Death by His Grace

by Kwei Quartey

  “It appears this is where and when she began to bleed from the assault.” Kwapong moved laterally on her haunches. “Here’s a cluster of tiny spots, like a spray . . .” She moved down again. “The bleeding is heavier here—big splotches with a radiating pattern, the way kids draw the sun. You see?”

  “Yes,” Darko said.

  They followed the smear trail as it curved, and there to the right side, just before the beginning of the short hallway, lay the second slipper. Soaked with blood, it told a different story from its counterpart.

  “By now, she has profuse bleeding,” Kwapong said. She sighed. “Sorry, Kate. Awful.”

  Darko watched as she moved into the hallway proper.

  Kwapong contemplated the congealed blood on the tiles for a moment while shaking her head. “I apologize, Chief Inspector. I am remiss.” She went back into the sitting room. “We should have looked for cast-off blood. Drops of blood thrown off the weapon as the assailant raised it in the air to strike her.”

  Twum-Barima had just joined them as Darko and Kwapong looked upward, searching. Close to the front doorway, Darko spotted multiple oval-shaped drops of blood on the surface of the ceiling. “There,” he said, pointing.

  “You have good eyes,” Kwapong said. “And I’ve just spotted a few more bloodstains on the wall. See them?”

  “I do now,” Darko said.

  They went closer to the wall and peered at the blood spatter.

  Kwapong removed a laser pointer from her bag. “See here? These bloodstains are not as random as they might seem. They form a pattern”

  With the pointer, she traced a more or less straight line formed by several spots of blood along the wall. “These were cast off from the weapon after the first strike. Then, a second strike here. This time, the blood travels farther and hits the ceiling, as you can see by the curvilinear pattern of the elongated bloodstains.” She indicated them with her pointer and asked Joseph to come over and take some photographs.

  “So we have a sharp weapon like a knife or machete inflicting at least two blows on Kate when she was at or close to the doorway,” Kwapong said. “My guess is that she sustained those blows to the throat. She collapses, bleeding heavily. He drags her along the floor to the bedroom.”

  “Why?” Darko wondered aloud. “Why not finish the job here?”

  “Sexual component?” Kwapong suggested. “I can’t be sure. Just a thought. So, let’s review. No sign of forced entry. The perpetrator pushes the door open after she opens it partway; or she voluntarily lets him in, he strikes her twice with the weapon, let’s say a machete—probably to the head and or neck. She might have sustained a wound to the forearm as she raised her hand instinctively to defend herself. Are you with me?”

  Darko nodded.

  “She falls, blood dripping down over her chest and back and into her clothing. She loses one slipper here”—Kwapong paused—“as he picks her up and drags her to the hallway. Just before they get there, she loses the second slipper. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then into the hallway to the bedroom,” Kwapong continued, moving to the side and walking sideways in the same manner as her predecessors. When she got to the bedroom, Kwapong stopped as if she had slammed into a wall as she stared at the carnage.

  “God help us,” she said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time Dr. Kwapong and the CSU crew were finishing up, the smell of Kate’s hacked flesh lingered as much in Darko’s brain as in his nostrils. The house had become, hot, stuffy, and foul.

  The chest of drawers in the bedroom was mostly empty. Gloved up, Darko went through it carefully. He found a few items of Solomon’s underwear, socks, and T-shirts.

  Mid to small-size droplets of blood had splattered the wardrobe mirrors. Darko slid open one door and found Solomon’s suits in bold blues, darks, smooth tans, and sophisticated olives. Darko didn’t have even one suit as well-made as these. He peeked at a couple of labels. Italian, of course.

  Darko went through the pocket of each jacket and pair of pants, but he didn’t find anything more significant than business cards. He swept the top of the shelves in the wardrobe. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he would be when he saw it.

  Darko opened the drawers of the bedside table and found a couple of romance novels, a box of tissues, hand lotion, sunglasses, loose change, and some keys. The bottom drawer was locked. Darko tried the keys lying in the top drawer and found one of them worked for the bottom one. It was empty. Might Katherine have kept something private or valuable in it?

