Children of the Street (10 page)

17

Monday morning after he arrived at work, Dawson read the
Daily Graphic
’s front-page article headlined
ARREST MADE IN LAGOON MAN’S KILLING
, with an account of the discovery of “incriminating evidence in the Nima habitation of one Daramani Gushegu, a previous associate of the deceased victim.” The presumed name of the victim had been withheld pending results of DNA testing.

Chikata’s name was all over the article, whereas “Detective Inspector Darko Dawson, his immediate superior, was not available for comment.” Dawson laughed at that. Had they really tried to reach him?

Alex had still not called.

Chikata came into the office looking pleased with himself. Some of the other detectives who had read the newspaper account began congratulating him in a playfully teasing fashion.

“Ei, Chikata! So now you’re the big man in town, eh?”

The detective sergeant grinned, showing his beautiful white teeth.

“How was your weekend?” he asked Dawson.

“Fruitful. But I’m sure not as fruitful as yours.”

Chikata caught the sarcasm. “Dawson, I’m sorry. I’m sorry this Daramani is, or was, a friend or whatever he is to you, but what do you want me to do? If the man has done something wrong, then we have to investigate it. Isn’t that right?”

“Did I say otherwise?”

“But then why are you annoyed with me? You don’t want me to be the one to find out anything, or what? It has to be only you who gets the glory?”

“Not at all.” Dawson’s desk phone rang. “One second. Let me get this. Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Dawson?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Alex, William’s friend. He told me to call you.”

“Thank you very much, Alex. I really appreciate it. Did William explain what I wanted to talk to you about?”

“Something about his neighbor Daramani—that’s the name, right?”

“Yes. From what William told me, Musa, the friend who was with Daramani, left his place that Saturday around midnight, is that correct?”

“Around there, yeah.”

“And then Daramani left a little later. Do you remember about how long after his friend had left?”

“I don’t know, maybe about thirty minutes.”

“And then William went to bed, right?” Dawson asked. Chikata was eyeing him with curiosity, wondering what the conversation was all about.

“Yes,” Alex said.

“But you stayed behind with your other friend, Houdine, playing cards.”

“Correct.”

“Until what time?”

“Almost two, and then we packed up.”

“You must really like cards.”

“We like beer even more. We play cards and drink and have fun.”

“Understood. So here’s my question: did Daramani come back before you and your friends called it a night?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“What time was that?”

“One-something. Maybe one-fifteen, one-twenty or so.”

“Did he go straight back to his place?”

“Yeah. Well, not exactly straight. He was drunk, paa.”

“Ah,” Dawson said. “Interesting. Alex, if I need to get in touch with you again, can I always reach you at this number?”

“By all means.”

“Thank you very much.”

As Dawson hung up the phone, Chikata asked, “Who was that?”

“Guy called Alex,” Dawson said. “He and two friends were playing cards near Daramani’s place when Daramani showed up with Musa the Saturday night before Musa was found. One of the friends, William, lives two doors down from Daramani.”

“Eh? How do you know all this?”

“I went to Daramani’s place on the weekend to look around. That’s where and when I met William.”

“Wait, wait, I don’t get you. This guy William said what?”

“Daramani and Musa came along a little past eleven after delivering the scrap metal,” Dawson explained. “At the time, William was playing cards near Daramani’s place with Alex and one other friend.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“So the three of them see Musa leaving from Daramani’s place around midnight, and then Daramani himself leaves about twelve-thirty. Just after that, William goes to bed, but Alex and the other friend, Houdine, are still playing cards. Around one-twenty in the morning, they see Daramani coming back. He goes straight to bed. Alex and Houdine finish up around two.”

Chikata was absorbing all this.

“If Daramani murdered Musa,” Dawson continued, “he must have done it at or near Korle Lagoon, because without some kind of vehicle, which Daramani doesn’t have, he couldn’t have moved the body very far. So the question is, how did he leave his house in Nima at twelve-thirty, get to Agbogbloshie, kill Musa, dump his body in the lagoon, and get back to Nima at one-twenty?”

