by Kwei Quartey
“Edwin,” Josephine whispered. “Listen to him. Please. We can work something out. I can help.”
“How?” he said, his voice laced with contempt. “Your husband, the big chief, is out of the picture. Commissioner Andoh hates both you and me. And you are inside this thing too. How are you supposed to help? Or are you just trying to betray me now? I release you and then you turn on me and blame me for everything?”
“What is he talking about?” Courage whispered to Emma.
She thought she knew, but she wasn’t sure and she didn’t answer the question.
“What is it she will blame you for?” Dazz asked Edwin.
He looked at his mother. “Tell them, Mummy. Tell them what you made me do.” He pressed the muzzle against Josephine’s neck and she began to shiver with fright.
“Edwin,” Dazz said. “Edwin, look at me. Put down the gun. Think about this. It’s not really worth it, right?”
“And all that just because you wanted your husband to remain IGP so you could continue your life of luxury,” Edwin said to Josephine, the muzzle still pressed into her neck. “Tell them what the ballistics will show, Mummy.”
“But I’ve been supporting you all these years, dear,” she said, beginning to cry.
“The money isn’t your love,” Edwin said, his voice cracking. “It’s your guilt. Guilt that you let your mother send me away to Techiman to stay with your sister, guilt that you never let me come back into your life. Even autistic Kwame is okay to be in your family, but me? Nothing but shame over me.” He had begun to cry with her and Emma had a feeling that the situation was spinning out of control. Edwin was getting more overwrought instead of more reasonable.
“Edwin,” Dazz tried again, “you know as well as I do that we can do things to cool down the situation. You have a lot of people on your side—me, Courage, all your colleagues.”
“No, no,” Edwin said. “You think I don’t know? You’ll turn against me the moment I’m in jail.”
“Why would you think that?” Dazz asked, and Emma caught a slight tremor in his voice. It was important that he stay rock steady, but she wasn’t sure how much more he could take.
“Why should you think that of your friends?” Dazz repeated.
Edwin brought the gun down away from his mother’s neck. Emma prayed. Please God. Make him drop it and surrender.
“I just don’t know what to do,” Edwin said, sounding like a small, lost child. “Nowhere to turn. Nobody to trust.”
“That’s why I say we can help you,” Dazz said urgently. “I beg you, Edwin. Please. Let us help you through this.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Edwin said again, bringing the gun back up to Josephine’s neck again.
“No—” Dazz said.
What happened next was almost too quick to see. A shot rang out and a starburst of blood erupted. Josephine screamed and fell to the floor from the couch while Edwin launched backward. Dazz let out a guttural cry of horror and Courage and the DCOP sprang into the hallway and started toward the bedroom. Emma followed Courage, who had his weapon raised and ready. Dazz stood frozen in the doorway.
Josephine was crying out, patting her body all over and looking for the gunshot wound. But she didn’t have one. And then she saw her son splayed on the back of the sofa with mouth open, eyes staring up, and brain matter on the wall behind him. She shrieked, “No!” and scrambled up to go to Edwin.
“No,” Dazz said, diving for her. “Come away, madam. Come away.”
Weeping, she resisted as he removed her from the scene. She began to collapse, but Emma was there to catch her.
“I’ve got her,” she said to Dazz. “You go do what needs to be done. I’ll take care of her.”
Emma held onto Josephine and coaxed her downstairs. She had never seen the IGP’s wife without makeup or in anything except a beautiful outfit. Now she was plain and vulnerable and distraught beyond anything imaginable.
“Come, Madam Josephine,” Emma said. “Let’s sit down.”
She sat with her arms around Mrs. Akrofi, who wept until she had no energy left. Then she was quiet, appearing dazed, detached even. Soon Araba, her own face tear-stained, came to sit with her employer in an attempt to comfort her. Within the hour, the crime scene team appeared in their otherworldly outfits, going up and down the stairs to process the carnage.
