Children of the Street (26 page)

49

The
Daily Graphic
reported that Detective Inspector Dawson of CID had led a raid of world-renowned Professor Allen Botswe’s home and “arrested” the criminal psychologist for possible child abduction. The professor was later released when it was discovered that his only crime had been an “act of pure compassion and humanitarianism.”

On Joy FM’s
Super Morning Show
, Kojo Oppong-Nkrumah and his sidekick dissected the newspaper stories and pointed out the irony that D.I. Dawson and Dr. Botswe had been on the
Drive Time
show
together
only two days before. What was this detective inspector
thinking
?

Dawson got to work in a foul mood that wasn’t improved by practically everyone talking about him. He was the overnight sensation in all the wrong ways. Chikata didn’t dare say a word when Dawson walked into the office like an ogre. They both knew that at nine o’clock sharp Dawson would be summoned to Lartey’s office.

“W
hat happened?” the chief supol demanded.

Dawson was able to tell him only a portion of the story. Lartey cut him short as he snatched a copy of the
Graphic
from his desk. He held it up to Dawson’s face.

“Have you read this?”

“I glanced at it.”

“
Glanced
. Well, I suggest you read it to see just how much of a
fool
you look.”

“It’s the press, sir. That’s what they do.”

“Oh, now it’s the press’s fault? D.I. Dawson, competence is our responsibility and
in
competence our burden.”

“Nothing incompetent about this, sir. Just because Botswe has social status doesn’t mean he doesn’t get investigated. Taking a child off the street and bundling him into a car does not look aboveboard to me.”

“But it turned out it
was
, and the sad thing is that you could have figured it all out with just a few minutes’ chat with Dr. Botswe
at his house
. You did not have to arrest the man, not to mention the other two.”

“I didn’t arrest him, sir.”

“It amounted to the same thing, especially in the public’s view.”

“He came voluntarily.”

“Just barely. You threatened to handcuff him first. Don’t think I don’t know every single detail of what happened, Dawson. Botswe called me himself early this morning.”

“Did he really.”

“Oh yes. He said you were arrogant, cocky, and insolent. And I believe him because that’s exactly what’s on display right now. What happens to you, Dawson? You’re going along nice and steady with the investigation progressing smoothly, and then it’s as though someone turns a switch and you go off the rails and everything is out of control. Why is that?”

“I don’t know how to answer that. I’m sorry you feel everything is out of control.”

“I do, Dawson. And if you had a little humility, you would see it yourself. Have you checked Dr. Botswe’s alibis?”

“I have,” Dawson said soberly. “He’s telling the truth. He was in Kumasi at the time Musa Zakari was killed. He was also holding a dinner party the night Comfort was murdered.”

“Exactly correct.”

“You looked into it yourself, sir?”

“Of
course
I did, Dawson. When he called me, I asked him for the details of his alibi and then I did my own little bit of detecting—probably even faster than you did. I didn’t get to be chief superintendent of police by being an idiot, you know.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that.”

Lartey sighed. “This is what you’re going to do. You’re to issue a public apology to Dr. Botswe and his guest and staff member through the press. That’s number one. Number two, you will visit Dr. Botswe and personally apologize for maltreating and disrespecting him. Three, you will from now on report to me every single morning what your plans are for each day before you embark upon them. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”

Lartey pointed a finger at him. “You’re lucky that practically everybody is tied up with the Ghana Petroleum affair, otherwise I might have removed you from this case. So be thankful.”

“Yes, indeed,” Dawson said, standing up. “Every day, sir, I count my blessings.”

I
n the afternoon, Dawson made his atonement pilgrimage to Dr. Botswe’s house. Obi came to the gate but did not open it. He was cold, and his previous deference toward Dawson was gone.

“The doctor is not here,” he said flatly. “You have to wait.”

“When will he be back, please?” Dawson asked politely. “About four o’clock.”

“All right,” Dawson said, glancing at his watch. Only about thirty minutes away. “I’ll wait.”

Since he was now persona non grata, he wasn’t expecting to be invited in. He wasn’t. Obi turned away and went back to his gardening or fixing things, or whatever it was he had been doing.

Dawson sat and waited while he thought dispiritedly about things. His concentration on people like Socrate, Austin, and Botswe seemed misplaced.
Maybe this murderer is just some lunatic roaming the streets of Accra. You might not just be looking at the wrong trees, you could be in the wrong forest completely
.

What should he do now? Should the surveillance continue, and for how long? As long as Lartey would tolerate it, Dawson thought, which would not be much longer. He was feeling deflated and listless. Maybe he was out of his depth. After all, he had never had a serial killer case, rare as they were in Ghana.