“He could have taken a taxi there and back.”

“It’s about twenty minutes from Nima to Agbogbloshie. Forty minutes for the roundtrip. Where’s the time to commit the murder?”

Chikata’s eyes darted back and forth as his mind searched for an answer.

“Any ideas?” Dawson probed.

“Daramani could have left his house again after Alex and Houdine had finished playing cards at two o’clock.”

Dawson shook his head. “I doubt it. According to Alex, Daramani was so drunk he could barely walk a straight line.”

“Em, maybe these guys—Alex and William or whoever—are really Daramani’s friends and are covering for him.”

Dawson tilted his head side to side, considering. “Hmm. Seems unlikely, but maybe you’re right, who knows? Oh, well, we’ll see.”

He went back to his paperwork, and Chikata stared at the wall for a moment. Abruptly he got up and left the room. Ten minutes later, he was back.

“My uncle wants to speak to you,” he told Dawson tersely.

W
ith Dawson in the execution chair in the boss’s office, Lartey said coldly, “I understand this weekend you went after information regarding Daramani.”

“Yes, sir. Two separate witnesses have given me concurring accounts that make it very difficult to see how Daramani could have killed Musa.”

“While Daramani is under suspicion of murder, Dawson, you may not conduct any investigations. Didn’t I make myself clear on this?”

“I’m confused, sir. Are you saying I’m off the case?”

Before Lartey could answer, Dawson’s phone rang and he looked at the ID. “Oh, sorry, sir, I have to answer this. It’s from Korle Bu DNA Lab. Hello, Dawson speaking.”

“Inspector, this is Jason Allotey.”

“Yes, hi, how are you, Jason?”

“I’m fine. You owe me some nice tilapia.”

“You’ve completed the DNA?”

“Yes. Record time. You have a positive match with the lagoon guy.”

“You are incredible, Jason. Thank you very, very much. I will personally deliver the best tilapia in town.”

“Excellent. I have a question for you, however. Is CID investigating avian murders these days?”

“What do you mean, avian murders?”

“The blood on this knife D.S. Chikata sent us isn’t human. The red cells are nucleated. In other words, the blood of a bird. You still want DNA testing?”

Dawson chuckled at first. Then he progressed to a full-throated laugh.

Lartey stared at him. “What’s wrong with you, Dawson?”

“Jason, would you mind speaking to Chief Superintendent of Police Lartey?” Dawson handed his boss the phone. After listening for a moment, the chief supol was visibly displeased.

“Thank you, Mr. Allotey,” he said tightly. He handed the phone back without a word.

A
s Dawson returned to the detectives’ room, Chikata was coming out. He gave his boss an anxious, searching look.

“My uncle just called me, and he doesn’t sound too happy. Is he annoyed about something?”

Dawson feigned ignorance. “Not that I know of.”

Chikata hurried away. Fifteen minutes later, he returned looking devastated. He went quietly back to work.

After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. “My uncle says I should ask you what the next step is and what my orders are. Sir.”

“Your
orders
?”

“Yes, sir, Dawson, sir. He said you’re in charge and I shouldn’t do anything without your prior approval. He also said Daramani should be released immediately because the case against him is very feeble. Sir.”

“Oh.” Dawson blinked. “Okay. Well, what we need to do now is get Musa Zakari’s name and photograph to the Public Relations Office for wide media release. Also there should be a statement that charges against Daramani have been dropped. Oh, and remind Wisdom Asamoah he’s supposed to give me an extra print for Akosua.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We don’t think Musa had any family in Accra, but someone might come forward if they see the photograph in the papers or on TV. We also need to look for people who knew him, like his fellow truck pushers in Agbogbloshie and around Accra. So we go to the places they congregate, show them the new picture of Musa, and see if anyone knew him. We’re looking for enemies too. These guys are living in a very tough world. Maybe one of them hated Musa for whatever reason. Maybe cutting off his fingers was an act of spite, who knows?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll start on those things. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to look for a Dr. Allen Botswe at the University of Ghana. He’s a criminal psychologist. I want to ask him what he thinks of Musa’s case.”