Emma thought about the unbearable sadness of it all, and about the bitter truth that was yet to come. She had understood it now, and it was all very clear.
NINETY-EIGHT
Exhausted, Josephine had slept for a short time on the couch in James’s study. She sat up, unsteady and bleary-eyed and saw Emma in the doorway.
“Looks like you really needed that rest,” Emma said, smiling at her.
“Yes,” Josephine said. She gasped and dropped her head into her palm. The memory of what had happened must have just hit her like a pile of rocks.
“I can only say how sorry I am about Edwin’s death,” Emma said.
“Thank you,” Josephine said stiffly.
“Would you like to come outside?” Emma asked. “I can have Araba bring you something?”
“Just water, please.”
Josephine was surprised as she emerged to find DCOP Laryea in the sitting room. “Oh. Hello, Mr. Laryea.”
“Good afternoon, madam,” he said, standing from his chair. “I hope you’re feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, taking a seat slowly, as if she had suddenly aged decades. “Well, I mostly feel numb, really.”
Araba came in to give Josephine a glass of water and then left. Emma took a seat in a chair to Laryea’s right.
“Sincere condolences for your loss, madam,” he said. “He was a fine SWAT officer.”
“Yes,” Josephine said, staring at the floor, her water untouched. “Why would he kill himself? I just don’t understand.” She looked at Emma in anguish. “You knew Edwin. Did he tell you anything? I mean, was something troubling him? If you know, please tell me.”
“Mrs. Akrofi,” Emma started, “this is very difficult. Edwin was living with a lot of pain.”
She looked surprised. “Pain? What pain? How?”
“It started when, as a child, he was sent away to live with his aunt in Techiman.”
Josephine reacted quickly. “But it wasn’t my decision.”
“Oh, Madam Josephine,” Emma said, smiling kindly at her, “I’m not leveling any accusations or criticisms against you. We’re talking about Edwin now. Up till the time he died, he felt banished and abandoned, whether justifiably or not, by both you and his father.”
“But I supported him,” Josephine objected, her voice rising. “I sent him money regularly.”
“What he needed from you more than that,” Emma said, “was love. Remember what he said today before he took his life: he had never felt that the money you supported him with represented your love for him; he felt it was your guilt. Guilt over your sending him away to Techiman to stay with your sister, guilt over your not letting him back into your life. In his mind, you were keeping him away with the financial support. You never lost the shame your mother laid on you for having a child out of wedlock.”
“I felt no shame at all,” Josephine denied. “None. Edwin was always welcome.”
She refuses to admit the truth, Emma thought.
“Madam Akrofi,” Laryea took up, “during our attempts to make Edwin put down his weapon, he made reference to your having made him do something. Do you know what he meant by that?”
“I made him do something?” Josephine was evidently nonplussed. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember him saying that. It’s all a blur now. A terrible blur.” Tears trailed down her face.
Emma snatched a couple of tissues from the box on the center table, handed them to the IGP’s wife, and sat next to her.
�
�What am I supposed to do now?” Josephine whimpered, almost to herself. “My husband is gone; my son is dead. My world has collapsed.”
“And I know how much you wanted to keep it together,” Emma said. “To keep Mr. Akrofi in his elevated position and protect all his secrets. To keep having the ability to travel to the UK several times a year to see your little boy, Kwame. And when that stability was threatened, you had to act.”
Josephine stopped dabbing her eyes. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“Bernard Evans-Aidoo posed a serious threat to President Bannerman’s reelection,” Emma said, “and if Evans-Aidoo defeated him, your husband would be out and both of you would lose the many perks and privileges that come with the IGP position—the travel allowances in particular, which was how you jetted so frequently to Europe, the US, and to the UK to see your autistic son.”
“Why are you saying all this?” Josephine asked with a frown.
“When Edwin said, ‘tell them what the ballistics will show, Mummy,’” Emma continued, “he was referring to the rifle we found at his home. The same one he used to kill Evans-Aidoo.”
