Children of the Street

by Kwei Quartey

  “I want to deliver a message to the inspector.”

  “Yes, Samson?” Dawson said. “What’s the message?”

  “Be careful.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “While you’re trying to find out what happened to those other youngsters I murdered, look out for your own seven-year-old boy.”

  Dawson felt goose bumps rise. “If you’re really the killer, Samson,” he said, “give me a secret sign that you know how those kids died.”

  “You mean what I did to them? Let’s just say it was intimate contact. I must be going, because I’m sure you’re busy trying to find my global position.”

  “Samson, this is Dr. Botswe. If I may ask—”

  “Oh, looks like we’ve lost Samson,” Bola said.

  Dawson snatched off his headphones and dashed next-door to the greenroom. “Did you get it?”

  Carlos was on his feet, phone to ear.

  “I think they’ve got it. Hol’ on, hol’ on, it’s coming.”

  “Please, Jesus, hurry up,” Dawson said. “Let’s get going while we’re waiting for it.”

  He, Chikata, and Carlos made for the stairs.

  “Here it is,” Carlos said as the information was relayed in text form on his mobile. “Three fifty-three Faanofa Street, Kokomlemle. What?”

  “Shit,” Chikata said. “That’s the building next door.”

  Dawson felt a thrill surge through him. “God,” he said. “We’ve got him.”

  Bright lights illuminated the front of 353 Faanofa, which was a shop called Come Closer Fashions.

  “I’ll go inside while you check the back,” Dawson said to Chikata.

  The detective sergeant veered off to the alley while Dawson went inside the small, air-conditioned shop. Hip-hop music pounded as a chick in a condom-tight black-and-white outfit and stilettos sorted clothes on a rack.

  “Hello,” she said, chewing gum and smiling. “Can I help you?”

  “Was there a man in here a few minutes ago making a phone call?”

  She raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “No.”

  Dawson charged out, annoyed with himself. Why would the caller go inside where he would be seen?

  Vaulting over the railing at one side of the shop, Dawson landed at a run toward the rear of the building. At that moment, Chikata was coming in the opposite direction with something in a clear plastic bag. Carlos was right behind him. Dawson knew at once from the looks on their faces that the mission had failed.

  “We missed him, boss,” Chikata said, fuming. “Shit! He left this for us taped to the wall back there.”

  He handed the bag to Dawson. It was a cheap plastic phone, the kind Dawson had bought for Akosua. On the screen, there was a smiley face and a text message underneath it: You came fashionably close, but not close enough.

  “You get it?” Chikata asked.

  “Yes, I get it, thank you, Chikata,” Dawson said, his jaw grinding in anger. He wanted to smash the phone into a thousand pieces. “Come Closer Fashions. I get it.”

  47

  The program segment over, Botswe was waiting for them in the downstairs lobby.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  “No.” Dawson handed the joke phone to Botswe.

  “Oh,” he said, reading the text. “Good gracious.”

  “Is that the killer or just a prankster?” Dawson asked him. “What’s your opinion?”

  “Could be both, really. Some of them are that way. But even if he’s the true killer, he doesn’t have designs on your son. He’s just trying to scare you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. He doesn’t have any interest in the kind of boy you have in the age-group he is. He targets teenagers. Killers are remarkably predictable, and he would not switch gears at this point.”

  “I was afraid he might be escalating,” Dawson said.

  “Even if he was,” Botswe said, “it would never involve a boy like your son.”

  Christine was up watching a TV movie as Dawson came in. He flopped down beside her with a sigh.

  “Bad day,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “I heard the broadcast,” she said.

  “Scared you?”

  “Um, yes, a little.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “You don’t sound very concerned.”

  “Christine, of course I’m concerned. I’m just tired. Tired, confused, depressed, all of it.”

  “Sorry.”

