“If you had planted the device I could have proved it to you that the doctor is no better than a beast.”
I sighed. “I must be dreaming."
Her phone vibrated so loud it sliced through my hearing faculty. She reached for it in her pink overcoat pocket and answered.
“Yes.”
She paused and listened.
“Pardon me!”
She paused and listened.
“Hello you …” She was talking to a dial tone.
“Is that the new DCI?” I asked.
“Far from her.”
“So who?” I probed.
“Talk of the devil. Before he hung up he said and I quote: ‘I know he’s been discharged and I know you’re with him in his Cambridge home. Do me the honour of bringing the fine detective along with you!”
“The Doctor George?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll do him the honour.”
“You’d join me in my Chevrolet or …”
“We aren’t driving. We’re using the tubes.” I revolted.
****
It was seven o’clock when we arrived George’s residence at Eccleston square. He had spent almost the whole evening, since he called, waiting for us.
“Welcome duo.” He entered his drawing room and we followed.
Immediately after we entered, the interior view which was latent in the tape Hugh had given me when I took over the case became visual like I was seeing it on a high definition television, or HDTV.
He gestured at his black leather couch, “Sit!”
We sat!
“How much aeons did it take you to decipher the anagrams?”
“We didn’t decipher it. In fact the anagrams and its meanings died with the serial killer.” Danielle volunteered.
“But him." He gestured at me while he poked his fire place.
“I must confess you’re good! After I deciphered the anagrams on Good Friday, I was convinced Femi Atkins was the beast. Hard luck I only deciphered four of the anagrams.”
“Really?” George chuckled
“Everyone had the opinion that the killer was Black and on Good Friday I bought it. After many conjectures I thought the killer was avenging his rulers who were deposed and replaced by British choices."
“You must have sweat blood to settle for that conclusion.” He mockingly said.
“Bitter truth and Google was almost compounding an already complicated mess."
“Were there any plausible search results?” He stopped poking the fire place and walked to his PC arena.
“What are you both talking about?” Danielle intruded.
“No plausible ones until I checked ‘Nigerian traditional kings who were deposed by the British in the pre-colonial era'. I just had the feeling to narrow it down to Nigeria."
“You knew the anagrams weren’t wholly English?” He said as he moved to his potpourri bowl.
“I conjectured it”
He chuckled and moved over to his coffee table. "Bring it on."
“The first anagram is an anagram of king Jaja, a pre-colonial Nigerian merchant.”
“Really? How does it fit in Uh, Boa, Job, Jug?”
“You’re slick!” I stood.
“A compliment!”
“Jaja took the name ‘Jaja’ for his dealings with the British. His name is Jubo Jubogha. Uh, Boa, Job, Jug is an anagram of Jubo Jubogha.”
He smiled. “Your brain usage must have reached fifty percent.”
“A Nun Moo La is an anagram of another pre-colonial Nigerian merchant, Nana Olomu."
“I made you research history.” He grinned.
Danielle stood stunned. The flushes on her face were visible.
“Go kook inks is an anagram of King Kosoko. A slave merchant and King of pre-colonial Lagos in pre-colonial Nigeria, until deposed by the British."
“You should make a good historian, African historian. Josephus of Africa!”
“Did he suggest the anagrams to the serial killer?” Danielle was saying to me.
I was so absorbed in letting this serial murderer know that I know he did it. “And the anagram on my wife, Above A Sinning Room, is an anagram of Ovonramen Nogbaisi, a King of pre-colonial Benin empire."
“And the last one?”
I smiled, “That one, Methane Reshape Pen is still an enigma.”
“You aren’t that good then and I’m sure none would ever decode it. It will follow me to the grave. But let me help you. Instead of brooding in pre-colonial Nigeria, stretch your imagination strings to Ghana."
“Wait . . . You mean Femi Atkins isn’t the killer?” Danielle looked puzzled.
“Why on earth did you think I gave you the PIR to plant here?” I queried her.
“So who dunnit?” She was anxious.
“Him!” I gestured at George, “Femi is as innocent as a day-old pregnancy."
George smiled, “What puzzles me is how you knew I was the man behind the curtain. All clues, if decoded, were to lead the investigator to Femi Atkins.”
“Femi was your black victim. The shoulder that carried the entire onus."
“Do you consult with Ouija boards?”
“I read Doctor Knapman’s article and I was convinced, that was why I sent her to plant the PIR here. I wanted a videograph of you producing the cyanide.”
“Cyanide?” Danielle’s jaw dropped.
“Cyanide is naturally resident in the pits of apricot kernels, almond seeds and in the pips of apples. When hydrolyzed they liberate hydrocyanic acid.”
“You sound like a chemistry professor now.” He clapped!
“One hundred grams of crushed apple seeds can yield about seventy milligrams of hydrocyanic acid, and your buying of apples from ’Bayo Robert Fresh’ was way above normal unless you were a retailer."
“Detective!” He smiled and clapped. “I’m impressed!”
