Chikata.
“Morning, Dawson. I’m sorry to-”
Dawson cut him short. “Where’s the body?”
“Novotel Lorry Park.”
On the way out, Dawson called Dr. Biney and asked if he would come to the crime scene.
“Of course,” Biney said. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
The lorry park had borrowed its name from the Novotel Hotel a couple hundred meters away on the other side of Independence Avenue. The place was already bustling by the time Dawson arrived at six-thirty. Passengers were lining up for transportation to different parts of the city and country. Hanging off the sides of tro-tros departing in plumes of dust, drivers’ mates made last calls for one more passenger to squeeze into a space that did not really exist. Carrier boys and kayaye made mad dashes after every arriving tro-tro or bus, hoping to get a job.
Where there was transportation, there was commerce. Vendors, both mobile and stationary, traded inside the park and out. Dawson dodged two truck pushers and their cart as he made his way to the Independence Avenue side of the park.
He found Chikata with Bright and his crew in front of the public latrine, which was painted brown and yellow underneath the dust that coated it. TOILET 20P was scrawled on the side in fading letters. It was the pit latrine type, the very lowest in the hierarchy of public toilets and supposedly banned by the Accra Metropolitan Assembly.
“Where’s the body?” Dawson asked, looking around.
“In there,” Chikata said, making a face. “Young male.”
“Inside the latrine?”
“Yessah.”
“Ewurade,” Dawson said.
“Bright went in,” Chikata said, “but he couldn’t take it for very long. It really stinks in there.”
“Who found the body?”
“Early morning, someone went inside to do his business, and when he got to the last stall, he saw the body,” Chikata said. “Came running out, shouting.”
“What about the latrine custodian?” Dawson asked.
“Gone. We heard he went inside to look, turned right around, and left without saying one word.”
Dawson shook his head in disbelief. “The very man in charge of taking care of the place has abandoned it. Jesus.”
They had an audience-a few who had been wanting to use the facilities but had been turned away, to their annoyance, others who had heard a rumor about a dead person in the latrine, and the rest who had nothing better to do than hang around. But in general, Novotel Lorry Park was a busy place with people who had things to do and places to go.
“How were you notified?” Dawson asked Chikata.
“Someone made an anonymous call to the Kinbu Police Station early this morning that there was a dead person in the latrine. A sergeant took the call, and I suppose he couldn’t be bothered, so he tells one of the constables to come and look around the alleged area. The constable gets here, sees the body and calls the sergeant, who tells the station inspector, who tells the sergeant to handle it; the sergeant tells the constable to make a report and have the body taken to the mortuary. Constable wasn’t sure what to do, so he called CID, and they called me.”
“Where is the constable?”
“I questioned him and sent him home. What he said was straightforward, but if you want to talk to him, I have his mobile number.”
“What about the station inspector and sergeant? Do you have their names? Both of them need to be reported.”
“Yes, I have their names. I’ll let you handle the reporting, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course. I’ll take care of it.” Dawson turned to Bright. “Do you have some gloves to spare, sir? I’m going in.”
Bright handed him a pair. “Mask?”
“No, thank you. I don’t think it would help much.”
The look on Bright’s face said something like Best of luck.
Dawson went in, switching on his flashlight. It was as dark as a dungeon. The six open stalls of about three-by-four feet had soiled, filthy walls that Dawson didn’t dare touch. The stench was thick and impenetrable. It had no boundary beyond which you could pull in a little fresh air. It made you reel as if you had been bludgeoned. It coated your skin and your mucous membranes, and clogged your windpipe.
Dawson clenched his teeth. Good sanitation and clean toilets are human rights, surely. He followed the beam of his flashlight. One, two, three, four, five stalls. And then, number six. The body sat upright against the back wall, legs splayed on either side of the squatting hole. For a second, Dawson’s mind reacted mildly, as if avoiding any emotion. The victim was a young teenage male, barefoot. He had on an orange T-shirt and jeans, which coincidentally was the same outfit Dawson remembered Ofosu had been wearing over two weeks ago.
Heart pounding, Dawson trained his flashlight beam on the victim’s face, that same beautiful, heart-shaped face and those finely sculptured cheekbones. His almond eyes were open and looking at Dawson. His mouth was open too, but his tongue was cut out.
Ofosu.
Dawson turned his head to one side as he heard a strange noise-a strangled cry, a cough, and a violent choking, retching sound. He realized it was coming from his own throat.
He was about to vomit.
No, don’t throw up. Don’t.
It passed. Dawson bent forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees. He felt dizzy. At first he thought he was only hyperventilating, but in fact he was weeping.
“Dawson?” It was Bright at the entrance of the latrine, shining his flashlight down. “Are you okay?”
He hastily straightened up. “I’m fine, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Dr. Biney has just arrived. He’ll be joining you shortly.”
Minutes later, gloved, masked, and gowned, Biney entered the latrine with his black forensics bag in one hand, flashlight in the other.
“I got here as soon as I could, Inspector,” he said as he came up.
“Thank you for coming, Doctor. I’m glad to see you.”
“What do we have?”
Dawson shined his flashlight.
“My God,” Biney whispered. “Good Lord.”
“I know him,” Dawson said. “His name is Ofosu; he’s a street boy I spoke to about two weeks ago.”
“And for talking to you his tongue was cut out? Is that what this is all about?”
Dawson didn’t have an answer.
Biney got closer to Ofosu, touching his head in his uniquely intimate way. He gently lifted the eyelids. He shined a flashlight into the mouth.
“The tongue was lifted and sliced right out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite as cold-blooded.”
“But there’s not much bleeding from his mouth,” Dawson observed.
“Yes, good point. Likely done postmortem.”
Biney attempted to raise one of Ofosu’s arms from his side. It did not give an inch.
“Still very rigid,” he said. “Time of death, since I know you’ll ask, has to be a broad range, I’m afraid, Inspector. Taking into consideration warm temperatures and his lean body, I’d say within the last eight hours, most likely between midnight and three or four in the morning.”
He tugged at Ofosu and pulled him away from the wall. The body stayed eerily sitting up in exactly the same posture. Biney shined his flashlight down Ofosu’s back.
“This is a bad angle to look at it,” he said, “but he does have a stab wound on the right. Undoubtedly there’ll be internal hemorrhage at autopsy. Here, I’ll move out so you can take a look. There isn’t room for three.”
Biney and Dawson switched places.
“Same thing as the others,” Dawson said. “The killer’s back. He couldn’t stay quiet very long.”
40
At the morgue, before Dr. Biney covered Ofosu’s body with a clean sheet, he shut the eyes fully and “broke” the rigor mortis of the jaw muscles, allowing the mouth to close. Then Dawson brought Antwi in. The boy stood at the side of the table and stared at Ofosu for a long time. He looked up at Dawson.