by Kwei Quartey
“All right, then,” Sowah said. “Now, the question is: What’s happened to your evidence from the scene—the prints, hair, blood, and so on? If they’re still around, where do you think they are?”
“The DNA should be in the walk-in freezer in the Bio and DNA section of the forensic lab. The prints should be in the case file in their records department.”
“What is the security setup at the lab?” Sowah asked.
“Surprisingly lax. There’s no CCTV—at least not during my time there—and they still use old-fashioned keys, which of course anyone can duplicate. No keypad entry, retinal scans, fingerprint recognition—nothing modern like that.”
“Strange,” Sowah commented. “Do you, by any chance, have keys to the labs, or spares?”
Boateng pulled a regretful face. “No to both questions. They made me hand over my set on leaving.”
Sowah nodded. “No problem. Did you deposit the DNA evidence in the freezer yourself?”
“Yes, I did. I was going to work on it during that week. But I never got to it before they transferred me out.”
“I don’t get why they would move you to Domestic Violence when you were so valuable for your forensic knowledge.”
“I believe—even though I don’t have concrete proof—that they didn’t want me to start work on the evidence.”
“By ‘they,’ you mean . . . ?”
“Powerful individuals who are trying to shield the murderer. There are any number of scenarios. Augustus’s father, for instance, is a judge on the High Court. He could pull strings with the police to prevent his son from being implicated in the murder.”
“Is it possible, then, that crime scene evidence has now been destroyed?”
“I hope not, but there is a good chance.”
“That would be a terrible shame, not to mention a crime in itself,” Sowah said.
“This is what happens when you eat where you shit,” Boateng said. “The FSL is a section of the CID. We should not have police officers working at the FSL. This is a clear conflict of interest, don’t you think, Mr. Sowah?”
“I do.”
“If the FSL was an independent body, rather,” Boateng continued, “it would be harder for someone in the CID to meddle with evidence.”
“And that’s what you’re speculating,” Sowah said, his eyes down. He looked up. “Somehow we have to find out if your evidence still exists or has been destroyed. That’s the first step.”
Boateng looked doubtful. “I wish you luck, but it will be tough. The FSL has something of a shroud of secrecy draped over it.”
Both men were quiet for a while, thinking to themselves.
“Oh,” Boateng said, as if waking up. “My apologies—I forgot something important. Miriam Tagoe told me that some of Araba’s jewelry was missing.”
Sowah raised his eyebrows. “Meaning?”
“Araba always wore a necklace with a sapphire and two rubies,” Boateng said. “Or two sapphires and a ruby, I forget which. I’m told she seldom took it off. When her body was found, the necklace was gone, and so were other items from her jewelry drawer, which was left open.”
“I’m confused,” Sowah said, frowning. “This now becomes a burglary gone wrong? Makes no sense.”
Boateng nodded. “I agree. I think it’s the murderer’s poor attempt to make it look that way.”
Sowah suspired and leaned back in his chair. “So, we have the murder of a young, successful woman with a controlling family in a tumultuous relationship with a troubled, alcoholic TV celebrity who, so far, seems like the prime suspect but is certainly not the only one; a contaminated crime scene with a poor attempt to make the murder appear like a burglary and from which the evidence collected may or may not have been destroyed at the FSL as a result of meddling by a High Court judge and/or the upper police echelons, who have most likely deliberately arrested the wrong man, and an investigator—namely, you—removed from the FSL in order that someone, possibly Augustus Seeza, goes scot-free.”
As Sowah stopped to recover a breath, Boateng smiled. “Well summarized, sir. Now, how do we—or should I say, you—make sense of it all?”
EIGHTEEN
Ten months after
Tuesday morning, 8 a.m., the staff briefing at Sowah Agency began. Emma and the other three detectives sat at their stations facing Yemo Sowah, who was at the head of the group next to the whiteboard.
