“Police,” Dawson said. “Get back, please.”
They did. Dawson and Chikata crouched on either side of the woman. With their flashlights trained on her, they saw she was young, probably in her midteens. She was lying on her stomach. Her buttocks were like enormous melons, but her limbs seemed collapsed and crumpled, like those of a squashed insect. Dumped, like trash, was Dawson’s first thought. He was faintly aware of someone crying in the background.
“Blood,” Chikata said, pointing.
Her disheveled blouse was soaked with it, and more so on the right. Dawson touched her. She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t warm either. She was tepid. Tepid. He’d never used that word for the temperature of a human being. That was for bathwater or a beverage.
Her head was turned in Dawson’s direction. He shined his flashlight in her face. Her eyes were open, but her pupils didn’t react and the corneas were already turning opaque. There wasn’t a pulse.
“Dead,” Dawson said. “See if you can get Bright and the crew.”
“I’m on it,” Chikata said, phone already out.
Dawson looked up at the fat man.
“Did you find her?”
“No, massa.” He pointed his beam about ten meters away, where a young man was comforting a weeping woman. “That woman over there.”
“Do you have a mobile?” Dawson asked.
“Yes, massa.”
“Give Detective Sergeant Chikata your number in case we need to get in touch with you. Stand to one side, please-over there-but do not leave, understand?”
“Yes, massa.”
“I can’t reach CSU,” Chikata said.
“Why not?”
“No network coverage.”
“No network coverage in the center of Accra? Ewurade.” Dawson pulled out his own phone, and handed it to Chikata. “Try mine.”
He went over to the crying woman and the guy with her, who told Dawson his name was Patrick. The woman, Faiza, was his friend. She was eighteen or nineteen and pregnant, her belly stretching out her T-shirt.
“Are you okay?” Dawson said.
She moaned but didn’t really answer.
“What happened?” Dawson asked.
Patrick spoke to her in Hausa. She babbled something incoherent in reply.
“She was coming to throw something away and she fell over the body,” Patrick translated.
“We heard a scream,” Dawson said. “Was that Faiza?”
“Yes, we all heard it too and came running.”
“Does she know the dead girl?”
“No. She’s just shocked, that’s why she’s crying.”
“I understand. Did she see or hear anyone else around here?”
Patrick asked her and translated her reply to Dawson.
“No, she didn’t see anyone. And she says she begs you, don’t take her to jail.”
“I’m not taking her to jail,” Dawson said. He looked around. How did the dead girl get here? Was she carried through the entrance? Or from the station?
Chikata walked up, handing Dawson back his phone. “Bright says they’re on another case in Mataheko.”
“How long before they get here?” Dawson asked.
“At least one hour.”
Dawson grunted. That really meant considerably more than one hour.
Chikata was staring at the body. “Is it the same killer, Dawson?”
“If that’s a stab wound to the right side of her back, then I think it is.” He glanced at the spectators. Some were dispersing while a fresh bunch was arriving to take a look. “I need you to question people who live in and around the station-ask them if they saw anything suspicious this evening. We want to know how this girl got here.”
“I’ll try my best, Dawson.” As he walked away, Chikata added over his shoulder, “But you know how Accra people are-they don’t talk to policemen.”
“Have some faith,” Dawson called back. Chikata’s question was echoing in his mind. Is it the same killer? He made a call. As it rang, he prayed there’d be an answer. There was.
“Dr. Botswe? Inspector Dawson here.”
“How are you, Inspector?”
“I’m well, but there’s been another murder.”
“Really. Where?”
“Inside the railway station courtyard. We’re waiting for the CSU to arrive. Can you come to the crime scene? I would like your opinion.”
“I’ll be there as soon as possible, Inspector. I’m not too far away.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
The crime scene team had still not arrived. The corpse, now covered by a length of cloth someone had produced, was getting colder and stiffer.
“Inspector?”
Dawson turned at Allen Botswe’s voice.
“Thank you for coming, Doctor. You got here very quickly.”
“I was close by on Graphic Road.”
“Are you ready to take a look at the body?”
“Yes, I am.”
Dawson pulled aside the cloth. “Her blouse is full of blood,” he said. “Looks like it’s a stab wound to the back, but I don’t want to disturb her clothes until CSU gets photos.”
With a small grunt, Botswe crouched next to the body. “If it is indeed that-a stab in the back-then it resembles Musa Zakari’s.”
“There’s something you don’t know,” Dawson said. “This is the second case since Musa’s.”
“Second?”
“Yesterday we found a young male teenager murdered in the same way, dumped in a muddy ditch in Jamestown. And his neck was broken with his head twisted around one hundred and eighty degrees.”
“Goodness.”
“Again, my question is whether these could be ritual killings.”
“Were there any other mutilations of the teenager? Eyes, genitals?”
“No.”
“What about his background?”
“He was a shoeshine boy living on the streets.”
Botswe was nodding. “These are not ritual killings. This is a serial offender with motivations completely different from those of the ritual killer. You can see what his signature is-single stab wound to the back with an additional mutilation, and then throwing the body in a distasteful place: the dirty lagoon, the muddy ditch, and now the garbage dump. His M.O. is to prey on these street youth. I have no doubt that we’ll find this girl to be in that category.”
“I’m still not sure about the signature. Why chop off Musa’s fingers but not do something similar to Ebenezer?”
“Evidently that macabre twisting of the head is similar in the mind of the offender.”
“Wait,” Dawson said, snapping his fingers. “Dr. Botswe, you said the killer does what? Throws the body in a distasteful place.”
“Yes, that’s right. What is it, Inspector?”
Dawson sprang to his feet. “I’m a fool,” he said. “The killer didn’t drag the body here. He threw it.”
Dawson turned, leapt across the gutter, and ran out the railway station’s entrance. Now on the outside of the wall running along Nkrumah Avenue’s sidewalk, he turned left and trotted up about thirty meters to four concrete blocks piled on top of one another next to the wall. Stepping up on them brought Dawson’s shoulders past the top of the wall. He could easily see everything on the other side. The garbage dump was right below him.
Botswe looked up as Dawson’s head appeared, and the light of realization dawned on his face.
Dawson returned to him at the crime scene. “You get me now?”
“Yes, I believe I do, Inspector.”
“Here is my theory,” Dawson said. “Level with the garbage dump on the pavement the other side of the wall, there’s a stack of concrete blocks. The sidewalk is wide enough to accommodate any size vehicle, even up to an SUV. The killer drives up with the dead body in the boot or whatever. He mounts the sidewalk with the vehicle, backing it up to the concrete blocks. He stands on those while dragging the dead body out of the boot, then tosses the body over the wall.”