The Missing American

by Kwei Quartey

  Abena became a little teary. Out of the blue, her son had become special. He had a talent that had been hidden away all this time, and to Abena, that was a thing of joy.

  SIXTY

  Even in a relatively mellow, cannabinoid state, Bruno was becoming agitated. “Please, why?” he demanded of Ponsu. “I killed the crocodile, which is very tough, and now what again?”

  Nii Kwei, sitting quietly at his side in Kweku Ponsu’s Accra courtyard, sent Bruno a warning look. Don’t argue.

  Ponsu, opposite them, curled his lip. “So, you think you’re a big man just because you killed the crocodile?” he said. “You don’t decide what you must do to meet Godfather, I do. I know him, he knows me. People just can’t meet him like that. They must prove themselves. Nii Kwei is a loyal sakawa servant. He makes plenty, plenty money, much more than most of the boys. But you, you are far away from that. So, you must do something else as proof of your loyalty. Otherwise, you can forget.”

  Bruno’s jaws clenched and released repeatedly. He looked at Ponsu with resentment and doubt. “Is this the last task?”

  “Yes,” Ponsu said. “This last one, and then you meet Godfather and become one of the special boys—like Nii.”

  Bruno took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay,” he said, resigned but still irritated. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “You are to bring me the shirt of a devil child,” Ponsu said.

  Bruno frowned. “Please, what is that? A devil child?”

  “They can’t talk and you can’t tell what they are thinking, but inside they have power to control you.”

  “Like deaf and dumb?” Nii Kwei suggested.

  “No, it’s not deaf and dumb,” Ponsu said. “They can hear, but they don’t understand. And they won’t look at you too. Just turning the eyes round and making strange noises.”

  “Do you know what he means?” Nii asked Bruno.

  “I think so,” he said. “My sister takes care of those children at some place. They call it otistic or something like that.”

  “Then you can ask her to bring one of those children,” Nii suggested.

  Bruno shot him a withering look and then turned back to Ponsu. “Please, what will you do with the shirt of the devil child?”

  “You bring it first and you will see.”

  “Please, do you have something else I can do instead?” Bruno begged. “This one, I don’t know.”

  “Kwasea!” Ponsu shouted. “Don’t come here and waste my time if you can’t do anything. If you like, refuse this one and see what happens to you. You go die.” He dusted his hands in a gesture of finality. “Just you try and see.”

  He got up and walked into his house without another word.

  Nii Kwei was angry with Bruno. “Chaley, you can’t just refuse him like that! What’s wrong with you? Don’t play with this man. He has powers he can turn against you. You better go tell him you’ll do whatever he says.”

  Bruno rose and went to Ponsu’s door. He knocked. “Please, I’m sorry, okay? What you want me to do is no problem. I will do it.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  Derek opened the door of his hotel room to Emma and Sowah.

  “Hello, Derek,” Sowah said. “May we come in?”

  He must have read their expressions because his face fell. “Yes, of course.”

  They sat in a triangle.

  “As I told you,” Emma began, “I asked some fishermen on the Volta River to look out for anything strange. Today, I heard from one of them, who told me that they have found a sack with a body floating in the river.”

  Derek nodded. His face was neutral. “Okay.”

  A short silence fell over them, then Emma cleared her throat. “I’m not saying it’s your dad. But to investigate this fully, we must ask you to view the body to either confirm or deny the identity. We’ll be going to the mortuary up there in a couple of hours. Can you come with us?”

  Derek said, “Yes, of course.”

  The Volta River Authority Hospital was relatively well funded with proceeds from the hydroelectric dam, but it still lacked resources. The morgue was overcrowded with more than one body per refrigerator drawer. Only two autopsy tables were available. Dr. Anum Biney, who had been the chief medical officer there for decades, met Emma, Sowah, and Derek at the front entrance.

  He had a startling white mustache curled at its tips and shocking white hair to match. Accompanied by a police officer from the Akosombo Police Station, they followed Dr. Biney along a verandah flanking long, low-profile wards. The sky had opened and let loose a torrent that nearly soaked them as they crossed the uncovered space between the wards and the morgue.

  Emma loathed the typical morgue smell—human decay mixed with bleach and formaldehyde. She felt nauseous with it as they entered the building. Before they went into the autopsy room, Biney stopped to address them. He had a calm, baritone voice, which gave the impression that no situation, no matter how dire, could ever fluster him.

  “We have now washed the body of dirt and other river debris,” he said. “Nevertheless, I must caution you it is still a severe sight—among the worst I have ever seen. The odor also, some of which you might already be detecting, is very powerful and penetrating. That is why I suggest you all put some Mentholatum underneath your nose. We have some for you.”

  A morgue attendant brought them a small jar of the thick, pungent ointment that Emma’s mother often used during her relentless asthma attacks. The odor brought back a flood of bad memories.

  “Okay,” Biney said when they had all applied the stuff, “let’s proceed now.”

  He held open the door and they filed in. The body on the autopsy table was covered with a stained, gray sheet. The Mentholatum did not cut the odor much, in Emma’s opinion. She felt unwell and steeled herself for a sight she knew would be hard to bear.

