“Thank you,” Obi said. “You are welcome. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. And yourself?”
“I am blessed and full of joy for the Lord, sir.”
“Oh, very good. Off to church then?”
“Yes, please-to give praises to the Almighty and ask for His guidance in all I do. Let me take you inside to the doctor.”
He escorted Dawson into the house, which, again, was unapologetically cooled. Dawson wondered idly how much Botswe paid for his electricity.
“Good afternoon, Inspector Dawson,” the professor said, appearing from his study.
“Afternoon, Dr. Botswe.”
“Please, do you need anything else?” Obi asked Botswe. “No, thank you, Obi. Have a nice time in church.”
“Yes, please. Thank you, sir. Good-bye, Inspector.”
“Come into my study,” Botswe said to Dawson. “Would you like some Malta?”
“I never refuse that offer.”
Botswe smiled. “Make yourself comfortable while I get you some. The staff is all off on Sundays. After all, they have their lives too.”
Dawson almost said, really? but thought better of it. As Botswe went for the refreshments, Dawson noticed a new painting on the far wall. Wiz Kudowor. When Botswe came back with a tray of Malta and some Club beer for himself, he found Dawson in front of the painting.
“Admiring the Wiz?” he said.
“Yes. Spectacular.”
“That one’s called Groom Awaits the Bride.”
“I haven’t seen this one before,” Dawson said. “Genevieve Kusi has another of his pieces in her office.”
Botswe’s eyes skidded, like a car losing its grip on the road for a second.
“Do you know Genevieve?” Dawson asked.
“Yes, I do. She’s a tremendous resource, and she and her institution do excellent work in this city. They’ve picked up a couple of national and international awards, you know. Please, Inspector Dawson, do have a seat and help yourself to your Malta. I trust it’s cold enough.”
They sat with a side table between them. Dawson closed his eyes momentarily as he took the first sip.
Botswe chuckled. “That good?”
“I think it’s a sickness,” Dawson said, looking at the bottle as though it might reveal something new. “Well, you tell me. You’re a psychologist. Is this a terrible addiction?”
“Oh, that everyone should have such a harmless addiction! So, tell me about this new murder.”
“A boy of about thirteen to fourteen, name of Ofosu, who along with another boy, Antwi, used to follow around a brute called Tedamm. But Ofosu was, and Antwi is, basically decent.”
“Tedamm is the one I read about in the papers who was charged with the rape and murder of Comfort?”
“Yes, him. Ofosu was stabbed sometime last night between midnight and four. I’ll show you the pictures I took with my phone. Most of the signature is the same as the other three, but this is the first one in which the body has been placed inside a building. Does that mean anything special?”
Dawson brought out his camera and toggled to the right spot in the picture gallery. He handed it to Botswe. “I took six photos.”
The professor began to look at them.
“Sorry about their small size,” Dawson said.
“Would it help to upload them to my PC?” Botswe asked cautiously.
“I wish I could, Dr. Botswe, but police regulations prohibit that.”
“Of course. I understand.” He smiled. “You have remarkable integrity. I’m not sure that another person in your position would take so much care.”
Dawson said nothing to that. Botswe went from one image to the next and back again. He returned the camera to Dawson. “Same signature, same killer.”
“Even though this body’s dumped indoors instead of out?”
“Indoors, outdoors-it doesn’t matter to the killer. What he’s expressing is that these people’s lives are worthless to him. They might as well be rubbish or refuse. That’s why he chooses the filth of Korle Lagoon for Musa, the muddy ditch for Ebenezer, a rubbish dump in Comfort’s case, and now the latrine for Ofosu.”
“By ‘these people’s lives’ you mean street children.”
“Yes.”
“He hates them.”
“Or what they represent in his mind. He could be a messianic killer on an apocalyptic mission to rid us of this scourge, as he sees it, of street children.”
“That would mean a psychotic person, surely?”
“In the sense of distorted reality, certainly, but not in the true wider sense of psychosis. These aren’t really psychotic killings because they are too organized and too planned. Psychotic killings are disorganized, often opportunistic, spur of the moment. This isn’t what this fellow is doing.”
“Perhaps he was once traumatized as a street child himself. Maybe he’s trying to kill that part of them that’s in him.”
“Ah, indeed, perhaps so. Have you thought of psychology as a career, Inspector?”
Dawson laughed. “With all due respect, no. Back to this killer, I still don’t understand why he takes these body parts away. You’ve said these aren’t ritual killings, and I’m willing to agree, but fingers, kneecaps, and now a tongue? He cut out Ofosu’s tongue, for goodness’ sake.”
Botswe nodded. “Your point is well taken. I feel comfortable in saying that he is taking trophies, which serial killers often do, and that he is escalating. This last murder was more intense-the setting, the trophy taking, everything.”
“Like he’s taunting us with Ofosu’s murder.”
“He is almost certainly following you closely through newspaper reports and such. He might interject himself into the case, and he might find ways to view his work a second or third time. And, Inspector, if you don’t stop him, he will most certainly kill again.”
42
Dawson spent some time with Christine and Hosiah. To their disappointment, he had to leave them after a while, on a mission to the area bounded by Tudu Road, Kantamanto Market, Knutsford Avenue, and Kojo Thompson Road.
It was almost eight. Many of the kids had returned for the night. Dawson found Issa, Mosquito, and little Mawusi, who had recovered from his malaria bout, but Antwi hadn’t arrived yet.
Dawson stayed calm outwardly. Inside, he was getting nervous.
“Oh, here he comes,” Issa said finally, and Dawson turned to see Antwi running like a schoolboy late for class, breathing heavily as he came up.
“Antwi, you’re late,” Dawson said.
“Please, I’m sorry. I was at Kantamanto. I found some work there.”
“Don’t be late again.”
“Yes, please.”
“I need all of you to help me,” Dawson said. He paired Issa with Antwi, and Mosquito with Mawusi.
“Go around and fetch everyone to come to your base,” Dawson instructed. “I want to talk to them.”
It took about thirty minutes to get them all together-scores of kids of all ages from six up. Dawson felt like a politician, father, headmaster, and policeman. Like all children, they took a little while to settle down, but once they did, they listened to what Dawson had to tell them about how to avoid becoming a victim, and how to turn a hunter into the hunted.
Dawson was exhausted when he got back home. Christine was in the sitting room watching TV. Dawson took a shower to wash the day’s dirt away. The water pressure was low, but it did the job. He kissed Hosiah, already fast asleep in his room, and then crawled into bed. For a moment he thought of the kids he had talked to tonight. They slept on the hard pavement every night. Hosiah slept in a comfortable bed.
He was faintly aware of Christine slipping into bed beside him. Later, he saw Issa and Antwi walk into the bedroom. An invisible force held Dawson down, preventing him from moving. Issa drew a knife, holding it high in readiness to strike. Mosquito came in pushing a cart. Issa brought the knife down slowly. Dawson struggled to get up but couldn’t. The knife plunged into Antwi’s back. Warm blood spilled across Dawson’s face.