Treachery in the Yard (13 page)

Soon enough a police car drove up, followed by a van. Sergeant Okoro stepped out of the car and told me the pathologist would be arriving shortly. Officers from the van began to put up red tape and cordon off the area. There would always be onlookers. With few jobs, people had plenty of time.

I gave Okoro a cigarette and we blew smoke together while most of the forensics crew went into the apartment. I would just be in their way. Two of the forensics officers approached us, one with a camera, the other with a notepad.

“You know about this?” the one with the notepad asked me.

“I found the body, but that's all I know so far. No idea who did it, when, or why. He did not report for duty today, and I decided to check on him.”

He nodded, then he and his partner went into the apartment to do their jobs. Okoro and I followed them, but stayed in the doorway. It was the usual busy crime scene. Officers collected evidence and placed it in bags. There was the periodic flash from a digital camera, recording elements of the scene. I saw three spent shells on the floor. There was a lot of blood on the carpet, but not much more than you would expect from a head shot. After a while, the pathologist showed up and began his inspection of the body before it was moved to the morgue.

“Can you get a clear shot of this?” Nnadozie asked the guy taking the pictures, pointing to a blood spatter on the wall. Another guy was carefully looking for any slugs that had gone through the dead man's head and out the other side. They were being thorough.

I remembered Femi's words from our last conversation.

I decided it was better not to tell Okoro about my conversation with Femi yesterday afternoon. He'd think I was losing it. Maybe I had already lost it, but if there was a leak as Femi implied, it could be anybody. Including Okoro.

After I left the scene, I drove to Freda's office. We went across the street to a small restaurant for drinks, and at a quiet table, I filled her in on everything. It felt important to tell her.

She did not want to accept it. Especially about Femi, that he had been murdered because of the Okpara case. “That's what my gut says,” I told her. “But I have no proof, and with the restrictions Chief has placed on me, no way to get any. Not yet. I have to think. Let's get out of here.” For once, she dropped work—she was as
committed to her work as I was to mine. We got in my car and drove. I had no idea where I was driving to, and did not care.

“Tammy, I'm afraid,” she finally said. “What are you going to do?”

“No idea.”

It was too hot to think. I took us to another small restaurant and bar: the Grill Restaurant. The food was not very good, but the air conditioners made up for the menu. We both sat there, looking at the food we'd ordered, trying to digest Femi's death. Freda looked badly shaken. Me, I wished I could wake up and find this was all a bad dream. I gazed out the restaurant window without seeing.

“Tammy, how can you be certain Femi was murdered because of the case? Maybe he wasn't. Maybe it isn't as bad as that,” Freda said, unable to stand the silence any longer. I looked up. She could see pain and weariness in my eyes.

“Hon,” I said, “I'm praying you're right.”

There was not much left to say. “What are you going to do now?”

“I've thought of one thing.” I took out my cell and phoned Kola Badmus at
The Nigerian Chronicles
. I was in luck, he was in. He knew Femi was dead but didn't know the details. I told him that Femi had been shot—and then I really let it fly, telling him I thought Femi had been murdered because of the Okpara case and because of a leak within the force.

“Where do I meet you, Tammy?” Kola said immediately.

“I'm at the Grill Restaurant right now.”

“I'll come over. Wait for me.”

As I put away my cell phone, I knew Chief would not be happy with me. I did not care. Femi deserved the best.

“Mind telling me what
that
was about?” Freda asked. I could feel her pulling away from me, wondering about the phone call and what I was going to tell the reporter. I tried to change the subject. “So, darling. How are you holding up in the office?”

“Not bad. One very important client hasn't made up her mind to buy life insurance yet. Otherwise, it's all in order.”

“Who is he?”

“
She.
The wife of the older brother of the Petroleum Minister.”

“Professor Donald Chike?”

“You know him?”

“No, but I've certainly heard about him.”

“I met her at a luncheon party. She seemed interested in our life insurance, so I've done one follow-up visit. She's almost hooked.”

“It'll sure be a big account.”

“I like the marketing part of my job the best. I like selling, finding where their interests and mine link up.”

After that we ran out of conversation.

About twenty minutes later, a light green Mercedes 230 came to a standstill outside. Kola's tall, heavyset figure got out of the car and came into the restaurant. He was clutching a fat file.

I pulled out a chair and he sat with us. “This is Freda,” I told him. “She's . . . a friend.” She darted me a look as if to say, Why am I here? Good question. I had not thought this through—I had just jumped ahead.

He did not give her a second glance. “What's the story on the dead officer?” He took out a pad.

“I believe he found out some pretty hot shit, so he was killed.”

I told him my conversation with Femi yesterday afternoon.

He was skeptical. I had expected that.

“I need facts, my friend.”

“I don't have a lot of facts and I have no proof, but I suspect Femi was killed to prevent him from revealing any more than he already had.”

“You want me to quote you directly.” He said it flatly, not as a question. He knew what I was up to.

“It's one way to find out, isn't it? To get some hard evidence. If there's a leak, he'll think I'm a wild card. He'll come after me. Then I'll have my proof.”

“You're being a fool.” He thought it over. “I like it. It'll sell newspapers. Does Olatunji know about this?”

“No. He wouldn't let me if he knew.”

He seemed pleased, but of course, Freda was the opposite: “My God, you've gone crazy. Is that what this is all about? Making yourself bait?”

My mind was already made up; it was made up by Femi's death. Perhaps it was crazy, but I owed him something. “They're going to come after me anyway. They know I won't give up. Life is too short to wait to be murdered.”

Freda was shaking. “You could get killed, Tammy. Did you ever stop to think about that?” She glared at me. “And what about involving me? You've put me in the middle of this now.”

