Children of the Street - [29]

“Please, Inspector Dawson is here to see you,” Obi said.

Dr. Botswe put down the book as he stood up and strode over to shake hands. He was short, dapper, late forties, Dawson guessed. His black and gray beard was exquisitely trimmed, just like his landscaped garden.

“Allen, Allen Botswe,” he said. “Good to meet you, Inspector Dawson.”

“Likewise. I appreciate your seeing me.”

“Not at all. It’s my pleasure.” He spoke with just a touch of sibilance, like a straw broom sweeping concrete. “Please, do have a seat.”

Dawson chose the low-backed ebony chair with stitched, buttery soft, chocolate-colored leather.

“May I offer you some refreshments?” Botswe asked.

“Do you happen to have Malta?”

“Do we, Obi?”

“Yes, please.”

“Have Irene bring Malta for the inspector, and I’ll have a Heineken.”

Obi crossed to the adjoining formal dining room, disappearing through a door on its far side. Dawson imagined him trekking for miles to some region of the mansion in another time zone.

Dawson tried not to stare too obviously at all this opulence as he and Botswe made small talk. Irene, a tiny woman in her early twenties, came in with a tray of Malta, Heineken, and frosted glasses. She set it down on the table between the two men, poured the drinks, and backed away a few steps.

“Please,” she said to Botswe in barely a whisper. “Do you need something else?”

“No, that will be all for now, Irene. Thank you.” He gave a permissive wave. She curtsied before leaving.

“She’s one of our newer ones,” Botswe said casually to Dawson, raising his glass. “They come and go rather faster than I would like. Obi is our only Rock of Gibraltar, really. He’s been with us for twelve years, trains all the staff, keeps an eye on them, and whips them into shape, that sort of thing. All-round handyman as well, takes care of the repairs and the garden.”

Dawson nodded, more concerned with his Malta. When it came to the complexities of supervising the servant classes, he had nothing to contribute.

“Anyway, enough of that,” Botswe said, as if reading his mind. “How can I help, Inspector?”

Dawson told him what he knew about the young man found dead in the lagoon, now identified as Musa Zakari. Botswe listened with rapt attention, nodding at intervals.

“Outstanding detective work,” he commented, at the end of the account.

“Thank you, Dr. Botswe. I know you’ve written extensively about ritual murder in Ghana and other West African countries, and that’s why I’m here. There’s something specific about Musa’s murder that I want to consult you about.”

“Excellent,” Botswe said, sitting forward.

Dawson handed him the autopsy photos.

“My goodness,” Botswe said. “This is extreme decomposition.”

Dawson detected just the tiniest trill in the doctor’s voice.

“Hello, what’s this?” He looked up at Dawson. “Fingers amputated?”

“Yes, except the index.”

“Associated with the murder? Or do we know that?”

“Dr. Biney, the pathologist, thinks so.”

Botswe leaned back, one hand contemplatively on his chin. “Hmm. Any other mutilation? No removal of the genitalia, or the tongue?”

“No.”

Botswe rose. “Come with me, Inspector. Let’s go to my study. Please, by all means bring your Malta with you.”

They passed the dining room into a carpeted corridor. The professor’s study had a muted, anechoic quality to it, like a library. In a way, it was, what with the wall-to-wall-to-wall bookcase. A king-size mahogany desk was polished to a hard, reflecting shine. Botswe’s framed degrees and awards-Dawson counted ten of them-told a tale of academic brilliance. The University of Ghana, Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, Oxford, Yale, and several prestigious societies. On another wall hung three framed pictures of Botswe with a woman and three teenage children.

A large window looked out onto the garden at an angle slightly different from that of the sitting room. Obi was spreading a tarp over the garden furniture to protect it from the looming rainstorm. Judging by the sky, it would arrive sooner than Dawson had been expecting.

From the bookshelf, the professor selected a hefty textbook titled Magic, Murder and Madness: Ritual Killing in West Africa, by Allen Botswe, Ph.D. He brought it back to the desk and pulled up a chair for Dawson.

“This is probably the most focused on ritual murder that I have.” Botswe opened the book to a page about one-third through. “We can go back as far as the eighteen seventies, when British colonials gave accounts of human sacrifices made to the gods by the Ashantis. Here’s a rare depiction by an unknown artist of a sacrificial ceremony.”

Botswe gave Dawson a few moments to examine the picture before going to another page. “In more modern times, one of the most well-documented early cases was the Bridge House Murders of March 1945. The body of a ten-year-old girl was found on the beach a short distance from Elmina at a popular bathing spot. Her lips, cheeks, eyes, and privates had been removed. The poor little girl died from hemorrhage. The story goes that these body parts were to be used to make medicine, so called, to help someone win a chieftaincy dispute.”