Children of the Street

by Kwei Quartey

  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.

  Dawson 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.”

  45

  Genevieve had left the office earlier that day for the first day of a weeklong seminar at the Accra International Conference Center. She was to make a presentation the following morning, Tuesday. It was as she drove home that she remembered she had left her thumb drive in the office. She debated picking it up early in the morning before going to the seminar, but she knew morning traffic would make that risky. Annoyed with herself, she turned off on the next street and headed back to SCOAR.

  Everyone had left for the day, the center was quiet. Socrate had the place to himself. He listened to Joy FM on the Internet while he updated the website and surfed around the Internet for pleasure. He went to Genevieve’s office to get the spy cam. He removed it, resting the speaker on the corner of his desk as he began the upload to his computer. While that was taking place, he went to the toilet.

  Genevieve let herself in the side door. Down the corridor, the lights were on in her office as well as Socrate’s, two doors down. She popped her head in hers, but he wasn’t there, nor was he in his own of
fice.

  “Socra?” she called out.

  Suddenly alarm flared in her mind. Was it Socrate in the building or someone else?

  “Socra?”

  She looked behind her and down the corridor again. No one.

  On his desk was a small, partially dismantled speaker, which looked just like the one in her office. Puzzled, Genevieve went back to check and, indeed, only the speaker’s mounting bracket was in place. The speaker had been taken down. In Socrate’s office again, she peered at the speaker, whose front grille had been removed. Right beside the bass unit was a space lined by putty.

  Something else was on the desk: a miniature camera. Connected to Socrate’s PC by a USB cable, it was tiny. Genevieve’s eyes darted between it and the speaker. She picked up the camera and pressed it into the putty. She was right. It fit snugly and firmly.

  Her heart pounding, a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, she circled the desk. She looked at the monitor screen. A pop-up window asked whether to save or launch the download. Genevieve’s hand hovered over the Enter key for a moment. She hit it. The surveillance image started. She saw herself in her office. She gasped and staggered back.

  Socrate was at the door. “Genevieve. What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? No, the question is what are you doing here, Socra? What is this?”

  He came into the room slowly, his eyes blinking rapidly. He already knew what Genevieve had seen. He stood next to her, staring blankly at the screen.

  “You’re spying on me?” she said, her voice up one octave.

  “I wouldn’t call it spying,” he said dully.

  “What would you call it? Oh, Ewurade, Ewurade.” She took another step back, suddenly feeling suffocated. She could not control her breathing. She felt like she was about to faint.

  “Why? What is this for, Socrate? Are you selling information to someone?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Then what? How long have you been doing this?”

  Socrate kept his head down. “I started a few months after I set up the sound system.”

  “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, Socrate, no.”

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “Is this why you stay late? So you can watch me? Watch your day’s film of me?”

  He nodded. Genevieve shuddered, wanting to get out of her own skin as though it had been coated with filth.

  “Why, Socra?”

  “You don’t understand,” he said.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I care a lot about you.”

  “And this is how you show it?”

  “I know things aren’t going so well with you and your husband—”

  “That’s my business, not yours—”

  “There are too many men who want you. I need to keep an eye on them.”

  “Socra, I can take care of myself.”

  “Yes, but it’s always good to have a guardian angel. Someone to watch over you.”

  “Watch over me?” she said, bewildered.

  “Yes. For instance, I know Inspector Dawson wants to have an affair with you. Be very careful of that man.”

  “Socra, the man is happily settled down with a wife and a seven-year-old boy.”

  “If it were not for you,” Socrate said, looking wistfully at her, “I would never stay in this job. You think I care about these worthless children? You think I really enjoy going around town taking pictures of them as if they were movie stars? I do it all for you, Gennie. That’s all. Just for you.”

  Worthless children. The words stung her like a whip on wet skin. Tears poured down her cheeks.

  “Gennie, please …”

  He came toward her.

  She put a palm up to stop him. “No, no. You stay away from me. Stay away.”

  Socrate stopped where he was.

  “It’s true then,” Genevieve said. “What Inspector Darko said is true. You did lock Antwi in that storeroom.”

  “He’s a nasty little liar, that boy.”

  “And the stories of your torturing them—those must be true as well. Oh, my Jesus Christ.”

  She put her face in her hands.

  “So now you trust Darko’s word more than mine? Does that mean you like him more than me?”

  Genevieve was agape. “Socra, what fantasy world are you living in? This isn’t about a contest between you and Dawson. It’s about what you’ve done. You’ve betrayed my trust and that of the children. You’ve abused them. But why do you detest them so much?” Her eyes widened as something hit her. “Those four murdered street kids …” She stopped and drew in her breath.

  He looked away. “I didn’t kill them.”

  They said nothing for several minutes.

