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my men to ask questions. I didn’t expect much. Deng and I went back to the main police station. I intended to make more noise.
    We drove by the prison. It is a truly hellish place. A landscape of concrete walls, plastic bags caught in razor wire, weeds and scrub brush. Wary-eyed guards toting AK-47s.
    A skinny white guy was standing on the cracked sidewalk outside the prison. I glanced at him as we drove by. I shouted at Deng to stop the car. The damn fool was taking a camera out of his backpack.
    I leapt out of the truck, yelling, “Put that away.”
    He blinked at me. His glasses were thick and streaked with dust. “What?”
    â€œPut that camera away. Unless you want to see what’s inside that building.”
    Guards began to pay attention. One of them swung his rifle off his shoulder. He walked toward us. Deng called to him in a language I didn’t understand.
    â€œNow!” I yelled.
    The man stuffed the camera away. “I just wanted a picture,” he whined.
    â€œWhy are you here?”
    â€œI’m out for a walk.”
    â€œI mean here. In Juba.”
    â€œI’m visiting a friend.”
    â€œDidn’t your friend tell you not to take pictures? Not when there are soldiers or police around.”
    â€œHe said no pictures of the military. I thought that meant like tanks and bases and stuff. What is that building anyway?”
    â€œHope you never find out. Get going. I’ll tell that guy I know you.”
    He seemed to finally understand that I wasn’t kidding. He hurried away. He glanced over his shoulder every few yards. He couldn’t have looked more guilty.
    Deng said something and the prison guard looked at me. He laughed heartily.
    Then he and Deng shook hands and he went back to his post.
    Most of the police and security guards here are ex-army. Many suffer from untreated PTSD . One of the symptoms of PTSD is paranoia. Distrust of anyone and everyone. It is forbidden to take pictures of anything official. They decide what is official.
    I know of a woman who got in trouble for taking photos of the big-horned cows in the cattle pens. If that guy had been caught photographing the prison, of all things, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.
    I climbed back into the truck. Deng said nothing. I’m sure he thinks we white people are all crazy.
    We took seats in the police station. We waited for someone to agree to see us. A man came storming through the doors. He was Indian, short and thin. He had thick black hair and blazing black eyes.
    He began yelling about a stolen car. My ears pricked up.
    I went over and introduced myself. It wasn’t easy, but I got him calmed down enough to tell me his story.
    He’d been visiting a friend. His eyes shifted, and I could guess at the nature of this friendship. Not my business. When he’d come out of his friend’s apartment this morning, his car was gone.
    Stolen. Right from under the noses of the building’s guards. I took the description of the vehicle. He ranted and raved for a few minutes. I told him someone would be with him shortly. Then I signaled to Deng and we left.
    â€œWhat?” Deng said once we were outside. He was getting good at reading me.
    â€œStolen cars. There’s a connection, I’m sure of it. He’s stealing a car and using it to transport the women.”
    â€œOne stolen car doesn’t make a pattern, Ray.”
    I hadn’t told him about Sven. I decided to keep that under my hat for a while.
    The question was, had the thefts been followed by the murders all along? Or did that start when the killer had to ditch his own vehicle?

Chapter Ten
    I decided I didn’t much care that the boss was too busy to see us. Our shift was over and I wanted to head home. On the way, we spotted a crowd forming at the side of the road. Deng pulled over.
    A small black man was standing beside a new SUV . His back was pressed up against the car door. Two light-skinned