A Cold Case of Killing

by Glenn Ickler

  “Your wife is holding my hand, Mitch,” Zhoumaya said. “I’ve had a serious death threat today.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Who and the Why

  IT’S AMAZING HOW quickly the winds of happiness can drop out of a person’s sails when a friend says she’s threatened to be obliterated by a hurricane. My tale of journalistic triumph was put on hold while we talked about the threat to Zhoumaya’s life.

  The death threat had been delivered via e-mail from a computer in a public library in Chicago. It had been sent the previous evening and she’d found it this morning when she booted up her office computer. The message told Zhoumaya that the sender planned to put her on a slow, painful road to hell, where she could be reunited with her husband. This was followed by personal references that convinced Zhoumaya that the writer knew her and was serious about sending her to join her late husband, Doliakeh Jones. She said that the e-mail had not been signed, but had ended with: “you know who and why.”

  “And do you know who and why?” I asked.

  “I can only think of one person who might hate me that much, but he’s in prison in Liberia,” she said.

  “Are you sure he’s in prison?”

  “He was when Doliakeh and I left Liberia.”

  “That was several years ago. He might be out by now.”

  “The man was sentenced to twenty years. He shouldn’t be eligible for parole this soon.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Why would this man want to kill you?”

  “Because I sent him to prison,” Zhoumaya said.

  “How’d you do that?”

  Before Zhoumaya could answer, Martha rose from the sofa and said she would bring us all some iced tea so we could get comfortable and talk about Zhoumaya’s problem. Left alone with Zhoumaya, I found it extremely difficult to make small talk.

  Obviously Zhoumaya did, too, but after a couple of awkward minutes she tried. “So, how was your day?”

  “It started awfully early but it turned out very good,” I said. “Until I heard about your trouble, that is.”

  “Sorry to be the day spoiler,” she said, making me wish I hadn’t added the “until” part of the description.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” I said. “I’m glad you came over to tell us about it. I assume that you’ve called the police?”

  “I have. I gave them the man’s name and they said they would check into his present whereabouts. I can’t imagine that he would be free, but I didn’t know where else to start.”

  “Any chance he might have broken out?”

  “In Monrovia? Not likely. The security there is . . . well, let’s say it’s efficient.”

  Martha appeared bearing a tray loaded with three tall glasses of iced tea and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “You’ll spoil my dinner,” I said as I grabbed a cookie.

  “I’m sure you’ll find room,” Martha said. She patted my stomach, calling my attention to an expansion that had been taking place in that area. I needed to get back to a regular schedule of jogging.

  Zhoumaya smiled and accepted a glass of tea and a cookie. She took a sip from the glass and waited for Martha and me to seat ourselves on the sofa. When we were settled and looking at her in anticipation, she took another sip and began.

  “As you know, I worked for the city government in Monrovia for several years before Doliakeh and I left Liberia and came to the United States,” she said. “About two years before we left, I discovered some inconsistencies in one of the city’s money accounts. I went to my supervisor with my discovery and together we carried out a quiet investigation. What we found was that this man, Robert Obachuma, had set up a separate personal bank account under a fictitious name and was funneling a small portion of his department’s receipts into it each month. It was a very sophisticated arrangement; he was a very well-educated, clever man. The total amount stolen was nearly half a million dollars when we went to the police and had him arrested.” She paused to sample the chocolate chip cookie.

  “So he was charged with embezzlement?” Martha asked.

  “He was charged and convicted, mainly on my testimony,” Zhoumaya said. “The day he was sentenced to twenty years in prison he swore he would get even with both me and my supervisor. By normal parole standards, he wouldn’t be eligible for several years yet, so I can’t imagine how he could be free.”

  “But the e-mail message fits his threat,” I said.

  “That’s why I went to the police. If he did get out some way and is e-mailing from Chicago, he could be on the way here to make good on his promise.”

  “So maybe you should disappear somewhere for a while,” Martha said.