“You were the mystery guy in Katherine’s diary. You ripped off those pages. You did it to implicate Trevor.”
“If I had known you’d kill him I’d have removed the entire diary."
“I’m not a murderer!”
“Oh yes we are. You fucked with his mind. You blackmailed him to his death. I didn’t know what you told him.” He took out a dried flower from the potpourri bowl and smelled it. “And as for Katherine, you weren’t romantic enough."
“Romantic? Ugh? Is that why you fucked Reverend Bean or he fucked you. Who was even fucking the other?”
Danielle was lost for words.
He smiled, “I’m liberal and I hope you’re too. So listen. Henry fucked me and sometimes I fucked him. A kind of symbiosis. Now, for the record, He was fucking Trevor and me while I was fucking his nephew and his daughter. It was a fucking spree. Have you ever had a middle finger poked deeply in your shit hole? Man you’d cum so fast like all the world is fucking you and sending electric currents into your brain.”
"You were fucking Katherine too?”
“No. she was a good woman. We kissed once and only two foreplays even though on many occasions I had the chance to thrust my wiener deep down her throat. She wouldn't divorce you so I could marry her. Seriously I’d have turned a new leaf if she did marry me. I never intended a female to be my victim but I just couldn't stand the fact that a man who secretes melanin beyond proportion had the beautiful Katherine. If I couldn't have her, none else would. So I sent her to Sheol."
Anger was building up in me like a nuclear power plant.
“Why did you do it?” Danielle said.
He smiled. “Good question!”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
“On Wednesday morning while you were still a comatose I rang Atkins Studio and demanded a home service. The remuneration I offered was juicy, the Pope, if he were a tattooist would ask God’s guidance if he were confronted. He honoured it. He came and just before he got his tattoo pen out I emptied three bullets in his head. While he took his last breath I stained my cyanide-syringe with his prints. I didn’t bother about the gu
n because I would tell the press that I was brave and fought and collected the gun. And in case you’re wondering, I got the gun from black market.
I stripped myself to my underpants and injected two drops into myself.
I knew I was going to survive it. I dialed 999 and shoot! The police was here. I would make a super Orlando Bloom. Wouldn't I?”
“This is insane!" Danielle was terrified.
“I thought it was insane when my Black tattooist–step father stole our mother from us. We were traumatized.”
“We?” I said.
“Gareth, Gavin and I. They left us alone in this unfair world. They never believed in us, particularly our fucking stepfather. The day they walked out on us. . . it was a Wednesday and still smells like a fresh wound; and Abigail widened the wound when she chose to break with me on a Wednesday for another Black tattooist. All she did was add another voluminous chapter to a book of accidents. I couldn’t take it.” He said with melancholy.
“So you had to resort to this. You killed your brothers and beat the polygraph.” I spat.
“The polygraph is some stupid machine, not a God that doesn’t even exist. I could Kill all of Europe and beat all polygraphs in America."
“And you attempted to murder me. You razed my apartment. After screwing-"
He looked deep into my eyes.” I wanted to kill you for seven million things. You sent her to plant your device in my house. It beat my imagination. I knew that somehow you had connected the clues. I had to kill you. I had no option.”
“You planned the murders of six people, successfully. Mine gave you blood in your sweat, didn’t it?”
“And I regret the mistake of ever attempting to murder you. I had a rethink and I’m glad you’re alive.”
“Rethink?” Danielle was mad.
“I regret making Femi Atkins the killer.”
“So you do have a heart?” Danielle’s eyes were angry.
“Don’t get me wrong." He walked closer to us. "I don’t regret killing those people-"
“I thought as much!” Danielle said.
“What I regret is signing my fame to Femi Atkins. In two days, Femi Atkins became a Wikipedia character. He entered the Britannica Encyclopedia as well as the Americana. The social network sites; Facebook, Twitter, 2go Skype, My Space and the list continues. They all talk about this Atkins guy. I won’t be surprised if Hollywood does a movie adaptation.”
“Where is your destination?” I inquired.
“Femi Atkins received fame for a feat he didn’t even conceive. Every crime historian is writing about him. I want that fame reversed to its rightful owner. For god sakes I’ve been a lecturer for over eight years with no recognition and a stupid tattooist somewhere receives credit for my creativity? No. I deserve my fame. Me! I deserve it! I want my name, George Silas Howard printed in the history books. Children, even unborn, would mention my name!”
“Really?” Danielle and I dual–dialogued.
He chuckled, "I know how really you want to really prove to the world that the perpetrator behind the Wednesday murders is white.”
“Why not go to the police and tender your confession?”
“I want history to put it on record that a Scotland Yard detective rounded me up. It’s going to be a juicy read. Me going to tender a confession paints me as a criminal laden with guilty conscience but you arresting me makes me a hardened one who eluded the police, killed six people and was caught only when he had finished his mission. It makes my brain bigger than that of Scotland Yard. A pragmatic genius!”
