Treachery in the Yard tp-1

by Adimchinma Ibe

  “Obviously, no one thought Okpara would be alive to look at anyone.”

  He reclined in his chair, eyeing me as if trying to decide what to do next-and perhaps he was. I felt uncomfortable. Why was he being so sharp? What was wrong? He was silent for a few more moments, and when he did speak, he sounded resigned. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t stir the hornet’s nest. You’re always taking chances. Your fall could well mean others will fall. Remember that.”

  Others. I respected Chief, but compared to me he was always the politician, always. That was why he was Chief and I was a detective. He cared about politics, I cared about solving the crime. “I’ll be careful,” I replied slowly.

  He picked up his pen and said, deliberately, “Okay, then,” not meaning it.

  “A lead, that’s all it is.”

  “If you must you must. You have my approval. Go and check out your lead. But I want the report on the bombing.”

  “Femi is finishing it. I’ll have him send it over. Thanks, Chief.” I stood to leave.

  “Tomorrow morning, detective.”

  “More likely this afternoon.”

  He waved me away and returned to making notes in a file folder. It made sense he was worried. We were dealing with powerful people, powerful people perhaps trying to kill each other.

  Half an hour later I was driving to the security guard’s house at Marine Base. When I saw it, I knew I had not driven to a palace. Concrete, bare with no fence, the building seemed more like a small school with rows of rooms on either side of a U-shaped pattern, typical of public housing in this part of town. Judging from where they lived, Security Guard Okon Abasi and his family were not living the Nigerian dream.

  A young naked girl of about six ran from behind the building, nearly bumping into me. An older girl, perhaps eleven, wearing only panties, followed her, shouting for her to return to the kitchen and to finish washing the plates.

  I was embarrassed. I was not used to seeing naked or nearly naked girls. Where I grew up, in the townships, such sights were unknown. Usually, township people were rich, but my parents were simply comfortable. I was lucky. Everyone in Nigeria lived in extremes. The security guard and his family lived here, in the slums of Port Harcourt, while his employer lived in paradise, or as close as modern Nigeria came.

  I called to the older girl.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, apparently unaware her half nakedness made me uncomfortable.

  “How are you?” I nodded at her.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “I’m looking for the Abasis. Do you know where they are?”

  “That’s us.”

  “Where is your father?”

  “He’s gone to work.”

  “Is your mother at home?”

  She hesitated-a smart kid, wondering who I was and what I wanted. Before she could ask another question, I told her that I was a friend of her father’s. I said I had a message for her mother. She stared at me suspiciously. I looked like a cop. My guess was Mom and Dad did not have many friends with the police.

  “She’s sleeping inside. Let me call her for you.” She disappeared into the building, the second room on the left row, calling Mommy as she ran in, looking once over her shoulder at me.

  I waited outside. Moments later, a young woman came out with the girl in tow. Both of them looked at me suspiciously. Mother and daughter for sure. “Yes? What can I do for you?” The mother was of average height and heavily built, with a dark complexion.

  “Mrs. Abasi?”

  “Who are you?” She revealed nothing more than she had to. Maybe her daughter told her I was police; maybe, like her daughter, she saw the law in me.

  “Can I come in?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Police.”

  That was all I had to say-to some people. She did not bother to ask for my badge, stepping slightly to the left, allowing me just enough space to squeeze past her into the building. I found myself in a small room, a combined sitting room and bedroom. Through an open door, I saw another room with a smaller bed. Kitchenware was set up in the corner of the room. No TV, just a six-battery radio on top of the wooden room divider, along with books and some prized possessions (earrings).

  The chairs were all rickety. I sat in one. Carefully.

  She probably guessed why I was there. There was no point being coy. “I’m investigating the bomb blast at Okpara’s. Where your husband works.” Her facial expression did not change-a mix of suspicion and feigned lack of interest. “Has Okon told you about the blast?”

  “Yes, the news’s all over.”

  “Who wanted your husband’s employer dead?”

  “Papa Iniobong don’t tell me much. Okon was lucky to be at the gate when it happened or. .”-she gestured to the sky with her open palms-“I would have been a widow. Just like that. I told him to leave that place. All those big men and their big troubles, just leave it. But he won’t hear.”

  “He didn’t tell you anything else? Did anyone threaten his boss before the explosion?”

  “I don’t understand, sir.” Now the suspicion was obvious-and the fear.

  “The question is simple enough. Has anyone threatened to kill his employer?”

  “How can I know about such things? Am I a big man?”

  “So your husband never told you of any plot to kill Okpara?”

  “God forbid!”

  “Did you see him bring any strange objects home in the past few days?”

  “No.” The walls were completely up now; they were thick, tall, and had broken glass on top.

  “Has he been behaving unusually lately?”

  “No. Papa Iniobong is very, very normal.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “I answered your question.”

  “He wasn’t under pressure lately?”

  “No.”

  She was giving me less and less. There was not much point continuing. “Okay. And he didn’t bring home any large sums of money lately?”

