As he read through a paper written by researchers from UNICEF, he rubbed his fingertips across the irregular depression in his brow, an unconscious habit.
“I imagine you must be used to it by now,” a stupid woman had once said to him.
“So is an amputee,” Austin had retorted. “That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like his leg back.”
He was thirty-eight. Women were not attracted to him. He knew that. In fact, they were repulsed. They looked away when they saw him. If they were in a group, they would whisper to one another, What’s wrong with his forehead? At wedding receptions, the single women wouldn’t dance with him even if he asked, which he no longer did. He had some male friends. They invited him places sometimes-whenever they felt sorry for him.
Austin had been working on his thesis, “Social Structures Among Migrant Groups of Accra,” for three years. He had begun to take notice of migrant girls the way an ornithologist realizes the beauty of the birds he studies. A year ago while he was in the field one night at the Nkrumah Circle, a street girl had walked up to him and propositioned him. Taken completely by surprise, Austin had stammered his refusal. The girl went away, but her image and her voice never left him. It was as if he had been given an analgesic for pain but not quite enough. He had tasted a tiny bit. He craved much more.
So he went back. That first time, he was shaking with excitement and fear. He didn’t find the girl who had originally set fire to his kindling, but the one he chose was just as young. Fifteen. When he had done the deed, he felt revolted. He threw up and vowed never to do it again. But it was like heroin. He was hooked. He went back again and again. Each time, he had the same reaction: disgust and loathing.
Austin looked around his cramped lodgings, a rented room in Ussher Town. Papers and books were piled wherever there was any space. He got up, paced a few steps, sat down again to make some desultory notes on his yellow pad. He rested his head on his desk for a moment, closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, trying to quench the urges. It was twelve-fifteen in the morning. Accra was silent, but that was when the city beckoned Austin most. The tumult of the daytime pushed him away, but at night, the city became seductive and sensual.
He stood up quickly, threw on a shirt, and left the room.
I promise. This will be the last time.
32
Dawson had got home late that night. Christine was in bed waiting for him. He lay across the bed with his head in her lap.
“Do you want something to eat?” she asked.
“I’m too tired to eat.”
“You should eat. You’re a scarecrow. Get up and take a shower while I make something. Dark, wake up.”
“There must be a better way to make a living,” he muttered.
Dawson drove Hosiah to school the next morning.
“Bye, Daddy!” the boy said, about to bolt out of the car.
Dawson pulled him right back. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Oh, yah.” He kissed his father on the cheek. “Bye.”
Before pulling away, Dawson watched his son disappear into the school grounds.
He got to work at eight-fifteen. There was a surprise waiting for him. Leaning against the wall outside the detectives’ room, journalist’s pad in hand, was Wisdom Asamoah.
“Morning, Wisdom,” Dawson said evenly.
“Good morning, Inspector Dawson,” Wisdom said, following him into the clamor of the office.
“How can I help you?”
“You’re not going to at least offer me a seat?” Wisdom said, taking Chikata’s chair.
Dawson sat opposite him. “What can I do for you, Wisdom?”
“I need to know a little about these murders. The girl at the railway trash dump is number three?”
“What girl?”
“I think you know exactly who I’m talking about, Inspector. Her name is Comfort Mahama. She was found dead Tuesday night.”
“How do you know about her?”
“My sources. I’m reliably told that she’s number three in the series. Musa Zakari, Ebenezer Sarpong, and now Comfort Mahama. You’ve arrested Kareem Tedamm. Is he the alleged serial killer?”
“Serial killer! Who says there’s a serial killer?”
“Ah, come on, Inspector. Three young people killed in the same way with bizarre removal of body parts? It has to be the same offender. I know a little about these things, you know. Signature and M.O. and all that stuff. Remember? Forensic Files?”
“Oh, yes. How did I forget that? And you have an informant at the Police Hospital Mortuary, do you?”
“Not necessarily. Tell me what’s going on, Dawson.”
“Here’s my official statement, Wisdom. You can quote me. Are you ready?”
Wisdom uncapped his pen, positioning it over his pad. “Go ahead.”
“We’ve made an arrest in connection with the murder of a young woman by the name of Comfort Mahama, found dead on Tuesday night on the railway station premises.”
“The person you’ve arrested in that regard is Kareem Tedamm.”
“Yes, but he has not yet been charged with the murder.”
“You have to do that soon then, don’t you? If he is, will he be additionally charged with the murders of Zakari and Sarpong?”
“We haven’t made a connection between those cases and Comfort’s.”
“But you’re trying to make it?”
“Only if there’s one to be made.”
“But am I correct that the M.O. and signature in all the cases are identical?”
“There is some resemblance.”
Wisdom smiled slyly. “You are very slippery, Inspector.”
“You mean cautious.”
“Is that all you have for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it true that Comfort Mahama was an ashawo?”
“I have work to do, Wisdom.”
He stood up. “Thank you, Inspector. It’s always a pleasure.”
Dawson had sent Chikata out early that morning with the four loaned constables to look for Antwi. He called the detective sergeant to see if he’d made any progress.
“Can’t find him,” Chikata said.
“Keep looking. We’ll get him. Good job, Chikata.”
“Thank you.” He sounded pleased.
Dawson sat thinking for a moment, tapping his fingers on the table. Where would Antwi take refuge? That’s when it occurred to Dawson that he wasn’t making use of a good resource.
33
When Dawson got to SCOAR, he knocked first on Genevieve’s door. With no reply, he went on to Socrate’s office. He wasn’t there either.
Dawson went to the building’s rear entrance. He opened the door onto the courtyard. Groups of boys were playing basketball and soccer in the hot morning sun. Space was limited, but they were doing fine. To the side, Socrate was taking photographs of them. Dawson watched him for a moment before walking up.
“Morning, Socrate.”
“Morning.” He didn’t really look at Dawson.
“Quite a crowd you have back here,” Dawson said.
“They do their exercise here. Work out all their frustrations.”
“And the pictures?”
“What pictures?”
“You’re taking photographs.”
“Oh. For the website. I have to update it.”
Dawson noticed the have to.
“How do you feel about these kids, Socrate?”
Socrate gave Dawson a long, detached stare. His eyes seemed empty and sightless. Dawson felt the hair on his neck rise.
Socrate turned away to take another photo. Did he not hear the question?
“Is Genevieve in today?” Dawson asked, hopeful for an answer this time.
“Mrs. Kusi is in a meeting. She’ll be finished soon. Let’s go back inside, Inspector.”