Children of the Street (22 page)

40

At the morgue, before Dr. Biney covered Ofosu’s body with a clean sheet, he shut the eyes fully and “broke” the rigor mortis of the jaw muscles, allowing the mouth to close. Then Dawson brought Antwi in. The boy stood at the side of the table and stared at Ofosu for a long time. He looked up at Dawson.

“Can I touch him?”

Dawson glanced at Dr. Biney, who nodded.

Antwi touched Ofosu’s face with a light, brushing stroke.

“He’s very cold.”

“Yes,” Dawson said.

As he gazed at his dead friend, a smile flitted across Antwi’s face as though a pleasant memory had come briefly to mind, but then powerful grief returned. He cried with his eyes open. His body shook until it became weak and began to sway. Dawson put his arms around the boy, picked him up, and carried him out of the room.

S
taring blankly into the distance, Antwi leaned against the flame tree outside the mortuary building. Dr. Biney saw Dawson off at the door.

“It’s sad, isn’t it, Inspector?” he said.

“Yes, it is. And very hard for him. He and Ofosu were very close.”

“How are
you
doing?”

Dawson gazed at the ground without seeing, his jaw working. “There’s a cold, heavy anger inside here.” He thumped his chest twice. “Murder is murder, but out of the four victims, Ofosu is the only one I had met, and he was also the youngest. My own son will be his age before too long.” He looked up at Dr. Biney. “What is the hatred, the fury, that drives a man to kill that way?”

Biney nodded, there to listen, not to talk.

“I’ll get him, though,” Dawson said. “He believes he’s invincible, but he’s not. I
will
get him.”

D
awson sat beside Sergeant Baidoo as they drove Antwi back to Kaneshie Market. The boy was very quiet in the backseat.

Dawson called Chief Supol Lartey.

“There’s just been another murder, sir. A teenager found in a public latrine. It appears to be the same signature as the other three. I just wanted to let you know.”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“Yes, I’m here. So Tedamm is not our man.”

“Except for the rape.”

Heavy sigh. “All right. I want to meet with you and Philip at eight sharp tomorrow morning. Present everything you’ve got to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ending the call, Dawson glanced back at Antwi. He was staring out the window.

“I don’t want you to be by yourself at any time,” Dawson said. “I want you to stay with someone I trust. Do you know Issa?”

“I know him.”

“What if I ask him to let you stay with his gang?”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Please, no, but I know it already.”

“You don’t like him either?”

Antwi shrugged.

“He’s a good person,” Dawson pressed. “If I talk to him, he’ll be your friend.”

Antwi looked doubtful.

“Let’s branch to the UTC area before we go to Kaneshie,” Dawson said to Baidoo.

T
hey didn’t find Issa there, but someone said they’d seen him up at the CMB building earlier in the morning. It wasn’t far, so Dawson and Antwi left Baidoo and the car parked in the Ghana Commercial Bank lot and walked up the hill past the railway station to CMB. It was going on eleven in the morning. The sun shone fiercely down on churchgoers in their Sunday best, including men who must have been pouring with sweat inside their dark suits.

Antwi spotted Issa first. He was taking a rest, sitting on his cart, which was loaded with strips of scrap metal. Dawson and Antwi went up to him.

“How are you, Issa?” Dawson asked.

“I’m fine.”

They shook hands.

“You know Antwi?” Dawson said.

Issa gave the boy something of a glance. “Yes, I know him.”

“His friend Ofosu was killed early this morning.”

Issa’s eyebrows went up. Cautious concern. “What happened?”

“Someone found him dead in the Novotel Park latrine. Let me talk to you for a moment.”

Dawson took Issa a few meters away, dropping his voice. “He’s feeling very bad because of Ofosu’s death, the same way you felt the day when Ebenezer was found. You get me.”

Issa nodded.

“I know he and Ofosu used to follow Tedamm around,” Dawson continued. “Tedamm was Ebenezer’s enemy, and yours too, but it was Tedamm who was running the show. Antwi and Ofosu were just small boys to him. If they ever disobeyed him, he beat them.”

“Yes.”