  She grinned, exposing perfect teeth.

  “No?”

  The grin stayed. I was the one expected to leave. She either was stupid or smart, maybe both. Certainly, I saw nothing to indicate she had come into a lot of money recently. But I could have her watched, have her bank records checked. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Abasi.”

  “It’s Matilda. And you’re welcome, as long as you leave and don’t come back.” Same smile.

  “Matilda, then. Thank you. Have a nice day.”

  She followed me to my car, perhaps to make sure I was leaving, and watched as I drove off. I saw her in the rearview mirror, arms folded over her chest, waiting until I was completely gone.

  When I returned to our office Femi told me that Okon had been brought in and was waiting in the interrogation room.

  “Excellent,” I said. “I’ll tell him hello from his wife.”

  “How did it go with her?”

  “She knows something but I have no idea what. Maybe she just knows enough to tell me nothing.”

  “But she won’t speak, eh?”

  “Nothing worthwhile.” I shook my head. “I doubt we’ll get anything from Abasi, either.”

  “Well then, go ahead and waste your time interviewing him. I’ll stay here to get some useful work done.”

  I gave him a sarcastic grin as I left our office. Femi liked paperwork, while I have always been the sort of guy who wants to shred the papers and go out into the field. This time instead of going out into a field, I walked across the Yard.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At the main building, Corporal Ogbonnaya Ubani was at the counter. I told him I wanted to see Abasi. He brought up a constable who took me to the interrogation room. Abasi was already there, and looked up as I walked in. I took a spare chair and dropped the bombing report on the table in front of him. It made a loud thump. I also pulled out a pocket tape recorder and pressed Record.

  “You understand your rights?”

  “No
.”

  “You have the right to have a lawyer present.”

  “Am I being arrested? For what?”

  “Are you willing to waive your rights?” Sometimes I found it helpful to ignore rights, something of course I’d never want done to myself.

  “No. But that won’t matter, will it?”

  “Sometimes. Not today. Too much is at stake.” He seemed confident enough. Perhaps he had nothing to hide after all. He was not insisting on lawyering up. “Do you know the man that ran from the bomb scene personally?”

  “Who?”

  I read from the report: “About six feet tall. Big man. He drives a white 305 Peugeot.”

  “That guy? He said he was the plumber, that Okpara called him over. It was suspicious, my master asking for a plumber himself.”

  “So you did not believe him?”

  He nodded. I rather liked him. “I knew he was lying. I knew the workers who came to the house. I’d never set eyes on him before. And he was too well dressed for a plumber. But I checked inside. Stephen Wike told me to let him in.”

  “Wike?”

  He nodded again.

  “This is the truth?”

  “Yes. Wike told me that they had called a plumber for the upstairs washroom.”

  “Was he the one who set the bomb off?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I was at my post when the explosions happened.”

  It was easy enough to check. Wike. Interesting. I got up abruptly and went for the door.

  “Am I free to go?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I told him, and told Ubani to have him released.

  I decided to be political. This whole case was political. I needed allies. I decided to call on Captain Akpan, who was waiting in his office. I brought him up to speed.

  “Really?” Akpan asked incredulously. “Wike believed the guy was a plumber?”

  “Maybe. Maybe he knew all along that this plumber knew nothing about faucets and sinks. I think Wike knows more than he is telling.”

  “Did the house need a plumber?”

  “Haven’t gotten there yet. I thought I’d pass this on right away.”

  “I appreciate that.” He sat back, thinking. “There are six house helps and three relations we could question. They have already been interviewed, but without this new information.”

  “Femi and I can interview them.”

  “Good. Do that. Right away. What else?”

  “I have more questions now than before.”

  Femi knocked on Akpan’s open door. We both turned to look at him.

  “One of the two mystery men at the Karibis last night was picked up by patrol officers. Thought you would want to know.”

  This was good news. “They’re sure he’s our man?”

  “No one saw their faces earlier, but he was caught sneaking around the Karibi home.”

  “When?”

  “Early this morning, before the sun was up. He couldn’t give a straight story why he was in the area.”

  “Excellent. Where is he now?”

  “Not here. That’s the bad news. Barrister Osamu came and took him on bail.”

  “Howell Osamu? Same Osamu? I saw him leaving with a younger man when I came in this morning.”

  “Same. Same Osamu. Same young man. His name is Thompson. If that’s his real name.”

  What interest would a high-end lawyer like Howell Osamu have in such a fellow? “I want to check on Osamu. I want to know what his interest is in this Thompson.”

  Captain Akpan shook his head. “Go after Osamu? Is that a good idea? What do we have on this guy? Nothing; just loitering. Osamu will be only too glad to chew your ass off if you make a charge against his client without any evidence.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “There’s more,” Femi said. “We received a call from Judge Karibi. I just heard.”

  “And?”

  “Our men are on the way. I don’t know the details yet. The staff sergeant passed it on.”

