by Kwei Quartey
Dawson went to Hosiah’s room, where Christine was getting him up.
“I have to go.” He kissed them both. “See you tonight.”
“Bye, Daddy.”
“Careful, Dark.” Christine said that every day. She meant it.
“I will be.”
4
The phlegmatic Sergeant Baidoo, a man of few words and Dawson’s favorite CID driver, steered the made-in-India Tata police jeep over the rough, unpaved road that led to the Police Hospital Mortuary (PHM). It was a depressing gray stucco building browned off with decades of dust. It needed to be either remodeled and expanded or razed and rebuilt. Dawson liked the second alternative.
Baidoo parked under the flowering flame tree that lent a welcome patch of color to all that dreariness. Reception was to Dawson’s left as he went in. Straight ahead against the far wall were two old coffins piled one on top of the other. They had been there for years, part of the furniture now. He turned left to reception, where there was a sign on the wall that read JESUS CHRIST DIED FOR YOUR SINS. On seeing Dawson, the young lance corporal at the desk behind the counter sprang to his feet.
“Morning, massa,” he said, using the alternative word to “sir.” Maybe it was a legacy of the British colonial police service, when black officers referred to the white officers as their “masters,” but now massa was comfortably used by the junior ranks to address their superiors.
“Morning, Brempong,” Dawson said. “How are you?”
“Fine, massa.”
“Is Dr. Biney in?”
“Yes, massa. He’s inside.”
“Thank you.”
“Yessah.”
Dawson went through the double-door entry labeled STRICTLY OUT OF BOUNDS. With no forewarning, the autopsy room was directly behind that, which had caught Dawson off guard the first time he had come to PHM. There were only two autopsy tables for a backlog of corpses possibly a hundred times that. Four mortuary attendants were in constant motion, like traffic at a busy intersection. Dr. Biney was at the right-hand table. He was masked, but when he looked up and saw Dawson, his eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile.
“Inspector Dawson! Welcome.”
“Thank you, Dr. Biney, it’s good to see you.”
“I’m just finishing up with this case, and we’ll do yours next. Would you like to suit up while we get your case ready?”
Dawson branched left to the changing room, where he gladly put on the most important item, his mask. The gown went on second. He took a breath before returning to the autopsy room proper. The odor in the room was subtler and less assaulting than that of, say, Korle Lagoon, but it was oddly more penetrating, as if it got under one’s skin.
Between Dr. Biney and his attendants, it was a frenetic but coordinated dance. On finishing their case on the left-hand table, two attendants dumped the organs back into the body and transferred it to a gurney. As they wheeled it out, a new case was being wheeled in. Simultaneously, on the second table, one attendant was readying the next case for Dr. Biney with a vertical incision from neck to pelvis. No matter how many times Dawson had been here, he had never grown completely accustomed to the matter-of-factness with which the team worked, and he still flinched inwardly at the harsh bang of bodies on the gurney metal. Relax, he kept telling himself. They don’t feel anything.
As they waited for his case, Dawson chatted with Dr. Biney—not empty pleasantries: the two men were always genuinely glad to see each other.
“Here we go,” Biney said, as Dawson’s case was wheeled in. “Ready?”
The body had been washed in the adjoining room, so it looked a trifle better than it had the day before, but the amount of decay was just as severe and the smell was no less sickening. The top layer of skin was blistering and sloughing off, revealing a curiously white layer underneath. The abdomen was extremely distended, rounded like a cathedral dome.
“The putrefaction hasn’t stopped completely,” Biney said, catching Dawson’s look. “Biology will do what it wants, refrigeration be damned.”
Dawson grimaced, trying not to gag. “This one is hard to take.”
“Yes, it is. Has your investigation turned up anything so far?”
“Nothing. We have no idea who he is.”
Dr. Biney turned to George, a wizened veteran of PHM and the most experienced of the mortuary attendants. “Did you see anything of interest while washing the body?”