  Darko headed to the bathroom and examined the labels on the bottles of Solomon’s fragrances stacked on shelves on either side of the basin. The shower cubicle was one of the largest Darko had ever seen, with a wide, chrome-plated showerhead and slate-gray tiling.

  Back in the sitting room, Darko found more boxes stacked in a corner for the move. He didn’t plan on going through them right then, but he would in the next day or two.

  Mensah put his head in the door. “Massa,” he said, “please, a man and a woman are outside. They say they are Mr. and Mrs. Yeboah, the parents of the victim.”

  Darko’s stomach plunged. Talking to them about their daughter would be wrenching. “I’m coming,” he said to the constable.

  Darko followed Mensah, who unlatched the gate and opened it wide enough to admit Uncle Ransford and Aunty Nana. She had been crying and was wiping her puffy eyes and nose with a wet, disintegrating tissue. Her outfit wasn’t black, but it was dark. In Ghana, mourning begins promptly.

  Ransford, a big man with a heavy midsection, looked at Darko with dread, his spectacles tilted on his face. “Is it true, Dawson?” he asked, voice trembling.

  “Uncle Ransford,” Darko said, “Aunty Nana. I’m very sorry. Kate is dead.”

  Nana let out a harsh cry and collapsed. Her husband caught her before she hit the ground, holding on to her as she wept. His face crumpled like a ball of paper in a fist, cleared for an instant and crumpled again.

  Darko signaled to Mensah to bring Nana a chair from the porch. She continued to sob as she dropped into the seat, and Ransford knelt down to hold her in his arms. Darko stood next to her with his hand resting on her shoulder. He felt useless.

  Nana’s sobbing gradually subsided, but she continued to have involuntary spasms as she buried her face in her husband’s shoulder.

  “When can we see her?” Ransford asked Darko after a moment.

  “Later—at the morgue,” Darko said. “We’re still working on the crime scene.”

  Nana looked up at him. “Did she suffer?”

  Constable Mensah appeared at that instant, saving Darko from having to face Nana’s question.

  “Please, sir,” Mensah said, “one Bishop Mills is outside and says he wants to enter.”

  Darko was about to say no, but before he could, Nana leaped to her feet, startling him. “Bishop!” she cried, her voice cracking with emotion. She ran to the gate, shouting, “Bishop! Praise God!”

  She wrestled with the gate’s sliding bolt until Constable Mensah came to sort it out for her. Nana burst out and fell into the arms of Bishop Howard-Mills. Darko had never seen him in person—only his likeness on giant billboards advertising upcoming Pentecostal and evangelist events, which drew crowds in the thousands. Howard-Mills was a handsome man, probably in his early forties, tall, and light-skinned with wavy hair. He was also a millionaire with churches throughout Ghana and Nigeria.

  With the bishop comforting her, Nana unleashed a new round of sobbing and tears. “God bless you, Bishop,” she managed to get out. “How did you hear?”

  “Aunty Nana,” he said, “someone called to let me know, so I came as soon as I could. I’m heartbroken. I want to express to you and Ransford how sorry I am. So very sorry, Aunty.”

  After a while, Howard-Mills released her and sent an i
nquiring look at Darko, who was standing to the side. “Good morning, sir. You are?”

  “Chief Inspector Dawson.”

  “Of course!” he said, shaking Darko’s hand with a firm grip and a direct, sincere gaze. “Christine has told me about you. Praise be to God you are here to render your service and expertise. By His grace, you will get to the bottom of this.”

  “Thank you,” Darko said, still wondering who had alerted the bishop. Not Christine, surely? She knew Howard-Mills from attending his services from time to time, but it wouldn’t be like her to impose on him. Darko glanced to his left where Christine’s truck was parked, but she wasn’t there. He texted her, Where r u?

