Children of the Street

by Kwei Quartey

  Tedamm turned his head away.

  “We know she was raped, Tedamm. Did you do that to her?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  A faint sheen of sweat showed at the top of his forehead like light drizzle on asphalt.

  “Why can’t you look at it, Tedamm? You raped her, didn’t you? Your boys Antwi and Ofosu held her down while you did it. And then you killed her.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what? Rape her or kill her?”

  “None of them.” Tedamm’s voice strengthened. His eyes narrowed. “So, why don’t you beat me now, Mr. Inspector Man? I know about you. You caught one friend of mine two years ago. The one you said raped a girl. And you beat him well, remember?”

  Chikata’s head popped up like a jack-in-the-box.

  Dawson was flabbergasted. Tedamm was absolutely correct. In a fit of temper that rarely troubled Dawson nowadays, he had repeatedly hit a rapist in the face after the man declared that his victims deserved what they had got.

  “You broke his nose,” Tedamm continued. “You say behind every bully is a coward. So who is the coward here, apart from me?” Tedamm symbolically pointed his index finger to his right eye. “You see now?”

  And Dawson did see something. Stains underneath Tedamm’s fingernails.

  “Tell me about Comfort, Tedamm.”

  “Tell me why you beat my friend when he didn’t do anything.”

  “Just because the court didn’t find him guilty doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”

  “But why did you beat him? You made him bleed all over his face, Inspector Dawson. Why?”

  A smile played at the corners of Tedamm’s lips as he locked eyes with Dawson. “When somebody says the word rape, you become like a madman.”

  Dawson’s phone rang. He kept his gaze steady on Tedamm as he answered. “Hello?”

  “Biney here.”

  “Yes, Doc?”

  “We have semen suitable for DNA testing.”

  Outstanding. “And we have a suspect,” Dawson said.

  “Excellent. Get me swabs and a blood sample.”

  “We will. Thank you, Doctor.”

  Dawson pocketed his phone. Tedamm was looking amused, but something about Dawson’s face made his smile fade.

  “You’re going back to your cell now. Cuff him, Chikata.”

  Tedamm leapt up. “I didn’t do anything!”

  Chikata tackled him, thrusting him flat on the table, wrestling to get his wrists behind his back.

  Dawson leaned on Tedamm’s shoulders to hold him still.

  “Don’t fight. It’s two against one, and more outside the room.”

  They guided their prisoner to a corner to face the wall. He stood breathing heavily, his torso heaving.

  “Get someone here from Korle Bu to swab his cheek and his fingernails,” Dawson told Chikata. “We need blood too.”

  He moved closer to Tedamm, speaking softly. “We’re going to find your friend Antwi. We’ll see if you were telling the truth.”

  Tedamm shrugged his muscle-knotted shoulders.

  “Oh, you don’t care, eh?” Dawson said. “When we find out whose sperm is inside Comfort and whose blood is under your fingernails, we’ll see if you still don’t care. And then we’ll see if you don’t care after you’ve been in prison so long you forget what the sky looks like.”

  Tedamm turned his head and spat on the floor.

  Dawson went back to Chief Superintendent Lartey’s office.

  “We want to find this boy Antwi as soon as possible, sir. I need people.”

  “How many?” Lartey asked, like a suspicious parent.

  “At least six.”

  “What, you think yours is the only case in town? We have other priorities besides your case, you know.”

  “I understand, sir, and I don’t know what these other priorities are that you talk about, but—”

  “Let me give you just one example,” Lartey interrupted, his voice sharp as a straight blade. “The VP of Ghana Petroleum was murdered early this morning in his house in Airport Residential. Shot execution style. Did you know about that?”

  “Oh,” Dawson said. “No, I didn’t.”

  “I’ve got an internationally connected oil executive dead, and you’ve got these nameless prostitutes and good-for-nothing street people. Who do you think wins?”