“Please, yes, Doctor,” George said deferentially. “First thing we noticed was this.”
He held up the corpse’s right hand.
“Curious,” Dr. Biney said, stepping in to examine it. “The thumb and all fingers except the index are hacked off.”
“Fresh wounds?” Dawson asked.
“Very likely. At or around the time of death.”
Dr. Biney looked at Dawson, who turned the corners of his mouth down. “I have no idea what it means.”
“Neither do I,” Dr. Biney said. “Anything else, George?”
“Yes, Doctor,” he said, lifting the corpse’s bloated top lip.
“Missing upper right cuspid,” Dr. Biney said. He peered closer. “Looks like the whole tooth is out, not just broken off. I can’t tell how long it’s been missing, though. I’ll make a note of it on my report. Was that all, George?”
“Please, yes, Doctor.”
“Carry on, then.”
As George began the incision, Dr. Biney turned to the counter next to the sink. “We have his clothing over here, Inspector. By the way, get ready for the release of gases from the body. It won’t be pleasant.”
The clothes were dry now—a worn T-shirt and long shorts with a safety pin at the waist where buttons should have been.
“Look at this,” Biney said, carefully spreading the T-shirt out with the back facing up. “Here on the right side, a hole, slightly rectangular, and some staining around it—presumably blood.”
“Stab wound?” Dawson said.
“Ah, you’re always sharp, Inspector,” Biney said. “Stab wound is exactly what I’m surmising.”
Dawson coughed and choked as Biney’s warning about the abdominal gases materialized. Even the hardened George muttered an exclamation.
“Not for the faint of heart,” Biney said, returning to the autopsy table. Dawson followed after a moment’s hesitation.
“So what I can tell you at this point,” Biney said, as George began removing the chest plate, “is that he was fifteen to seventeen years old.”
“Fifteen to seventeen?” Dawson echoed, shocked. “Oh, that changes the whole picture. He’s a boy, really. I thought he was much older.”
“The decomposition lends that impression, but on the bone survey with our brand-new, secondhand X-ray machine, courtesy of the government of Denmark, I see nice young bones, and the epiphyses still open, so he probably had another couple of inches at least to grow.”
“Doctor,” George said, peering into the boy’s chest cavity. “Look at this.”
Biney joined him. “Goodness. Massive hemothorax. The right lung is practically swimming in blood. Suction it out, would you, George? Inspector, you’ll want to see this.”
Dawson watched as Biney removed the right lung.
“There’s a laceration on the posterior surface associated with severe disruption of the lung tissue,” he said. As Biney explored, the other attendants gathered to look on with interest.
After a minute or so, Biney said, “It’s a deep laceration, far into the tissue of the lung. Let’s examine the right posterior chest cavity. George, would you wash it out, please?”
After a couple of rinses, Biney could get a better look.
“The muscles of the fifth intercostal space are disrupted, and here you can see splintering of the sixth rib, where the weapon struck it with considerable force on the way in. Turn the body on its left side, please?”
The attendants did so, holding the corpse steady as Dr. Biney examined the back.
“Because of swelling and decay,
it’s hard to spot it at first, but here is the external wound corresponding to the internal injury. See that, Inspector?”
“I do.”
“In turn, the external wound matches the tear in the victim’s shirt where the knife struck. I estimate that the blade was six to eight inches long.”
“Vicious,” Dawson murmured.
“Yes, indeed. Stab wound to the back resulting in perforation of the right lung, massive hemothorax, and death.”
“Time of death?”
“I hesitate to assign a specific number, but remember this: the body was lying in a warm, wet environment saturated with bacteria. Under such conditions, this degree of putrefaction could have developed in just hours.”
Dawson stared at the murdered boy’s face. “I don’t know how we’re going to identify him. He would be unrecognizable even to someone who knew him. The missing tooth might help, though.”
“Or a forensic artist,” Dr. Biney said. He chuckled ironically. “I’m just dreaming.”
