Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 6. Whole No. 766, June 2005

The paper was abruptly whipped from his grip. “You can buy your own,” Mrs. Patel snapped. “Do your job.”

This was the last straw. All morning Kachani had been badgered by an increasingly infuriating sequence of proprietors who acted as if their stores were the center of the universe. “Listen,” he said. “I doubt anyone is planning to start a carpet-smuggling ring with four carpets. They were probably stolen by rioters too drunk to know what they were taking. You can take some satisfaction in imagining the moment they wake up and realize that while others took televisions, stoves, and bags of flour, all they stole were some useless rugs.”

Mrs. Patel tensed as though preparing to pounce. “I sell highest quality Persian carpets, imported... first rate... ”

Kachani darted out of Carpet Nirvana before her rage peaked.

Bunda Avenue was crowded. People milled among the debris of the previous night: glass shards, knocked-over billboards, garbage from upturned bins, and the carcasses of battered cars. Beneath, the deeper scars eleven years of Ebeso had left on the city lingered: streets with potholes and ruptured gutters, neglected buildings with collapsing roofs, people so thin their arms looked like twigs. And now, what? Everything would miraculously become better because Ebeso was gone? Kachani could not make himself feel the jubilation he saw in the faces of people he passed. He made his way back to the station slowly. His eyelids sagged and his muscles ached. He was forty-three, but he walked like a much older man. His face, too, had been worn down. His eyes and thick lips were framed by dark lines, and he was balding. A few grey curls flecked his beard.

He had parked a kilometer north of the ravaged city center. He stopped at a newsstand and bought a copy of the Malawi News, and laughed again at the front page. Definitely worth buying a frame.

The police station was almost empty. Kachani found a slip of paper that said “Come and see me” stuck to his desk. No name was needed; Station Commander Patrick Chundira’s messy scrawl was unique. He found him in the middle of what seemed to be a very taxing phone conversation. His tight-boned face was gleaming with sweat. A series of exchanges climaxed in Patrick shouting, “I don’t care if you have to arrest them all, just do it!” He slammed the receiver into its cradle.

“What was that about?” Kachani asked after the commander hung up.

“A crisis at the hospital.” Chundira dabbed his face with the corner of his sleeve. He took off his glasses and wiped them as he spoke. “There are not enough doctors for all the wounded. After hours of waiting, some of them have become violent. I don’t have enough people to send.”

“You want me to go?”

“I need you for something more important. I need you to figure out who killed Ebeso.”

“What?! Did you somehow sleep through last night? We don’t need to waste time trying to find the killer. Everybody’s overjoyed.”

“That is actually the problem. The killer has become a national hero.”

“So?”

“He ran away after shooting Ebeso. I wish he hadn’t. So far, three people have come forward claiming the credit.”

Kachani grinned.

His boss met this response with a sigh. “I also thought it was funny at first, but I have been talking to the chief of police and this could escalate into disaster. Elections need to happen quickly or the chaos will get worse. Whoever killed Ebeso has an almost guaranteed win. But two of the people who have come forward are just political opportunists. And once their claims spread across the city their supporters will start fighting. Mark Lungu’s have guns and I don’t know about the others.”

Kachani nodded. Mark Lungu was the leader of the Tembelelo rebels. They had been fighting Ebeso for the past three years and were loved by the masses, though Kachani personally felt their acts of dissent hurt civilians as often as they hurt the government. They set fires, hijacked deliveries, and engaged Ebeso’s forces with no thought for people caught in the crossfire. “Who are the other two?” he said.

“Archbishop Mpocha and ‘Lightning’ Kalyati.”

Kachani whistled. The archbishop’s supporters were probably the largest group, but Zikomo “Lightning” Kalyati, Malawi’s most famous ex-footballer, was rumored to have ties to the military. It wasn’t an exaggeration to imagine the situation could lead to a civil war.

Chundira shook his head. “If we could have predicted this, we would have closed the murder scene to the press... ”

“So the impostors had access to the crime-scene details.”

“Exactly why I need your help.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re brilliant. I can count on you for results.”

Patrick was obviously more used to receiving compliments than giving them, because he hadn’t mastered the art of pretending to be sincere.

“The truth,” Kachani insisted. He had always done things his own way no matter what the circumstances, and he knew that this had often complicated his superior’s life.

The left side of Chundira’s mouth rose in his characteristic half-smirk. “All right. It’s because you are notoriously apolitical. You have never backed one group or other. You don’t care.”

Kachani feigned resentment. “Not entirely correct. I simply mistrust all politicians equally.”

“Either way, you’re the only person I can trust.”

Satisfied, Kachani rose. “I’ll head to the palace immediately.”

“Give me ten minutes,” Chundira said, picking up the phone.

“You’re coming with me?”

“Of course.” He began dialing a number. “This is a sensitive situation. You have no tact or respect for people in positions of power.”

Or rather, Kachani realised, there was no way Patrick was going to miss this opportunity. He didn’t want to stay director of a small precinct forever, and one of the three supposed killers was probably going to be the next president...

A little later, they were in Chundira’s Toyota Corolla. The Malawi News article was spread between Kachani’s thighs, shaking with the car’s jerky progress. “Good,” he muttered.

“What?”

“The woman who wrote the article hated Ebeso.”

“Who didn’t?”

“The impostors got all their information from this article. Anything I see at the palace that she didn’t report accurately will show them to be liars.”

“Clever.” Chundira made a sharp turn off the main road. “Who do you think did it?”

“Haven’t got an opinion yet.”

“You must have a hunch. Why don’t we bet?”

“No, thanks.”

Patrick cast Kachani a disapproving look. “I think it’s either Zikomo or Mark Lungu. It can’t be the archbishop.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a man of God, not the violent sort. Also, you’ve seen him. He’s short and weak.”

Kachani almost remarked that his boss was only five foot six. Instead, he said, “You don’t have to be a giant to pull a trigger.”

“You have to be brave, though. A man like that would panic.”

“Have you ever spoken to Archbishop Mpocha?”

“No.”

Kachani let his silence speak.

Patrick let out a frustrated grunt. “You think he did it?”

Kachani closed the newspaper. “I didn’t say that.”

“Zikomo Kalyati, now there’s a man with courage. Did you ever watch him play?”

“I’m not a soccer fan.”

“Something is wrong with you. You’re like a woman. He ran like a cheetah. I promise you, if it hadn’t been for that car accident Malawi would have won the Africa cup. It was a tragedy, a great tragedy.” The policeman’s face collapsed into an expression of earnest grief.

Although he didn’t follow soccer, Kachani would have had to be living in seclusion not to have heard about the Blantyre team’s star player’s car accident. His leg had been mauled by twisted steel. Unable to play anymore, he had chosen to exploit his popularity by running for parliament. Under Ebeso, parliament wasn’t influential, but MPs still got to pose for photographs, attend official functions, and be introduced as “Your Excellency.”