“Morning, everyone,” he said. “We’ll start with our new case, the unsolved murder of fashion mogul Lady Araba.” He wrote Lady Araba murder in a rectangle at the top of the board. “She was murdered ten months ago, and the case was brought to us by Araba’s Auntie Dele Tetteyfio, the lady who came in last week and spoke to Emma and me in the office. She was frustrated by what she thinks is police misconduct in the investigation, particularly regarding the arrest of Araba’s yearslong chauffeur, Kweku-Sam, who Dele thinks is just an easy scapegoat and not a valid suspect. Dele thinks the driver had no good reason to kill his boss and believes others had much stronger motives to kill her niece.
“Lady Araba lived in Trasacco Valley, a guarded community where they keep careful track of who goes in and out—or are supposed to, at least. The story is that the groundskeeper, Ismael, was on the upper terrace of her house when, through the glass door of her bedroom, he spotted Araba’s body lying in bed underneath a bloodstained cover. He notified Trasacco’s chief security officer, Peter, and because all entry points to Araba’s house were locked, the groundskeeper broke the glass door to get in.
“To make a long story even longer, police personnel, including the head of CID, contaminated the crime scene before a bona fide homicide detective and crime scene expert arrived—a man by the name of Sergeant Isaac Boateng, whom I met yesterday. He worked the case for about four weeks until his superiors transferred him out of homicide to the Domestic Violence Unit in Accra Central. Boateng shared what information he had with me, although he was hesitant at first. He is among the few officers with a science degree who was sent to a forensics training course in South Africa. At any rate, even though Lady Araba’s crime scene was severely compromised, Boateng did get some prints and swabs of what he thought might contain DNA.
“Just like Dele, Boateng doesn’t believe Kweku killed Lady Araba. I will try to get to Kweku-Sam myself to question him, but it will probably take a while to get permission from the director of Nsawam Prison. I’ll handle that.”
Emma had never interviewed a remand prisoner—which Kweku-Sam was now—but she knew that authorization to do so required wading through layers of bureaucracy thick as mud.
“Back to Dele,” Sowah continued, “she states that Augustus Seeza, the TV celebrity, was in a turbulent relation with Lady Araba, and since he was with her the night she died—so Dele claims—she believes he should be the prime suspect, and that Seeza’s father, who is a judge, pulled influential strings in the background to keep his son from being investigated.”
Sowah scribbled Seeza on the board with a two-way arrow connecting it to Araba.
“But there are other possible suspects,” he went on. “For instance, Seeza’s parents, Julius and Caroline, either individually or together. Why? Because they despised Araba for, in quotation marks, ‘ruining their son’s life.’ Augustus was—is—an alcoholic, but during his time with Araba, his drinking worsened significantly. At one point several months before Araba’s death, he was hospitalized for an alcohol-related illness.
“Blaming Araba for Augustus’s worsening alcoholism is moot, but people need someone to blame. Could Augustus’s parents have been angry and bitter enough to kill Araba? Anything is possible. Meanwhile, the way Araba Tagoe’s family felt about Augustus was the mirror image of how the Seezas saw Araba. They felt he was destroying her, and when it became apparent he was going broke and depended on Araba for his lavish lifestyle, they confronted her to try and get her to dump Mr
. Seeza. She did bend to their will for a while, but after she learned Augustus was in the hospital, she came right back to him.”
“Boss,” Manu said, “how well or badly did Dele get along with the Seezas?”
Sowah shook his head. “No love lost between the Seeza and Tagoe families.”
Emma spoke up. “So, Dele could even have an ulterior motive for coming to us—family squabbles, trying to get the Seezas in trouble.”
“Maybe,” Sowah said, “but I doubt she would pay that kind of money to an agency just for that. There are much less expensive ways to do it.”
Gideon asked, “Sir, what about Araba’s work? Could any of her associates have wanted her dead for any reason?”
