by Kwei Quartey
Issa’s eyebrows went up. Cautious concern. “What happened?”
“Someone found him dead in the Novotel Park latrine. Let me talk to you for a moment.”
Dawson took Issa a few meters away, dropping his voice. “He’s feeling very bad because of Ofosu’s death, the same way you felt the day when Ebenezer was found. You get me.”
Issa nodded.
“I know he and Ofosu used to follow Tedamm around,” Dawson continued. “Tedamm was Ebenezer’s enemy, and yours too, but it was Tedamm who was running the show. Antwi and Ofosu were just small boys to him. If they ever disobeyed him, he beat them.”
“Yes.”
“So now Ofosu is dead and Antwi is by himself. I don’t want him to be alone right now. I want him to be with someone, and it’s you I trust most. You hear what I’m saying.”
“Yes, please.”
“You’ll do it for me?”
“For you, yes.”
“Thank you.” Dawson shook his hand. “I want Antwi to be at your base at night, not somewhere out there by himself. The man who killed Ebenezer and Comfort and Ofosu might come after Antwi.”
“I won’t let anything happen to Antwi,” Issa said. “Maybe I failed Ebenezer, but I won’t fail Antwi. And if I catch the one who killed Ebenezer, I will kill him myself.”
“No, don’t do that,” Dawson said. “Because I want him first. Rather, you hold him for me and I’ll come and kill him.”
They laughed.
Dawson called to Antwi. “Come and talk to your new older brother.”
41
Dawson left Issa and Antwi after the rules had been laid down. Antwi was to leave Issa’s base no earlier than five-thirty in the morning and be back not later than eight at night. No exceptions. During the night, he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere by himself, including the latrine. He was to wake Issa up to accompany him.
Dawson called Chikata. “How are things?”
“I’m just finishing my report. Do you need anything from me, Dawson?”
“No, that’s all for today. Chikata, thank you, eh? You’ve done well.”
“Thank you, Dawson, sir.”
“We’ll meet at CID tomorrow morning at seven to talk.”
“Sure, no problem.” Before they ended the call, Chikata added, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you how Hosiah is doing these days with the heart problem.”
Dawson was surprised, pleasantly. Chikata had never asked him this before. “He’s holding on,” he said, “but he needs the operation. We’re hoping for the best.”
“Okay, I pray for him, then.”
“Thank you, Chikata. Enjoy your Sunday.”
It was just after noon now, so Christine would be out of church and Hosiah out of Sunday school. Dawson got her on the first ring. She told him some church friends had invited them to lunch.
“I have one more person to see,” Dawson said. “I’ll call you after that.”
“Okay.”
Next, Dawson dialed Dr. Botswe’s number, wondering what the professor’s Sunday schedule was like and whether he went to church. Compared to most other Ghanaians, Dawson was quite “religionless.” Some might have insisted he was Godless as well, but on that point he was still undecided. What he did know was that it would be over his dead body that his hard-earned money would go to a rich pastor in one of the so-called charismatic churches like Assemblies of God or Lighthouse Chapel International. Dawson regarded them with deep suspicion. Were they servants of God or Bible-wielding con men?
Botswe answered his phone. “Good afternoon, Inspector Dawson. Good to hear from you again. How are you?”
“I’m okay, Dr. Botswe, but there’s been another murder.”
“Really.”
“Yes—early this morning. I’d like to come by and discuss it with you, if I may.”
“By all means. I’m at home all afternoon.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
Botswe’s gate was open when Dawson drove up, but he parked outside on the street. As he walked in, a smiling Obi came forward to greet him. He was in a blindingly white shirt, dark blue tie, and perfectly pressed navy blue trousers. It was a transformation.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Dawson said. “You are sharp!”
“Thank you,” Obi said. “You are welcome. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. And yourself?”
“I am blessed and full of joy for the Lord, sir.”
“Oh, very good. Off to church then?”