Dawson smiled. There was no such thing as a forensic artist in Ghana.
As they washed their hands, Dr. Biney said, “Inspector, I believe you have your work cut out for you.”
“Doctor, I believe you are right.”
5
Dawson ducked into Papaye for a quick lunch—piping hot rice and chicken washed down with ice-cold Malta, the soft drink he loved. If he were on death row, he would choose Malta as his last meal—oversweet, fizzy, rich with malt and hops. While he was waiting for his meal to be brought to the table, he phoned Chikata to tell him about the autopsy.
“It will be tough finding out who this guy is,” the detective sergeant said.
“I know, but we have to keep trying,” Dawson replied. “Get two detective constables, go down to Agbogbloshie, and ask around for a missing boy of about seventeen, about five-six in height with a missing upper right tooth.”
“Ewurade. You’re sending me back to that stinking place.”
“Wear a mask.”
“These people are just not going to talk, Dawson.”
“You never know. Miracles happen.”
“But not in Accra,” Chikata said with a derisive snort.
“Get to work and stop complaining,” Dawson said, ending the call.
Chikata was a spoiled brat. He could be lazy as well. His uncle, Theophilus Lartey, was chief superintendent of police, or chief supol. That made him a senior officer and Dawson’s superior. Chikata thought that gave him the right to take liberties. In truth, it was nepotism that had got him into CID’s Homicide Division with Dawson, and it might well be nepotism that got him promoted.
Dawson was on his last gulp of Malta and considering having some more when his phone rang.
“Dawson,” he answered.
“Inspector! How are you?”
“I’m fine, Wisdom.”
Dawson knew the voice well. It was thin and brittle, like snapping plantain chips in one’s fingers. Wisdom Asamoah was one of the Daily Graphic’s leading reporters. He and Dawson had a long history together, sometimes at each other’s throats.
“I want to know about the man in the lagoon,” Wisdom said.
“How did you hear about it?”
“I have eyes and ears everywhere, Dawson.”
“We have a Public Relations Office for press inquiries, remember? Call them.”
“Come on, Dawson. PRO is too slow for me. By the time they get me the information I need, I’ll be in the afterlife.”
“I can give you something, but you can’t use my name.”
“You know you can trust me, Dawson.”
“We don’t know who the victim is yet, but it’s a homicide—”
“How was he killed? Drowned?”
“Not drowned.”
“How, then?”
“Not drowned.”
“Okay. You’re not saying. How old a person?”
“Estimated sixteen or seventeen.”
“Oh, so a teenager, eh? Dr. Asum Biney did the autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“No witness accounts of any kind?”
“No, nothing.”
“When are you going to release photos?”
“We can’t. Too much decomposition.”
“Ah. You need a forensic artist.”
Dawson was surprised. “How do you know about that?”
“I watch Forensic Files,” Wisdom said with a laugh.
“Well, this is Ghana. We don’t have most of that fancy American stuff you see on TV.”
“Can I make you an offer, Inspector Dawson?”
“What kind of offer?”
“What if I get hold of a forensic artist, you release the victim’s autopsy photos to me, I forward them to him and have him draw a likeness of the victim? You would get that back so you can use it for police purposes, and I would get it to publish it in the Graphic.”
“How would you find a forensic artist?” Dawson asked suspiciously.
“I know one—Yves Kirezi. I met him years ago when I covered the Rwanda genocide. He’s helped identify thousands of genocide victims by re-creating their appearance after they had been beaten beyond recognition, so you know he has to be good at what he does.”
“Are you sure he would be willing to do this?”
“We are good friends, Inspector Dawson. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“All right, then. Let me know if and when you reach him. Thank you, Wisdom.”
Dawson needed to visit the pump station belonging to KLERP, the Korle Lagoon Ecological Restoration Project. It stood on the west bank of the upper lagoon, directly opposite Agbogbloshie on the east. You couldn’t talk about Agbogbloshie and its cursed waterways without bringing in KLERP. It had been around for ten years or more, and was part and parcel of the saga of a troubled slum that just would not go away.