“So you do tattoos.” Danielle said almost a question.
“Many talents and skills are up my sleeves. And, now, perhaps, I want to give jail-breaking a thought."
Danielle confusedly nodded.
“Let's assume that when the both of you arrived you read me my rights." George brought his hands forward.
Katherine’s nude corpse danced in my head. This was the right time. Right time. Wordlessly, I lifted the stool which stood near his LCD TV and bashed his head five times. Five. Five.
“You should have arrested him. He was turning himself in.” Danielle horrendously said.
“He still would have ended up in jail or a mental home.”
“So you aren’t going to reveal the real mysterious killer? You won’t let the world know who dunnit?”
“Let the fame be Femi’s reward for his underserved death.”
“You me-"
“No motive. No suspect. Case closed! Give me a hand! Quickly!”
Danielle and I were in my Cambridge living room when BBC one transmitted Doctor George Howard’s misfortune. George had left his gas fire on. Cooking and drinking concurrently. He was in a delirium tremens before an inferno swallowed him and his apartment up.
Yes, Danielle was cooking. I disabled the fire alarm. We kindled the brimstone. We did it.
Yet, his manner of death would still not suffice for his crime. It won’t!
We were called to the scene.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Tuesday, April 9.
Detective Sergeant Danielle Rowland was put on probation for feeding the late wife of former Detective Chief Inspector Hugh Hugh with the squalid details that led to their contretemps.
She told me she wasn’t sorry but fulfilled that she had gotten even for her only sibling whom Hugh took in. Hugh had promised he would be there for him but moved on when he finally got what he wanted; and Jude passed on. Suicide. Yes, a Jude existed.
She said, “I am not sorry.” Counting the syllables.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Wednesday, April 10.
Katherine’s funeral service.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Thursday, April 11.
I built a shrine for Katherine.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Monday, April 15.
Inquest into the death of Doctor George Silas Howard began today.
Witnesses, if there are any, and expert witnesses will give evidence before the coroner, Doctor Elizabeth Daniel
Court was in session. . . .
Westminster forensic suit team headed by Home Office pathologist, Doctor Ben Knapman, was having doubt about the identity of the victim who was believed to be the Doctor George Silas Howard of the University of Westminster’s Department of Nutrition. However, by reason of the scene being his apartment and him living alone, conclusions were deduced.
“The victim’s body was reduced to ashes and a few bone fragments. Though his lower arms and feet were slightly untouched, his body burned extremely. The victim must have been drunk– the police found bottles of alcohol, though razed, in his living room. He didn’t know when he slipped into a delirium tremens before the fire broke out. His head and body caught fire, and as he burned his body fat melted into his rug which played the role of a wick allowing the fat to catch fire and burned his body extremely.” Doctor Knapman gave evidence.
“And the result of the post mortem examination?”
“Undetermined.” Doctor Knapman replied. . . .
“And the SCD?
“No connection was made in the case. No evidence suggests a suspicious death. He was drinking and cooking. No motive. No suspect.” I gave evidence on behalf of the homicide department of the SCD, or SCD 1.
After a fairly long proceeding the coroner’s verdict was “accidental death".
****
Monday night
I couldn’t sleep as I continued to gaze at Katherine’s cremains, in a cinerary urn which was standing on the small table in the shrine I built for her right here in her room.
Silence.
Grief.
Pain.
Loss.
Bitterness.
Warm salty tears was rolling down my cheeks. “Did I give you justice? Did I do the right thing?”
Katherine’s face was radiating from the ash cinerary urn. She was crying, smiling and blowing me a kiss. Her lips were florid. She stayed still.
Anguish.
/>
Excruciating pain.
Trevor and George. I want to resurrect them and kill them a thousand times. No a million times. No, forever, keep killing them forever.
Katherine’s eyes were still. She continued to blow kisses.
I was motionless. “Did I give you justice? Did I do the right thing?”
I thought I heard her say “Yes I’m worthy of the spring time promise."
###
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Warning Excerpt
The following is an Excerpt from
WARNING
Another Gripping
Wole Robert Mystery and Detective Thriller
CHAPTER ONE
CHRISTMAS EVE, the twenty fourth day of December.
My tongue was buried inside Katherine’s mouth while I was on top her during foreplay. We kissed with hwyl. Then I suggested that we switched positions. I had never liked the missionary position. I wanted her on top me.
She revolted.
An argument ensued!
“This is perversion. I abhor it.” She said.
She had just spoilt this winter night. We were having a good time; and now spending the rest hours of tonight arguing. She was virtually dealing me a lecture as if I was her son.
The lecture lingered until my Grande Valse sang. I dialed the ‘green key’.
“Detective sergeant Wole! You there?” Detective Chief Inspector Hugh’s voice sieved into my phone.
“Yes." I was looking at Katherine's blond shoulder–length; and my man-pike was limping and dribbling non–viscous seminal fluid.
Wednesday: Story of a Serial Killer Page 11