Josephine pulled back. “What? Edwin didn’t kill anyone.”
“To protect Bannerman’s reelection and your husband’s continued post as the IGP, you needed Evans-Aidoo dead,” Emma said. “You pressured Edwin to carry out the assassination. You made him feel the obligation to do it for you, his mother. And what son doesn’t feel a duty to his mother?”
Josephine looked bewildered. She looked at Laryea. “I don’t know what she’s talking about. Do you know?”
“And the assassination attempt on Sana Sana was by Edwin as well, wasn’t it?” Laryea said. “Sana Sana was getting too close to the truth, so again, you asked Edwin to eliminate him. Fortunately, he was unsuccessful.””
The IGP’s wife sat up ramrod straight and moved away slightly from Emma. “Why are the two of you attacking me like this?”
“Because you are guilty of a very serious crime,” Laryea said.
“No, no,” Emma said, reclaiming Josephine’s attention. “He may be attacking you, but I am not. I’m on your side in the sense that you have a God-given right to protect your husband and your way of life.”
Laryea said, “Miss Djan, please leave the room. Now. You should not be here in any case.”
“Madam Akrofi is a good woman, sir,” Emma said, turning to him. “She’s responsible for all of the success of the Autism Center. She cares about every single child there as much as she cares for her own Kwame in England. Isn’t that right, madam?” Emma lightly touched the other woman’s shoulder. “I know how much Kwame means to you.”
Josephine nodded, tried to say something, but choked up.
Laryea rose from his seat and started to move menacingly toward the sofa on which the two women sat. “Miss Djan,” he said quietly, “if you don’t leave now and allow me to handle this myself, I will arrest you on the spot.”
Emma jumped up and stood in front of the DCOP as if to bar him from taking another step in Josephine’s direction. “Wait, sir. Please. You’re telling me a mother shouldn’t be able to see her autistic child when she wants? Do you know the kind of pain Mrs. Akrofi went through when she had to abandon Kwame in the UK?”
A stifled noise came from Josephine and she began to weep, her chest and back heaving with every pained breath. “I didn’t abandon him,” she struggled to say. “It’s not fair of you to accuse me of that.”
Emma hurried back to her. “Madam, no, no. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry to have upset you. The way you feel about Kwame is something I understand because I have that kind of deep love for Kojo at the Autism Center, and he’s not even my son. If I was in your position, I would move heaven and earth for him. No one can take away your right to use your husband’s position to Kwame’s benefit.” Emma gave Josephine another wad of tissues. “And no one should ever try to bring your husband down. Not Sana, not Mr. Tilson.”
“Mr. Tilson,” she said blankly. “What do you mean?”
“He was nosy, not so?” Emma said. “Going around asking all kinds of questions about whether high police officials, including your husband, were involved with and supportive of Internet fraud in cahoots with sakawa boys. And Mr. Laryea has also told me about the obnoxious, threatening letter Mr. Tilson wrote to Mr. Akrofi—and I know you don’t take well to threats, either to you personally or your family.”
Josephine smiled very slightly. “No, I don’t.”
“And Mr. Tilson even went to Kweku Ponsu to ask questions that were none of his business,” Emma continued. “Madam, you’ve known Kweku Ponsu a long time, have you not? Abena saw you and him having an argument the night after I was supposed to have drowned in the Volta River. You were angry with Ponsu, of course, for having failed to get rid of me.”
Josephine stared at Emma. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“I had no idea you and Ponsu were acquainted,” Emma continued, “but Edwin told Dazz Emma wasn’t there and Courage that you took Kwame as a child to a traditional priest to try to banish the autism, and I guessed it was Mr. Ponsu you consulted. Am I right?”
“I was desperate,” Josephine said, almost indignantly. “I had to do something. Ponsu said he could cure Kwame but failed.”
