by Joseph Wallace

Kampala spooked us from the moment we arrived. The capital of Uganda, a country then under the thumb of a madman named Idi Amin, it was built on a series of huddled hills patrolled by jackal-like dogs that would stare you down if challenged. The streets were deserted at night, with only an occasional car speeding past or pedestrian hurrying to an unknown destination. And even during the day the city was so quiet that the whistling wind and yowling cries of the go-away birds echoed in our ears.

At night we visited the vast, empty Hotel Intercontinental, drinking Seven and Sevens in the lounge while a jazz quartet played "Take Five" over and over, then stumbling back to our hotel rooms under a predawn sky filled with flying foxes flapping overhead on silent wings.

Heading back to our own shabby hotel one night, we took a wrong turn and came upon a small park hidden behind high stone walls. Beyond the locked front gate we could see only blackness, but the night's silence was punctuated by a chorus of deep, wrenching moans and cries coming from behind the walls. Hurrying away, we agreed that the sounds came from night-calling frogs, but deep down we suspected a human origin.

One morning Pete woke to find half his traveler's checks gone. Someone must have come into our room during the night and taken them.

"We have to call the police," he said.

I said I didn't think that was a good idea, but Pete was adamant. "If we don't, the same guy will do it to other people," he said. "And who knows, maybe next time he'll choose a room where the people wake up, and end up killing them. We have to report it. It's the only moral choice."

Captain Setongo, the police officer who came to our hotel, was short and stocky, with eyes as round and unrevealing as marbles. He wrote down our brief report without comment, then looked up and flashed a sudden, wolfish grin. "Americans!" he said.

Two days later, close to midnight, someone knocked at the door to our room. I was dozing, Pete was writing a postcard home, and neither of us felt much like opening the door. But the knock came again, more insistently, so I got up and went to see who it was.

A scared-looking night watchman in a threadbare gray uniform stood in the hall. "Please come with me," he said.

"Where?" I asked.

"Downstairs," he said. "Please come."

We followed him past the lobby, through a staff-only door, and down a long, dank corridor flanked by storage and laundry rooms. "Where are you taking us?" I asked, but received no reply.

I found out soon enough. Near the end of the corridor, outside a plain wooden door, stood a policeman. He glanced at us, then nodded. The watchman, set free, turned without another word and hurried away down the corridor, his footsteps echoing off the empty walls.

The policeman swung the door open and gave a single flip of his hand. I felt queasy, and my temples were pounding, as I stepped inside.

The room, lit by the harsh glow of a single bare bulb, smelled of spoiled fruit and sweat. Cartons of oatmeal and instant coffee were stacked along one wall and crates of Tusker Lager along another. Rafts of bananas hung from netting strung across the ceiling.

A single wooden chair was pushed up against the far wall. Sitting on the chair was a middle-aged man in a shabby white shirt and black pants. His face was gray with terror. Beside him stood Captain Setongo, marble eyes cold as he watched us enter.

"Do you know this man?" he asked.

The man in the chair stared at me, then shifted his gaze to Pete. We looked back at him, and after a moment I shook my head. "I've never seen him before in my life," I said.

But I was lying, and Pete was determined to tell the truth. "Yes, I know him," he said. "He's a handyman. He fixed a leak in our sink the day we got here."

The man gave us a look of such horror that I almost turned away. But Captain Setongo smiled. "Did you take these Americans' travelers checks?" he asked.

"No," the man said.

Captain Setongo grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head against the wall. The impact resounded with a dull boom and the plaster cracked, spiderlike lines radiating outwards like a halo. The man's eyes grew hazy. His hands twisted helplessly in the air.

"Stop," I said.

Captain Setongo ignored me, staring down at the dazed man in the chair. "Did you take those checks?"

"Noó" His head thudded against the wall. "I didn'tó"

One more impact. Flakes of plaster fell from the ceiling, and blood ran from his nose. Something white fell from his mouth and bounced on the floor, coming to rest at my feet. A tooth.

"Did you take those checks?" the policeman asked again.

The man's eyes were closed, his head drooping. "Yesó" he whispered.

"Yes. Good." Captain Setongo lifted his gaze and looked at me. "You see now that we have found the right man."

"Wait," I said.

The captain smiled. "He confessed. He said he took your checks. Stealing from American visitors is very serious."

The man was slumped back in the chair, eyes closed, the blood from his nose running into his mouth. His lips were moving, but I couldn't make out what he was saying.

Looking down at him, I felt a surge of rage. Without knowing exactly what I intended to do, I took a step forward.

The officer tilted his head at me. Smiling, he waited to see what I would do next. I felt Pete grab my arm. "Don't be stupid," he said into my ear. "It's no use. Let's go."

After another moment, I let him pull me from the room. Captain Setongo's laughter, chasing us down the hall, was as loud and meaningless as the cry of a go-away bird.