Free Muti Nation by Monique Snyman

stupid monkey soon.
    The remainder of Christiaan Snyders’ office is lavishly decorated. Expensive lamps accentuate expensive furniture. Rare books from around the world in several languages line the shelves behind his desk. A post-modern art piece, by some famous sculptor, stands in the corner. These things are simply the most conspicuous of the lot. Within the nooks and crannies are other miscellanies, forgotten until they are needed. Amulets and talismans hide in a flowerless vase. A discarded bowtie dangles precariously from a candelabrum, its purpose and owner unknown. A Carrol Boyes letter opener, positioned next to a Faberge egg I’ve coveted my entire life, is on his desk. Where he found the Faberge egg is anyone’s guess but he insists it’s the real deal and he promised me if he ever wants to get rid of it I have first dibs.
    My feet sink into the plush carpet as I pace the length of my grandfather’s office. “We’re setting ourselves up for the South African version of an O.J. Simpson trial. Do you have no consideration for the law?”
    My grandfather and Howlen are working on the illegally obtained DNA evidence Pops had collected from the customs officers at the airport.
    “And you !” I say with a jut of my chin.
    Howlen watches me from underneath his thick eyelashes.
    “I expect more from you when it comes to adhering chain-of-custody laws,” I say.
    “Get off your high horse, Esmé,” Gramps says.
    Howlen’s gloved hand swabs the customs officer’s dried blood off my grandfather’s knuckles.
    As soon as I got him out of trouble at the airport—not including the assault charges they’ll file against him at first light—Gramps instructed me to find a Ziploc bag so we could cover his hand (the evidence) with it.
    Gramps says, “It was probable cause and I am a consulting specialist on the case. Besides, the guy was interviewed as a possible suspect numerous times.”
    “Probable cause does not extend beyond the police! You are not the police!”
    “And you, my sweet grandbaby girl, have forgotten we live in South Africa.”
    “What does that have to do with anything, Pops?”
    He groans and gives Howlen one of his help-me-out-with-this looks.
    “Esmé,” Howlen explains, “criminals find loopholes all the time, which is why the police hire consultants like us to do the things they cannot do, while under the influence of a badge. Technically speaking, with a good prosecutor on our side, Christiaan can be seen as a part of the chain of custody. If we have an ignorant judge, nobody will even question the event. On another note, Christiaan also obtained video evidence of the suspect wearing the necklace and I’m a licensed forensic criminologist. Everything counts in our favour.”
    “Well, I don’t like it.”
    “Relax, May. Detective Mosepi will probably only use this evidence to get a search warrant for the suspect’s house.”
    “ May ?” Gramps asks nobody in particular, an eyebrow rising. “You two have grown rather chummy since I last saw you. I bet she calls you Howl, right?” He laughs at his own, unfunny, joke. It takes all of my strength not to go over there and throttle him. “Your mother will love that.”
    “You know his mother?”
    “Of course I do.” His shoulder twitches into what I believe was meant as a shrug. “Lady Sophia Jane Walcott is one of my dearest friends.”
    “ Lady Sophia Jane Walcott?” I parrot, and chance a glance at the expressionless Howlen.
    He’s transfixed by my grandfather’s knuckles.
    “How noble she sounds.”.
    “I sense awkwardness,” Gramps muses, looking between Howlen and me. “Did I say something wrong?”
    “Nope.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Howlen, will you be so kind as to take my grandfather home tonight? I have to get ready for an appointment.”
    All I get is a curt nod.
    “What type of appointment, May ?” My grandfather chuckles under his breath.
    “The type of appointment that involves getting up