  He shook his head. “It’s okay. Look, Dr. Botswe thinks it’s someone playing a prank, and I think I know who it is, although I’ll probably never prove it.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone called Socrate who works at SCOAR. He’s the kind of crazy, immature person who would do this.”

  “Okay, but whoever it is, are you certain this is an empty threat?”

  Dawson sighed. “Okay, let’s think about this logically. Even if this were a true threat, how would anyone get hold of Hosiah? He’s not out on the street without us, he’s safe in the house when he’s at home, and at school he’s supervised. Even when he goes to play with his friends there’s an adult around.”

  “It isn’t very reassuring if you’re out as late as you were tonight. It’s true the house is well barricaded and I’m not going to open the door to just anyone, but still.”

  Dawson chewed on the inside of his cheek. In a way, she had a point.

  “Let’s do this, then,” he said. “Some of the constables do watchmen jobs on the side to make a little extra money. I’ll get a couple of them over on late nights. Would that make you feel better?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  Dawson woke at two-fifteen in the morning thinking he had heard a noise in the backyard. He looked out the window but saw nothing. He slipped on his sandals and headed outside, pausing on the way to check that Hosiah was peacefully sleeping. He walked around the perimeter of the house. All was quiet. When he got back in bed, he told himself he was being paranoid.

  In the morning, he called up P.C. Gyamfi to ask if he was on duty that night.

  “No, Dawson, sir,” Gyamfi said. “I’m off.”

  “I have to be away from home on a surveillance job for several hours tonight,” Dawson said. “Can you watch my house from eight at night until about three in the morning? I’ll pay you.”

  “Thank you, sah! I would be happy to do that for you. Is there something I should know?”

  Dawson explained about the on-air threat that had been made Tuesday night.

  “Yes, of course, Dawson, sah,” Gyamfi said. “No problem. I will take care of it. Anytime you need me and I’m free, I can help you.”

  “Thank you, Gyamfi.”

  At dinner, Dawson told Christine and Hosiah that he would very likely be out late at night, but that Constable Gyamfi would be watching the house in his absence.

  “My relief is supposed to come in at two in the morning,” he said, “so I’ll be back home soon after that.”

  “Who are you going to catch tonight?” Hosiah asked, dexterously spooning up his rice and stew.

  “Good question,” Dawson said. “That’s what I don’t know.”

  Chikata was to watch the perimeter of Kantamanto Market, the railway station, and Kwame Nkrumah Avenue as far up as CMB. Kantamanto itself was shut down at night, so he was spared the impossible task of monitoring the interior of the market itself.

  Dawson would take Kinbu Road and points south, which included Issa’s base. Quaynor and two other constables would cover the rest of the areas within the parallelogram. The fourth constable was Chikata’s driver, while Baidoo was Dawson’s. All were to keep in close touch with Dawson. He badly wanted the killer to show himself tonight.

  Dawson called Chikata. “All clear?”

  “Everything’s quiet.”

  And that’s how it remained for another two hours. At 1:06, as Dawson was making a pass south on Kojo Thompson, Chikata called.

  “Daw
son, an adult male walking near Liberty House on Okai Kwei Road before it intersects with another street—I’m not sure what it’s called.”

  “Commercial,” Dawson prompted. He knew his streets cold.

  “Okay, yes. He looks suspicious. Too dark to see his face well, but he’s about five-ten, well built … Oh, wait. He’s disappeared.”

  “Try following him. Be careful. I’m coming over.”

  Dawson sprinted west on Kimberly Avenue the five hundred meters to Okai Kwei and Commercial. When he got there, he didn’t see Chikata at first. He turned down an alley where empty market tables were stacked upside down for the night. He jumped as a shadow appeared out of yet another alley. It was Chikata.

  “I lost him, Dawson,” he said.

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Dawson saw a movement in his peripheral vision and swung the beam of his flashlight around to find a boy of about twelve standing a few meters away.

  “What are you looking for?” Dawson asked.

  “My friend.”

