Children of the Street (23 page)

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.

D
awson 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.

Chest tight, he shot up in bed, groped for the lamp, but knocked it over instead. Christine’s light came on. He looked at her but saw her only indistinctly.

“I’ve sent Antwi straight into the arms of the killer,” Dawson said. “Issa will kill him. I have to go and get him before it’s too late.”

He started to get up, but she held him back.

“Dark, stop. It’s a nightmare. It’s not happening.”

“What?”

He stared at her for a moment, then he groaned and fell back.

“Relax, relax,” she whispered, cradling his head.

“It can’t be Issa, can it?” Dawson muttered.

“In the morning, things will look different by the light of day,” she said confidently.

He sighed. “I want some Malta. With a scoop of ice cream in it. Do we have any ice cream?”

“A little. I don’t know why I spoil you like this.”

43

Monday morning, the
Graphic
’s headline was
SERIAL KILLER STALKS ACCRA
. The corresponding photo was the Novotel Lorry Park latrine, which would undoubtedly become a new Accra landmark. Lartey was reading the article when Dawson came into his office.

“If we let the press take control of this,” the chief supol said, “they’ll cause all kinds of panic and hysteria among the public. We have to wrestle the control back from them.”

“How should we do that, sir?”

“We’ll talk about that in a little while. Right now, I want you to summarize everything we know about the case.” Lartey checked his watch. “We’ll wait a few minutes for Philip.”

Just as he said that, Chikata hurried in, mumbling an apology. “Have a seat, Philip,” Lartey said. “Go ahead, Dawson.”

Dawson took his position in front of Lartey’s giant wall map of the Accra metropolitan area. Using an erasable marker on the map’s coated surface, he circled the sites of the four murders: Musa, dead in the Korle Lagoon, Ebenezer in a muddy ditch in Jamestown, Comfort at the rubbish dump at the railway station, and finally Ofosu in the Novotel latrine.

“With Musa’s murder,” Dawson said, “I thought it might be a ritual killing because his fingers had been cut off, but Dr. Allen Botswe didn’t think so. When Comfort’s murder occurred, we became certain that there was one killer responsible for all three—hers, Ebenezer’s before her, and Musa’s before Ebenezer. The M.O. of targeting street people and the signature of striking them down with a single deep and fatal stab to the back, along with an additional mutilation, is consistent throughout. Musa’s and Ebenezer’s locations are only a kilometer apart or so, and both are south of Comfort’s and Ofosu’s.”

He connected his four points on the map with lines.

“The area is within Accra Central and is approximately the shape of a parallelogram. There are at least a couple possibilities. One, the killer lives within the perimeter of the parallelogram and murders his victims there. Two, he chooses victims
outside
the parallelogram but chooses to dump them within it.”

“What is special about the parallelogram area?” Lartey asked.

“Excellent question, sir. Very likely it has special significance to the killer because it includes major areas where poor children of, or
on
, the street live—Jamestown, Agbogbloshie, the railway station, CMB, Tudu, and so on. In other words, these are the places that set him alight and get his motor running, that stimulate him to kill.

“At any rate, we believe he is highly mobile with a pickup truck, a van, or a large car with enough room in the boot to hide a body—because as far as we can tell, the four victims were not killed where they were found, they were transported.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” Lartey asked.

“A couple reasons,” Dawson said. “The first is that at the spots the victims were dumped, there hasn’t been the amount and severity of bleeding one might expect from their stab wounds, suggesting that most of the hemorrhage occurred prior and elsewhere. Second, part of the killer’s signature is to dump his victims in specific places that convey filth—rubbish dump, gutter, latrine, and so on. It would be difficult to choose victims who are at those locations at exactly the right moment. He kills them and
then
he places them where he wants.”

“Has a specific truck or van been detected that’s common to the murder sites?”

“No, but Antwi and his late friend Ofosu reported a vehicle a short time before we believe Comfort was killed. However, they couldn’t make out the vehicle or the driver.”

“That could be something,” Lartey said. “Or not. All right, so what are you going to do about finding this killer?”

“We need to concentrate on people and places that have contact with street children. We already know one place, SCOAR, but there are other organizations in Accra that advocate for the kids. We need to go in and look around and talk to people. We’ll focus on employees who live within our parallelogram, and employees who have left the organizations or been sacked for some infraction, like abuse of the children.”

“What else are you planning?”

“I had an idea when Dr. Botswe told me that the killer might try to involve or inject himself into the investigation. I was trying to think of something that would engage him, make him come forward in some way.”

Chikata snapped his fingers. “What about call-in radio programs? People love them. He might be tempted to call a station so he can be on air.”

Lartey beamed at his nephew. “
Brilliant
, Philip. You could get that set up with Joy FM and Bola Ray.”

“Sure.”

“How would that work?” Dawson asked. “He’d call in to the station and then what?”

“The number would show on the studio screen, and then we can have the phone company either trace the call or check phone records.”

Dawson was doubtful. “Are you sure the caller’s number shows on the studio screen? I don’t think so. The call screener doesn’t need your number when you call the studio, she just needs to know from where you’re calling.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Chikata conceded. “Still, they could trace the call for us.”

Dawson shook his head. “How? The phone companies haven’t started registering people to their phone numbers.”