“So now Ofosu is dead and Antwi is by himself. I don’t want him to be alone right now. I want him to be with someone, and it’s you I trust most. You hear what I’m saying.”

“Yes, please.”

“You’ll do it for me?”

“For you, yes.”

“Thank you.” Dawson shook his hand. “I want Antwi to be at your base at night, not somewhere out there by himself. The man who killed Ebenezer and Comfort and Ofosu might come after Antwi.”

“I won’t let anything happen to Antwi,” Issa said. “Maybe I failed Ebenezer, but I won’t fail Antwi. And if I catch the one who killed Ebenezer, I will kill him myself.”

“No, don’t do that,” Dawson said. “Because I want him first. Rather, you hold him for me and
I’ll
come and kill him.”

They laughed.

Dawson called to Antwi. “Come and talk to your new older brother.”

41

Dawson left Issa and Antwi after the rules had been laid down. Antwi was to leave Issa’s base no earlier than five-thirty in the morning and be back not later than eight at night. No exceptions. During the night, he wasn’t allowed to go anywhere by himself, including the latrine. He was to wake Issa up to accompany him.

Dawson called Chikata. “How are things?”

“I’m just finishing my report. Do you need anything from me, Dawson?”

“No, that’s all for today. Chikata, thank you, eh? You’ve done well.”

“Thank you, Dawson, sir.”

“We’ll meet at CID tomorrow morning at seven to talk.”

“Sure, no problem.” Before they ended the call, Chikata added, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you how Hosiah is doing these days with the heart problem.”

Dawson was surprised, pleasantly. Chikata had never asked him this before. “He’s holding on,” he said, “but he needs the operation. We’re hoping for the best.”

“Okay, I pray for him, then.”

“Thank you, Chikata. Enjoy your Sunday.”

I
t was just after noon now, so Christine would be out of church and Hosiah out of Sunday school. Dawson got her on the first ring. She told him some church friends had invited them to lunch.

“I have one more person to see,” Dawson said. “I’ll call you after that.”

“Okay.”

Next, Dawson dialed Dr. Botswe’s number, wondering what the professor’s Sunday schedule was like and whether he went to church. Compared to most other Ghanaians, Dawson was quite “religionless.” Some might have insisted he was Godless as well, but on that point he was still undecided. What he did know was that it would be over his dead body that his hard-earned money would go to a rich pastor in one of the so-called charismatic churches like Assemblies of God or Lighthouse Chapel International. Dawson regarded them with deep suspicion. Were they servants of God or Bible-wielding con men?

Botswe answered his phone. “Good afternoon, Inspector Dawson. Good to hear from you again. How are you?”

“I’m okay, Dr. Botswe, but there’s been another murder.”

“Really.”

“Yes—early this morning. I’d like to come by and discuss it with you, if I may.”

“By all means. I’m at home all afternoon.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

B
otswe’s gate was open when Dawson drove up, but he parked outside on the street. As he walked in, a smiling Obi came forward to greet him. He was in a blindingly white shirt, dark blue tie, and perfectly pressed navy blue trousers. It was a transformation.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Dawson said. “You are sharp!”

“Thank you,” Obi said. “You are welcome. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And yourself?”

“I am blessed and full of joy for the Lord, sir.”

“Oh, very good. Off to church then?”

“Yes, please—to give praises to the Almighty and ask for His guidance in all I do. Let me take you inside to the doctor.”

He escorted Dawson into the house, which, again, was unapologetically cooled. Dawson wondered idly how much Botswe paid for his electricity.

“Good afternoon, Inspector Dawson,” the professor said, appearing from his study.

“Afternoon, Dr. Botswe.”

“Please, do you need anything else?” Obi asked Botswe. “No, thank you, Obi. Have a nice time in church.”

“Yes, please. Thank you, sir. Good-bye, Inspector.”

“Come into my study,” Botswe said to Dawson. “Would you like some Malta?”

“I never refuse that offer.”

Botswe smiled. “Make yourself comfortable while I get you some. The staff is all off on Sundays. After all, they have their lives too.”