  Dawson went up to him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Labram.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Hassan. I saw a man talking to him. He went with the man.”

  “Which way?”

  Labram pointed south toward the UTC building.

  “Did you see what the man looked like?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “As tall as me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, let’s walk that way.”

  They went quickly. Except for Dawson’s and Chikata’s flashlights, it was pitch dark. They whirled around as an engine started up. A hundred meters away, a large, silver car was pulling out of a small side street off Commercial. They shined their flashlights, but the car moved off too quickly for them to see who was in it. It made a left on Kwame Nkrumah and sped north.

  “Get your driver and the other constables,” Dawson said to Chikata. “I’ll take Baidoo, and you follow us.”

  He took off for Baidoo’s parking spot. The sergeant must have figured out he was needed because he was already pulling up to Dawson in the Tata jeep.

  Dawson hopped in. “Did you see the vehicle?”

  “Silver Benz,” Baidoo said, bumping over the avenue divider to get to the opposite side. There were no cars on the streets now, so it was easy to keep the taillights of the Benz in view.

  Dawson called Chikata. “He’s going on Tudu toward Novotel,” he told him.

  “Coming that way now.”

  “I’ll stay on the line until you catch up with us. Baidoo, move up a little bit so we can see the license plate—not too close, though.”

  As they neared the car, Dawson’s blood ran cold. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I know the owner of the car.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Dr. Allen Botswe.”

  48

  Dr. Botswe’s silver Benz swung into his driveway. Less than a minute later, the two police Tata jeeps went by, pulling over just a few meters up. Dawson jumped out, and Chikata, Quaynor, and the other constables came up behind him as he hid near the wall and watched the Benz being parked. The driver got out. It was Obi. He opened the passenger door to let Hassan out. The boy looked about the same age as Labram.

  As Obi and Hassan reached the front of the house, the door opened and Dawson caught a glimpse of Botswe as he let them in.

  “Okay,” Dawson said. “Let’s go.”

  He ran up to the door and rang the bell. As soon as Obi opened up, Dawson pushed past him. The others followed. Genevieve Kusi, standing in the foyer with Botswe, Obi, and Hassan, let out a startled cry.

  “Everyone stay where you are,” Dawson said.

  “What’s going on?” Botswe spluttered.

  “Quaynor, take care of the boy.”

  She sidled up to Hassan, took his hand, and escorted him outside.

  “What are you doing here?” Botswe shouted.

  “Would you come with us to the station, please, Doctor?”

  “What for? Are you arresting me?”

  “No, but I do need to ask you some questions. I would like Genevieve and Obi to accompany us as well. If there’s any attempt by any of you to resist, you will be handcuffed. Is that understood?”

  It was going to be a long night. Botswe, Genevieve, and Obi were transported to the Legon Police Station and separated. Fortunately there was one office and two small rooms available to confine them.

  Dawson would take on Botswe first. He briefed Chikata on how to interview Genevieve and the key information he wanted out of her.

  “You’re okay with me interviewing her by myself?” Chikata asked.

  “Yes, I trust you.”

  “Thank you, Dawson.”

  Dawson went into Botswe’s room and shut the door behind him. A ceiling fan was circulating the warm, oppressive air.

  “So, Dr. Botswe. We meet again under rather different circumstances.”

  Botswe, who had been seated in front of the table in the center of the room, shot to his feet, tipping the chair over. “This is an outrage, Inspector!” he shouted.

  “Doctor,” Dawson said softly, “please sit down so we can talk in the proper fashion.”

  His chest heaving with anger, Botswe righted his chair and took his seat again.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” Dawson said, now sitting down himself on the other side of the table. “Certain areas of Central Accra have been under surveillance in regard to the recent killings of street youngsters. This evening, we observed your vehicle taking a boy away from the UTC area. In view of recent events, which you’re well aware of, I’m obligated to question you.”

