A Death in the Family by Michael Stanley

yanked the hose out of the window and tried the driver’s door, but it was also locked. Lenny came to life and ran around the car barking.
    â€œQuiet, Lenny. We have to get him out! He may still be alive.”
    He could get his fingers through the gap at the top of the window by pushing through the duct tape sealing it, but he couldn’t force the glass down. “Damn it, Lenny!”
    Petrus looked around for something to use to break the glass and settled on a rock tapering at one end. Closing his eyes, he slammed it into the middle of the window, but it just bounced. Cursing, he tried again, as hard as he could but without success. Then, aiming at the exposed edge of the window, he managed to get the window top to shatter. He reached in and unlocked the door, cutting his arm in the process. Flinging open the door, he reached in, grabbed the man’s shoulders, and dragged him out of the car. He put his hand on the man’s forehead. It was warm. Then he felt for a pulse but couldn’t detect any signs of life. Leaving the body where it lay, he phoned for the police.

 
    CHAPTER 21
    Kubu had known that his first day back at the CID was going to be painful. He made his way to his office through a gauntlet of sober-faced detectives. He knew his colleagues meant well, but all the condolences, all the vows to get the murderer, just made Kubu feel worse. He didn’t want to keep being reminded. Now that the funeral was over, he wanted a semblance of normalcy. He wanted to sit in his office and think about something else.
    He started catching up with e-mail and paperwork, a job he usually hated, but one he found almost relaxing now. He was glad to be left alone, and it was nearly lunchtime before he was disturbed. There was a knock on the door, and he looked up warily. It was a relief to see Ian MacGregor.
    â€œHow are you doing, Kubu?”
    Kubu shrugged.
    â€œYes, well, it’s going to take time, my friend, a lot of time. There isn’t anything else that helps.”
    The words were clichéd enough, but the way he said them sounded as though he’d been there himself. Kubu realized that he’d never asked Ian about his family. The Scotsman seemed happy enough living alone in Botswana, being the state pathologist and indulging his passion for painting watercolor scenes of the Kalahari. But what history lay behind that?
    â€œI’ve got a story for you, Kubu. I’ve just been to see Mabaku, and he sent me to you. He’s busy himself with…” Ian’s voice trailed off. Kubu just nodded. He knew what Mabaku was busy with.
    â€œAnyway,” Ian continued after a moment, “it’s that suicide. Kunene. A high-up in the Department of Mines.”
    Kubu looked puzzled. He had no idea what Ian was talking about.
    â€œIt’s been all over the news,” Ian added.
    â€œI haven’t been following the news much lately.”
    â€œI suppose not. Well, I’m talking about Goodman Kunene. He is, or rather was, the assistant director of the Department of Mines. On Friday, he was found dead, gassed in his car. It was down a quiet road near the yacht club. It seems he connected a hose to his exhaust, fed it into the driver’s window, sealed it with duct tape, and ran the engine. When he was found, the car had run out of fuel, but Kunene had run out of breath long before that. I did the autopsy this morning.”
    Kubu wondered why Mabaku had sent Ian to him. He wasn’t really interested in suicides.
    â€œWas there a note?”
    Ian shook his head.
    â€œProblems at home? At work?”
    Ian shrugged. “I don’t know any of that stuff. You’ll have to ask the investigating officer. The point is that I have doubts about it.”
    â€œThat he was killed by the car fumes?” Kubu wished Ian would be less obscure.
    â€œNo. No question about that. The fingernails and lips had the characteristic reddish hue of death from carbon