and Namdi had the top of the jeep down but it wasn’t helping. His shirt still clung to him with sweat.
They pulled in front of a white house with a plaque over the porch that said “The Hemingway,” though as far as Namdi knew, Hemingway had never visited India. There was a tire attached to a rope and slung over the branch of a nearby tree.
They walked up the porch and the policeman opened the front door without knocking. The interior reeked of alcohol and vomit. The television was tuned to a show in English and a tall man in his underwear was sprawled on the couch, empty bottles of beer and vodka around him.
“Mr. Berksted,” the policeman said, “this is Dr. Namdi Said. He would like to talk with you.” He turned to Namdi. “I will wait outside.”
Namdi stood by the door, waiting for acknowledgement, but received none. He went in and moved a bottle off the couch, sitting down next to the man. “I’m very sorry,” he said. There was no response. “If you could tell me what happened, I think we may be able to stop this from happening to others.” “I don’t give a shit about others,” the man said. “Maybe we could find your children?” The man turned and looked at him. He had thick black bags under his eyes. “We will find them, Mr. Berksted. But I need your help.”
He wiped the tears off his cheek with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what happened. I was taking a shower and when I came out she was gone. I found her cause some vultures were around.” “Did you hear anything in the shower?” “No, nothing.” “I will help the police with a search party and we will find your boys.”
The man nodded and took a drink out of a bottle. Namdi rose and walked out, stopping by the door and looking back once before leaving. “We will need to organize a search party,” Namdi said. “Why?” the policeman said. “Two young boys would not live out here for this long.” Namdi gave him a cold stare. “If it were your children, would you do it?” “My children are dead,” he said, climbing back into his car. “You want to find these boys, look yourself.”
Namdi watched as the car pulled away, kicking up puffs of dirt behind it. He turned toward the plains. Some black buck antelopes were grazing in the distance, their frames turning to black dots from this far. Namdi figured the boys could not have gone more than one or two miles.
He got into his jeep and started the engine when the door to the house opened. Berksted stood there, wobbling from drunkenness, and looked at him. Namdi leaned his head out the window.
“I could use your help,” Namdi said.
Berksted went back inside the house. Namdi was about to pull away when he saw Berksted come back out, fully dressed and loading a handgun. He tucked the gun into his waistband and got in the jeep.
CHAPTER
17
The Concord City Police Department had eighty full-time sworn members and just a few years ago celebrated its 150th year as an incorporated police department. It sat in the main government district for the city, adjacent to City Hall on the prestigious Green Street in downtown Concord.
Eric was pulled up its steps in handcuffs, a uniformed officer holding his elbow. He was taken through processing; fingerprints, photographs, questionnaire, and then stuffed into a holding cell. After an hour or so, he was taken to an interrogation room.
The room was gray from floor to ceiling; carpet and table the same color as the walls. It had a window that opened six inches and Eric sat and watched the patter of rain against the glass. There was a one-way mirror on the east wall and he kept his face away from it. They hadn’t given him anything to change in to and his wet clothes were making him shiver.
The door opened and the two detectives from earlier walked in, the older one with a stack of files and a digital voice recorder in his arms. He laid them neatly on the table and sat down.
“I’m Detective Rodriguez,” he said, “this is Detective Pregman.” The detective pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping at some spectacles he took out of his breast pocket. He put them on and began flipping through a file he’d already read half a dozen times. “Math and philosophy major with a 3.6 GPA, huh? Impressive. Let’s see… pre-medicine? Is that right?”
Eric glanced from one to the other and then lowered his eyes to the file. Underneath handwritten notes were colored photographs.
The detective sighed and closed his file, leaning back in the chair. “Things happen, Eric. People get mad, they do things they wouldn’t normally do.” He took off his glasses and wiped them again. “How’s your mother?”