  “I’m sorry, Socra,” she said.

  He nodded. “I know. I have to leave.”

  He picked up his satchel, opened it to show Genevieve that he wasn’t stealing anything from SCOAR, slung it over his shoulder, and slowly walked out with his head down.

  46

  In the morning, Socrate woke with a heavy heart. He had a relentless headache and no appetite. The vision of Genevieve’s pained expression kept coming back to haunt him.

  He sat on the edge of his bed in his underwear with his head bowed. The radio was on in the background. He paid little attention until he heard something that made him sit up. It was a promo announcement for Bola Ray’s Drive Time show that evening. Detective Inspector Darko Dawson would be on with Dr. Allen Botswe discussing serial killers.

  Beautiful, Socrate thought. He sprang up with renewed vigor. Before this evening, he had a lot of work to do and some electronic gadgetry to design. This was where his genius came in. He would need a throwaway phone and a voice disguiser.

  Dawson met with the surveillance officers who had been on duty overnight. They had little to report. No suspicious vehicles had been spotted cruising. The clusters of sleeping street kids had been quiet. But Detective Constable Juliet Quaynor brought up an interesting point.

  “Since Comfort was a prostitute,” she said, “should we also be watching places like Nkrumah Circle, or even Danquah Circle, where many of these ashawos loiter?”

  “I see what you’re saying,” Dawson said, “and it’s a good thought. But that assumes the killer is specifically targeting ashawos, and we don’t think that’s the case. He’s after street teenagers, and although some of them hang around the circles, we just don’t have enough people to cover those areas in addition to the key spots we’re already targeting.”

  As the officers left the room, Dawson made a mental note that Quaynor should be watched as a detective with great potential.

  In Joy FM’s purple and white four-story building in Kokomlemle, Dawson sat in the studio with Bola Ray and Allen Botswe. Like all FM stations in Accra, there wasn’t a separate control room, so the Joy engineer was stationed in the studio itself while Chikata and Carlos, the Tigo phone technician, stayed in the adjoining all-purpose greenroom visible from the studio through a glass window.

  After the intro music, Bola Ray, with his round face, trademark glasses, and broad, easy smile, pulled the mike closer to his mouth and began the segment.

  “First on this evening, we’ve got a very interesting show,” he said. “Dr. Allen Botswe, the renowned University of Ghana professor and criminal psychologist, is here with us to talk about a serial killer roaming the streets of Accra. Some in the press have even dubbed him the Latrine Killer because he murdered one of his victims in a latrine. To give us the perspective of the law enforcement side, we have Detective Inspector Darko Dawson in the studio as well.”

  As the discussion proceeded, the calls began to come in fast and furiously, handled in his usual deft fashion by Bola.

  “Salifu from Koforidua,” he said, looking at his console, “you’re on the air, go ahead.”

  “I want to ask the doctor and the inspector who are talking about this thing, how are you so sure that it is one person alone who is committi
ng these terrible killings?”

  “It’s because of the signature, as we call it,” Botswe said. “Although we can’t reveal details, we see a unique pattern to the murders that could not have been so exactly duplicated by more than one person.”

  “Inspector Dawson, do you have anything to add to that?” Bola said.

  “Dr. Botswe is correct. It’s what we see in the characteristics of the murders that leads us to conclude that there’s a single perpetrator.”

  “Erica is calling from Labone. You’re on air.”

  “So does it mean that this man, the Latrine Killer, will only kill certain types of people like these street children? In other words, should I worry about my teenage girl who is well taken care of and is nothing like a street child?”

  “I don’t think you need worry about this particular offender, the Latrine Killer as you call him,” Botswe said, “but you should continue to exercise the sensible precautions that all parents should take to protect their children.”

  “Next we have Samson in Central Accra.”

  “Good evening, gentlemen. How are you?”

  The voice made Dawson sit up straight. It sounded like an empty oil drum rumbling down an echoing cobblestone alley.

  “Doing well, thank you,” Bola said. “Go ahead.”

  “The perpetrator will not necessarily confine himself to these street children, as you call them.”

  Dawson signaled to both Carlos and the Joy FM tech that he wanted this one tracked. The tech went to work on a row of switches. Outside, Carlos was on his mobile to another engineer at Tigo HQ.

  On a scrap of paper, Dawson scribbled “keep him on air as long as you can” and slid it in front of Bola. He nodded.

  “That’s interesting, Samson,” Bola said. “How do you know what the perpetrator will do?”

  “Because I’m him. I am the perpetrator, and I know what I’m planning.”

  That stopped even the irrepressible Bola for a second. He glanced at Botswe and Dawson, who signaled him to keep on going.

  “If that’s the case,” Bola said, “why call in to Joy FM?”