“Yes, all right, sir.”

As Dawson got to the door, he turned to add, “And Chikata, stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m not the bloody headmaster.”

18

Professor Allen Botswe, Ph.D., had suggested meeting Dawson around three o’clock at his house in East Legon. Dawson had a good idea of what to expect. This neighborhood southeast of the University of Ghana campus was populated by mansions priced at 400,000 cedis up to a million, roughly the same figure in U.S. dollars. How and where did Botswe get all that money? Not on a University of Ghana salary, for sure. Dawson had done his homework. Botswe was the only criminalist in the psychology department. He’d made himself a name as an expert on cultural aspects of murder in Ghana and West Africa. Every year, he was invited to be guest professor or speaker at universities in Europe, the United States, and Canada, engagements that paid handsomely.

The autopsy photos in a messenger bag slung across his back, Dawson started out to East Legon on his Honda. There was rain in the forecast, but he thought it was going to be much later on. As he passed the airport on his right, Dawson felt the bike shudder slightly. The machine was getting long in the tooth, with various mechanical hiccups showing up of late. Just past the Tetteh Quarshie Interchange, the Honda stalled out completely. Dawson cursed as he repeatedly tried to get it started again.

He let the Honda cool off for about ten minutes. He tried again. This time it responded. Still sputtering, it made it to the destination, but barely.

Dr. Botswe’s house was enclosed within high walls topped with razor wire. The entrance was a towering wrought-iron gate. Dawson rang the outside bell. A man peeped through a viewing space in the right-hand wall.

“Good afternoon, I’m Inspector Dawson.”

The man nodded, pulling the gate open. Dawson rode in. The Honda gasped, shuddered, and shut off prematurely.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the man said. “I’m Obi. You are welcome.”

Dawson shook hands with him. “Pleased to meet you, Obi. How are you?”

“I’m blessed, praise God.” His voice had a grainy texture, like
gari
. He was a compact, powerful man of about thirty-five with a shiny, shaved head. “Is your motorcycle giving you problems?”

Dawson pulled his helmet off, resting it on the seat. “It’s getting old, is the problem.”

Obi smiled broadly but sympathetically. “Oh, so sorry. Please, if you can come with me. Doctor is expecting you.”

Parked at the perimeter of the circular, redbrick driveway was a glistening silver, late edition Benz with an interesting license plate:
AB-7777-P.
Dawson assumed the
AB
was by design:
Allen Botswe
. One paid extra for a personalized plate—a
lot
extra. The professor also had a stunning black Infiniti SUV in the two-car garage.
Filthy rich
, Dawson thought.

The front door was solid mahogany with a decorative etched-glass inset. Obi waved his proximity card across the reader to the side, pushing the door open after a faint click. The vestibule was deliciously cool. A giant chandelier hung from the high, vaulted ceiling. On the marble floor stood four massive Ghanaian sculptures. The paintings on the walls were from different parts of West Africa. Against a mauve accent wall was a bronze representation of Sankofa, the bird that turns its beak to retrieve the egg on its back.
It is not taboo to go back and fetch what you forgot—so
the saying went.

They passed a spiral staircase on the way to the expansive sitting room. On the far side of that was a floor-to-ceiling bay window. A pair of sliding French doors opened onto a manicured garden with a gurgling fountain. Dr. Allen Botswe, who was sitting in a plush leather armchair reading a book, looked up.

“Please, Inspector Dawson is here to see you,” Obi said.

Dr. Botswe put down the book as he stood up and strode over to shake hands. He was short, dapper, late forties, Dawson guessed. His black and gray beard was exquisitely trimmed, just like his landscaped garden.

“Allen, Allen Botswe,” he said. “Good to meet you, Inspector Dawson.”

“Likewise. I appreciate your seeing me.”

“Not at all. It’s my pleasure.” He spoke with just a touch of sibilance, like a straw broom sweeping concrete. “Please, do have a seat.”

Dawson chose the low-backed ebony chair with stitched, buttery soft, chocolate-colored leather.

“May I offer you some refreshments?” Botswe asked.

