by Kwei Quartey
She quickly clicked another tab, pulling up a medical website. “Nothing much. Just the usual stuff.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “I hope you’re not reading that GhanaWeb rubbish. I told you to stop that. It only makes you upset.”
She turned to him in earnest. “I simply hate what they’re saying about Augustus.”
“Ignore it!” Julius said heatedly. “These are idle, empty-headed people with nothing better to do all day than spread lies and gossip. They aren’t worth your time. We know our boy didn’t do it, and that’s all that matters.”
“Of course—we know that, but . . .” Caroline sighed, looking distressed. “What are the police saying? I mean, do they consider Augustus the prime suspect because of his history with Araba? I don’t want them coming after him and making him suffer for something he didn’t do.”
“No one is coming after Augustus,” Julius said quietly. “I can guarantee that.”
Caroline raised her eyebrows. “Really? How?”
Julius brushed the question aside. “I’ve taken care of it. Don’t worry yourself for another minute.”
He departed the room, leaving his wife staring at the door in his wake.
The previous day
Director General Police Madame Tawiah received Justice Julius Seeza in her office on the fifth floor of the CID Headquarters building on Ring Road East.
“How are you, sir?” she said, smiling. “It’s been such a long time. Please, have a seat. Would you like some water?”
“Thank you very much, but no.”
Julius and Tawiah had come to know each other over the decades as she testified in his court as the arresting officer in various criminal cases. He had seen her rise steadily through the ranks. Now, she was the first woman ever to have attained the position of director-general of the CID. He could see her artistic touch in the huge office: plants in all four corners of the room, furniture that went well together, paintings, and the carpet—flourishes that her male counterparts could never have come up with.
Julius sat gingerly. His arthritic spine was giving him hell. “I don’t think I’ve had the chance to officially congratulate you on your auspicious promotion to director-general,” he said, getting as comfortable as he could. “Very well done. I have the utmost respect for you.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that so much. And please, how is Madam Caroline? Is she still practicing?”
“Oh, yes,” Julius said, with a light laugh. “You know my wife won’t stop working until it’s physically impossible.”
Tawiah smiled. She had always looked rather desiccated to Julius, but her laugh was delightful, like the tinkle of crystal. “God bless her. Please, give my regards to her.”
“Thank you, I will. What I came to see you about, Madam Tawiah, concerns the murder of Lady Araba.”
“Yes, of course. Terrible affair.”
“As you are aware, my son Augustus was closely involved with Lady Araba for approximately three years before her death, and I’m sure you’ve heard innuendo being cast around that he might have been involved in her killing.”
Tawiah tut-tutted with disapproval. “All unjustified talk, sir.”
“Of course, I’m aware.” He paused. “I wonder, and of course this may be very sensitive information, but to your knowledge, has there been any official police interest in my son?”
Tawiah was firm. “No, sir. That kind of thing would have come under my radar.”
“Thank you, Director-General. That’s good to hear.”
“As a matter of fact, if you could keep this confidential, we already have the prime suspect in custody—Lady Araba’s chauffeur. He was seen exiting the house that night, and we now have a signed confession. What I’m hoping is that the DNA evidence submitted will help us finalize the case against him.”
Julius felt a pang in his chest. DNA. What DNA? “Ah, I wasn’t aware that potential DNA evidence was collected,” he said.
“Yes, we have one guy, DS Isaac Boateng, who helps us with these things.”
Julius gave her a less potent version of the look for which he had long been famous. It could vaporize lawyers in their tracks. “With respect,” Julius said, “I would be careful about the DNA submissions. As you no doubt know, I have tried quite a few cases in which such evidence was involved, and, unlike what we see on TV, DNA is not always a helpful or definitive answer, especially if the evidence falls into inexperienced hands. You say this Boateng man is good?”
“He has a chemistry background, and we sent him on a forensic training to South Africa.”
“And how many forensic DNA samples has he handled since then?” Julius asked.
“Well—I don’t have the exact number, but by now he should have done at least . . . thirty? To be honest, I can’t say for sure, but last year the FSL did fifty-one cases, and Boateng oversaw many of them, including the Takoradi missing girls case.”
“Thirty?” Julius said critically. “That can hardly be described as extensive experience in the field—certainly not for a complicated case like this, Madame Tawiah. I’m not casting any aspersions, and I don’t want you to feel that way, but from my legal experience, these DNA issues that can get so complex, a person with less than at least a hundred cases under his belt is not ready for prime time.”
“Well, certainly you have more knowledge of such things, sir,” Tawiah stammered deferentially.
“My concern, you see,” Julius said, wincing slightly from the effort of moving forward in his seat, “is that the DNA found in the home will almost certainly include Augustus’s DNA mixed in with the assailant’s DNA. And there you have a very confusing situation that might unjustly implicate Augustus. A false positive, in a way.”
“Although from what I understand,” Tawiah said, “the contaminant can be told apart from that of the assailant based on their respective volumes—”
“Maybe so, but that also depends on how reliably these pieces of evidence were collected and the circumstances—”
“Oh, I was there,” Tawiah said.
