“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.”
They 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.”
Once 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 Survivaclass="underline" 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?
He logged off quickly and stood up. He knew there was something wrong with him. He was, after all, a psychologist. Then again, those in his profession were often the most psychologically flawed.
As Obi drove past the Tetteh Quarshie Interchange, he said to Dawson, “The doctor is a lovely man.”
“I understand you’ve worked for him about twelve years.”
“Yes, please. When I first came, I was poor. I didn’t know anything at all, at all. But I struggled to learn. Windows, doors, electricity, water-I can fix anything. That fountain in the doctor’s garden, I made it myself.”
“I think you need to come to my house then,” Dawson said with a laugh.
Obi chuckled. “Please, you just tell me, I will come.”
“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”
“But how the doctor treats me,” Obi continued, becoming serious again, “it’s like I’m his family. He is the one who bought me this truck three years ago, and even before that, he helped me get furniture and a new gas stove for my house.”
“He has a good heart, obviously.”
“Oh, yes. Every day I thank the Almighty for guiding me to the doctor.”
“The pictures of the woman and three kids in his office-that’s his family?”
“Yes, please. But four years ago, the wife died. He has been sad ever since that day. He loved her very much.”
“What happened-to the wife, I mean?”
“Accident. A terrible one like you’ve never seen. She was driving to Cape Coast.”
“And the children?”
“They are all in different places abroad, but the oldest one says she will come back to Ghana soon. I know the doctor wants her to stay in his house.”
“He’s lonesome.”
“Oh, yes-very lonesome. When his children come to see him, and the oldest one brings the grandchildren too, he is so happy.” Obi laughed, as though his boss’s joy was being channeled through him.
The expected rain began in earnest. Dawson asked Obi to drive his motorbike to a repair shop in Asylum Down. Once his bike had been dropped off, Dawson insisted on taking a taxi despite Obi’s repeated offers to give him a ride home.
“You’ve done more than enough, my friend. Thank you.”