  The attendant rolled back the sheet and Emma saw it was even worse than she had imagined. Had not a head and outstretched arms been present, Emma would not have thought it human. Eyes popped out from a blue-green face that had become slimy, bloated, and pushed off to the side like a badly fitted mask. The mouth was open with the lips forming an oval as in a silent scream for help. Some of the skin on the arms and chest had turned deep purple and had sloughed off—or was about to.

  Emma shuddered and averted her eyes. Derek retched, turned, and ran out of the room. Sowah looked at Emma and they both went after Derek. He was outside the building leaning against the wall in the rain. “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t take it in there. That’s the most revolting thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yes,” Sowah said quietly, his own face contorted with revulsion. “Come this way out of the rain.”

  “It’s not Dad, though,” Derek said as they took shelter along the corridor. “Thank God.”

  “It’s not,” Emma said, half question, half statement.

  “No way,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Okay,” she said, but she doubted the question was settled. “You’re sure?”

  He frowned. “Of course, I’m sure. If that’s the guy you say got dumped over the bridge that night, it’s not my father.”

  They watched him for a while. He was hyperventilating and not making eye contact with them.

  “Derek,” Sowah said, “did your father have a wedding band?”

  “Yes. He never took it off, even after Mama died. Why do you ask?”

  “Would you be able to identify his ring?”

  “Of course. It’s white gold with three inlaid diamonds. But why, though?”

  “The person in the morgue has a wedding ring.”

  Emma was startled. How had Mr. Sowah noticed that in such a short space of time?

  “If I take a photo of it and show it to you,” Sowah continued, “would you be able to say whether it belongs to your father or not?”

 
Derek shrugged. “You can if you want, but it won’t be Dad’s, I can tell you that right now.”

  “Okay, sure,” Sowah said. “Just to double check and make it official.”

  He went back in. Emma put her hand on Derek’s shoulder and rubbed it lightly. “I’m sorry.” Tears pricked her eyes. She felt sick with a heavy sense of doom.

  He smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

  Sowah returned, phone in hand. Emma was dreading this moment, even more so as she saw how grim and sorrowful Sowah appeared. He exchanged a glance with her that told her that the worst possible nightmare was unfolding.

  Sowah went to Derek’s side. “Can you please take a look at the photo?”

  Derek looked at the image of the wedding band almost nonchalantly, as if there was no point but he would oblige. The ring was shiny, despite its presumably long period of immersion in water, and it had three inlaid diamonds.

  Derek snorted. “Someone with the same ring as my Dad’s? That’s ridiculous.”

  He looked up at the sky. “Ah, this is so stupid, the whole damn, fucked-up situation.”

  “Yes.” Emma took his hand in both of hers.

  His legs began to quiver. Sowah grasped his arm and guided him to sit against the wall.

  Emma sat beside him, watching him closely.

  “What I don’t understand,” Derek said, his voice shaking, “is why he had to do any of this. The whole coming to Ghana thing, trying to track down who did this to him, and it was all so unnecessary, right?”

  Emma nodded.

  “And I told him, I said, ‘Dad, just come home. We might have had differences, but I still love you, Dad. I still do.’ And I don’t know if he believed that. I don’t know. But I do. I love you, Dad.”

  “Yes,” Emma said. “I know you loved him very much.”

  “It’s him in there, isn’t it?” he said, looking up at her. She nodded.

  Derek crumpled and shrank, as if trying to disappear inside himself. Emma put her arms around him and brought him closer as his sobs came one after another like wave upon stormy wave.

  SIXTY-TWO

  The day had been long, troubling, and draining for Emma. Yes, Gordon Tilson had been found now, but this was the most dreaded end. Crawling into her narrow bed with every muscle tense and aching, Emma felt a dark, awful heaviness. Who could have done this to Mr. Tilson? One name repeatedly came to her mind: Kweku Ponsu.

  She thought of Derek, his heart ripped from his chest, his spirit destroyed. He would never unsee his father on the autopsy table, monstrous from the putrefaction and prolonged aquatic immersion. Dr. Biney had offered to do an autopsy but Derek had declined. He wanted the body flown back to DC as soon as possible and have the postmortem done there instead. It was understandable. If Emma had been in his position, she would have wished the same. The American Embassy would assist in airlifting Gordon home.

  Her phone rang—Courage calling. She debated whether to answer, and against her better judgment perhaps, she did.

  “I’m checking on you,” he said, his voice much softer than she’d ever heard it. “I heard the American guy’s body was found. And in terrible condition.”

  “I’ve never seen anything so horrible,” Emma said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I am. Well, I will be. Thank you.”

  “I know this is hard.”

  She appreciated his sympathy.

  “Do you want any company?” Courage asked. “I’m available.”

  “Perhaps another time,” she said without much interest reflected in her voice.

  “I would love to see you again,” he said.

  She hesitated.

  “Can I?” he pressed.

  “Courage, I don’t think we’re a good match.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding so crushed she felt sorry for him. “But we had fun together.”

  “That’s true, but—”

  “But what?”

  She sighed. “Let’s talk another time, okay? I’m very tired.”

