Page 48 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Road Kill

“Nothing you can do for her, Nurse Chafee. Dead for some time,
I guess. But we can use the medivac plane, anyway.”
She nodded. Her field had been public health, but the state
department had sent her to Africa to watch over a rather motley crew
of self-indulgent Foreign Service officers and self-destructive PCV’s.
“I guess we have to wait until they have finished their
investigation,” I added lamely. She nodded again, and we stood
mutely watching the dimly-lit comings and goings. A small crowd,
mostly children attracted from nearby compounds by the light and
noise, accumulated around us.
Labelle retrieved the victim’s moped and shoulder bag, had them
searched and impounded, then cast about for other evidence. After
pacing up and down the road several times and placing small sticks
with flags in the muddy surface at intervals, she called for something
I could not quite understand. The gendarmes ransacked their tiny bag
of tricks but came up empty and shrugging. Labelle gave Coulibaly a
look which would wither a lesser man. He, too, shrugged, and gave a
new set of orders. His men busied themselves erecting little canopies
of plastic sheeting over the locations Labelle had flagged. She stood
watching this labor until it was completed to her satisfaction, then
returned with Coulibaly to where we were standing.
Labelle introduced Amadou Coulibaly to Ms. Chafee. Her French
was not perfect, so I hoped she would not misinterpret the excessive
compliments the Jolibanan official was paying her. He told her that
the body could be removed, and offered the assistance of his men in
carrying it to her vehicle. I offered a silent prayer of thanks that
neither he nor Labelle had deemed an autopsy necessary. The nurse
had a body bag waiting, and I knew from past experience that Sally
Furth would be back in the States, via Germany, within seventy-two
hours. Someone, probably me, would have to write a letter to her
next of kin. What could I say? ‘I regret to inform you that your
daughter met her end while operating a motorbike in the back streets
of Falidougou. She was possibly under the influence of alcohol or
other stimulants at the time. Her personal effects will be shipped via
sea mail to your address. Please do not hesitate to contact me if I may
of further assistance.’ And so forth.
“Let’s go,” said Labelle, snapping me out of my morbid reverie.
“They can’t find the moulage mix, so it will have to wait until

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