“Yes, please—to give praises to the Almighty and ask for His guidance in all I do. Let me take you inside to the doctor.”
He escorted Dawson into the house, which, again, was unapologetically cooled. Dawson wondered idly how much Botswe paid for his electricity.
“Good afternoon, Inspector Dawson,” the professor said, appearing from his study.
“Afternoon, Dr. Botswe.”
“Please, do you need anything else?” Obi asked Botswe. “No, thank you, Obi. Have a nice time in church.”
“Yes, please. Thank you, sir. Good-bye, Inspector.”
“Come into my study,” Botswe said to Dawson. “Would you like some Malta?”
“I never refuse that offer.”
Botswe smiled. “Make yourself comfortable while I get you some. The staff is all off on Sundays. After all, they have their lives too.”
Dawson almost said, really? but thought better of it. As Botswe went for the refreshments, Dawson noticed a new painting on the far wall. Wiz Kudowor. When Botswe came back with a tray of Malta and some Club beer for himself, he found Dawson in front of the painting.
“Admiring the Wiz?” he said.
“Yes. Spectacular.”
“That one’s called Groom Awaits the Bride.”
“I haven’t seen this one before,” Dawson said. “Genevieve Kusi has another of his pieces in her office.”
Botswe’s eyes skidded, like a car losing its grip on the road for a second.
“Do you know Genevieve?” Dawson asked.
“Yes, I do. She’s a tremendous resource, and she and her institution do excellent work in this city. They’ve picked up a couple of national and international awards, you know. Please, Inspector Dawson, do have a seat and help yourself to your Malta. I trust it’s cold enough.”
They sat with a side table between them. Dawson closed his eyes momentarily as he took the first sip.
Botswe chuckled. “That good?”
“I think it’s a sickness,” Dawson said, looking at the bottle as though it might reveal something new. “Well, you tell me. You’re a psychologist. Is this a terrible addiction?”
“Oh, that everyone should have such a harmless addiction! So, tell me about this new murder.”
“A boy of about thirteen to fourteen, name of Ofosu, who along with another boy, Antwi, used to follow around a brute called Tedamm. But Ofosu was, and Antwi is, basically decent.”
“Tedamm is the one I read about in the papers who was charged with the rape and murder of Comfort?”
“Yes, him. Ofosu was stabbed sometime last night between midnight and four. I’ll show you the pictures I took with my phone. Most of the signature is the same as the other three, but this is the first one in which the body has been placed inside a building. Does that mean anything special?”
Dawson brought out his camera and toggled to the right spot in the picture gallery. He handed it to Botswe. “I took six photos.”
The professor began to look at them.
“Sorry about their small size,” Dawson said.
“Would it help to upload them to my PC?” Botswe asked cautiously.
“I wish I could, Dr. Botswe, but police regulations prohibit that.”
“Of course. I understand.” He smiled. “You have remarkable integrity. I’m not sure that another person in your position would take so much care.”
Dawson said nothing to that. Botswe went from one image to the next and back again. He returned the camer
a to Dawson. “Same signature, same killer.”
“Even though this body’s dumped indoors instead of out?”
“Indoors, outdoors—it doesn’t matter to the killer. What he’s expressing is that these people’s lives are worthless to him. They might as well be rubbish or refuse. That’s why he chooses the filth of Korle Lagoon for Musa, the muddy ditch for Ebenezer, a rubbish dump in Comfort’s case, and now the latrine for Ofosu.”
“By ‘these people’s lives’ you mean street children.”
“Yes.”
“He hates them.”
“Or what they represent in his mind. He could be a messianic killer on an apocalyptic mission to rid us of this scourge, as he sees it, of street children.”
“That would mean a psychotic person, surely?”
“In the sense of distorted reality, certainly, but not in the true wider sense of psychosis. These aren’t really psychotic killings because they are too organized and too planned. Psychotic killings are disorganized, often opportunistic, spur of the moment. This isn’t what this fellow is doing.”
