Elephant Murders: Memories

By Susan Hunter

Descend into the Heart of Chaos and Cannibalism in Book Three of this International Epic Saga as Malinga and Africa Struggle for Redemption
Praise from early readers:

“The horrific aftermath of elephant poaching is human barbarism. The book makes the consequences of cruelty and depravity plain.”
“Malinga and her homeland of Zambia are the real stars of Book 3. They are the only ones who can win in the epic struggle against extinction.”
“A chilling, nightmarish character-driven exploration of criminal depravity.”
“If they do make a movie of Elephant Murders | Memories it’s going to be a heart breaker!”
“Environmental crime writing at its bloodiest and most honest!”
Elephant Murders | Memories raises the question of survival not just for the elephant but for Africa and the human species as a whole.”
“A nightmare of depravity and corruption! A chilling eye-opener! ”

Join Malinga on the last leg of her international pursuit!

In this five-star follow-up to Elephant Murders | Starbuck and Elephant Murders | Justice, Deputy Inspector Malinga Mutende of the Zambian CID tracks her missing lover into the African heart of chaos. Can Malinga bring them to justice and clemency? Will Malinga’s children, Shiko and Katanga, survive the memory of human cannibalism? Will Malinga? Can Malinga arrive in time to save her lover ranger captain Eitone Mazoka from misery, dismemberment, and madness? Did Elvis survive?

Catapulted from an idyllic safari vacation into the dangerous world of international elephant poaching when she witnesses a massive helicopter slaughter in Zambia’s idyllic Kafue National Park, DI Malinga refuses to give up although her children are threatened. No one, even her new lover, tantalizing amber-eyed park ranger Eitone Mazoka, can be eliminated from Malinga’s list of suspects.

Torn between loyalty to her children and her commitment to protect her national heritage, Malinga must decide just how far she’ll go to save her lover from murderous rebels. Jammed with larger-than-life characters, human as well as animal, Elephant Murders depicts the changing reality of human-animal relationships and its planetary cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Hunter
• Release date: Jun 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9780970293244

Book preview

Elephant

Murders

Memories

By Susan Hunter

Hudson Run Press – New York

Hudson Run Press

Publishers since 1999

Lake Luzerne, New York 12846

Copyright © 2015 by Susan S. Hunter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover Design by Sharon Bolton

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hunter, Susan S.

Elephant Murders | Justice / Susan Hunter

eISBN 978-0-9702932-4-4

1. Elephant Poaching

2. International Environmental Crime

3. Female Detective

4. Kafue National Park (Zambia)

About this Series

Elephant Murders: Memories is the third volume in a trilogy about elephant poaching in Africa and Asia published in 2015.

The first volume in the series, Elephant Murders: Starbuck, was released in March 2015 and the second volume, Elephant Murders: Justice, was published in May 2015.

All volumes will be available in Kindle and other e-book formats, and will be released in print editions in 2015.

Every tusk, piece and scrap has been steeped and dyed in blood.

Every pound weight of ivory has cost the life of a man, woman, or child.

For every five pounds a hut has been burned;

for every two tusks, a whole village has been destroyed;

every twenty tusks have been obtained

at the price of a district with all its people, villages, and plantations.

It is simply incredible that, because ivory is required for ornaments or billiard games,

the rich heart of Africa should be laid waste,

that populations, tribes and nations should be utterly destroyed.

Whom after all does this bloody seizure of ivory enrich?

Only a few dozen, who, if due justice were dealt to them,

should be made to sweat out the remainder of their piratical lives in the severest penal servitude.

Henry Morton Stanley

In Darkest Africa, 1890

This book is dedicated to finding

justice for humans and animals everywhere

The killings are on-going, brutal, and must be stopped.

They are as ugly in reality as they are on the written page.

I know. I’ve seen the carnage up close.

Elephants don’t deserve this kind of punishment and we must do everything in our power to protect them.

I hope the three books in Elephant Murders contribute to that end.

1 | The Last Breeding Male

The giant sable lifted his head, alerted by the snap of a twig behind him. The setting sun gleamed from the majestic arc of his horns. They were his best friend and worst enemy, the ultimate mount for white trophy hunters since the earliest days of contact.