Botswe showed up about four-thirty in his lovely Infiniti. He glided into the garage. He had evidently spotted Dawson because Obi came out a few minutes later to tell him that the doctor would be able to see him now.

B
otswe was at the window in the sitting room looking out onto the garden.

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Dawson said.

The professor turned slowly. “Inspector.”

“How are you?”

“As well as could be expected, I suppose. Please, have a seat.”

They both sat down.

“Dr. Botswe,” Dawson began, “I owe you a big apology for my actions last night. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. It was a complete blunder on my part.”

“It was very upsetting, to say the least.”

“Yes, I can see why. As I said, my humble apologies.”

He nodded. “Apology accepted. On reflection, you were doing your job. Interestingly enough, you came to mind this morning.”

“Why is that?”

“I was browsing through my book of Ghanaian proverbs and came across one that seemed apropos of your circumstances. It goes something like ‘If you are on the road to nowhere, find another road.’ Not to deliberately discourage you, but maybe we’re not looking where we should for this killer.”

Dawson noticed the word
we
. “You could be right in a way,” he said, “but I think it’s more that I haven’t yet understood the message he’s sending us in these murders. If only I could decode the message, I believe I’d be led to him.”

“Yes. If it’s all right with you, Inspector, let me ponder over it some more and call you in about a day with my ideas.”

“That’s fine, thank you. By the way, the book of proverbs you were looking at, is it
Three Thousand Six Hundred Ghanaian Proverbs
?”

“Yes. Are you familiar with it?”

“Yes. My brother Cairo sells it in his crafts shop in Osu.”

“It’s a terrific book to amble through, as well as a good resource.”

Dawson stood up. “Thank you for seeing me with such courtesy, Dr. Botswe. It won’t go unrecognized.”

They shook hands. Botswe walked him to the door. Dawson had to give the man credit: he had scrupulous manners.

50

Daramani was home. He greeted Dawson like a long-lost brother.

“Oh, chaley, how I miss you,” he said. “Why? Why so long you haven’t come to see me?”

“Too busy. You know how it is.”

“Sit down, sit down,” Daramani said, moving some clutter. “Do you want something to drink? I can send someone to get you some Malta.”

“No, thank you, Daramani.”

“So how are you, my brother? You look tired.”

“I am. I’m working a tough case.”

“It’s worrying your head, eh? You need to relax small-small. Because you don’t smoke wee anymore, that’s why you feel tense.”

“Is that so?” Dawson grinned nonchalantly, but his heartbeat picked up with a tinge of excitement.

“Ah, but you yourself know that already,” Daramani said.

“So can you help me?”

Daramani looked hurt. “But of course I can help you. Aren’t you my brother, my friend?
Yes
, you are!”

He reached under his chair and brought out a small, covered box. He opened it up. There were the fat, neatly rolled joints.

“Here, I give you the biggest one,” Daramani said happily. “Because I love you like my brother.”

Dawson hesitated, wrestling. But it was too late. He was here. He took off his shirt and undershirt, hanging them outside the door so they wouldn’t reek later. Bare-chested, he lit up with Daramani and sat back. He had forgotten how good it was. He had hoped it wouldn’t be. He felt marvelous and loathed himself for it.
Why had he come?
He closed his eyes. A couple tears squeezed out for no reason he could fathom.

He was floating, very relaxed now. His mind began to free-associate.

If you are on the road to nowhere, find another road
.

He laughed at that. It suddenly seemed funny. Daramani joined in his mirth for the hell of it.

But the Sankofa proverb was just as relevant to this mystery he was trying to solve.
It is not taboo to go back and fetch what you forgot
. Maybe he’d forgotten something in this case that he had to go back and fetch. That venerable bird with his head turned backward, like the one in Dr. Botswe’s foyer. Dawson smiled. Generation after generation of schoolchildren learned about it.

His eyes popped open.
Head turned backward
.

He shot out of his chair.

“What wrong?” Daramani asked languidly.

“Ebenezer is the Sankofa bird.”

“Oh, yeah,” Daramani muttered.

Grabbing his phone, Dawson speed-dialed Cairo. “I need your help,” he said.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Get out your proverb book. I’m looking for three different proverbs—one referring to the fingers, one to the knees, and one to the tongue. While you’re looking for those, I’ll be on the way down to the shop.”

“Okay, I’ll start right away and see you in a little while.”

Dawson took one last puff of what was left of his joint and then put it between Daramani’s lips. “I’ve got to go.”

“Why you leave me again?”

“No more wee for me,” Dawson said, opening the door. “Never again.”

“Okay.” Daramani laughed. “We’ll see.”