  Howard-Mills was embracing Ransford now, murmuring words of comfort and encouragement. “God be with you and give you strength,” he said.

  Darko raised his eyebrows at a man a couple of meters away. He was in his late twenties, about as tall as Howard-Mills but softer and rounder. He came over to Darko. “Good morning, Inspector. I’m John Papafio, the bishop’s assistant. Please, are you the one in charge of the investigation?”

  “For the moment, yes,” Darko said. “Did you know Mrs. Vanderpuye?”

  “Yes, sir,” John said. “Bishop Howard-Mills and I knew her very well. She was a lovely person, and we cared about her.” John looked stricken.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “On Wednesday evening. Reverend Atiemo and I were at her home for a prayer meeting.”

  “Who is Reverend Atiemo?” Darko asked.

  “He’s one of the bishop’s junior ministers. He often ran the Bible discussions at Katherine’s home. We call them bussells. Katherine hosted one every month on Wednesdays.”

  “I see,” Darko said. “How did Mrs. Vanderpuye seem to you on Wednesday? Was she troubled in any way?”

  John thought about it for a moment. “You know, she had been experiencing difficulties in her marriage, and of late she had been very sorrowful. But her spirits always came up during the prayer meetings and Bible discussions. She and Mr. Vanderpuye were having counseling sessions with Bishop Howard-Mills.”

  “Because of their marital problems.”

  “Yes, please,” John said.

  “Where you between about eleven p.m. last night and five a.m. this morning?”

  “I was with the bishop for the prayer vigil overnight at the Baden Powell Memorial Hall on High Street, Inspector. I was still there at six this morning, helping with the cleanup.”

  “Bishop Howard-Mills was also present at that time?” Darko asked.

  “No, he left around four. For safety reasons, a driver takes him home after the vigils. We don’t want the bishop to fall asleep at the wheel after a long night.”

  Darko nodded. “Thank you, John. Please, may I have your number in case I need to call you?”

  “But of course, Inspector.”

  “Oh, one other thing,” Darko said as he entered John’s number into his phone, “was Solomon Vanderpuye at the last bussell with his wife?”

  John folded his lips between his teeth and shook his head. “Mr. Vanderpuye hasn’t been participating in the Bible studies for the past a month or so—not since February or March.”

  Bishop Howard-Mills had brought Ransford and Nana together with his arms around their shoulders. “My dear family in Christ. A cloud has come over our lives, but by the grace of God, it will pass. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’ Now, let’s pray.”

  After almost every sentence of Howard-Mills’s lengthy prayer, Ransford and Nana murmured their acknowledgment.

  Darko turned at the sound of the ambulance arriving. Mensah opened both sides of the gate, and the vehicle backed into the courtyard next to the CSU van. Darko returned to the house to find Dr. Kwapong finishing up. Katherine’s body had been removed from between the bed and the wall and covered with a drop cloth. Darko felt relief. He had no desire to see more than he had already.

  “Is the ambulance here?” Kwapong asked.

  “Yes,” Darko replied. “If you’re ready, I’ll let them know.”

  “We are. The rest of the work I’ll do on postmortem.” Sweat poured down Kwapong’s brow and soaked the top of her mask.

  Darko went back outside to let the ambulance crew know they were set to go. He spotted Christine again by herself watching from a distance and went over to her. “Where were you?” he asked, taking her hand.

  “I went around the corner for some quiet,” she said. “I needed a few minutes to myself.”

  “Did Bishop Howard-Mills talk to you?”

  She nodded. “Yes—just before he went to the gate and Aunty Nana came out to meet him. We prayed together.”

  “Good,” Darko said. “Do you feel a little better?”

  “A little, yes.”

  Two ambulance attendants brought out Katherine’s covered body on a stretcher. The now substantial crowd of spectators watched the attendants lift her inside the ambulance, and the doors closed behind her. Darko squeezed Christine’s hand. She stared at the vehicle as it started up and rumbled away. He scrutinized her for a moment. She seemed numb and tired.