Despite intensive big game hunting, giant sables had flourished on the remote central plains of Angola until the twenty-seven year civil war, when hungry troops from half a dozen nations killed all but eleven. While sables could defend themselves admirably with their sharp, scimitar-like horns, horns could not stop the bullets of a large caliber rifle.

When remote cameras picked up the first signs that the animal was still alive in Kangandala National Park, wildlife biologists who believed the giant sable was extinct were ecstatic. Their survival was a sign that nature was regenerating across Angola’s wounded countryside, but they had to be jealously guarded. Hunters around the world still coveted this trophy, and would break every law in the book to get it.

Hearing nothing more, the bull pulled at a mound of fresh grass and munched contentedly with his family in the anhara, a grassy clearing dotted by small termite mounds where food was plentiful through the dry season. The woodland opened onto a stream, so he could watch for predators before they came too near. Songo trackers, held giants like him in awe and led poachers away from his herd.

His powerful shoulders twitched and his upright mane flickered along its length as he rid himself of flies. He snorted the dust from his nostrils, admiring the ten mature females in his herd. As calves, they had all been the same sandy brown, but all sables darkened with age. When his hormones rose, the upper part of his coat turned pitch black, sharpening the contrast with his nearly white stomach, rump, and face.

Hearing a green wood hoopoe’s warning call, he moved his herd deeper into the security of the dry miombo forest. A small army of speckled mousebirds, cleaning the sables’ coats of ticks and fleas, lifted their heads when they heard the deep hooting of an owl.

It was a bad sign, but the male ignored it, intent on his new female. Since she’d come, he’d ignored virtually everything else, including the deadly predator who watched him now.

In the past, the hunter had given sables this large a wide berth. But he’d already promised the heads of this breeding pair to a waiting buyer. With an animal this aggressive, he had to be sure to use enough gun, shoot straight, and stay absolutely calm so he could stop a charging animal before it ripped him apart. Although the length and weight of his horns forced them to fight from a kneeling position, they were aggressive and charged if they were wounded or threatened.

The hunter watched as the bull trotted toward the new female, walking her to the edge of the tree line. The bull flicked his tail and the female came closer, sniffing the air. When the bull turned his head back to his female, the arc of his horns was outlined against the bush.

The hunter dropped to the ground and took aim, using the sable’s weakness against him. To attract the new female, the bull stayed on the periphery of his herd, striking poses, aloof and cocky. The bull was presenting his side, giving him a direct, high heart-lung shot straight up the foreleg about one third into the body.

He squeezed his first shot off at the female. She tottered imperceptibly, then fell hard. The bull turned to bolt, but when the side shot hit him, his forelegs rose and he fell to the ground in a twisted heap. The rest of the herd scattered. No water for them today.

The hunter approached cautiously, but neither animal stirred. He smiled. The work was good. His team would prepare the trophies while he returned to civilization and the academy. He shouldered his gun and blended back into the fog, rising as night came on.

2 | Memories

Father Ahearn’s voice purred gently from her cell phone. My dear Malinga, he said warmly. I’ve been thinking about you since I heard about your last case. I hope you’re all right! When your children were threatened, your life must have been living hell!

Confused, Zambian Deputy Police Inspector Malinga Mutende came slowly awake, stifling a yawn. Then she smiled. It was the dear old priest she’d met on the flight to China three months ago. She sat up, shoving her feet into her slippers.

Yes, Father. It was. How nice of you to call. Her memory of the arthritic old man, hunched over his brief case and smiling up at her mischievously, was vivid. She felt her spirit lift.

I couldn’t help myself. When you came back from Asia with the ivory, I felt as proud of you as if you were my own daughter. Then you tracked down that horrible serial killer! You’re singlehandedly keeping Zambia free from crime. You’re absolutely fearless.

Not always. I was shattered by the last case.

Holy Mother! No wonder. You stood off the ivory gangs in Asia, only to face a ruthless killer the minute you came home. None of us could believe it! I was glad to see you and the children weren’t hurt.