Dawson put his head back in. “Chaley, do you have any chewing gum to freshen my breath?”

Daramani tossed him a packet of P.K. gum.

C
airo was poring over the book when Dawson arrived.

“Have you got anything so far?” Dawson asked.

“Man, there are a lot of proverbs,” Cairo said as his brother sat down beside him. He sniffed. “What’s that smell? Have you been in smoke or something?”

“Yes—tell you another time. Not important right now.”

“Okay, here’s the first one I’ve found. It goes, ‘The knee does not wear the hat when the head is available.’ ”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not absolutely positive. I think it means, don’t assume a role that doesn’t rightfully belong to you.”

“That sounds about right. Give me another copy of the book and I’ll start from the back.”

“Does this have to do with these serial murders you’re investigating? You’re all over the news today, I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, only too aware,” Dawson said sourly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sorry. Carry on.”

“So when this guy kills his victims, he stabs them in the back, mutilates them in some way, and then dumps them in or at some filthy location like the Korle Lagoon. I’ve been trying to figure out the meaning behind the mutilations. One of the victims, Ebenezer, had his head twisted around—”

“Twisted around?” Cairo said. “You mean twisted …”

“One hundred and eighty degrees, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Broke his neck, in other words.”

“Yes.” Dawson paused. This was delicate territory. “Sorry, Cairo.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, dismissing it. “I’m not sensitive about that anymore.”

“So I thought, What is this murderer trying to tell us?” Dawson continued. “What’s the message? He’s not just killing people, he’s
displaying
them in some way, so is there a lesson or moral he’s trying to impress on us with that twisted head and neck? And then Sankofa hit me. That’s an iconic Ghanaian symbol that represents possibly our most famous proverb. Dr. Botswe has a beautiful one in his house.”

“Do you suspect him?”

“I did, but that’s over. His alibis are established.”

“I understand what you’re saying about proverbs,” Cairo said, “particularly Ghanaian proverbs that carry religious meaning. But
why
does this murderer have such a need to communicate that with us? What compulsion is driving him?”

“I don’t know,” Dawson said.

“Let’s analyze this,” Cairo said. “If I tell you a proverb, what am I trying to do? To pass on to you some kind of wisdom in a short, clever sentence, right?”

“Yes.” Dawson sat up. “Wait a minute.”

“What?”

“You said it just now, Cairo. When you state a proverb, you’re trying to pass on to
me
some kind of wisdom, not someone else. All along I’ve been thinking the killer wants to tell
us
something, but it’s not
us
he’s trying to teach the lesson, it’s his
victims.
”

“Oh,” Cairo said, light dawning. “I see. Just a minute, though. What good is the lesson to his victims when they’re dead?”

“That’s easy. Whether traditional or Christian, so many people believe in the afterlife. The killer is sending them there branded with the proverbs, so to speak. Botswe called it right. It’s messianic, apocalyptic.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“I hate to admit it,” Cairo said, “but occasionally you’re brilliant.”

“It’s you who’s the brilliant one,” Dawson said, laughing. “And while we’re sitting around congratulating ourselves, we still have two more proverbs to dig up, so let’s get to it.”

They were quiet for the next fifteen minutes as they searched.

“Here’s something,” Cairo said. “Look at proverb number three-sixty.”

Dawson turned to it. “ ‘
Obi ntó ntasu ntó fam’ mfa ne tεkrεma mfa
,’ ” he read. “Translation—no one spits on the ground and then licks up the spittle with his tongue. Lovely image, I must say.”

“Meaning you don’t defile yourself with what you’ve just defiled?”

“If that’s what the killer chose, maybe he’s saying the street children are sullied with the very filth they brought with them—immorality, disease, and so on?”

“Could be,” Cairo said.

“All right, we’ll take that one as a possibility. We have one more to go for the fingers.”

“I think everybody knows that one,” Cairo said. “ ‘No one points his left finger at his hometown.’ In other words, be proud of your village, town, or country.”

“The only problem with that,” Dawson said, “is that it was the fingers of his
right
hand chopped off, not the left.”

Cairo grunted. “Okay, never mind, then.”

“What about this?” Dawson said. “ 
‘Adeo kake loko adeo enyo.’
Meaning, we must count one before we can count two. It doesn’t mention fingers itself, but he could be referring to counting on your fingers.”

“Maybe,” Cairo conceded. “A little subtler than the other two. So let’s suppose we’re right about this. How are you linking the street children to the Sankofa bird and the book of proverbs in Dr. Botswe’s house?”

“I think I have the answer to that,” Dawson said. “And that might mean I have the killer too.”