  “I’m planning to do that,” Zhoumaya said. “But I came over to tell you about it and to tell you what Robert looks like in case he shows up here.” She took a big bite of her cookie.

  “Okay, what does he look like?” I asked.

  “Mmm,” she said, and swallowed her cookie. “He’s tall, probably about your height, and very strong-looking. At least, he looked very strong the last time I saw him in the courtroom. He’s middle-aged, I’d say he’d be a little over fifty years old by now. And he’s full-blooded Liberian, which means he’s as black as I am.”

  “Well, if he shows up on the porch I won’t invite him in for iced tea and cookies,” I said. “When are you planning to bail out of here?”

  “Probably some time tomorrow. I’m going to visit a friend—I won’t tell you where—but I’m hoping to get some kind of report from the St. Paul police before I go. If they find out that Robert is still in jail I’ve got a whole different person to worry about—one that I’ve got no clue about who he or she could possibly be.”

  “Why don’t you stay here with us overnight?” Martha said. “This is a fold-out sofa bed that we’re sitting on.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t put you to that much trouble,” Zhoumaya said. “I’ll lock up tight in my place and keep my gun handy next to the bed.”

  “You’ve got a gun?” I said.

  “Yes, I have. A lovely little snub-nosed revolver that can fit into my handbag. And I have a permit to carry it.”

  “You never cease to amaze me.”

  “A girl never knows when she might need a gun. Especially when the girl has dark skin and is stuck in a wheelchair.”

  “At least you could stay for dinner,” Martha said. “It’s pasta with a tomato and veggie sauce and there’s enough for six people, much less three.”

  “That I will accept,” Zhoumaya said. “I’m so shaky right now I can’t imagine trying to cook anything.” I saw her hand tremble as she raised the last bite of cookie to her lips.

  * * *

  ZHOUMAYA RELAXED A bit after dinner, and even joined Martha for an after-dinner glass of wine. I drank sparkling cider while they sipped their merlot and the conversation finally turned to my triumph of the day. I had just about reached the part where Jack Anderson slashed the bad guy’s throat when our doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” I said.

  When I’d arrived home, I’d left the inside door open so the evening air could come in through the screen door. Now on the other side of the screen I saw a tall man of about my height who wore a light blue shirt, black pants, and an open navy blue blazer. He looked as strong as a Vikings linebacker and had a Twins baseball cap on his head. He appeared to be middleaged—maybe a little over fifty. His skin was deep black.

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Jones,” he said in a rumbling bass voice. “Do I have the right number?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wanted Man

  ALL THAT WAS between us was an unlocked screen door. I thought about backing up quickly, grabbing the inside wooden door, slamming it shut and locking it. Instead, I said, “May I ask who you are?”

  “Sure,” the big man said. “And I’ll tell you.” He put his right hand into the inside pocket of the open blazer and I took a step back and started to reach for the wooden door. But before I could grab the door, his
hand came out bearing a leather wallet with a shiny metal shield. He held the shield against the screen and I read “FBI” on the top line in large letters. Below “FBI” it said “Clarence Jordan,” and below that, “Special Agent.”

  “The St. Paul police asked for our help with a problem involving Mrs. Jones,” he said. “Do I have the right number?” He was smiling ever so slightly, as if my reaction to his hand movement had amused him.

  I realized that I’d been holding my breath ever since the moment I first saw Clarence Jordan standing at my door. I let the old air out, sucked in a gulp of new air and said, “Right number, wrong door. But you’re lucky; she’s visiting us this evening. Come on in.” I was smiling ever so slightly in embarrassment.

  I pushed gently on the screen door and Jordan grasped the knob and pulled it open. He was still carrying his ID in his right hand when we reached the living room, and he held the shield up while he introduced himself to the women. Zhoumaya, who had stiffened at first sight of him, relaxed when she saw the shield. “The St. Paul police asked us to step in because of the international nature of this case, Mrs. Jones,” he said.