“Good,” Sowah said. “Araba’s rival was a woman named Susan Hayford.” He wrote her name on the whiteboard next to Araba’s. “They were business partners until they fell out of favor with each other. Susan then founded Lady Pizzazz, a competing fashion line.”
“Another ‘Lady?’” Manu commented. “Not very original.” He looked at Emma. “Do you know anything about Lady Pizzazz?”
Emma gave him a quizzical look. “No. Why are you asking me?”
“You’re a woman, so you must follow fashion,” Manu said, grinning.
“Walter, do I look like I follow fashion?”
The others laughed. Emma’s wardrobe was quite basic compared to, say, the boss’s glamorous assistant, Beverly. Emma did have one weakness, however: attractive purses, handbags, and clutches.
“Now,” Sowah went on, “we come to the investigation as it stands. Araba’s driver, Kweku-Sam, is accused of the crime. At about nine on the eve of the discovery of Lady Araba’s body, which was a Monday morning, he had brought Lady Araba back from an event. We’re not sure exactly when she was killed—late on the night before she was found, or very early that morning—but for simplicity, we’ll refer to it as the night of her death.
“We know that Lady Araba’s home was securely locked, windows and doors, and there was no forced entry apparent. If that means Araba knew her intruder, we’re still left to explain how the murderer vacated the house and left it completely locked behind him. Obviously, we are looking for someone who had a copy of the house key, which Araba habitually hung on a hook on the wall by the front door, and which was still there when the murderer left. The police were quick to jump on Kweku-Sam as the prime suspect, even though it’s unlikely he had a duplicate key. Boateng says he had nothing to do with that arrest and suspects it was a decision from on high. He even implicates CID Director-General Madam Tawiah.”
“It’s strange that whoever has the post of CID director-general,” Walter observed, “there’s always some kind of controversy or suspicion surrounding him or her. Why can’t we have an untainted figurehead for once?”
“It seems almost to come with the territory,” Sowah agreed. “At the same time, we should be careful how easily we accept Boateng’s insinuations against Madam Tawiah, because he seems to have some personal feelings against her and how she got the position of the director-general of CID. He implied that she did some favors, so to speak, in return for being awarded the post.”
Emma felt like asking why people always thought a woman in a high position of authority hadn’t gotten there on true merit, but this wasn’t the time or place to start that argument. Instead, she said, “Boss, the crime scene evidence that DS Boateng obtained, where did he send it? Who has it now?”
“Good question,” Sowah said. “Boateng says he logged in the evidence at the FSL. He never got to check the prints against the database. Before he got further with anything else, they pulled him out and transferred him to DVU. It’s as though they wanted him as far away from the lab as possible so he couldn’t press for the analysis to be done.”
“So then, Boateng’s crime scene evidence should still be at the FSL?” Emma asked.
“If it hasn’t been destroyed, then yes,” Sowah said, “but has it been processed? If so, what of the results? If someone is concealing them or having them concealed, who and why? These are some of the initial questions to be answered. Secondly, what is going on at Trasacco Valley? We must get to know the people who were present for Lady Araba’s life and death.” He turned back to the board and began writing. “Let’s talk about motive. Any suggestions? Oh, wait, before we start that, there’s something I forgot. Boateng says the Tagoes let him know that some of Lady Araba’s jewelry was missing from her dresser. So, I’ll start with what I think is the least likely motive for the murder: burglary or robbery gone wrong. We’ll have it up there just for completeness, but we’ll probably strike it out very soon.”
“I agree with you, boss,” Manu said. “Unless something comes up in that regard.”
“Walter, you and Gideon team up to interview the Seeza and Tagoe families undercover. Emma, you’ll go undercover at the forensic lab, and Jojo goes to Trasacco.”
Emma felt both excited and nervous about taking on an undercover assignment, which she had never done before.
As if reading her mind, Sowah said to her, “I’ll coach you on how to conduct undercover work, since this will be your first time.” He smiled, apparently reading the anxiety in her face. “Don’t worry, you’ll be okay.”