  Botswe looked incredulous. “That’s all this is about?” he cried. “Why didn’t you simply ask? There is a perfectly harmless explanation for this, Inspector.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Look, for about a year now, I have been interviewing street children about their experiences in the city, some of it for an article I’m writing for the Ghana Journal of Psychology on coping mechanisms of street kids.”

  “Does this have something to do with the paper Austin Ansah is writing? He says he was a student of yours.”

  “Austin is an excellent Ph.D. candidate. He and I have collaborated on papers before, although we’re not doing that right now. He gets some of his ideas and techniques from me.”

  “Go on.”

  “So I’ve been interviewing these kids. Sometimes they’re random picks from the street, sometimes Genevieve suggests children at SCOAR. But there are a couple problems in regard to SCOAR. First, it’s a somewhat contrived environment, whereas I prefer the rawness of the street. Second, about six months ago, I began to feel that I was using these kids as a resource without giving them anything in return. So I decided that, whomever I interviewed, I would give them a treat.

  “So the way I do it is I send Obi out to discreetly pick up a child or two from the street, bring him or her here in the Benz or the Infiniti. We feed them, allow them to have a refreshing shower, then I interview them, and they sleep overnight in the guest rooms. In the morning, Obi returns them to the street.”

  Dawson’s lip curled. “It seems almost cruel. You give them a sip of water and then pour the rest away.”

  “Not at all. If you could see the looks on their faces, Inspector, and see just how grateful they are that someone has paid attention to them, pampered them. It’s an experience of a lifetime. And I always tell them, all this comes with hard work and education, and I encourage them to go into educational programs like that offered by SCOAR and other organizations.”

  Dawson stared at Botswe. “This is one of the strangest things I’ve ever heard.”

  “Because you’re cynical, like most of the rest of the world, Inspector. You don’t believe that people who have a lot can extend a little kindness to those who have nothi
ng. Are you telling me you’ve never done anything like this before?”

  Dawson suddenly thought of Sly and how he had hoped to get the boy in school. But that was different, wasn’t it? School would presumably get the boy ahead in life. How would wining and dining him in a fancy house for one night help?

  “How many children have you given this treat, as you call it?” Dawson asked.

  “Some twenty-odd.”

  “Where were you the night of Saturday, fifth June, Doctor?”

  “Fifth June?” Botswe thought for a moment. “Oh, I was in Kumasi visiting my sister for the weekend. Is that the date of Musa Zakari’s death?”

  “You have a good memory. What time did you arrive in Kumasi?”

  “Saturday afternoon around three or so.”

  “Who can confirm your whereabouts on that date at that time?”

  “Well, my sister Eloise, of course. And Austin Ansah can help confirm it as well.”

  “Why, did he go with you?”

  “No, but he babysat the house that weekend. I gave Obi the weekend off, and I prefer not to leave the house unoccupied. We’ve had burglary attempts before.”

  “Austin is an ex-student of yours and he babysits your house? Seems a little bit unusual. Is there another connection between the two of you?”

  Botswe’s eyes flickered. “Just because I’m well off doesn’t mean I’m not kind.”

  “Separate matter,” Dawson said steadily. “This is something else. I believe the connection is Genevieve.”

  “Well, he’s her brother. Otherwise I don’t get your meaning, Inspector.”

  “I’m guessing that you and Genevieve have a relationship that is more than professional.”

  “How did you come to that absurd conclusion?”

  “One, she’s at your house in the small hours of the morning. Two, she told me the painting by Wiz Kudowor that hangs in her office was a gift. His works run in the thousands of dollars, so someone well off must have given it to her.”

  “And I’m the only well-off person in the country?” Botswe said with a smile.

  “No, but you too have a painting by Wiz in your home. It just seems too coincidental to be really coincidental, if you see what I mean.”

  “Okay, you’re right.” Botswe closed his eyes for a moment. “Please. I don’t want this to get out, Inspector. For her sake.”