Dawson almost said,
really?
but thought better of it. As Botswe went for the refreshments, Dawson noticed a new painting on the far wall.
Wiz Kudowor
. When Botswe came back with a tray of Malta and some Club beer for himself, he found Dawson in front of the painting.

“Admiring the Wiz?” he said.

“Yes. Spectacular.”

“That one’s called
Groom Awaits the Bride.
”

“I haven’t seen this one before,” Dawson said. “Genevieve Kusi has another of his pieces in her office.”

Botswe’s eyes skidded, like a car losing its grip on the road for a second.

“Do you know Genevieve?” Dawson asked.

“Yes, I do. She’s a tremendous resource, and she and her institution do excellent work in this city. They’ve picked up a couple of national and international awards, you know. Please, Inspector Dawson, do have a seat and help yourself to your Malta. I trust it’s cold enough.”

They sat with a side table between them. Dawson closed his eyes momentarily as he took the first sip.

Botswe chuckled. “That good?”

“I think it’s a sickness,” Dawson said, looking at the bottle as though it might reveal something new. “Well, you tell me. You’re a psychologist. Is this a terrible addiction?”

“Oh, that everyone should have such a harmless addiction! So, tell me about this new murder.”

“A boy of about thirteen to fourteen, name of Ofosu, who along with another boy, Antwi, used to follow around a brute called Tedamm. But Ofosu was, and Antwi is, basically decent.”

“Tedamm is the one I read about in the papers who was charged with the rape and murder of Comfort?”

“Yes, him. Ofosu was stabbed sometime last night between midnight and four. I’ll show you the pictures I took with my phone. Most of the signature is the same as the other three, but this is the first one in which the body has been placed inside a building. Does that mean anything special?”

Dawson brought out his camera and toggled to the right spot in the picture gallery. He handed it to Botswe. “I took six photos.”

The professor began to look at them.

“Sorry about their small size,” Dawson said.

“Would it help to upload them to my PC?” Botswe asked cautiously.

“I wish I could, Dr. Botswe, but police regulations prohibit that.”

“Of course. I understand.” He smiled. “You have remarkable integrity. I’m not sure that another person in your position would take so much care.”

Dawson said nothing to that. Botswe went from one image to the next and back again. He returned the camera to Dawson. “Same signature, same killer.”

“Even though this body’s dumped indoors instead of out?”

“Indoors, outdoors—it doesn’t matter to the killer. What he’s expressing is that these people’s lives are worthless to him. They might as well be rubbish or refuse. That’s why he chooses the filth of Korle Lagoon for Musa, the muddy ditch for Ebenezer, a rubbish dump in Comfort’s case, and now the latrine for Ofosu.”

“By ‘these people’s lives’ you mean street children.”

“Yes.”

“He hates them.”

“Or what they represent in
his
mind. He could be a messianic killer on an apocalyptic mission to rid us of this scourge, as he sees it, of street children.”

“That would mean a psychotic person, surely?”

“In the sense of distorted reality, certainly, but not in the true wider sense of psychosis. These aren’t really psychotic killings because they are too organized and too planned. Psychotic killings are disorganized, often opportunistic, spur of the moment. This isn’t what this fellow is doing.”

“Perhaps he was once traumatized as a street child himself. Maybe he’s trying to kill that part of them that’s in him.”

“Ah, indeed, perhaps so. Have you thought of psychology as a career, Inspector?”

Dawson laughed. “With all due respect, no. Back to this killer, I still don’t understand why he takes these body parts away. You’ve said these aren’t ritual killings, and I’m willing to agree, but fingers, kneecaps, and now a tongue? He cut out Ofosu’s
tongue
, for goodness’ sake.”

Botswe nodded. “Your point is well taken. I feel comfortable in saying that he is taking trophies, which serial killers often do, and that he is escalating. This last murder was more intense—the setting, the trophy taking, everything.”

“Like he’s taunting us with Ofosu’s murder.”

“He is almost certainly following you closely through newspaper reports and such. He might interject himself into the case, and he might find ways to view his work a second or third time. And, Inspector, if you don’t stop him, he will most certainly kill again.”