Free The Song Dog by James McClure

Maritz, pointing to a row of irregularly shaped pieces of colored plastic arranged along the typewriter’s roller. “It makes a Scottie dog you can hang on your key chain—provided you can work out how to fit them back together, hey? I’m going to try again in a minute.”
    “You do that,” Kramer murmured, glancing through a small stack of box camera prints.
    They were all of the same four freckle-faced little kids, and in three, true to the tradition of amateur snapshots, thephotographer’s shadow was visible. In each instance, however, this shadow was that of a woman—which possibly explained why Ma Kritzinger appeared in none of them. This did not explain, however, why a supposedly devoted father had never seemed to be around much.
    Nothing else of a personal nature came to light as Kramer went on to search the two other drawers in the desk. This struck him as only slightly odd, given Kritzinger’s reputation as work-obsessed. There was certainly plenty of proof of that: time and again, Kramer came across sheets of carbon paper, some used so often they were full of tiny holes that made them look like the black lace that panties were made of.
    “Anyway,” said Kramer, pushing the last drawer shut, “how’s that list of cases going? Can I see it?”
    “Actually, I’d like a little more time first to, er, perfect it,” said Maritz, hastily putting aside two pieces of the key-ring puzzle. “But what I can tell you already is, old Maaties was one hell of a worker, even if it was almost all the usual Bantu rubbish: faction fights, stabbings, assault, arson, robberies, murder, theft, one rape—”
    “ ‘Almost,’ you say,” interrupted Kramer. “With what exceptions?”
    Maritz floundered, sending a pile of dockets cascading off the desk to the floor as he sought the one he was after. “Here’s one, Lieutenant!” he said, handing over a slim folder upside down. “But as you’ll note, there’s nothing special about it either.”
    Kramer turned the papers the right way up and saw that one Hendrik Willem Schmidt, white adult male aged forty-six, had been charged with the culpable homicide of an Asiatic male who had trespassed on his land. Schmidt, according to his sworn statement, had shot the man with a single round from a .303 rifle in the belief “the coolie after my chickens.” According to the statement made by the wife of the deceased,her husband had been approaching the farmyard with a sack in his hand because he had hoped to beg any old clothing the family might have for his children, and that she had witnessed this from where she was standing with the aforesaid offspring. A third statement, sworn by a Bantu farm worker, said that it was true, nobody in his right mind ever came to beg at that house because of its reputation, and so his employer had acted in a reasonable manner entirely in accordance with the known facts at the time, unaware the Asiatic male was new to the area.
    “Uh-huh, nothing special,” said Kramer, “apart from the date—Christ, man, this thing is
months
old! What’s all this I’ve been hearing about the famous Kritzinger efficiency?”
    “Which case is that?” asked Terblanche, who had just entered the CID office to peer over his shoulder. “Ach, the Schmidt one. My guess is he probably thought it’d get watered down to justifiable homicide in court and so he just couldn’t be bothered to pursue matters. That Schmidt is always a big pain to deal with, let me tell you.”
    “Fine,” said Kramer. “All set for the briefing yet?”
    Terblanche nodded. “I’ve got the map stuck up on the wall of my office, duly marked as you requested, and both the blokes have just got back from Fynn’s Creek, so we’re ready and waiting for your instructions.”
    “Keep up the good work, Bok!” said Kramer, palming two pieces of the Scottie dog puzzle to keep his interest up.
    Ash-smeared Sarel Suzman and Jaapie Malan looked ready for a shower, half a dozen Castle lagers