  “You mean because I asked them to check on a man in Liberia?” Zhoumaya said.

  “Exactly,” Jordan said. “It seems that the man in question, Mr. Robert Obachuma, was granted an early parole because of his exemplary behavior in prison. It seems that they needed more space for incoming inmates and so they released some of the residents who were judged to be less dangerous to society. Apparently their judgment wasn’t a hundred percent correct.”

  “So you think that’s who sent the death threat?” Zhoumaya said. “You think he’s in this country?”

  “We don’t know where he is, Mrs. Jones, but it certainly is possible. Tell me, did you know a woman named Ellen Sankawulo in Monrovia?”

  “Why, yes, she was my supervisor. We investigated the embezzlement together. We still exchange Christmas letters every year.”

  “It’s my sad duty to tell you that you won’t be doing that anymore,” Jordan said. “Ms. Sankawulo was found dead in her home two days after Mr. Obachuma was released from prison. Monrovia police have a warrant out for his arrest on suspicion of murder.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Zhoumaya and Martha in unison.

  “How was she killed?” I asked, ever the crime reporter.

  “Not very pleasantly,” Jordan said. “Monrovia police indicated that she was tortured in some manner before the final blow was struck.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that,” Martha said. Zhoumaya had bowed her head and was covering her face with her hands.

  “You’re right,” Jordan said. “What we need to talk about is keeping Mrs. Jones safe and apprehending Mr. Obachuma if he comes to St. Paul.” He put a hand on Zhoumaya’s shoulder and she uncovered her face and straightened up.

  “I assume you would recognize this man if he appeared,” Jordan said.

  “I certainly would,” she said. “I hate to say it, but I think he looks a lot like you. About the same height and build and age. His skin’s a little darker than yours and he used to shave his head.”

  “Well, the look-alike ends at the hairline,” Jordan said. He removed the Twins cap to reveal a full head of close-cropped black hair. “But I have to agree with you otherwise. Monrovia police e-mailed a photo and I was amazed at how much he looks like what I see in the mirror. The photo was taken upon his release and the biggest difference between us was that he still shaves his head.”

  “Zhoumaya had told us what he looked like and I damn near wet my pants when I saw you at the door,” I said.

  “You did look a little shaken,” Jordan said. “But I get that a lot from white people, so I thought . . .”

  “I’m not one of those white folks who are scared of black men and think they all look the same,” I said. “It was a reaction to Zhoumaya’s description of Obachuma. She had just finished telling us what he looks like, and there you were.”

  “Whatever it was, don’t worry about it. The important thing is that we’ve put a twenty-four-hour police watch on this building,” Jordan said. “We can either give you a police escort everywhere you go, Mrs. Jones, or you might want to consider vacating the premises until the situation is resolved.”

  “I’ve already made arrangements to stay with a friend up north for a few days,” Zhoumaya said. “I’m not telling anybody where it is.”

  “I’d suggest you tell me,” Jordan said. “And I also suggest that Ms. Todd and Mr. Mitchell move out temporarily, if possible. We don’t know how far this man will go with innocent bystanders and you don’t want to wind up as collateral damage.”

  Martha blushed and looked at her feet. “I was saving this news for later, when Mitch and I were alone, but I’ll be leaving for Moorhead tomorrow morning to try a case for my law firm. The trial is sure to run over into next week. I was planning to come home over the weekend but I could stay in Moorhead if the man hasn’t been caught by Saturday.”

  This hit me like a punch in the gut. “Whoa! When did that come up?”

  “Just this morning. One of the two attorneys on the case was banged up in a car crash last night and Linda asked me to take over because I’d been helping them with the preliminary work. Like I said, I was going to tell you about it when we were alone and could, uh, discuss being apart for several days.”

  I assumed the planned discussion would climax with an appropriate goodbye, but I simply shrugged and said that the timing for her leaving couldn’t be better.