“Do you happen to have Malta?”

“Do we, Obi?”

“Yes, please.”

“Have Irene bring Malta for the inspector, and I’ll have a Heineken.”

Obi crossed to the adjoining formal dining room, disappearing through a door on its far side. Dawson imagined him trekking for miles to some region of the mansion in another time zone.

Dawson tried not to stare too obviously at all this opulence as he and Botswe made small talk. Irene, a tiny woman in her early twenties, came in with a tray of Malta, Heineken, and frosted glasses. She set it down on the table between the two men, poured the drinks, and backed away a few steps.

“Please,” she said to Botswe in barely a whisper. “Do you need something else?”

“No, that will be all for now, Irene. Thank you.” He gave a permissive wave. She curtsied before leaving.

“She’s one of our newer ones,” Botswe said casually to Dawson, raising his glass. “They come and go rather faster than I would like. Obi is our only Rock of Gibraltar, really. He’s been with us for twelve years, trains all the staff, keeps an eye on them, and whips them into shape, that sort of thing. All-round handyman as well, takes care of the repairs and the garden.”

Dawson nodded, more concerned with his Malta. When it came to the complexities of supervising the servant classes, he had nothing to contribute.

“Anyway, enough of that,” Botswe said, as if reading his mind. “How can I help, Inspector?”

Dawson told him what he knew about the young man found dead in the lagoon, now identified as Musa Zakari. Botswe listened with rapt attention, nodding at intervals.

“Outstanding detective work,” he commented, at the end of the account.

“Thank you, Dr. Botswe. I know you’ve written extensively about ritual murder in Ghana and other West African countries, and that’s why I’m here. There’s something specific about Musa’s murder that I want to consult you about.”

“Excellent,” Botswe said, sitting forward.

Dawson handed him the autopsy photos.

“My goodness,” Botswe said. “This is extreme decomposition.”

Dawson detected just the tiniest trill in the doctor’s voice.

“Hello, what’s this?” He looked up at Dawson. “Fingers amputated?”

“Yes, except the index.”

“Associated with the murder? Or do we know that?”

“Dr. Biney, the pathologist, thinks so.”

Botswe leaned back, one hand contemplatively on his chin. “Hmm. Any other mutilation? No removal of the genitalia, or the tongue?”

“No.”

Botswe rose. “Come with me, Inspector. Let’s go to my study. Please, by all means bring your Malta with you.”

They passed the dining room into a carpeted corridor. The professor’s study had a muted, anechoic quality to it, like a library. In a way, it was, what with the wall-to-wall-to-wall bookcase. A king-size mahogany desk was polished to a hard, reflecting shine. Botswe’s framed degrees and awards—Dawson counted ten of them—told a tale of academic brilliance. The University of Ghana, Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, Oxford, Yale, and several prestigious societies. On another wall hung three framed pictures of Botswe with a woman and three teenage children.

A large window looked out onto the garden at an angle slightly different from that of the sitting room. Obi was spreading a tarp over the garden furniture to protect it from the looming rainstorm. Judging by the sky, it would arrive sooner than Dawson had been expecting.

From the bookshelf, the professor selected a hefty textbook titled
Magic, Murder and Madness: Ritual Killing in West Africa
, by Allen Botswe, Ph.D. He brought it back to the desk and pulled up a chair for Dawson.

“This is probably the most focused on ritual murder that I have.” Botswe opened the book to a page about one-third through. “We can go back as far as the eighteen seventies, when British colonials gave accounts of human sacrifices made to the gods by the Ashantis. Here’s a rare depiction by an unknown artist of a sacrificial ceremony.”

Botswe gave Dawson a few moments to examine the picture before going to another page. “In more modern times, one of the most well-documented early cases was the Bridge House Murders of March 1945. The body of a ten-year-old girl was found on the beach a short distance from Elmina at a popular bathing spot. Her lips, cheeks, eyes, and privates had been removed. The poor little girl died from hemorrhage. The story goes that these body parts were to be used to make medicine, so called, to help someone win a chieftaincy dispute.”

