by Kwei Quartey
Gifty stood up. “Come, my dear. I’ll show you.”
My dear? Dawson winced. He followed her out of the kitchen.
“There you are,” she said triumphantly with a dramatic sweep of the hand.
Arranged on the sideboard to form the letters DD were sixteen bottles of Malta.
“Oh, wow,” Dawson said.
“Do you like it?”
“A supply of Malta? What could I possibly not like about that? Thank you, Mama. It’s very good of you.”
“You’re welcome, Darko. It’s my peace offering. Look, I’m so sorry I took Hosiah to eat pizza. I shouldn’t have done that. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Dawson kissed her on the cheek. “All is forgiven, Mama. I realize you didn’t mean any harm.”
Hosiah came in and tugged at Dawson’s trousers. “Daddy, Mammy says come and grate the cheese because we’re going to start baking the pizza.”
Hours later, a contented, pizza-filled Hosiah was fast asleep, there had been a power failure, and Dawson, drowsy and spent, was sprawled naked and sweating on the bed in the dark beside an equally naked Christine.
“Hmm,” she murmured.
“What?”
“You’re amazing. You used so much energy you cut the electricity.”
He laughed languidly. “You must have put something in that delicious pizza. Christine’s Aphrodisiac Pizza. If you open a shop with that name, the place would be mobbed.”
“I could offer special Ghanaian toppings.”
“Kenkey pieces for the Ga consumers,” Dawson contributed.
Christine snorted. “Miniature fufu balls.”
“Tatale.”
“Fried yam.”
They went on suggesting the most outlandish toppings possible, laughing until the pain in their sides stopped them.
First thing in the morning, Dawson, showered and fresh, went to SCOAR and found Socrate in his office.
“How are you, Inspector? Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Can I help you with something?”
“I have a question for you.” Dawson eyed Socrate long enough for him to start to get uncomfortable. “Yesterday, who was really responsible for Antwi being in the storeroom?”
Socrate frowned. “I don’t get you.”
“I don’t think it’s physically possible for somebody to fit in there and pull the door closed.”
“Is your question to me which of his friends might have helped him hide and then closed the door on him?”
“No, that’s not exactly my question.”
“Oh, all right.” Socrate laughed. “Then I don’t know how I can be of any help to you.”
“Did you know Antwi had never seen this storeroom himself, and he only had a vague idea where it is? So I was trying to put myself in his shoes. Would I really run to the storeroom to hide, not having seen it or been there before, or would I take my chances and try to escape the building without Inspector Dawson spotting me? You know what I mean? Getting out of the building, if I can, is a much better option than hiding in the building.”
“I would think so, but, well … kids. They are what they are. And these ones in particular? Many of them are born liars, thieves, and tricksters. Antwi is one of them. There isn’t an honest bone in his body.”
“Did you ever feel the need to apply corrections to these children? Physical punishments?”
“We try to impart moral behavior to them every day, Inspector, but physical punishment is not part of our methods.”
“You’ve never beaten any of the children?”
Socrate shook his head hard. “We never do that.”
“I meant you in particular.”
“What are you implying?”
“There are some stories about you. Forcibly locking the kids up in the storeroom. Applying electric shocks …”
Socrate lifted his massive frame from his chair and leaned across his desk. “Inspector, I beg you. Do not come in here to make disgusting accusations about me to my face. For you to take the word of this … this worthless Antwi over mine is just insulting.”
“Worthless?” Dawson asked in surprise.
“Yes, he’s worthless!” Socrate’s face contorted with sudden fury. “Compared to me, to Genevieve, to everyone who spends precious time slaving over kids like Antwi with nothing to show for all that work, yes, he’s worthless. Do you understand me, Inspector? This is Ghana, the real world. What we put on our website and in those brochures with those stupid pictures of smiling children we so sweetly call success stories is far from the reality. These aren’t street children we’re dealing with, Inspector Dawson, these are street vermin.”
Socrate sat down as abruptly as he had stood up. His face was streaming with sweat, and there were broad rings of perspiration in his armpits that had not been there just a minute ago. He rested his forehead against his palms, chest heaving with wheezing breaths, as if he had just completed a sprint.
Dawson was speechless.
“Socra?”
He lifted his head as Genevieve came in.
“Socra, are you all right? What’s going on?” She came to his side, squeezing his shoulder and rubbing his neck. She lowered her voice so it became silky and soothing. “Slow down your breathing, Socra … slow … slower … that’s right, you know how to do this … you’re doing fine … that’s better.”
“I’m okay,” he said in a strangled voice. “Sorry. I’ll just go outside for a while.”
He stood, almost upsetting his chair, then left the office with shoulders hunched over.
Genevieve stared at Dawson. For the first time, he saw hostility. He turned his palms up and lifted his shoulders. “Don’t even ask me what happened, because I don’t know. I thought we were just talking—”
“About what?”
“The episode with Antwi.”
“Why are you bringing that up again, Inspector Dawson?” she said coldly. “Why? Please. Let it rest. It’s over and done with.”
“But maybe not. There are accusations against Socrate.”
“What accusations? What are you talking about?”
