Dawson smiled. There was no such thing as a forensic artist in Ghana.
As they washed their hands, Dr. Biney said, “Inspector, I believe you have your work cut out for you.”
“Doctor, I believe you are right.”
5
Dawson ducked into Papaye for a quick lunch-piping hot rice and chicken washed down with ice-cold Malta, the soft drink he loved. If he were on death row, he would choose Malta as his last meal-oversweet, fizzy, rich with malt and hops. While he was waiting for his meal to be brought to the table, he phoned Chikata to tell him about the autopsy.
“It will be tough finding out who this guy is,” the detective sergeant said.
“I know, but we have to keep trying,” Dawson replied. “Get two detective constables, go down to Agbogbloshie, and ask around for a missing boy of about seventeen, about five-six in height with a missing upper right tooth.”
“Ewurade. You’re sending me back to that stinking place.”
“Wear a mask.”
“These people are just not going to talk, Dawson.”
“You never know. Miracles happen.”
“But not in Accra,” Chikata said with a derisive snort.
“Get to work and stop complaining,” Dawson said, ending the call.
Chikata was a spoiled brat. He could be lazy as well. His uncle, Theophilus Lartey, was chief superintendent of police, or chief supol. That made him a senior officer and Dawson’s superior. Chikata thought that gave him the right to take liberties. In truth, it was nepotism that had got him into CID’s Homicide Division with Dawson, and it might well be nepotism that got him promoted.
Dawson was on his last gulp of Malta and considering having some more when his phone rang.
“Dawson,” he answered.
“Inspector! How are you?”
“I’m fine, Wisdom.”
Dawson knew the voice well. It was thin and brittle, like snapping plantain chips in one’s fingers. Wisdom Asamoah was one of the Daily Graphic’s leading reporters. He and Dawson had a long history together, sometimes at each other’s throats.
“I want to know about the man in the lagoon,” Wisdom said.
“How did you hear about it?”
“I have eyes and ears everywhere, Dawson.”
“We have a Public Relations Office for press inquiries, remember? Call them.”
“Come on, Dawson. PRO is too slow for me. By the time they get me the information I need, I’ll be in the afterlife.”
“I can give you something, but you can’t use my name.”
“You know you can trust me, Dawson.”
“We don’t know who the victim is yet, but it’s a homicide-”
“How was he killed? Drowned?”
“Not drowned.”
“How, then?”
“Not drowned.”
“Okay. You’re not saying. How old a person?”
“Estimated sixteen or seventeen.”
“Oh, so a teenager, eh? Dr. Asum Biney did the autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“No witness accounts of any kind?”
“No, nothing.”
“When are you going to release photos?”
“We can’t. Too much decomposition.”
“Ah. You need a forensic artist.”
Dawson was surprised. “How do you know about that?”
“I watch Forensic Files,” Wisdom said with a laugh.
“Well, this is Ghana. We don’t have most of that fancy American stuff you see on TV.”
“Can I make you an offer, Inspector Dawson?”
“What kind of offer?”
“What if I get hold of a forensic artist, you release the victim’s autopsy photos to me, I forward them to him and have him draw a likeness of the victim? You would get that back so you can use it for police purposes, and I would get it to publish it in the Graphic.”
“How would you find a forensic artist?” Dawson asked suspiciously.
“I know one-Yves Kirezi. I met him years ago when I covered the Rwanda genocide. He’s helped identify thousands of genocide victims by re-creating their appearance after they had been beaten beyond recognition, so you know he has to be good at what he does.”
“Are you sure he would be willing to do this?”
“We are good friends, Inspector Dawson. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“All right, then. Let me know if and when you reach him. Thank you, Wisdom.”
Dawson needed to visit the pump station belonging to KLERP, the Korle Lagoon Ecological Restoration Project. It stood on the west bank of the upper lagoon, directly opposite Agbogbloshie on the east. You couldn’t talk about Agbogbloshie and its cursed waterways without bringing in KLERP. It had been around for ten years or more, and was part and parcel of the saga of a troubled slum that just would not go away.
By twisting the arm of one of the other investigators, Dawson managed to snag Baidoo and the only Tata jeep immediately available out of the two assigned to the Homicide Division. Otherwise, Dawson would have had to wait hours before the other vehicle returned from whatever mission it was on.
Traffic was heavy along High Street. As Baidoo inched forward with unflappable patience, Dawson’s phone rang. He felt a surge of both dread and anticipation as he saw it was Edith Kingson calling. This might be it.
“Edith, how are you?” he said sweetly.
“I’m very well, thank you, Darko.” Her voice was as clear and sparkling as crystal, but now she hesitated slightly and his heart sank.
“It’s not good news, is it?” he said.
“No,” she replied sadly. “I’m so sorry. They turned it down. They said your financial situation was not dire enough to justify clemency. I tried to argue on the basis of Hosiah’s bad medical situation and the kind of future he was facing. I argued until Director Hanson even got annoyed with me.”
Dawson felt as though a ten-story building had just collapsed and crushed him. His breath left him, and for a moment his vision darkened and he couldn’t speak.
“Darko?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I’m here.”
“Again, I’m terribly sorry. If you like, you can always re-submit the petition and I will try once more for you.”
“Thank you, Edith,” he said softly. “For all your help. I appreciate it.”
He pocketed his phone and stared despondently out the window. Traffic had begun to clear as they passed James Fort toward Cleland Road. Agbogbloshie was in the distance to their right; the beach was visible on their left. Ahead, new road construction was raising a cloud of dust. Underneath the section of Cleland that became the Winneba Bridge, the sea met the Korle Lagoon with spectacular and sometimes violent churning, like two opposing cultures forced to mix. Dawson kept his head firmly turned away so that Baidoo wouldn’t see his tears welling up.
They turned right on Ring Road West. About half a mile up, Baidoo pulled into KLERP’s yard, where two small, one-story office buildings stood, one of them a trailer. A black 4 × 4 with darkened windows was leaving about the same time.
“Wait for me,” Dawson told Baidoo, hopping out.
The merciless noon sun was almost directly overhead, and the asphalt underfoot felt like it was on fire. Dawson walked up the steps to the trailer and knocked on the first door. He heard a faint “Come in.” He pushed the door open. It was a small office chilled to Arctic temperatures by a gale-force air conditioner. A doe-eyed woman with vermilion lipstick and an expensive hair weave was sitting at the only desk in the room.
“Good morning,” Dawson said.
“Good morning. You are welcome.”
Dawson explained who he was and the reason for the visit.
“Please have a seat,” Doe Eyes said. “I will see if the director is available.”
She left the room. Dawson sat down on a chair to the side, looking around while tapping his foot on the hollow-sounding floor. Pasted on the wall were pictures of the top KLERP executives, two of whom were Europeans.