Thank you, Michael. We’re all pretty much back to normal.

So good to hear. And what about that handsome game ranger you were supposed to marry when you came back from China?

Malinga ran her fingers through her hair, trying to shake off an unexpected surge of grief. He’s gone, Father. We never closed the poaching case because he disappeared with two of the thieves.

Yes, yes, Malinga. So I read in the newspapers. But I thought maybe – no, truth be told, I hoped and I prayed – that somehow you would find him. Malinga was silent. Are you there, child? the priest asked anxiously.

Can I tell you something personal, Michael?

But of course. You know we are friends.

Not a day goes by when I don’t hope and pray, too. But it’s hard. The CID ran out of leads a long time ago.

Nothing wrong with hope and prayer, dear. You may have run out of leads, but I’m sure God hasn’t. He laughed gently. Try to be strong and remember that the GID’s at work. The good Lord never gives us more than we can handle.

Malinga smiled and rolled her eyes. She’d had about all she could handle in the last three months. But she knew the man meant well, so she smiled. Thanks Father. Please keep praying.

It’s all we can do, Malinga. Remember that I’m here if you need me.

Malinga hung up, slipped into the sleeves of her bathrobe, and huffed down the stairs to the kitchen. It didn’t make any sense, but she felt angry with the priest.

How much encouragement did the good Lord need? If he was going to help, he should have done it by now. She was on her own, no doubt about it.

Filling the coffee grinder and shoving the can of beans back on the shelf, she leaned against the counter to gaze through her back window toward the garden, waiting for the coffee to drip. She liked it hot and black, but this morning she made it even stronger than usual to fight the after effects of recurrent insomnia. She needed a lift.

Stretching her long frame, she rubbed her scalp, looking forward to her shower. But first, the coffee. These days, it seemed that she needed more and more caffeine to keep going. Three months had passed and it still felt like day one.

Where was he?

She closed her eyes against the bright sunlight.

Why had he gone? Where was the ivory, goddammit?

The love of her life, amber-eyed ranger captain Eitone Mazoka, had disappeared from the shootout in Kafue Park, presumably kidnapped by the two surviving ivory poachers, Elvis Shashonga and Stephan Bwalya.

She’d had no word from him ever since and no trace of the ivory she’d brought back from Asia. It had disappeared again, and a search for the other half of the ivory in the south of Kafue Park had turned up nothing.

Although the nightmares from the grisly body snatching case she’d taken on after her return from Asia had not fully subsided, at least that case was closed. The elephant case was still wide-open. No closure – physical, mental, or emotional – was in sight.

Her boss, Police Inspector Crispin Chikanda, claimed to be confident they would find the culprits eventually, but Malinga knew that he was just being nice. A case this cold usually stayed cold forever. Reported sightings of the three men had come from as far away as Johannesburg and New York, but they’d disappeared as neatly and completely as rats though a crack.

I stopped praying a long time ago. Sorry, Father Ahearn!

Malinga shook her head and smiled ruefully. The more time passed, the more she had to concede that the men, including Eitone, might have been eaten by wild animals before they’d reached the boundaries of Kafue Park. There were lion, leopard, hyena, and more to contend with over many miles of terrain. If that had happened, their remains would never be found.

One day she’d have to let go of her lover’s memory and grieve as her friend, Dr. Danise Hatchitapika, the University of Zambia psychologist who’d worked with her and the children to heal the wounds of the body snatching case, encouraged her to do.

Malinga turned from the counter and sank down on a chair, leaning her cheek against her hand. She could hear the sounds of Shiko and Katanga getting ready for school. It was time to put on a happy face. Her children were the only thing keeping her alive, but she couldn’t let them know that. It was too much responsibility for young children to bear.

They still believed Eitone was coming back and she wasn’t going to tell them any different. Eventually, they’d forget and go on to other things. She could, too, but Shiko insisted on wearing the blue bandana they’d retrieved from Duff, Chaminuka Lodge’s presiding elephant. He’d given it to them when they’d visited with Eitone three months ago, before she’d gone to Asia.