“Perhaps he was once traumatized as a street child himself. Maybe he’s trying to kill that part of them that’s in him.”
“Ah, indeed, perhaps so. Have you thought of psychology as a career, Inspector?”
Dawson laughed. “With all due respect, no. Back to this killer, I still don’t understand why he takes these body parts away. You’ve said these aren’t ritual killings, and I’m willing to agree, but fingers, kneecaps, and now a tongue? He cut out Ofosu’s tongue, for goodness’ sake.”
Botswe nodded. “Your point is well taken. I feel comfortable in saying that he is taking trophies, which serial killers often do, and that he is escalating. This last murder was more intense—the setting, the trophy taking, everything.”
“Like he’s taunting us with Ofosu’s murder.”
“He is almost certainly following you closely through newspaper reports and such. He might interject himself into the case, and he might find ways to view his work a second or third time. And, Inspector, if you don’t stop him, he will most certainly kill again.”
42
Dawson spent some time with Christine and Hosiah. To their disappointment, he had to leave them after a while, on a mission to the area bounded by Tudu Road, Kantamanto Market, Knutsford Avenue, and Kojo Thompson Road.
It was almost eight. Many of the kids had returned for the night. Dawson found Issa, Mosquito, and little Mawusi, who had recovered from his malaria bout, but Antwi hadn’t arrived yet.
Dawson stayed calm outwardly. Inside, he was getting nervous.
“Oh, here he comes,” Issa said finally, and Dawson turned to see Antwi running like a schoolboy late for class, breathing heavily as he came up.
“Antwi, you’re late,” Dawson said.
“Please, I’m sorry. I was at Kantamanto. I found some work there.”
“Don’t be late again.”
“Yes, please.”
“I need all of you to help me,” Dawson said. He paired Issa with Antwi, and Mosquito with Mawusi.
“Go around and fetch everyone to come to your base,” Dawson instructed. “I want to talk to them.”
It took about thirty minutes to get them all together—scores of kids of all ages from six up. Dawson felt like a politician, father, headmaster, and policeman. Like all children, they took a little while to settle down, but once they did, they listened to what Dawson had to tell them about how to avoid becoming a victim, and how to turn a hunter into the hunted.
Dawson was exhausted when he got back home. Christine was in the sitting room watching TV. Dawson took a shower to wash the day’s dirt away. The water pressure was low, but it did the job. He kissed Hosiah, already fast asleep in his room, and then crawled into bed. For a moment he thought of the kids he had talked to tonight. They slept on the hard pavement every night. Hosiah slept in a comfortable bed.
He was faintly aware of Christine slipping into bed beside him. Later, he saw Issa and Antwi walk into the bedroom. An invisible force held Dawson down, preventing him from moving. Issa drew a knife, holding it high in readiness to strike. Mosquito came in pushing a cart. Issa brought the knife down slowly. Dawson struggled to get up but couldn’t. The knife plunged into Antwi’s back. Warm blood spilled across Dawson’s face.
Chest tight, he shot up in bed, groped for the lamp, but knocked it over instead. Christine’s light came on. He looked at her but saw her only indistinctly.
“I’ve sent Antwi straight into the arms of the killer,” Dawson said. “Issa will kill him. I have to go and get him before it’s too late.”
He started to get up, but she held him back.
“Dark, stop. It’s a nightmare. It’s not happening.”
“What?”
He stared at her for a moment, then he groaned and fell back.
“Relax, relax,” she whispered, cradling his head.
“It can’t be Issa, can it?” Dawson muttered.
“In the morning, things will look different by the light of day,” she said confidently.
He sighed. “I want some Malta. With a scoop of ice cream in it. Do we have any ice cream?”
“A little. I don’t know why I spoil you like this.”
43
Monday morning, the Graphic’s headline was SERIAL KILLER STALKS ACCRA. The corresponding photo was the Novotel Lorry Park latrine, which would undoubtedly become a new Accra landmark. Lartey was reading the article when Dawson came into his office.
