No weapon. This was a training mission, remember. I was here to observe. To offer comments and helpful ideas when needed.
A year without the Glock, and I still felt like I had a giant hole in my side.
Deng carried an AK-47. He was former army, SPLAâSudan Peopleâs Liberation Army. At first a band of guerillas, fighting for independence from Sudan. Now the army of South Sudan. Heâd spent his time in the bush during the war, doing things I couldnât imagine. Things I didnât want to imagine. The long and brutal civil war had made these people hard. Some of them didnât handle it too well. Deng did. He had a quick smile and a hearty laugh. He wanted to be a good police officer. Iâd asked him once if he had a wife and children. A mask settled over his face. He yelled at the driver of a scooter who hadnât come at all close to us. I never asked again.
The woman was lying at the side of the road, up against a concrete wall. Her skin was as black as midnight. Blacker. An earring made of red glass hung from her right ear. A short tight black dress and red stilettos were clues to her occupation. Another dead hooker in the dusty red streets of Juba.
This was the fourth. If she was a hooker. If the same person had been responsible. The fourth in three weeks.
Deng snarled at the security guard whoâd found her. The man quickly stepped back. He knew his place.
I used my Maglite to illuminate the scene. A white ribbon was wrapped around her neck. Wrapped very tightly around her neck. As white and pure as the snow on Kokanee Glacier in midwinter. Same as the others.
âWhat do you see?â I asked Deng. Thatâs the training part of my job.
âA white ribbon.â
âYup.â
âDo we have a serial killer here, Ray?â
âIâm beginning to think we do.â
Chapter Two
Forensic rules of evidence tend to be a bit wobbly in South Sudan. We wouldnât be joined by a crew of techs in hairnets and white booties. No police tape. No fingertip search of the vicinity. No lab analysis. No DNA samples taken. No databases checked for similar cases. The body would be carted away and that would be the end of that.
Deng and I did what we could to examine the scene.
It looked as if sheâd been taken by surprise. Strangled with the white ribbon. Left where she fell. No defensive wounds on her hands or arms. No signs of sexual activity.
Deng crouched down. âWhat does the ribbon mean?â He reached out one hand and ran his fingers over it very lightly.
âI donât know. It means something to him. He might not even know what. Sometimes they leave a sign. Sometimes they take trophies.â
âTrophies?â
âYeah. I donât see anything missing here. Serial killers usually have a signature. His is the white ribbon.â
Deng shook his head. When youâve seen so much death and dying, itâs hard to believe someone would do it forâ¦fun?
At a guessâand it would never be more than a guessâsheâd been dead about two hours. Not many bugs yet. No rigor mortis.
Iâd once tried to explain rigor mortis to Deng and his colleagues. Theyâd nodded very politely. Iâd felt like a total fool. These guys had seen more dead bodies than any undertaker in Vancouver. They knew the process of decay, thank you very much.
Sometimes they could be so goddamned polite. Why didnât they just tell me to shut the hell up? Suggest we take the time allocated for the lecture to go for a beer?
Deng and I shone our flashlights around the area. I made notes in my notebook. And then we left. What else could we do? The carcass would be loaded into the back of a van and that would be the end of her.
The bend in the road was close to Notos. A good bar with a great Indian kitchen. I suggested we stop in for a drink. Deng looked surprised. We UN advisors told them drinking on the job was a bad thing. I winked and said it was all part
Professor Kyung Moon Hwang