“No one has to know about you,” I replied hesitantly. I wanted to be angry with her, but she was right. Why had I brought her along, into danger? I turned back to Kola. “She's right. Let's leave her out of it. She wasn't here.”

He nodded. He did not need her for the story anyway.

“About the rest of it, though. Are we on?”

“I have to talk to my editor. I'll call you in an hour.”

After he left, I looked at Freda but she avoided my eyes. I could not blame her. We did not say a word during the drive to her
office, and I could not blame her for that, either. She went inside without looking back. I could not blame her for anything.

I was on my own.

I did not want to go back to my office to stare at the walls, so I went to a small drinking pub a few blocks from headquarters. Police officers liked the place, and I felt like being among my own kind. I stepped inside and looked around. Instead of slapping me on the back, the other officers avoided my eyes. Great, just great.

I ordered whiskey and the bartender poured the drink. Then I looked around. And realized how self-absorbed I was. They were not ignoring me or shunning me. It was that I was not the only person affected by Femi's death. They were not just avoiding me, they were avoiding each other. We were all part of a family, and we were in mourning.

I downed the whiskey in one go. It burned all the way down. “Another,” I told Benjamin, the bartender.

“I heard about your man,” he said, pouring me another drink. “I'm sorry.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say. I was drinking to get drunk. I was furious with Chief, with the entire police force, with the world, with everybody. I was on my third drink when my cell phone rang. I flipped it open, expecting Kola. It was Captain Akpan.

When I spoke my voice sounded dead. “Yes, captain?”

“Where are you, detective? Something came up.”

“Something that has to do with me?”

“Where are you?”

“Near headquarters.”

“In the bar?” His ears were sharp when it came to background sounds.

“I can come down to the office if you want.”

“I just want to know if you know where a newspaper reporter—Kola Badmus—is. You were talking with him a few hours ago.”

Just when I thought it could not get worse.

“His editor called, concerned. He was supposed to call in, but didn't. He's on what is considered a dangerous assignment and is supposed to check in regularly. If you were the last person to speak with him, do you have any idea what happened?”

“Wish I did,” I said. I sat looking at the third drink in front of me. Suddenly, it did not feel like a good time to get drunk. “Shall I go down to the newspaper offices?”

“Good,” was all Akpan told me.

The Nigerian Chronicles
had an office arrangement typical of a newspaper. Tunde Abiodun was the city editor. He was a fat, bald man with a fat, bald manner. He grimaced when he saw me walking up to him.

“Any word on Kola?” I asked him.

“I was hoping you would tell me.”

“When did you see him last?”

“On his way to see you. He told me that you called him, that you had a story for him. He left to meet you. That was the last we heard of him. Did you meet him?”

“Yes. I gave him a story. He was going to come back here and talk with you about it.”

“Then you should know more than me. What was the story?”

“I think Femi, my assistant, found out something too hot and he was murdered. I was willing to put my name on the story.”

He nodded. “Well, he never made it back here. And I think I have the right to hold you at least partially responsible.”

There was nothing I could say except that I would do my best to find Kola. He did not seem to think my best meant very much. Then I went up one flight of stairs to see Sheun Daramola, the owner. He outranked the city editor. I had never met him, but he had a reputation even tougher than Abiodun's.

“Homicide?” he asked. He removed his glasses. What was with these old guys removing their glasses when they wanted to talk? “Sit down.”

I sat.

“Do you have any news about my reporter?”

“Nothing yet. I'd like to look through his office, to see if there's anything there that might be useful.”

He nodded. “Anything that would help. We are running stories in today's paper, and the other papers are donating space to run stories as well. In something like this, we stick together.”

“I may have to talk to his colleagues.”

“No problem. I'll have you shown to his office. I had it locked up when it was obvious there was something wrong.” He called on the phone for the city editor, and when the fat man came in, panting from the effort of walking, Daramola told him to show me to Kola's office. “I don't know how going through Kola's things will help, but do whatever the detective asks. If he wants to speak with other reporters, arrange it.”

The city editor nodded and led me out. We went back downstairs, past several offices to a locked one. Abiodun produced a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door, then excused himself and returned to his own desk.

The office was something of a mess, but it was a working mess, with file folders covering the desk and most of the floor. My
guess was each folder had its own specific place. I started with the desk. The papers yielded nothing. I found a daybook, which looked like his backup. His appointments were all listed. He'd met a council chairman an hour before seeing me. I opened each drawer of his desk, but in the end, it was a waste. The files on the floor provided nothing, either. I went to talk with the staff, but none of them knew anything, including other stories Kola had been covering; competition for stories could be fierce, and Kola was usually tight-lipped about his work right until it appeared on the front page. Soon enough I was driving back to headquarters with nothing to show for my visit.

While driving, I phoned Akpan on my cell. “Any luck finding Kola?”

“No. We've checked the hospitals and morgues. Nothing.”

“No body but also no sign of kidnapping? No ransom demand?”

“No.”

Back in my office, I found a new assistant detective, already hard at work writing reports. Writing reports about what, I did not know. I felt uneasy, seeing him in Femi's seat. Perhaps Chief was feeling guilty, and was giving me back a partner. The new man said that he was just graduated from the Police Detective College. This was his first field experience. His name was Ade, and he was also from Yoruba, like Chief. Was Ade there to work for me or to spy on me?

After he introduced himself, he told me that Chief had Femi's file, and wanted to see me. I spent a few minutes getting to know him, then went up to Chief's office. Stella waved me in and went back to her Imperial. I wondered why she kept the typewriter. She also had a computer. Perhaps it was easier to keep certain documents confidential if there was only a single typed copy.

Chief's door was half open. I pushed and entered.

“You wanted to see me?” I asked a little stiffly, wary.