  “It’s murder either way, sir,” Dawson said. “Prostitute or oil exec, dead is dead.”

  Lartey closed his eyes for a long-suffering moment. “Four constables, Dawson. That’s all you get. And you’ll need to fill out an official request for them.”

  31

  Localized scleroderma. That was what Austin Ansah had. It caused the strange deformity called en coup de sabre that ran from his scalp into his forehead like an oblique lightning bolt. It could, and most probably would, become worse.

  As he read through a paper written by researchers from UNICEF, he rubbed his fingertips across the irregular depression in his brow, an unconscious habit.

  “I imagine you must be used to it by now,” a stupid woman had once said to him.

  “So is an amputee,” Austin had retorted. “That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like his leg back.”

  He was thirty-eight. Women were not attracted to him. He knew that. In fact, they were repulsed. They looked away when they saw him. If they were in a group, they would whisper to one another, What’s wrong with his forehead? At wedding receptions, the single women wouldn’t dance with him even if he asked, which he no longer did. He had some male friends. They invited him places sometimes—whenever they felt sorry for him.

  Austin had been working on his thesis, “Social Structures Among Migrant Groups of Accra,” for three years. He had begun to take notice of migrant girls the way an ornithologist realizes the beauty of the birds he studies. A year ago while he was in the field one night at the Nkrumah Circle, a street girl had walked up to him and propositioned him. Taken completely by surprise, Austin had stammered his refusal. The girl went away, but her image and her voice never left him. It was as if he had been given an analgesic for pain but not quite enough. He had tasted a tiny bit. He craved much more.

  So he went back. That first time, he was shaking with excitement and fear. He didn’t find the girl who had originally set fire to his kindling, but the one he chose was just as young. Fifteen. When he had done the deed, he felt revolted. He threw up and vowed never to do it again. But it was like heroin. He was hooked. He went back again and again. Each time, he had the same reaction: disgust and loathing.

  Austin looked around his cramped lodgings, a rented room in Ussher Town. Papers and books were piled wherever there was any space. He got up, paced a few steps, sat down again to make some desultory notes on his yellow pad. He rested his head on his desk for a moment, closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, trying to quench the urges. It was twelve-fifteen in the morning. Accra was silent, but that was when the city beckoned Austin most. The tumult of the daytime pushed him away, but at night, the city became seductive and sensual.

  He stood up quickly, threw on a shirt, and left the room.

  I promise. This will be the last time.

  32

  Dawson had got home late that night. Christine was in bed waiting for him. He lay across the bed with his head in her lap.

  “Do you want something to eat?” she asked.

  “I’m too tired to eat.”

  “You should eat. You’re a scarecrow. Get up and take a shower while I make something. Dark, wake up.”

  “There must be a better way to make a living,” he muttered.

  Dawson drove Hosiah to school the next morning.

  “Bye, Daddy!” the boy said, about to bolt out of the car.

  Dawson pulled him right back. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Oh, yah.” He kissed his father on the cheek. “Bye.”

  Before pulling away, Dawson watched his son disappear into the school grounds.


  He got to work at eight-fifteen. There was a surprise waiting for him. Leaning against the wall outside the detectives’ room, journalist’s pad in hand, was Wisdom Asamoah.

  “Morning, Wisdom,” Dawson said evenly.

  “Good morning, Inspector Dawson,” Wisdom said, following him into the clamor of the office.

  “How can I help you?”

  “You’re not going to at least offer me a seat?” Wisdom said, taking Chikata’s chair.

  Dawson sat opposite him. “What can I do for you, Wisdom?”

  “I need to know a little about these murders. The girl at the railway trash dump is number three?”

  “What girl?”

  “I think you know exactly who I’m talking about, Inspector. Her name is Comfort Mahama. She was found dead Tuesday night.”

  “How do you know about her?”

  “My sources. I’m reliably told that she’s number three in the series. Musa Zakari, Ebenezer Sarpong, and now Comfort Mahama. You’ve arrested Kareem Tedamm. Is he the alleged serial killer?”