“Locking kids up in the storeroom, torturing them with electric shocks.”
“Torturing! Inspector, please. You heard this from Antwi?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t think Antwi’s making this kind of stuff up? You don’t see how that would serve his own interests?”
“Why should he make this up? What does he have to gain from it? I don’t know about your employee Socrate. There’s something loose somewhere.”
“He can be a little highly strung and emotional.”
“A little?”
She gave him a look that could have withered a plant.
“All right, okay,” he said, standing up. “I’ll go.”
At the door, he turned. “Has your organization always been called SCOAR?”
“In the beginning, when I took it over, it was something else. I renamed it.”
“By that time, had Socrate already come onboard?”
“Yes. Why?”
“He must have been something special to you.”
“He helped me get this place off the ground, Dawson. It was a mess, and I’m grateful to him for all his help in turning it into a success.”
“Which is why you can’t ask him to leave. Puts you in a tough position. After all, this place bears his name.”
“What do you mean?”
“Socra. It’s an anagram of SCOAR.”
Genevieve smiled slightly. “You are very clever.”
“Thank you,” he said. She didn’t escort him out.
Once Genevieve had left for the evening, Socrate was alone and SCOAR was as quiet as a library. This was his favorite time. Just him and his computers—especially on a Friday night like this. He would work on the website, answer emails, and surf the Internet. If this were all he had to do all day long, he would be happy.
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First he had to attend to the Gennie-cam, as he called it. He had a key to her office, just as she did to his. They trusted each other completely. In the corner of the room left of the doorway, Socrate stood on a chair and took down one of the pair of miniature speakers. He snapped open its gray foam grille and removed the spy cam secured inside with putty.
Socrate waited as the data was uploading to his computer. He had set up the sound system for Genevieve a year ago. It was great for jazz, which Genevieve loved to listen to if she worked late. The idea for the spy cam began to haunt Socrate months later. The thought came out of nowhere, pounced, and would not let go. On the first few nights that he watched the days’ recordings of Genevieve in her office, his entire body burned with the excitement that every taboo engenders.
Now, as he searched through the week’s surveillance, he dreaded proving himself right that Inspector Dawson had designs on Genevieve. He had not liked the man from the very start, and after today’s events, he positively despised him.
He found the spot he was looking for … Dawson going into the office with Genevieve. As he watched them standing together by the painting, Socrate felt the suffocation returning. He concentrated on imagining Genevieve’s voice. Slow down your breathing … slow … slower … that’s right. You’re doing fine.
37
Dawson turned over in bed and gazed at the ceiling splashed with Saturday morning sunlight. A little over two weeks had passed since Tedamm’s arrest. DNA analysis showed a match with the semen inside Comfort. It was her blood under his fingernails. Ofosu’s account of the rape had corresponded to Antwi’s. It was a strong case. Tedamm had been charged with rape and first-degree murder. He denied both, claiming Comfort had been actively soliciting sex, which had therefore been consensual. The blood under his fingernails, he said, was from her nosebleed, but he had not murdered her. He was sticking to that. Neither would he confess to the murders of Musa and Ebenezer. The autopsy had confirmed that Comfort had had a nosebleed, but that little island of truth did not exonerate Tedamm.
As for Flash, that sliver of scum, his alibi in Comfort’s case had checked out, including his drinking session with his friends at the Jesus Is Coming chop bar. Still, he was in jail for the prostitution racket. Tedamm would get bundled into that charge as well. So, although Dawson wasn’t completely satisfied about the way everything had turned out, there was at least something to be happy about.
Hosiah came in, jumped on the bed, and snuggled into a spot between his mother and his father.
“How are you, champ?” Dawson asked him, kissing the top of his head.
“Fine.”
“Fine, what?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“That’s better. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you. Daddy, look.” Hosiah held up his most recent toy creation, a turbo sports car.
Dawson examined it. “Nice!” he said. “How fast can it go?”
“One hundred and fifty.”
Dawson smiled. “That’s fast.”
Making appropriate zoom-zoom noises, Hosiah pushed his car along an imaginary road on Dawson’s chest and up his chin.
“Hey!” Dawson said in mock protest. “Where you think you’re going?”
Hosiah giggled. “Driving up a mountain. The Daddy Mountain.”
No longer did he and Dawson have playful wrestling matches on a Saturday morning like this. Dawson missed the tussles. He knew his son did too, but there was nothing they could do about it. Hosiah could not sustain that level of exertion anymore. Sometimes when Dawson looked at him, he had to swallow down the knot in his throat and blink away the pricking tears. His son was dwindling before his eyes.
Before breakfast, Christine came and stood in the doorway. “You have a visitor, Dark.”
“Who?”
“Surprise,” she said mischievously.
She moved to one side and brought someone else into view.
Dawson leapt to his feet, flabbergasted to see his old mentor standing there. “My God! Armah!”
They laughed as they embraced.
“How are you, Darko?”
“What a surprise! Welcome, welcome. I didn’t even hear you arrive.”
“I smuggled him in,” Christine said. “I spotted him out of the kitchen window as he was walking up.”
