“That’s interesting, Samson,” Bola said. “How do you know what the perpetrator will do?”
“Because I’m him. I am the perpetrator, and I know what I’m planning.”
That stopped even the irrepressible Bola for a second. He glanced at Botswe and Dawson, who signaled him to keep on going.
“If that’s the case,” Bola said, “why call in to Joy FM?”
“I want to deliver a message to the inspector.”
“Yes, Samson?” Dawson said. “What’s the message?”
“Be careful.”
“Meaning what?”
“While you’re trying to find out what happened to those other youngsters I murdered, look out for your own seven-year-old boy.”
Dawson felt goose bumps rise. “If you’re really the killer, Samson,” he said, “give me a secret sign that you know how those kids died.”
“You mean what I did to them? Let’s just say it was intimate contact. I must be going, because I’m sure you’re busy trying to find my global position.”
“Samson, this is Dr. Botswe. If I may ask-”
“Oh, looks like we’ve lost Samson,” Bola said.
Dawson snatched off his headphones and dashed next-door to the greenroom. “Did you get it?”
Carlos was on his feet, phone to ear.
“I think they’ve got it. Hol’ on, hol’ on, it’s coming.”
“Please, Jesus, hurry up,” Dawson said. “Let’s get going while we’re waiting for it.”
He, Chikata, and Carlos made for the stairs.
“Here it is,” Carlos said as the information was relayed in text form on his mobile. “Three fifty-three Faanofa Street, Kokomlemle. What?”
“Shit,” Chikata said. “That’s the building next door.”
Dawson felt a thrill surge through him. “God,” he said. “We’ve got him.”
Bright lights illuminated the front of 353 Faanofa, which was a shop called Come Closer Fashions.
“I’ll go inside while you check the back,” Dawson said to Chikata.
The detective sergeant veered off to the alley while Dawson went inside the small, air-conditioned shop. Hip-hop music pounded as a chick in a condom-tight black-and-white outfit and stilettos sorted clothes on a rack.
“Hello,” she said, chewing gum and smiling. “Can I help you?”
“Was there a man in here a few minutes ago making a phone call?”
She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “No.”
Dawson charged out, annoyed with himself. Why would the caller go inside where he would be seen?
Vaulting over the railing at one side of the shop, Dawson landed at a run toward the rear of the building. At that moment, Chikata was coming in the opposite direction with something in a clear plastic bag. Carlos was right behind him. Dawson knew at once from the looks on their faces that the mission had failed.
“We missed him, boss,” Chikata said, fuming. “Shit! He left this for us taped to the wall back there.”
He handed the bag to Dawson. It was a cheap plastic phone, the kind Dawson had bought for Akosua. On the screen, there was a smiley face and a text message underneath it: You came fashionably close, but not close enough.
“You get it?” Chikata asked.
“Yes, I get it, thank you, Chikata,” Dawson said, his jaw grinding in anger. He wanted to smash the phone into a thousand pieces. “Come Closer Fashions. I get it.”
47
The program segment over, Botswe was waiting for them in the downstairs lobby.
“Any luck?” he asked.
“No.” Dawson handed the joke phone to Botswe.
“Oh,” he said, reading the text. “Good gracious.”
“Is that the killer or just a prankster?” Dawson asked him. “What’s your opinion?”
“Could be both, really. Some of them are that way. But even if he’s the true killer, he doesn’t have designs on your son. He’s just trying to scare you.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. He doesn’t have any interest in the kind of boy you have in the age-group he is. He targets teenagers. Killers are remarkably predictable, and he would not switch gears at this point.”
“I was afraid he might be escalating,” Dawson said.
“Even if he was,” Botswe said, “it would never involve a boy like your son.”
Christine was up watching a TV movie as Dawson came in. He flopped down beside her with a sigh.
“Bad day,” she said.
He nodded.
“I heard the broadcast,” she said.
“Scared you?”
“Um, yes, a little.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“You don’t sound very concerned.”
“Christine, of course I’m concerned. I’m just tired. Tired, confused, depressed, all of it.”
“Sorry.”
He shook his head. “It’s okay. Look, Dr. Botswe thinks it’s someone playing a prank, and I think I know who it is, although I’ll probably never prove it.”
“Who?”
“Someone called Socrate who works at SCOAR. He’s the kind of crazy, immature person who would do this.”
“Okay, but whoever it is, are you certain this is an empty threat?”
Dawson sighed. “Okay, let’s think about this logically. Even if this were a true threat, how would anyone get hold of Hosiah? He’s not out on the street without us, he’s safe in the house when he’s at home, and at school he’s supervised. Even when he goes to play with his friends there’s an adult around.”
“It isn’t very reassuring if you’re out as late as you were tonight. It’s true the house is well barricaded and I’m not going to open the door to just anyone, but still.”
Dawson chewed on the inside of his cheek. In a way, she had a point.
“Let’s do this, then,” he said. “Some of the constables do watchmen jobs on the side to make a little extra money. I’ll get a couple of them over on late nights. Would that make you feel better?”
“Yes, it would.”
Dawson woke at two-fifteen in the morning thinking he had heard a noise in the backyard. He looked out the window but saw nothing. He slipped on his sandals and headed outside, pausing on the way to check that Hosiah was peacefully sleeping. He walked around the perimeter of the house. All was quiet. When he got back in bed, he told himself he was being paranoid.
In the morning, he called up P.C. Gyamfi to ask if he was on duty that night.
“No, Dawson, sir,” Gyamfi said. “I’m off.”
“I have to be away from home on a surveillance job for several hours tonight,” Dawson said. “Can you watch my house from eight at night until about three in the morning? I’ll pay you.”
“Thank you, sah! I would be happy to do that for you. Is there something I should know?”
Dawson explained about the on-air threat that had been made Tuesday night.
“Yes, of course, Dawson, sah,” Gyamfi said. “No problem. I will take care of it. Anytime you need me and I’m free, I can help you.”
“Thank you, Gyamfi.”
At dinner, Dawson told Christine and Hosiah that he would very likely be out late at night, but that Constable Gyamfi would be watching the house in his absence.
“My relief is supposed to come in at two in the morning,” he said, “so I’ll be back home soon after that.”
“Who are you going to catch tonight?” Hosiah asked, dexterously spooning up his rice and stew.
“Good question,” Dawson said. “That’s what I don’t know.”
Chikata was to watch the perimeter of Kantamanto Market, the railway station, and Kwame Nkrumah Avenue as far up as CMB. Kantamanto itself was shut down at night, so he was spared the impossible task of monitoring the interior of the market itself.
Dawson would take Kinbu Road and points south, which included Issa’s base. Quaynor and two other constables would cover the rest of the areas within the parallelogram. The fourth constable was Chikata’s driver, while Baidoo was Dawson’s. All were to keep in close touch with Dawson. He badly wanted the killer to show himself tonight.