  “All right, then. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  “No, it’s okay, really.”

  “Good night, Emma.”

  Just as Emma was hoping she could get a little rest, the phone rang yet again. This time it was Sowah.

  “I just received some more bad news,” he said. “They arrested Yahya Azure on Saturday and now they’ve charged him with the murder of Gordon Tilson.”

  By 9 a.m. the following day, Sowah and Emma were at the charge office on the ground floor of the CID building to look for Yahya. Sowah explained to the charge officer why they were there. He looked a little uncertain, but Sowah’s senior, authoritative demeanor had a lot of pull. The officer yelled back for the prisoner to come up to the front. A motley crowd of arrestees were packed into the jails behind the charge desk.

  Yahya came forward. He looked scared and even smaller than when Emma had met him. When he saw her, his expression lit up. Emma feared he might be thinking she was here to secure his release.

  “Good morning, Yahya,” she said.

  “Good morning, madam.”

  Emma introduced him to Sowah.

  “How do you feel?” Emma asked, although it was already clear. He was despondent, frightened, and bewildered.

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand what is happening.”

  Given the racket in the place, there wasn’t much chance of their conversation being overheard, but Sowah nevertheless beckoned Yahya farther down the counter to put some distance between them and the charge officer’s station.

  “Who arrested you on Saturday?” Sowah asked Yahya.

  “The policeman Quaino and the woman, Damptey.”

  “About what time was it?”

  “Around ten in the morning, please.”

  “When they arrested you, what did they say?”

  “First, they ax me regarding the jacket. They stand one on my right side and the other on my left side, shouting on me with the questions and then Quaino was slapping me too.”

  “Slapping you?” Sowah repeated.

  “Yes, every time he ax me a question, he slap me here,” Yahya said, touching the left side of his head.

  Emma and Sowah exchanged glances, reading each other’s minds. If Yahya was telling the truth about the abuse, and they believed he was, then any kind of confession on his part was suspect.

  “Then they arrest me and bring me here to the cell,” Yahya continued. “In the afternoon they take me to some room in the big building and they started the questions all over again, shouting on me.”

  A wretched, crushed Yahya stared at the counter in silence. Emma felt terribly sorry for him.

  “Did Mr. Quaino and Madam Damptey have you sign a statement?” Sowah asked.

  “On Saturday night, they said if I sign a statement, the judge will be lenient with me and not send me to Nsawam Prison.”

  “What did the statement say?” Sowah asked.

  “They didn’t give me chance to read it,” Yahya said morosely. “Or maybe I read it and I forgot what it said. I was tired. I felt like I was having fever too.”

  “Okay, Yahya,” Sowah said. “Let me see what we can do. We will try to talk to the officers who arrested you and get back to you.”

  Yahya’s eyes sprang to life with hope. “Thank you, sir. God bless you, sir.”

  Emma and Sowah left the charge office and headed upstairs to DCS Quaino’s office.

  Climbing flights of narrow, worn steps to the fourth level Emma cringed. She was physically separated from Commissioner Andoh’s office, but mentally and emotionally, she might as well have been right there. The image of him, his smell, the sounds he made—they were all still vivid in Emma’s mind. She had to consciously block them out.

  Neither Quaino nor Damptey was in. Sowah and Emma decided
to give them an hour or so. At the 75-minute mark, they were about to call it quits when the pair appeared on the floor.

  Damptey saw Emma and a flicker of recognition betrayed her deadpan expression. She clearly did not want to see Emma, and she would have continued walking by had Emma not stood up and sidled into her path. “Good morning, Madam Damptey. Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning.” Damptey said, without interest. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  Sowah was close behind Emma and she introduced him to the two officers.

  “Ei!” Quaino exclaimed. “Are you the Yemo Sowah who used to work for CID?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Wonderful! My father is Christopher Quaino. He was also in CID but is now retired. He used to talk a lot about you. He admired you very much.”

  “Yes, yes!” Sowah said, laughing. “Thank you. Chris Quaino—of course. We worked some cases together.”

  “Oh, very nice to meet you, sir,” Quaino said. “What an honor. You are welcome to your old stomping ground.”

  Laughter all around, and even Damptey managed a titter, but she didn’t look happy. “I think you have a private investigation agency, isn’t it?” Quaino asked.

  “Yes,” Sowah said, “for many years now.”

  “Oh, very wonderful,” Quaino said.

  “Thank you very much. Do you have time to discuss a case with Miss Djan and me?”

  “Of course, of course. Come this way.”

  They followed him to his office, which was air-conditioned—a perk an officer got once past the rank of chief inspector.

  Emma let Sowah do all the talking. The link between each other that he and Quaino had discovered was handy because the rapport was instant, but from the corner of Emma’s eye, DI Damptey appeared tense.

  “That’s the way we came to be following this case,” Sowah said, after explaining how Derek had come to them and the events that had followed.

  “Yes, I see,” Quaino said. “Well, thank you for that, sir. I believe DI Damptey tried to explain to Mr. Derek that these investigations take time. Sorry he had to trouble you, Mr. Sowah, sir.”