Julius was startled. “Director-General—you were there? I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, and I watched him collect the evidence. From what I could see, he did a good job, but I do take your point regarding the contamination.”
“Good, I’m glad you do. Thank you for that.”
“What I can do for you,” Tawiah said, “is talk to the administrator of the Forensic Science Lab, Mr. Thomas, to ask him if anyone has begun analysis on the physical evidence.”
“What I would like to say, Madam Tawiah,” Julius said, “is that it’s my fervent wish that the evidence at the FSL is never analyzed.”
“Oh,” Tawiah said blankly. “Sir, that might be difficult, since we already have the evidence in hand.”
“I feel it would not be advisable,” Julius said more sharply. “After all, we all have a past, not excluding yourself.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Coming to CID straight from MTTU? I know the people in high places who facilitated that move. I’m not exactly saying there was a quid pro quo. You would know more about that than I.”
Tawiah sat very still, a look of consternation creeping to her face.
“Nevertheless,” Julius continued brightly, “congratulations are still in order, and I was just contemplating this morning how I’ve never sent you a congratulatory gift on your taking this post. But I can certainly make up for it now—many times over, of course.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice strangled. “Thank you, sir.”
“Well, I must go now,” Julius said, carefully rising. “If my arthritic back will allow me.”
“Oh, let me help you,” Tawiah said, standing up. “Are you okay?”
Julius waved her assistance away. “It is all well, Director-General. Thank you very
much for your time.”
“I can at least see you out, sir.”
Before heading to the door, Julius stopped at Tawiah’s desk to lay a crisp, thick envelope on the corner, the international language of dead presidents on green. He’d bet that someone like Tawiah would have a dollar account, so this neat packet would be a nice top-up. It was a kind gesture on Julius’s part.
TWENTY-SIX
Ten months after
On Monday morning, Emma’s revelation that she had brought some potentially valuable information with her from last Friday’s undercover operations and that she had also been sacked brought respective cheers and jeers.
“How did it happen, Emma?” Sowah asked.
She began by relating Thomas’s unwanted touching, which brought exclamations of disapproval. Now that Emma wasn’t returning to the FSL, she felt that Sowah should know about it. He seemed to be withholding comment on the episode for now.
“Okay,” Sowah said to her. “Tell us what you found.”
She began part two of the story—how she discovered Thomas’s open door and saw the evidence bag and envelopes on the table.
“So, I went in there and took pictures as quickly as I could,” Emma said. “I tried to leave before he got back, but I was too late. Seriously, I was in hot water! I pretended I had accidentally left a rag in the office, but I don’t think he believed me. Here are the pics, boss.”
She handed the phone to Sowah, who sat down on a free chair and studied the photos intently for several moments. He nodded. “Okay everyone, come and take a look.”
The investigators gathered around him.
“First image,” Sowah said, “is of a small paper envelope with a label stating that the contained evidence is two strands of hair taken from Lady Araba’s bedsheet. There’s also a chain of custody form with the date and time the hair was collected—the third of July last year at . . . not sure I can read it—is that 10:11?”
“I think so, sir,” Emma said.
“And it’s signed by a Corporal Tackie, evidence tech,” Sowah continued, “with his rank and ID number, et cetera. Seal is intact, as I said, so no one has tampered with it. Next it was handed over to Kobina Thomas, the administrator at FSL, at 3:31 that afternoon, and that’s the end of the CoC.”
“So that means . . .” Jojo said uncertainly.
“That Tackie took the evidence directly to Thomas,” Sowah said, “and that Thomas was the last one to receive the evidence, which he still has in his possession. If, for example, he then sent it to the lab to be analyzed, we would see a third entry with the date, time, and person receiving. If that person then sends it on to someone else again, we will see another name, and so on. This is proof that no one has analyzed this piece of physical evidence.”
“So, the question is, why?” Manu said.
“Exactly,” Sowah said. “Now, the next one . . .” He fumbled with the phone’s screen. “Which way do I go on this thing?”
“Oh, let me help, sir,” Emma said, smiling, but not too much. She swiped left for him.
“Thanks,” Sowah said, then read off the evidence form. “The next two paper envelopes are both blood swabs. Same thing—no one on the CoC beyond Thomas. Therefore, all of these are in his custody and have gone no further than him.”
“Why would he withhold them?” Gideon said.
“Better question is who told him to withhold it,” Sowah said. “It’s unlikely that he’s doing this of his own accord.”
“Or, sir,” Manu chimed in, “it could be as simple as he’s waiting for an officer to be assigned the job while everyone else has just forgotten about it.”
“Laziness,” Jojo said.
“Or plain disorganization and incompetence,” Sowah said. “Worse things have happened in the Ghana Police Service, but if they have accused an innocent man who is now languishing in prison at the mercy of forensic evidence that hasn’t been analyzed, that’s criminal in and of itself. I’ll talk to DCOP Laryea again. Maybe he can find out something for us. Anything else, Emma?”
