Juba Good Read Online Free PDF

eyes hurt in the glare of the African sun.
    â€œWhat do you want, Robertson?”
    â€œHeard about your vehicle. Stolen, eh?”
    â€œYou find it?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat business is it of yours then?”
    It was no secret that he and I didn’t get along. Didn’t bother me. Sven didn’t get on with many people. Not even his fellow Swedes.
    â€œI had an incident last night. An unmarked white Land Cruiser might have been involved. What time was yours taken?”
    â€œEarly. Around seven. Barely dark. I was going to meet some friends at the rugby game later. Had dinner, came out, my car was gone.” I don’t speak Swedish, but I know a string of curses when I hear one.
    â€œWho’d you have dinner with?”
    Sven lowered his sunglasses. Piercing blue eyes trimmed with pale lashes studied me. He searched for a reason to tell me to get lost. Not finding one, he said, “My date canceled. I ate alone. I like to be alone. Get it?”
    I got it. I left him stewing.
    I went back to my room to check my email, hoping for something from my daughters. It was entirely possible Sven’s vehicle had been stolen. Leaving it out of sight of the restaurant guards had been a dumb move.
    If that’s what had happened.
    But what if it hadn’t been stolen? What if Sven had to ditch it for some reason?
    Like the passenger seat was full of blood.

Chapter Nine
    The sixth killing came two days later. The same as the others. No sign of sexual interference. A white ribbon around the neck. But this time, there was something very different. The tips of two of the fingers on her right hand had been chopped off.
    By now, even the brass couldn’t ignore the fact that we had a serial killer on our hands. I told them we needed men on this. They gave me three. Ex-SPLA. Young guys with old eyes. They smiled at me and saluted smartly.
    I had them do a search near where the body had been found. It was farther down the road this time, close to where a path leads through the bush to the banks of the Nile. I strung some rope between bushes and fenceposts to secure the area.
    An excited crowd gathered to watch. The adults were good to stay out of the search zone. I couldn’t do much about the dogs and goats and chickens though. And I had to allow parents through to chase after laughing toddlers.
    We call a detailed sweep of a specific area a fingertip search. This time, the term was meant literally.
    I wanted her body parts. If the killer had a fetish, he would have been taking trophies before this. There had to be a reason he’d taken the fingers. I was guessing it was because his blood was on them.
    At home, I’d assume the killer knew we could get DNA evidence from blood traces. We’d run a computer search for matching DNA . He’d know he had to get rid of the evidence.
    But here? Would a local know that?
    He would if he watched TV or movies. Or read a modern detective novel. People who live in the countryside, and many in town, don’t have electricity. But they still have access to TV and DVD s. Many South Sudanese and other Africans can read English as well as I can. Plenty of government and army high-ups have been educated in Cuba or the west.
    Shows on TV give the impression that getting DNA evidence is fast and easy. It’s not. You need a fully equipped lab, trained staff and a connected computer network. Otherwise, all you have is a drop of blood. Not usable information.
    I looked around. The police officers were sifting through garbage. They were being trained by the UN. They’d know something about. But probably not much.
    My men found a lot of plastic water bottles, scraps of cloth, discarded packaging and rotting vegetable peels. They did not find the tips of any fingers.
    I had one week until I was done here. On my way home. I wanted this guy. I wanted him dead or in jail before I left.
    I was afraid I’d never find out what happened.
    I instructed