  “Serial killer! Who says there’s a serial killer?”

  “Ah, come on, Inspector. Three young people killed in the same way with bizarre removal of body parts? It has to be the same offender. I know a little about these things, you know. Signature and M.O. and all that stuff. Remember? Forensic Files?”

  “Oh, yes. How did I forget that? And you have an informant at the Police Hospital Mortuary, do you?”

  “Not necessarily. Tell me what’s going on, Dawson.”

  “Here’s my official statement, Wisdom. You can quote me. Are you ready?”

  Wisdom uncapped his pen, positioning it over his pad. “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve made an arrest in connection with the murder of a young woman by the name of Comfort Mahama, found dead on Tuesday night on the railway station premises.”

  “The person you’ve arrested in that regard is Kareem Tedamm.”

  “Yes, but he has not yet been charged with the murder.”

  “You have to do that soon then, don’t you? If he is, will he be additionally charged with the murders of Zakari and Sarpong?”

  “We haven’t made a connection between those cases and Comfort’s.”

  “But you’re trying to make it?”

  “Only if there’s one to be made.”

  “But am I correct that the M.O. and signature in all the cases are identical?”

  “There is some resemblance.”

  Wisdom smiled slyly. “You are very slippery, Inspector.”

  “You mean cautious.”

  “Is that all you have for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is it true that Comfort Mahama was an ashawo?”

  “I have work to do, Wisdom.”

  He stood up. “Thank you, Inspector. It’s always a pleasure.”

  Dawson had sent Chikata out early that morning with the four loaned constables to look for Antwi. He called the detective sergeant to see if he’d made any progress.

  “Can’t find him,” Chikata said.

  “Keep looking. We’ll get him. Good job, Chikata.”

  “Thank you.” He sounded pleased.

  Dawson sat thinking for a moment, tapping his fingers on the table. Where would Antwi take refuge? That’s when it occurred to Dawson that he wasn’t making use of a good resource.

  33

  When Dawson got to SCOAR, he knocked first on Genevieve’s door. With no reply, he went on to Socrate’s office. He wasn’t there either.

  Dawson went to the building’s rear entrance. He opened the door onto the courtyard. Groups of boys were playing basketball and soccer in the hot morning sun. Space was limited, but they were doing fine. To the side, Socrate was taking photographs of them. Dawson watched him for a moment before walking up.

  “Morning, Socrate.”

  “Morning.” He didn’t really look at Dawson.

  “Quite a crowd you have back here,” Dawson said.

  “They do their exercise here. Work out all their frustrations.”

  “And the pictures?”

  “What pictures?”

  “You’re taking photographs.”

  “Oh. For the website. I have to update it.”

  Dawson noticed the have to.

  “How do you feel about these kids, Socrate?”

  Socrate gave Dawson a long, detached stare. His eyes seemed empty and sightless. Dawson felt the hair on his neck rise.

  Socrate turned away to take another photo. Did he not hear the question?

  “Is Genevieve in today?” Dawson asked, hopeful for an answer this time.

  “Mrs. Kusi is in a meeting. She’ll be finished soon. Let’s go back inside, Inspector.”

  Dawson followed, noticing Socrate’s slumped shoulders. The man walked as if it was a chore. In the office, he sat at the computer quietly uploading the images from his camera.

  “I’m looking for a boy called Antwi Boasiako,” Dawson said.

  “The one who hangs around with Kareem Tedamm?”

  “That’s him. Does he come here to the center?”

  “In and out.”

  “But not here at the moment?”

  “I don’t think so, but let me just check the Refuge Room.” Socrate leaned over to the second computer monitor on his desk. “No, he’s not there.”

  Interested, Dawson came around to Socrate’s side of the desk. “You have surveillance cameras?”

  “Just for the entrance and the Refuge Room,” Socrate said. “Mrs. Kusi can access them too.”