“If we let the press take control of this,” the chief supol said, “they’ll cause all kinds of panic and hysteria among the public. We have to wrestle the control back from them.”
“How should we do that, sir?”
“We’ll talk about that in a little while. Right now, I want you to summarize everything we know about the case.” Lartey checked his watch. “We’ll wait a few minutes for Philip.”
Just as he said that, Chikata hurried in, mumbling an apology. “Have a seat, Philip,” Lartey said. “Go ahead, Dawson.”
Dawson took his position in front of Lartey’s giant wall map of the Accra metropolitan area. Using an erasable marker on the map’s coated surface, he circled the sites of the four murders: Musa, dead in the Korle Lagoon, Ebenezer in a muddy ditch in Jamestown, Comfort at the rubbish dump at the railway station, and finally Ofosu in the Novotel latrine.
“With Musa’s murder,” Dawson said, “I thought it might be a ritual killing because his fingers had been cut off, but Dr. Allen Botswe didn’t think so. When Comfort’s murder occurred, we became certain that there was one killer responsible for all three—hers, Ebenezer’s before her, and Musa’s before Ebenezer. The M.O. of targeting street people and the signature of striking them down with a single deep and fatal stab to the back, along with an additional mutilation, is consistent throughout. Musa’s and Ebenezer’s locations are only a kilometer apart or so, and both are south of Comfort’s and Ofosu’s.”
He connected his four points on the map with lines.
“The area is within Accra Central and is approximately the shape of a parallelogram. There are at least a couple possibilities. One, the killer lives within the perimeter of the parallelogram and murders his victims there. Two, he chooses victims outside the parallelogram but chooses to dump them within it.”
“What is special about the parallelogram area?” Lartey asked.
“Excellent question, sir. Very likely it has special significance to the killer because it includes major areas where poor children of, or on, the street live—Jamestown, Agbogbloshie, the railway station, CMB, Tudu, and so on. In other words, these are the places that set him alight and get his motor running, that stimulate him to kill.
“At any rate, we believe he is highly mobile with a pickup truck, a van, or a large car with enough room in the boot to hide a body—because as far as we can tell, the four victims were not killed where they were found, they were transported.”
“How
did you come to that conclusion?” Lartey asked.
“A couple reasons,” Dawson said. “The first is that at the spots the victims were dumped, there hasn’t been the amount and severity of bleeding one might expect from their stab wounds, suggesting that most of the hemorrhage occurred prior and elsewhere. Second, part of the killer’s signature is to dump his victims in specific places that convey filth—rubbish dump, gutter, latrine, and so on. It would be difficult to choose victims who are at those locations at exactly the right moment. He kills them and then he places them where he wants.”
“Has a specific truck or van been detected that’s common to the murder sites?”
“No, but Antwi and his late friend Ofosu reported a vehicle a short time before we believe Comfort was killed. However, they couldn’t make out the vehicle or the driver.”
“That could be something,” Lartey said. “Or not. All right, so what are you going to do about finding this killer?”
“We need to concentrate on people and places that have contact with street children. We already know one place, SCOAR, but there are other organizations in Accra that advocate for the kids. We need to go in and look around and talk to people. We’ll focus on employees who live within our parallelogram, and employees who have left the organizations or been sacked for some infraction, like abuse of the children.”
“What else are you planning?”
“I had an idea when Dr. Botswe told me that the killer might try to involve or inject himself into the investigation. I was trying to think of something that would engage him, make him come forward in some way.”
Chikata snapped his fingers. “What about call-in radio programs? People love them. He might be tempted to call a station so he can be on air.”
Lartey beamed at his nephew. “Brilliant, Philip. You could get that set up with Joy FM and Bola Ray.”
“Sure.”
“How would that work?” Dawson asked. “He’d call in to the station and then what?”
“The number would show on the studio screen, and then we can have the phone company either trace the call or check phone records.”