When her coffee maker beeped, she slid open the patio doors and drifted out to the veranda with her first cup. She was glad they’d decided to remain at the house on Martin Luther King Road, despite bad memories from the body snatching case. She and the children needed an anchor from the storms they’d been through.

Her gardener had planted a large bougainvillea to camouflage the fence where Giselle’s body had been impaled. A new set of play swings covered the ground where their dog Benny had died. The kids enjoyed them, although Katanga let her know that swings were for babies and she only used them to pacify her little brother.

Why are we always in such a hurry to grow up? If only we knew how much heartache was coming our way, we wouldn’t be in such a hurry to claim it.

Malinga knew that self-pity went nowhere. Most of her problems from past had been solved, and there was no point lingering there. Her holiday with the children in Mukambi’s Busanga Plains Camp had gone a long way toward restoring her spirits, even if it hadn’t included Eitone.

Herbert, her ex-husband, had disappeared in a whirlwind of women and fast cars, no longer threatening to kidnap the children after a visit with the police legal department. He was still five months late with his child support payments, but some things never change. At least he hadn’t fallen any further behind.

The telephone rang and Malinga smiled when she saw the caller ID. It was Rainford Kalaba, her wildlife biologist friend from the University of Zambia. She was excited, but froze as she reached for the phone.

Rainford never calls this early.

Malinga fumbled and dropped the phone, staring at it like it was alien spawn.

What if Rainford has news of Eitone? Could it possibly be good news after all this time?

Her hands trembled, but she collected herself and put the phone to her ear.

3 | The Naughty One

Elvis could open one of his eyes but not the other. It was crusted shut with blood and sweat. Opening his good eye as wide as it would go, he watched Mad Dog pacing back and forth in a fit of unrestrained glee. He was at the mercy of this Central African Republic Christian militiaman who had proven, during their short acquaintance, to be as crazy as his name. And as brutal.

Elvis hoped that things never got this bad in Zambia. His country was officially a Christian nation, sure – the only one in the world – but plenty of Muslims lived there, too.

He hoped his neighbors would never kill their neighbors the way he’d seen them do here. He prayed that the relative sanity and peace of his homeland would never be lost to the chaos raging in the countries to its north.

His leg had almost healed from the wound he’d sustained in Asia when he fought for his life with the moon bear, and his ribs had stopped aching from Basil’s rescue in Kafue, but the further he, Stephan, and Eitone ventured into the madness surging over northern Africa, the sicker he felt.

His spirit ached. They’d made a terrible mistake.

Bringing the ivory here to sell to terrorists was like waving a piece of meat at a lion. He’d fancied himself a seasoned gangster, but the crazies in northern Congo and across the CAR border made Asian gangsters look like solid citizens. These guys were badly disciplined and vengeful, ready to bite anything that came within their reach. Literally.

Clouds of red dust thrown up by the militiamen had not been enough to banish the ugly spot in the dirt in front of him. It was a bloodstain, a big one. It had once been a man, a Muslim whose fellow soldiers, all Christian, had hacked off his limbs with an old machete to barbecue in front of the new recruits. And the Zambians.

Mad Dog stopped pacing and giggled. His torn t-shirt, once bright yellow, was filthy from sweat and red dust. His grubby pants were spattered with blood, and his greasy dreadlocks were held back by a woman’s scarf. There was a gun shoved into his trousers and a bloody machete in his hand.

He pointed to himself and glared down at Elvis.

I am the naughty one, he shouted in badly broken English. Elvis stared at him, trying to take in the words, then looked quickly away, afraid of what the man would do if their eyes met. He sat up straighter, alert to the man’s every move.

I am the naughty one, Mad Dog repeated, even louder this time. I am the one who ate him.

Elvis’s stomach churned. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep its contents down. Really? he managed, shutting his good eye and willing the man away. When Mad Dog nudged him with his foot, Elvis opened his eye again.

I ate his leg first. I was hungry, so I ate the whole thing right down to the bone. That’s why the others call me Mad Dog. But they soon joined with me. They were hungry, too.