  The images were of medium quality at fifteen frames per second, which made them slightly jerky, but they were adequate to keep an eye on what was going on.

  “Who set up this system?”

  “I did,” Socrate said, sounding a little insulted.

  “Oh, sorry,” Dawson said. “Very well done. There must be nothing electronic you don’t know.”

  That seemed to reverse the affront somewhat. Socrate smiled his sour smile.

  “I’ll see if Genevieve is back in her office,” he said and buzzed her.

  “Yes, Socrate?”

  “Inspector Dawson is here to see you.”

  “By all means have him come to the office then.”

  Minutes after Dawson had left, Socrate glanced at his surveillance monitor and saw Antwi coming into the building, turning left to go upstairs. Socrate got up and followed him, catching up with him before he got to the Refuge Room.

  “Yes, Mr. Socrate?”

  “Come with me, Antwi. I want to talk to you.”

  The boy followed him. Socrate stopped short of the woodshop, turning instead to a rarely used exit.

  There was a veranda outside. Socrate leaned against the balcony, facing Antwi. “What have you done wrong?”

  “Please, nothing.”

  “Then why is a policeman looking for you?”

  Antwi jumped. “Policeman? Where?”

  “He’s downstairs talking to Madam Genevieve. Are you in any trouble?”

  “Please, no,” the boy said. But he was jittery.

  “All right, I believe you,” Socrate said. “I can help you. You can hide in the storeroom we have up here. When the policeman leaves, I come back and get you.”

  Antwi became suddenly wary. “The storeroom? Mepaakyεw, I don’t want to go in there.”

  “What’s wrong with the storeroom?”

  “Let me climb over the balcony, rather?” Antwi suggested.

  “Foolish boy. And break your leg? Come on, before the policeman finds you.”

  Socrate led the way around the corner to the storeroom, undid the padlock, and opened the door. Antwi gaped. The “room” was tiny, not bigger than a cupboard, really. There were brooms and mops, disinfectant liquid, and stacked gallon containers of water in case the water supply got cut, which happened often enough.

  “How can I go in there?” he gasped.

  “Oh, you can go in for sure,” Socrate said. “You are slim, so you can
fit.”

  “Please …”

  “Get inside.”

  There was a violent struggle as Socrate forced him in.

  When Socrate shut the storeroom door on him, Antwi was squeezed in between it and the gallon containers. He could barely breathe. He heard the padlock click shut. It was pitch black except for a sliver of light at the bottom of the door. He tried to shift position, but it was impossible. Antwi began to feel his throat closing up. He couldn’t get any air. Panic gripped him. Let me out. Please. He screamed Socrate’s name. Then he just screamed.

  34

  There was soft jazz playing in Genevieve’s office when Dawson came in. He looked up at the two speakers mounted high on the wall facing her desk.

  “Very nice, I must say.”

  “The genius of Socrate,” Genevieve said. She looked stunning in an olive business suit. “He threw it in along with the surveillance system.”

  “Yes, he showed it off to me. Impressive.”

  “His brother owns an electronics store on Oxford Street, so we got it all for cheap.”

  “Why the surveillance? I’m just curious.”

  “We need to know who is going in and out of the center, for one, and there’s the occasional theft. As for the Refuge Room, there can’t be someone in there supervising the kids every single minute, so we need another way to keep an eye on them.”

  “I understand.”

  A framed painting on her wall had caught Dawson’s attention. “You didn’t have that when I was here last.”

  “It’s by Wiz Kudowor. Urban Profiles.” Genevieve walked up to it. “I got it as a gift. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Dawson joined her next to the piece. “It certainly is.”

  “Wiz is internationally known.”

  “I know. Congratulations. His work sells for a pretty penny.”

  She was between Dawson and the wall. He was still concentrating on the painting when she turned to face him.

  “Thin, but strong,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “You look thin, but up close I realize how strong you are.”