“Yes please. One other thing to mention. A man called Kingsley from the University of Cape Coast visited the lab while I was there. From what they discussed, it looks like they’re both being squeezed by a lack of government funding. The private DNA labs are doing much better.”
“Oh, that must have been Attah Kingsley you saw,” Sowah said. “I know him somewhat. He runs the forensic program at UCC.”
“He appears to want them to privatize the FSL,” Emma said.
“I’m sure Thomas didn’t like hearing that.”
“He didn’t seem to, no. Their conversation made me wish the UCC could run DNA evidence on behalf of the FSL.”
Sowah grunted. “That would mean getting an order from CID. Not going to happen.”
Emma sighed with some despondence. “You’re right, sir.”
“Anything else for us?” Sowah asked.
“No, that’s all, sir. Thank you.”
“Well done. And remember—don’t hesitate to call on any of us if you ever feel like you’re threatened or in danger. We are here for you. We know you can take care of yourself, but as a woman, you face some additional hazards, okay?”
Emma nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
But she had a lingering, uncomfortable feeling that she hadn’t done well on her first undercover assignment. The goal had been to curry favor with Thomas in a way that she could coax the information out of him. Had she been overeager and ended her mission too soon? Perhaps she might have discovered more if she had stayed longer. On the other hand, had she been fawning over Thomas, he might have perceived her as open to his advances. For now, she shelved her disquiet, but she intended to think it over some more.
Sowah turned to Jojo. “What do you have for us?”
Jojo talked about his growing friendliness with Peter and his introduction to Ismael, the gardener. “It seems both of them admired Lady Araba,” Jojo said. “Whether there was something beyond that, like lust or unrequited love, I can’t say.”
“Ei, Jojo!” Gideon said, grinning wickedly. “Where from the big words? You say what? Unrequenching love?”
Jojo sent Gideon a look that could kill as the room dissolved into laughter. Even Sowah couldn’t hold it in. “Okay,” he said, regaining composure. “Settle down. Jojo, don’t mind them. Unrequited love is a legitimate motive for murder.”
Jojo stuck his tongue out at Gideon. “See?”
“Jojo, please continue,” Sowah urged him.
“Ismael took me around to Lady Araba’s house,” Jojo went on. “The family are trying hard to sell it, but few people want to buy a house where someone was murdered. We went from the front of the place, past the staff quarters to the back, where Lady Araba’s upstairs bedroom is. I wanted to ask if we could look inside, but I think that would seem strange—what do you think, boss?”
“That level of curiosity might seem a little out of place, I agree.”
“But I think there’s another way we can get an investigator into the house,” Jojo said.
“Oh, really?” Sowah said with interest. “How?”
“While we were there, we ran into a realtor called Rita who was showing the house to an oburoni. Rita is one of Trasacco’s employees. What about if we call her—or anyone at Trasacco—and tell them we’re interested in buying a home in the Valley? Then we send somebody down there to have a look at the house. Since only Lady Araba’s is for sale, that will be the one she’ll show.”
“Send someone like who?” Manu asked, askance.
“Emma,” Jojo said.
She looked at him in surprise. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Imagine you arrive there all dressed up, in a nice car with a driver. You can pose as a rich businesswoman or something like that.”
“Brilliant, Jojo,” Sowah said at once.
>
“Wow, the brain is working today,” Gideon muttered. Jojo ignored him.
Sowah looked at Emma. “I like the idea.”
“We should do it,” she said, at first surprising herself with her quick response, but then realizing what was driving her: she wanted to improve on what she considered her disappointing first undercover performance.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Two months after
For weeks, the media had relentlessly circulated their innuendo and speculation that Augustus had killed Lady Araba, despite the lack of evidence. Meanwhile, he hadn’t been able to keep his job at the station, or get any other job, for that matter. Unemployed, Augustus was now living in an apartment in upscale Roman Ridge, but Julius was paying for it. Augustus said he was keeping up with his AA meetings, but Julius had his doubts. He had been making it a daily habit after court to check on Augustus. In the end, he really did love his son.
Julius parked the car and went up the steps to the second floor, where he knocked on Augustus’s door. No response. Julius knocked again, louder. Silence, until he heard someone inside say, “Who is it?” in a barely audible voice.
“Gus? Are you there? It’s Papa.”
“Papa, help me.” Augustus sounded like a little boy.
Julius had kept a spare key for exactly such emergencies. He unlocked the door and entered. There on the kitchen floor was his son curled up into a ball.
“My God,” Julius said, kneeling beside Augustus. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
“My stomach,” Augustus said, tears squeezing out between his clenched eyelids.
“Awurade,” Julius said as he looked up at the kitchen counter and saw the empty beer bottles. “Why did you start drinking again. You foolish, foolish boy!”
“Sorry, Papa,” Augustus said. “I couldn’t help it.” He began to moan with pain.
“We have to get you to the hospital. Wait for me here, okay? I’m going for help.”
“Am I dying?” Augustus asked, voice shaking.
“No, you’re not. Listen to me. You’re not dying, you hear? Wait here.”