“I thought they had.”

“They’re supposed to be doing it soon,” Dawson said, “but they haven’t yet. Think about it. You just walk into a phone store and buy a SIM card, which has your new phone number on it. The store gives you a receipt that may or may not have your name on it, but they don’t connect that SIM card phone number to your name in a computer system, or any system, for that matter. Some people even have more than one SIM card, or lend SIM cards to their friends. So how can anyone be reliably traced?”

“I still think there’s a way,” Chikata insisted.

“I’ll bet you lunch at Papaye’s,” Dawson said.

“Okay, look,” Lartey interrupted impatiently, “just find out if it’s possible, one of you, would you? I’m not going to sit here and listen to you argue all day about phones.”

“I need something else, sir,” Dawson said boldly.

Lartey’s brow clouded like a darkening sky. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I need people. Nighttime surveillance for the whole parallelogram area.”

Lartey looked about as happy as a child swallowing bitter medicine.

“You’re always asking for things, Dawson,” he complained. “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

44

Later that morning, Lartey granted Dawson four detective constables for his surveillance plan,
for one week only, understood?

Dawson spent part of the morning briefing the constables on their positions, what they were looking for, and what to do in different situations.
Any vehicle slowly circling these areas should arouse suspicion and should be watched. A car whose driver picks up a street child should be followed and assistance called for if necessary
.

While Chikata was off calling the phone companies, Dawson went to SCOAR.

Genevieve was out for the moment, to Dawson’s relief. He didn’t want to have to navigate around her guardedness.

He found Patience in the staff room.

“I know you’ve probably seen and heard the bad news about Ofosu’s death,” he said to her as he took the seat she offered him.

“It’s terrible what’s going on, Inspector,” she said. “I work every day with these boys and girls. I call them my children. Yes, there are problems, and no, they are not all angels, but I do love them.”

“To your knowledge, did Ofosu ever come to the center?”

“Not that I know, but you should check with Socrate, and also check the other street children centers in Accra. There’s the Catholic Street Child Refuge, CSCR, for instance. They’re much larger than we are.”

“That’s my next stop today,” Dawson said. “I also wanted to let you know, Patience, that last night I spoke to a bunch of the street kids from around the railway station about how to look out for themselves and each other, what suspicious signs to watch for, and so on. Issa is going to be my main contact person.”

Patience beamed. “Thank you for doing that, Inspector. You may not realize how much a gesture like that means to the kids, especially coming from a policeman. They are so used to being vilified. Are you sure you don’t want to be a social worker?”

“Funny you should say that. Someone recently asked me about becoming a psychologist. I had a question for you that maybe you can help me with. Do you mind if I close the door?”

“No, of course not.”

The door shut, Dawson continued. “I wanted to ask you about Socrate.”

Dawson saw a brief flicker of discomfort flash across Patience’s face. “Mm-hm? What did you need to know?”

“What’s your opinion of him?”

“Well, you know, he does a very good job at what he does—electronic stuff, the computer, and so on, and he really helps us to raise money.”

“Have you had any complaints about him from the children?”

“What kinds of complaints?”

“Abuse or maltreatment.”

She shifted in her chair. “Did you hear something like that?”

“Yes. From Antwi.”

“I see. In that case, you should bring that up to Genevieve. I’m very sorry I can’t help you much with this kind of thing. It’s really the boss’s area.”

“Thank you, Patience.”

He could tell that she knew something. Either she had been afraid to bring it to Genevieve’s attention or she had brought it up and been shot down.

D
awson made his way to CSCR in Accra New Town. The director, Sister Sylvia Kwapong, was a gracious, gray-haired woman who took no offense at Dawson’s inquiries, providing him with detailed information on all past and present employees. Nothing really stood out about any of them, but Dawson took away a list just the same.

As he was leaving, he thought of something.

“Sister, do you know a nine-year-old boy called Sly?”

Dawson gave her Sly’s description, relating how they had met. She searched her mind for a moment and shook her head. “No, I’m afraid no one comes to mind. If I come across him or anyone who knows of him, I’ll be sure to give you a call.”

“Please do.”

“I can tell you’re very worried about him,” Sister Sylvia said gently.

“Yes, I am.”

“I will pray that you find him safe and sound, Inspector. The good Lord will answer my prayers.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

Dawson left her with his card. He headed home. Accra New Town was adjacent to Nima, where Daramani lived. For a moment, Dawson wondered how his “friend” was doing. For the first time in many months, Dawson felt a craving for wee return like a conniving ex-lover. It seized him, pulled him into its bosom, and planted an openmouthed kiss. Dawson fought to pull away, but he felt himself weakening.

The phone rang, and he jumped.
Thank God
. It was a welcome rescue from temptation.

It was Chikata on the line. “Okay, seems we were both kind of wrong and kind of right,” he said. “Tigo phone says they can’t link a phone number to a particular person for the same reasons you were giving, but one of the engineers told me they could possibly help in another way. He said if the radio station can split the broadcast feed and send one portion to the phone company, they could try locating the caller with their Global Positioning System. But the process might take a few minutes and the caller has to stay on the line long enough.”

“I see,” Dawson said. “It’s worth a try.”

“So who is buying at Papaye’s?”

“I’ll buy, of course. The superior officer always buys.”