By twisting the arm of one of the other investigators, Dawson managed to snag Baidoo and the only Tata jeep immediately available out of the two assigned to the Homicide Division. Otherwise, Dawson would have had to wait hours before the other vehicle returned from whatever mission it was on.
Traffic was heavy along High Street. As Baidoo inched forward with unflappable patience, Dawson’s phone rang. He felt a surge of both dread and anticipation as he saw it was Edith Kingson calling. This might be it.
“Edith, how are you?” he said sweetly.
“I’m very well, thank you, Darko.” Her voice was as clear and sparkling as crystal, but now she hesitated slightly and his heart sank.
“It’s not good news, is it?” he said.
“No,” she replied sadly. “I’m so sorry. They turned it down. They said your financial situation was not dire enough to justify clemency. I tried to argue on the basis of Hosiah’s bad medical situation and the kind of future he was facing. I argued until Director Hanson even got annoyed with me.”
Dawson felt as though a ten-story building had just collapsed and crushed him. His breath left him, and for a moment his vision darkened and he couldn’t speak.
“Darko?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I’m here.”
“Again, I’m terribly sorry. If you like, you can always re-submit the petition and I will try once more for you.”
“Thank you, Edith,” he said softly. “For all your help. I appreciate it.”
He pocketed his phone and stared despondently out the window. Traffic had begun to clear as they passed James Fort toward Cleland Road. Agbogbloshie was in the distance to their right; the beach was visible on their left. Ahead, new road construction was raising a cloud of dust. Underneath the section of Cleland that became the Winneba Bridge, the sea met the Korle Lagoon with spectacular and sometimes violent churning, like two opposing cultures forced to mix. Dawson kept his head firmly turned away so that Baidoo wouldn’t see his tears welling up.
They turned right on Ring Road West. About half a mile up, Baidoo pulled into KLERP’s yard, where two small, one-story office
buildings stood, one of them a trailer. A black 4 × 4 with darkened windows was leaving about the same time.
“Wait for me,” Dawson told Baidoo, hopping out.
The merciless noon sun was almost directly overhead, and the asphalt underfoot felt like it was on fire. Dawson walked up the steps to the trailer and knocked on the first door. He heard a faint “Come in.” He pushed the door open. It was a small office chilled to Arctic temperatures by a gale-force air conditioner. A doe-eyed woman with vermilion lipstick and an expensive hair weave was sitting at the only desk in the room.
“Good morning,” Dawson said.
“Good morning. You are welcome.”
Dawson explained who he was and the reason for the visit.
“Please have a seat,” Doe Eyes said. “I will see if the director is available.”
She left the room. Dawson sat down on a chair to the side, looking around while tapping his foot on the hollow-sounding floor. Pasted on the wall were pictures of the top KLERP executives, two of whom were Europeans.
Doe Eyes came back. “Please, the director has just left.”
Dawson guessed it had been the said director in the 4 × 4.
“Can I speak to someone else?” he asked her.
She hesitated. “Please, one moment.”
She disappeared again, returning two minutes later. “Please, come with me.”
Dawson accompanied her outside to the trailer’s third door. He waited again as she went inside, certain that at least one step in this process could have been eliminated. The door opened, and Doe Eyes said Dawson could come in. She held the door for him and then she left.
This room was even more frigid than the first. At one of the two desks was a young man in a tie working at his laptop. He stood up.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Afternoon. Darko Dawson, CID.”
“Cuthbert Plange,” the man said, shaking hands. “I’m in charge of client relations here. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Dawson said, choosing the closest chair. “I’m investigating the death of a boy found in one of the Agbogbloshie channels yesterday.”
“Ewurade,” Cuthbert said, shaking his head and sitting back down. He had full lips and thick speech, like a cotton-stuffed pillow. “This Agbogbloshie. You never know what can happen next. How did the boy get there?”