“Thank you, sir.” She felt relieved, but butterflies were still flitting back and forth in her stomach.
NINETEEN
Ten months after
Emma wasn’t pretending to be nervous. She really was nervous. For this situation, it was perfect. Among her first lessons from Sowah about going undercover was that although she might be hiding her objectives, her behavior shouldn’t entirely be an act.
She entered the grounds of the Ghana Police Forensic Laboratory. She was surprised there wasn’t a security guard at the entrance, where a couple of guys sat by the gutter outside, either unconnected with the place or uninterested by who went in and out. The two-story building Emma was approaching was white with dark-blue reflective windows. She went up a flight of steps to the first floor, which was tiled from one end of the long corridor to the other. Several doors, all shut, lined the corridor, but one lab room could be viewed through a tinted window. The tall curved faucets reminded Emma of secondary school science experiments, but the impressive equipment on the counters did not. A tall metal cabinet stood at the end of the central counter, and on a shelf close to the window was an electronic scale. But where was everybody, or anybody? She walked the entire length of the hallway and saw no sign of life.
Boss Sowah had warned Emma to look for CCTV cameras. She saw none along the ceiling or hidden in the corners. She went up to the second floor. There, she saw a large laboratory space similar to the one downstairs. She was about to sneak a picture with her phone when she heard a door open behind her. She jumped and turned around. A man in a purple shirt came out and started down the hall in the opposite direction without seeing Emma.
“Please, good afternoon, sir,” Emma said.
The man turned around, eyebrows raised. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“Please, my name is Mary. I’m looking for cleaning job, please.”
She hoped her clothes matched her persona—a black skirt with fraying edges and a white blouse with a brown stain on the collar. She was someone trying her best to be presentable with few resources to do it. She looked poor but earnest, and honestly, a year ago, those had been close to Emma’s circumstances.
The man frowned. “Who told you we need a cleaner?”
She smiled sheepishly. “Please, no one, but I was passing this place and I thought maybe . . .”
He was still scowling, but now with some amusement. “My name is Thomas—I’m in charge here. Come into my office for a moment.”
She followed him into the room from which he had first emerged. He sat down at his desk and pointed to a chair along the opposite wall. Emma sat accordingly. She noticed a chart on the wall behi
nd Thomas comparing the number of FSL cases over the prior three years in the different divisions of DNA, Documents, Ballistics, and Biochemistry/Drug Analysis. The largest number of cases was in the last category by far.
Thomas apparently detected her gaze and glanced behind him. “What are you looking at?”
“Oh, nothing,” Emma stammered, returning her eyes to him.
“You say your name is what?”
“Mary, sir.”
“Okay, Mary,” he said.
He was out of shape, but young in the face, which was nice-looking enough.
“Yes, sir,” Emma said. “Thank you, Mr. Thomas.”
She squirmed and he laughed. “You are funny. But I like you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We don’t have any cleaning jobs right now,” he said, and she saw his eyes stray to her knees, which she reflexively closed tight. “Where have you worked before?”
“Some hotels,” Emma said vaguely, ready to make some up. “And also, people’s houses. Inside and out.”
Thomas nodded. “For how long have you been doing that?”
“Please, since I was sixteen.”
“And you are how old now?”
“Twenty-two, sir.” Emma felt uneasy under his gaze.
Thomas folded his fingers together in front of him. “I’ll hire you on a trial basis. Every day Monday to Friday, you will mop the floors in the hallway and the offices, clean all the counters. Also, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, you will sweep the car park and the entrance steps. Do you understand?”
“Yes please, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“We have some cleaning materials on the first floor that you can use. If you need anything more, let me know.” Thomas stood up. “Come with me and I will show you everything.”
Emma followed him as he exited the office to his left. He stopped briefly to point in both directions. “You will mop all the hallway, okay? Take care to clean the corners.”