“A human life just for a chieftaincy dispute,” Dawson said.

“People go to extraordinary lengths,” Botswe said. “Five men were charged, found guilty of first-degree murder, and hanged. In the twenty-first century, we still have examples of ritual murder. Although Nigeria has probably received most notoriety on the subject, Ghana has had its share.”

“What makes a killing a ritual one?”

“It shows some aspect of strong belief systems that have no scientific basis. It may be for the purposes of creating a magic potion, as in the Bridge House Murder, or to appease the gods, or in some cases, there’s the belief that a particular ritual will bring wealth.”

“Are there parts of the body that are focused on more than others?”

“Yes, some are invested with greater magical powers than others. If you read accounts of these killings, it’s clear that heads, breasts, lips, eyes, and genitalia are more valued than limbs or limb parts.”

“So what’s your feeling about the Musa Zakari case?”

“We can’t completely rule out that the fingers had some ritualistic significance to the killer,” Botswe said, “but in the absence of some
other
body part removed in addition, I’m not that persuaded it’s a ritual murder in the usual defined sense.”

“If that’s the case, can you suggest what else it could mean?”

“Nothing specific comes to mind except that either the fingers have special meaning to the killer or he’s trying to say something with the murder. For instance, we point with the index finger. When we want to indicate ‘number one,’ we hold up the index finger … Oh, wait a minute.”

He and Dawson stared at each other.

“Could he be saying this is only number one in a series?” Botswe said.

“If that were the case, wouldn’t he cut the index first, then the middle finger, and so on until they’re all removed, not the reverse? That would be like counting backward.”

Botswe was stroking his beard. “Or,” he said slowly, “another alternative—and this is just a wild notion—is that he’s making reference to the opposite phenomenon, as in a
reincarnation
, or rebirth. Among some African peoples, death is an end to one life only and a gateway to another. In other words, man must be reborn because reincarnation is a spiritual necessity. So let’s say this man kills repeatedly, each subsequent death is represented by the appearance of one more finger until all five are back.”

“It never even occurred to me,” Dawson said with some admiration. “I suppose that’s why I’m the ignoramus and you’re the expert I came to consult.”

Botswe smiled. “My fancy theory may hold no water whatsoever. I hope it doesn’t.”

T
hey spent a little more time with each other. As they walked outside together, Dawson was praying the Honda wouldn’t embarrass him by not starting. Which was exactly what it did. Botswe and Obi watched him as he tried multiple times to coax some life out of the bike.

“Obi can put it in the back of his pickup and take you home,” Botswe suggested, glancing up at the sky. The sun had disappeared. “Looking at those rain clouds, I don’t think you want to be out riding in any case. There may be lightning.”

“I can take you,” Obi said to Dawson. “No problem.”

“Thank you very much.”

Obi went out to the street, returning in a well-used black Toyota pickup that looked out of place in Dr. Botswe’s lavish environment. Dawson and Obi loaded the bike, tethering it upright and steady on the truck bed.

“Thank you for your help, Dr. Botswe,” Dawson said, shaking hands again. “I’ll be in touch.”

O
nce Obi and Inspector Dawson had departed, Dr. Botswe sat on the terrace overlooking the garden. Smart man, that detective, the kind you watched what you said when he was around. Botswe had sensed the gears and cogwheels working in the inspector’s mind.

After a while, he went back inside to the study. At his desk, he thought for a moment about life when Peggy had been alive. She was gone forever, leaving an unhealed gash straight through Botswe’s heart. His children and grandchildren were his treasures, but he didn’t see them often enough. His only constant companions were his work and his wealth. He applied himself assiduously to both to distract him from the pain and emptiness.

He logged on to his computer and worked for about thirty minutes on his latest paper: “Fight for Survival: Street Children and Crime.” His mind strayed. He saved his latest edit and brought up the photos he had been looking at before the inspector arrived. Gruesome. Mutilations of all kinds from war atrocities, crime scenes, vehicle crashes, and autopsies. His work had brought him to this awful attraction.
What would Peggy have said about his obsession?