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.