  “I don’t like any of this, Femi. I’m going over to the Karibis. Do you have his number?” Femi checked his notebook and gave it to me. I dialed it on my cell. No answer.

  In my car, I tried his phone again. On the third ring, it was answered. “Judge Karibi, I’m concerned about your call,” I said immediately.

  “Who is this?”

  “Detective Peterside.”

  “This is Staff Sergeant Okoro, detective. Judge Karibi doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now.”

  “Thanks, sergeant. Too bad for the judge. Put him on now.”

  There was only a slight pause before I heard the judge. “Detective?”

  “I’m driving toward your house now. I am concerned about your call. The man found in your backyard this morning. He’s on the loose again.”

  He sighed. “You are too late.”

  There was a pause, and Okoro was back. “Detective, you don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “The judge’s wife is dead. He found her ten minutes ago, in the kitchen.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m in the Rumuokwuta, round about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I don’t like murder investigations when the bodies pile up. You have to spend a lot of time climbing over the bodies to get to the truth.

  Staff Sergeant Okoro walked over as I got out of my car at the judge’s house.

  “When he came home nobody answered the door. He and his driver found Mrs. Karibi dead in the kitchen.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “In an upstairs bedroom. I have an officer with him.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Beaten. Head bashed in. The pathologist is on the way. There’s more.”

  I wiped off the sweat from my forehead, the ever-present sweat, the ever-present heat. “More? Like what?”

  “The maid was killed, too. I think she died from a hit on the head. We found them both in the kitchen.”

  “What does the crime scene say?” I asked as we walked into the house.

  “Judge Karibi found the front door locked. The gardener said he was relaxing in the boys’ quarters, listening to music on headphones. Says he didn’t hear a thing. The house isn’t ransacked, no signs of forced entry. Looks like they gained entry through the kitchen. We found signs of a struggle in the kitchen, a chair overturned, and a table on its end.”

  I walked through the ground floor of the quiet house with him. There was blood on the kitchen floor.

  “We found two distinct pairs of shoe prints in the backyard, going to and coming from the kitchen door.”

  If Thompson had murdered two women, chances were he had not been alone.

  Dr. Lazarus Onwuchekwa, one of our pathologists, was bent over Mrs. Karibi’s body, while the crime scene boys were taking photos. The doctor looked up. “Good day, detective.”

  “Is this how you like to start your day?”

  He shrugged. “The pay is good.”

  I checked on the rest of the search, which had been done on the house and grounds. The front door was clean, but there was blood around the back door, and shoe prints in the backyard.

  “Anyone talk to the gateman?” I asked Okoro. He shook his head. “Get him here. We need to know where he was when all this happened. And Judge Karibi’s driver, too, I have a few questions for him.”

  I found the judge in a bedroom upstairs, sitting quietly on his bed, an officer in a chair across the room. He looked stunned. “Sorry, judge. I need to ask some questions.”

  He was staring ahead. “Now? Can’t it wait, man?”

  “I know. And I am sorry. But it cannot wait, not if we are going to catch whoever did this.”

  He looked at me now. It was not a look I ever wanted to see again. He did not want to say a word-but he was a judge, after all, and knew. “I got a threatening call in my office. A man’s voice, telling me that my wife should keep her mouth closed.
I told him she had already given her evidence. I was worried, so I came home early. The door was locked. That was not unusual, of course. But no one opened it, even after I knocked several times. Miriam, our maid, should have answered. I got out my keys and had my driver accompany me. At first, the house seemed abandoned. But I heard the television in the living room. I hoped Naomi had gone to the kitchen or washroom. But I found her on the kitchen floor. After that, everything was a blur. I think my driver called the police.”

  “Did the phone caller say anything else?”

  “Just what I’ve told you. No name; I did not recognize his voice.”

  I like being tough but I could not bring myself to ask him anything else. I left him sitting quietly with the police officer keeping him company. The driver corroborated his story. The gateman had nothing to add except that he had observed a white Toyota truck driving around the neighborhood around ten in the morning. He thought they were probably looking for an address and were lost. There were two men inside. A huge guy was driving, and a younger, thin man was in the passenger’s seat.

  “Thompson,” I muttered to myself. The gateman must have seen the expression on my face, for fear jumped into his eyes as the realization hit him: the occupants of the white truck must have been the killers. Now that this happened, he had to have been thinking he should have alerted the police about the suspicious men.

  I let that sink in. He looked reproached enough to make me believe he had a lot of guilt weighing on his conscience. He huffed a sad breath and looked at the other officers standing around when I interrogated him. He must have been thinking of arrest. Poor guy. He was miserable. I left him to go find Okoro.

  When I found Okoro, he passed on what the pathologist told him. “Mrs. Karibi’s throat was slashed. The maid was hit in the back of the head. Laz said she was hit in the back of her head with a blunt object. Maybe wood, he thought: round, like a small club. Hard to tell exactly what happened, but it looks like the maid was killed first, maybe right in front of the wife seeing how the judge’s wife fell next to the maid, over some of the maid’s blood from the head wound.”