  Jordan turned to me. “What about you?” he asked.

  “I’ll keep the door closed and my eyes open,” I said. “No more screen door chats until this guy is behind bars again.”

  “Couldn’t you go stay with Al or somebody?” Martha said.

  “I’ll be okay. Sherlock Holmes and I will hold down the fort.”

  Jordan’s expression turned quizzical and I explained that Sherlock was my faithful feline companion who had shared more than one adventure with me in the past. “Sherlock has disappeared a couple of times and been kidnapped twice but he has at least five lives left,” I said.

  “That’s four more than you have,” Martha said. “I really wish you’d move out until that man is caught.”

  Clarence Jordan chatted with Zhoumaya a few minutes longer before escorting her to the other side of the duplex. Before departing, he told us that the gray Chevy parked half a block away contained a pair of St. Paul police officers charged with watching for Robert Obachuma. “I had to badge them before I walked up and rang your doorbell or they’d have had me in cuffs for sure,” he said.

  Alone at last, Martha and I discussed her impending departure while she packed a suitcase. As I’d expected, the discussion climaxed at about eleven o’clock with a very appropriate goodbye. Two very appropriate goodbyes, in fact.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Saved by the Bell?

  WEDNESDAY WAS MY day off. After kissing Martha goodbye seven times, one for each day of probable absence, I spent the hours behind locked doors with Sherlock, peeking out the front windows every so often to check on the pedestrian traffic.

  The only pedestrian who turned in and climbed the porch stairs was a middle-aged black woman who went to Zhoumaya’s door. Five minutes later, Zhoumaya emerged in her wheelchair with the woman behind her towing a suitcase big enough to carry Zhoumaya’s wardrobe plus the kitchen sink. They went down the ramp and the woman helped Zhoumaya get into a black Lincoln SUV. She stowed the wheelchair in the back and they drove away, leaving Sherlock and me alone in the building.

  Twice during the day I ventured onto the porch to assure myself that the police watchdogs were still on the job. The gray Chevy was replaced by a darker gray Ford in mid-afternoon as the shifts changed. Otherwise traffic on Lexington Avenue was normal.

  Every two hours I received a phone call from Martha. Her purported purpose was to tell me where she was along the 240-mile road to Moorhead and assure me that she was safe
and well. I suspected that her real purpose was to assure herself that I was still safe and well enough to answer the phone.

  Late in the afternoon I called Al, who also wasn’t working, and told him about Zhoumaya’s danger. He offered me a spot on the sofa in their rec room but I declined. I was a big boy who could take care of himself. Besides, I had a cat to feed.

  * * *

  THURSDAY MORNING, I STEPPED out and looked in all directions before locking the door and checking it twice. My head continued to oscillate in 180-degree sweeps as I walked down the porch steps and slid into my Honda Civic, which was parked at the curb in front of the duplex. The gray Chevy was back in the surveillance spot, and I waved at its occupants as I drove past. My hope was that we’d hear about the capture of Robert Obachuma on the Daily Dispatch police radio sometime during the day.

  Al and I arrived at the Daily Dispatch front door at the same time, and on the elevator going to the fourth floor we talked about Zhoumaya’s death threat, the visit from the FBI, and the possibility of a suspected killer coming to my door. Again Al offered overnight shelter, and even included dinner. The dinner invitation made it a difficult decision, but again I graciously declined.

  We took a detour through the cafeteria to acquire some coffee and continue the discussion. Al agreed that the timing of Martha’s trip to Moorhead was good, and we went our separate ways, me to my desk and he to get an assignment from the photo boss.

  My first phone call of the morning went to Brownie, who put me on hold for a minute that lasted 180 seconds. This was shorter than many of Brownie’s minutes, and when he came back to me I asked if he had talked to Jill Anderson. He answered in the affirmative.

  “Did she tell you anything that wasn’t in my story?” I asked.