Elvis nodded. It was important to agree if you wanted to stay alive in this Republic. You had to pay attention to crazy men or you might not wake up in the morning. Too many arguments ended with one person swinging, more often than not from a tree.

Elvis blinked. He was talking to a cannibal. He’d heard rumors that citizens of the Central African Republic were inclined to the practice, but this was the first one he’d met in person. First time for everything.

Here. Let me show you. Mad Dog opened his phone and thumbed rapidly through the pictures. He grunted when he found the one he was looking for, and held the screen up so Elvis could see it. Elvis closed his good eye against the image of Mad Dog holding another man’s leg and biting into it. He gagged.

The real Mad Dog grinned maniacally at Elvis’s reaction. Let me show you more, he cackled. When he held the phone up again, Elvis could see a screaming mob dragging a charred body through the streets.

Mad Dog shook a severed leg and arm at the camera. Elvis closed his eye again when his stomach convulsed.

He was raw, not cooked. Only burned on the outside. We ate him right in front of the Burundian peacekeepers. One of the soldiers vomited. Then he chased us away with his gun.

A crowd of youths were gathering to listen to Mad Dog’s story. Muslims killed my pregnant wife, my sister-in-law, and her new baby, Mad Dog told the crowd, moving forward to command their attention.

The crowd closed in around him as he moved further away from the tree. Tall and robust, the soldiers punctuated Mad Dog’s speech with enthusiastic cheers, raising their machetes, axes, and knives in clenched fists.

They’d forgotten Elvis. They’d stolen his Spyderco knife and tied him to this tree, keeping him helpless within the cocoon of their violence, but now they’d forgotten him.

When Mad Dog raised his voice and the men started to argue, Elvis inched behind the tree and held his breath. He never knew when it might be his turn as the main course in the rebel’s restaurant.

After several minutes spent haranguing each other, the men laughed at Mad Dog’s final joke and dispersed for their nightly forage in the city. It’s how they lived. When they weren’t eating raw human flesh, that is.

Elvis smiled bitterly. Let’s just hope it’s not mine or Stephan’s. Or even Eitone’s. It’s bound to happen unless we get out of here soon.

4 | Not Always Bad News

Rainford, Malinga said in a strained voice. Is everything all right?

Of course, Malinga. Of course! Unless you’re talking about the egg yolk I dropped on my tie when my kids reached for the toast and startled me.

She laughed in relief, ashamed that she was always expecting bad news when the world was full of good. Grief, she supposed.

She forced herself to smile. No, no. I was just surprised. You never call me this early.

I called early because my brother Peter’s show opens tonight at the Henry Tayali Gallery and I want you to come and meet him. I’m embarrassed that I forgot to ask you earlier. I’ve been running myself to the ground on the NEST. Malinga had persuaded the President to establish a cross-agency National Environmental Security Task Force to reduce the incidence of poaching.

Of course I’ll come to Peter’s opening. I always wanted to meet your brother!

Jane’s coming, too. We’re having dinner afterward, so save your appetite!

Count me in.

I have to warn you that his new paintings are a real departure from his old work. One of Peter’s Danish patrons has been encouraging him to get really abstract.

Moving from landscape and animals to abstract is just what I need to do myself.

Malinga smiled as she closed her phone. Rainford had become a close friend when he’d helped with the elephant case. She adored his wife and their children were becoming friends.

But she’d never met Peter and the reception would give her the chance to see how Jane Mukasa, Director General of the Zambian Wildlife Authority, was making out with the International Peace Corridor. Zambia’s President had endorsed its creation to distract the public from the fact that his former Minister of Defense had led an international ivory poaching ring.

Malinga took her coffee and climbed the stairs, stopping to remind the kids that it was almost time for breakfast and they needed to hurry to get to school on time. Chaos reigned in both bedrooms and she made a mental note to remind them to tidy up later.

At ten, Katanga, slightly more responsible than her eight-year-old brother, appealed to Shiko’s newfound desire to be a naturalist, for which neatness and order were prerequisites. Shiko knew that if he mixed plastic dinosaur bones with those from his bird model he’d never get them straight again.

Her new maid did a good job cleaning up and