Daniel Armah, in his early sixties, friend, father figure, and mentor, was shorter than Dawson. His hair was speckled with gray, his face wide and welcoming. His eyes held deep thought and a twinkle of humor that often caught people by surprise.
“It’s so good to see you, Armah. You’re looking well.”
“You too, Darko.”
“Please, come and have a seat. Would you like anything? We’re about to have breakfast, if you’d like to join us.”
“I would love to. Thank you.”
Christine went about finishing up breakfast while Dawson and Armah talked.
“So what brings you to town?” Dawson asked.
“My cousin is ill,” Armah explained. “His wife asked me to come down and see him. He’s not doing well, and she’s afraid he may not last long.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How long will you be in Accra?”
“It depends on how my cousin does.”
“I understand.”
Washed and dressed, Hosiah came marching into the sitting room.
“Look who’s here, Hosiah,” Dawson said.
“Uncle Daniel!”
Armah hugged him. “How are you, Hosiah? My goodness, you’re growing tall!”
Hosiah beamed. “Daddy says I’ll be taller than him when I grow up.”
Armah laughed. “I don’t doubt it.”
After breakfast, Christine took Hosiah with her to run weekend errands. Dawson sat with Armah in the small backyard.
“I was closely following your case in the papers,” Armah said.
“It must be providence that brought you here,” Dawson said, “because I had been thinking about calling to talk to you about it. I wish I could feel completely happy with the result, but I’m not.”
“What’s troubling you?”
“Well, Tedamm is a rapist and a bully, no doubt, and maybe even a murderer, but in locking him up I have the same feeling you get when you put a piece of equipment together and there are nuts and bolts left over. For instance, a boy called Antwi, who was a witness to the rape, told me that, on the night Comfort was found dead, someone drove up in a vehicle while Tedamm was in the act. Thinking it was the police, Antwi and his friend Ofosu ran off, leaving Tedamm. We still don’t know who this person in the car was. Could it have been him who killed Comfort after Tedamm had left her? It’s a missing piece, and it bothers me.”
“Of course, the car could be a red herring.”
“True, but here’s another thing. We know Tedamm and Ebenezer were enemies because of turf battles, so there could be motive there. Maybe there was also a turf battle with Musa that Tedamm doesn’t want to admit to, but a turf battle with Comfort? That’s unlikely. And again, Comfort’s murder looked like a sexual homicide because of the rape, but that doesn’t fit with the motive of the other two murders.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
“What do you think I should do? I feel like I’ve achieved something but not the thing.”
“Are you still working full-time on the case?”
Dawson shook his head. “With all this excitement over Ghana’s new oil industry, practically everyone is focused on the murder of this Ghana Petroleum exec. Lartey’s asked me to help as well. Look, as he put it himself, poor people, prostitutes, and street children versus oil executive. Who wins?”
“What about Professor Botswe? He’s quite sure this is serial murder?”
“Yes.”
“Are you?”
“I have to say yes. That identical signature in all three cases is hard to ignore. Identical with only one exception.”
“What is that?”
“The killer to
ok body parts from Comfort and Musa as trophies, but he didn’t do the same with Ebenezer.”
“So we have no explanation for that either.”
“No. Can you make any sense of any of this?”
Armah reflected a moment. “I think you have Tedamm in prison for rape just as he deserves. I also think you and Dr. Botswe are right—there’s a serial killer—it’s just not Tedamm. We’re looking for someone who deals regularly with street children. That gives him the opportunity. I believe it’s someone with a truck, SUV, or large car, because these victims appear to have been brought to the places they were found, not murdered on the spot.”
Dawson nodded but sighed in frustration.
“I haven’t been a lot of help, I know,” Armah said. “A couple months ago I was having a small medical problem–nothing serious, it turns out, but at first the doctor couldn’t figure it out. He said something very interesting to me. He said, ‘Sometimes you just have to let the disease declare itself.’ And as blithe as that might sound, I think that’s what happens with murder cases too.”
Dawson winced. “In other words, I just have to wait awhile.”
“Yes,” Armah said. “Particularly in this case. Something is going to happen.”
They chatted a little longer, moving on to happier topics. Too soon, it was time for Armah to take his leave. Dawson saw him off in a cab, waiting for it to be completely swallowed up by Accra traffic before he turned back to the house.
Next, Dawson had a debt of gratitude to pay off. He went across the street to Awo’s and bought some tilapia and banku. That was the easy part. The hard part was finding Jason Allotey, the Korle Bu technician who had processed Musa’s tooth DNA results in record time. He lived in Chorkor, but the directions to his house were as confusing as a rat’s maze.
After some patient hunting, Dawson found it. It was a tiny place with corrugated metal roofing. Jason was relaxing outside with his wife and children. He was thrilled to see Dawson and overjoyed by the gift. With ceremonial flare, Jason introduced the members of his immediate family and several of the extended relations. Custom demanded that Dawson sit and chat and have something to drink. When it seemed he had spent enough time, he made a gracious exit and went home, where Hosiah was eagerly anticipating their outing to the Silverbird Cinema at the Accra Mall.