  Darko took out his phone to call his brother with the news. Cairo’s reaction was shock, followed by anger. “Who would do that to Katherine?” he demanded. “Why? You have to get this guy, Darko. Whoever he is, you must catch him.”

  “Yes,” Darko agreed.

  “I feel sorry for Christine,” Cairo continued. “How terrible this must be for her.”

  “It is,” Darko said. “I need someone to pick her up because she’s not fit to drive or be alone. I have to stay here for a while.”

  “Audrey can come for her,” Cairo said. “It’s no problem.”

  “Thank you, big brah.” Darko hung up and turned to Christine. “Audrey will come to get you. I’ll stay with you while you wait.”

  Christine didn’t seem to have heard him. She was gazing at the house. “I’ll never see her again,” she murmured.

  He put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her close. He sensed she was too spent to weep at the moment, but he knew tears would flow again soon.

  “You should go,” Christine said. “You have investigating to do.”

  “It can wait,” Darko said.

  “No, it can’t,” she said, lifting his arm off her shoulders and ducking away. “Time is precious when you’re hunting down a murderer. Now go.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Darko sent Inspector Twum-Barima and Constable Mensah out to canvass the neighborhood. “We want to know if anyone saw or heard anything even the slightest bit suspicious,” Darko told them. “Call me if you have questions. I’ll be here looking through Mrs. Vanderpuye’s personal effects.”

  When the inspector and constable had left, Darko stood in the sitting room contemplating the ten boxes Kate had categorized by content: clothing and purses, jewelry, shoes, DVDs, stationery, toiletries and perfumes, laptop/electrical cables, pots and pans and dishes, vital documents. The few items that had gone unpacked were three mobile phones, a Michael Kors purse, a pair of sunglasses, and the jeans, T-shirt, and tennis shoes she must have been planning to wear for the move.

  Darko turned on the phones. They were all password or fingerprint protected, and one was less than ten percent charged. He would let the IT guys at CID handle those. On the other hand, for faster service, Darko could take it to any one of many Sakawa boys, the notorious Internet fraudsters who invoked magical powers to fuel their success.

  Darko pulled down the laptop box and opened it up. The computer did turn on, but it, too, required a password.

  He rummaged through the documents box and found loan and mortgage disclosure papers with Katherine’s and Solomon’s signatures. Christine had told Darko about
how Solomon had arranged for his mother’s name to replace Katherine’s. Darko was no real estate lawyer, but he couldn’t see how that maneuver could be lawful. In Ghana, though, that had little to do with whether it was possible.

  None of the other packages contained anything of interest to Darko. He called Inspector Twum-Barima, who reported that he and Mensah had drawn a blank in their canvassing. No one had seen or heard anything unusual. That was no surprise. An Accra residential area like Katherine’s was typically dead quiet at night except for the odd dog barking.

  Darko waited for Twum-Barima to bring a spare padlock from the station to secure Katherine’s front gate. The property wasn’t ready for release to the family yet.

  “Please, sir,” the inspector said to Darko, “will you be in charge of the investigation from now on?”

  Darko hesitated. “No, I don’t think so. It’s still under Dzorwulu jurisdiction.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Darko sensed some uncertainty on Twum-Barima’s part. “Are you comfortable with that?” he asked the inspector.

  “No problem at all.”

  Darko was experiencing conflict. Typically, he would have allowed the cumbersome CID machinery to determine how a homicide would be assigned, but this time the murder victim was a family member. Should he lobby to be the chief investigator? The answer wasn’t that clear-cut for Darko.

  Late that afternoon, he sat at the edge of the bed and roused Christine. When she was depressed, she slept too much. When Darko was depressed, he slept too little or not at all.

  Christine lifted her head and blinked at him, eyes bleary and puffy. For a moment, she seemed to wonder why she was in bed at this time of day. When she remembered, she wilted and dropped her head back with a soft gasp of anguish.