Dawson called Chikata. “All clear?”
“Everything’s quiet.”
And that’s how it remained for another two hours. At 1:06, as Dawson was making a pass south on Kojo Thompson, Chikata called.
“Dawson, an adult male walking near Liberty House on Okai Kwei Road before it intersects with another street-I’m not sure what it’s called.”
“Commercial,” Dawson prompted. He knew his streets cold.
“Okay, yes. He looks suspicious. Too dark to see his face well, but he’s about five-ten, well built… Oh, wait. He’s disappeared.”
“Try following him. Be careful. I’m coming over.”
Dawson sprinted west on Kimberly Avenue the five hundred meters to Okai Kwei and Commercial. When he got there, he didn’t see Chikata at first. He turned down an alley where empty market tables were stacked upside down for the night. He jumped as a shadow appeared out of yet another alley. It was Chikata.
“I lost him, Dawson,” he said.
“Did he see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
Dawson saw a movement in his peripheral vision and swung the beam of his flashlight around to find a boy of about twelve standing a few meters away.
“What are you looking for?” Dawson asked.
“My friend.”
Dawson went up to him.
“What’s your name?”
“Labram.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Hassan. I saw a man talking to him. He went with the man.”
“Which way?”
Labram pointed south toward the UTC building.
“Did you see what the man looked like?”
The boy shook his head.
“As tall as me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, let’s walk that way.”
They went quickly. Except for Dawson’s and Chikata’s flashlights, it was pitch dark. They whirled around as an engine started up. A hundred meters away, a large, silver car was pulling out of a small side street off Commercial. They shined their flashlights, but the car moved off too quickly for them to see who was in it. It made a left on Kwame Nkrumah and sped north.
“Get your driver and the other constables,” Dawson said to Chikata. “I’ll take Baidoo, and you follow us.”
He took off for Baidoo’s parking spot. The sergeant must have figured out he was needed because he was already pulling up to Dawson in the Tata jeep.
Dawson hopped in. “Did you see the vehicle?”
“Silver Benz,” Baidoo said, bumping over the avenue divider to get to the opposite side. There were no cars on the streets now, so it was easy to keep the taillights of the Benz in view.
Dawson called Chikata. “He’s going on Tudu toward Novotel,” he told him.
“Coming that way now.”
“I’ll stay on the line until you catch up with us. Baidoo, move up a little bit so we can see the license plate-not too close, though.”
As they neared the car, Dawson’s blood ran cold. “Oh, Jesus.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I know the owner of the car.”
“Who is it?”
“Dr. Allen Botswe.”
48
Dr. Botswe’s silver Benz swung into his driveway. Less than a minute later, the two police Tata jeeps went by, pulling over just a few meters up. Dawson jumped out, and Chikata, Quaynor, and the other constables came up behind him as he hid near the wall and watched the Benz being parked. The driver got out. It was Obi. He opened the passenger door to let Hassan out. The boy looked about the same age as Labram.
As Obi and Hassan reached the front of the house, the door opened and Dawson caught a glimpse of Botswe as he let them in.
“Okay,” Dawson said. “Let’s go.”
He ran up to the door and rang the bell. As soon as Obi opened up, Dawson pushed past him. The others followed. Genevieve Kusi, standing in the foyer with Botswe, Obi, and Hassan, let out a startled cry.
“Everyone stay where you are,” Dawson said.
“What’s going on?” Botswe spluttered.
“Quaynor, take care of the boy.”
She sidled up to Hassan, took his hand, and escorted him outside.
“What are you doing here?” Botswe shouted.
“Would you come with us to the station, please, Doctor?”
“What for? Are you arresting me?”
“No, but I do need to ask you some questions. I would like Genevieve and Obi to accompany us as well. If there’s any attempt by any of you to resist, you will be handcuffed. Is that understood?”
It was going to be a long night. Botswe, Genevieve, and Obi were transported to the Legon Police Station and separated. Fortunately there was one office and two small rooms available to confine them.
Dawson would take on Botswe first. He briefed Chikata on how to interview Genevieve and the key information he wanted out of her.
“You’re okay with me interviewing her by myself?” Chikata asked.
“Yes, I trust you.”
“Thank you, Dawson.”
Dawson went into Botswe’s room and shut the door behind him. A ceiling fan was circulating the warm, oppressive air.
“So, Dr. Botswe. We meet again under rather different circumstances.”
Botswe, who had been seated in front of the table in the center of the room, shot to his feet, tipping the chair over. “This is an outrage, Inspector!” he shouted.
“Doctor,” Dawson said softly, “please sit down so we can talk in the proper fashion.”
His chest heaving with anger, Botswe righted his chair and took his seat again.
“Thank you very much, sir,” Dawson said, now sitting down himself on the other side of the table. “Certain areas of Central Accra have been under surveillance in regard to the recent killings of street youngsters. This evening, we observed your vehicle taking a boy away from the UTC area. In view of recent events, which you’re well aware of, I’m obligated to question you.”
Botswe looked incredulous. “That’s all this is about?” he cried. “Why didn’t you simply ask? There is a perfectly harmless explanation for this, Inspector.”
“I’m listening.”
“Look, for about a year now, I have been interviewing street children about their experiences in the city, some of it for an article I’m writing for the Ghana Journal of Psychology on coping mechanisms of street kids.”
“Does this have something to do with the paper Austin Ansah is writing? He says he was a student of yours.”
“Austin is an excellent Ph.D. candidate. He and I have collaborated on papers before, although we’re not doing that right now. He gets some of his ideas and techniques from me.”
“Go on.”
“So I’ve been interviewing these kids. Sometimes they’re random picks from the street, sometimes Genevieve suggests children at SCOAR. But there are a couple problems in regard to SCOAR. First, it’s a somewhat contrived environment, whereas I prefer the rawness of the street. Second, about six months ago, I began to feel that I was using these kids as a resource without giving them anything in return. So I decided that, whomever I interviewed, I would give them a treat.
“So the way I do it is I send Obi out to discreetly pick up a child or two from the street, bring him or her here in the Benz or the Infiniti. We feed them, allow them to have a refreshing shower, then I interview them, and they sleep overnight in the guest rooms. In the morning, Obi returns them to the street.”
Dawson’s lip curled. “It seems almost cruel. You give them a sip of water and then pour the rest away.”
“Not at all. If you could see the looks on their faces, Inspector, and see just how grateful they are that someone has paid attention to them, pampered them. It’s an experience of a lifetime. And I always tell them, all this comes with hard work and education, and I encourage them to go into educational programs like that offered by SCOAR and other organizations.”