“You must have been devastated,” Emma observed. “Were you angry with Ponsu?”
“I wouldn’t say angry,” Josephine said, twisting the used tissues around in her fingers. “He did his best.”
“And over the years, you kept in touch with Mr. Ponsu?”
“Off and on.”
“When Mr. Tilson went to Ponsu’s shrine in Atimpoku,” Emma said, “they had a verbal tussle in which Ponsu warned him, ‘you should fear plenty other people before me.’ By that he meant people with power and privilege like yourself. Once Mr. Tilson had left, Ponsu must have called you to tell you all the American man had said. Tell me if that’s correct, Mrs. Akrofi.”
Her jaw set, Josephine looked away and said nothing.
Emma shifted position, kneeling on the floor where she was back in Josephine’s line of sight. “I’m not judging you, madam. This is only a matter of the truth. You have more wisdom than I do, so I don’t need to tell you that the truth will set you free. The burdens you’re carrying right now—your husband’s arrest, your son’s suicide—those alone are too much to bear. Don’t add another load on your shoulders.”
Josephine’s face betrayed no emotion, but she was fidgeting uncomfortably.
“Mrs. Akrofi?” Emma prodded. “Please, let’s get through this together, eh? What do you say?”
The room was silent for what seemed a long time before Josephine shrugged and spoke in a low, husky voice. “He became the enemy.”
“Mr. Tilson, you mean,” Emma said, her eyes fixed on the other woman’s face.
Josephine nodded. “Yes, him—Gordon. He changed, became a different person. I had enjoyed his company while I was in Washington, but when he came to Ghana, I hated what I saw in him. He was like a garden spoiled by weeds. Because of his experience with the scam, which I felt was entirely his fault, he was bitter and vindictive. Worst of all, he joined forces with Sana Sana.”
“That could not stand,” Emma agreed.
“And no one threatens my husband,” Josephine added. “No one.”
“I hear you,” Emma said, “so when Ponsu revealed Gordon’s threats and his attempts at intimidation, you were outraged?”
Resigned and drained, Josephine said, “Yes.”
“So, you took action, of course.”
“Well, at that point, there was only one thing to do, wasn’t there? I told Kweku to get rid of Gordon. I didn’t care how he did it. I just wanted that American gone.”
Josephine sat slumped, her bottom lip trembling and her eyes welling.
Laryea cam
e close to her and gently rested his hand on her shoulder. “Josephine Akrofi, I am arresting you as a co-conspirator to murder and attempted murder, and an accessory to murder. You do not need to say anything further, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you in a court of law.”
Josephine put her face in her hands and wept quietly.
Laryea nodded at Emma, who went to the door and opened it. Dazz was waiting.
“She’s ready,” Emma said.
Dazz came in and helped Josephine from the sofa. “Come along, madam,” he said gently.
He led her away.
Laryea looked at Emma. “Well played,” he said, but there was no gloating in his tone. “Thank you.”
“And you too, sir,” she replied. “Very well played.”
NINETY-NINE
After Mrs. Akrofi’s arrest, Emma took a cab to CID, where Thelma Bright had scheduled a meeting with Commissioner Andoh. Traffic en route was predictably slow and it gave Emma enough time to call someone she was dying to talk to. Derek picked up after three rings. “Emma! So good to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m very well, thanks. Is this a good time?”
“For you, any time is good.”
She smiled. “That’s sweet of you. I’m calling with news.”
“Is it good?”
“I would say so, yes. Do you remember a woman called Josephine whom your father mentioned in his emails to Casper?”
“Yes, the woman Dad had met here in DC.”
“Yes, they were friends there, but in Ghana your dad became a danger to Josephine. He was getting closer and closer to knowing the truth about how high the sakawa scams went up the chain and Josephine was afraid of her husband being exposed. That would threaten their whole life as they knew it, and she couldn’t abide by that.”
“So, you’re saying . . . she had my father killed?”
