Children of the Street - [8]

After a couple of rinses, Biney could get a better look.

“The muscles of the fifth intercostal space are disrupted, and here you can see splintering of the sixth rib, where the weapon struck it with considerable force on the way in. Turn the body on its left side, please?”

The attendants did so, holding the corpse steady as Dr. Biney examined the back.

“Because of swelling and decay, it’s hard to spot it at first, but here is the external wound corresponding to the internal injury. See that, Inspector?”

“I do.”

“In turn, the external wound matches the tear in the victim’s shirt where the knife struck. I estimate that the blade was six to eight inches long.”

“Vicious,” Dawson murmured.

“Yes, indeed. Stab wound to the back resulting in perforation of the right lung, massive hemothorax, and death.”

“Time of death?”

“I hesitate to assign a specific number, but remember this: the body was lying in a warm, wet environment saturated with bacteria. Under such conditions, this degree of putrefaction could have developed in just hours.”

Dawson stared at the murdered boy’s face. “I don’t know how we’re going to identify him. He would be unrecognizable even to someone who knew him. The missing tooth might help, though.”

“Or a forensic artist,” Dr. Biney said. He chuckled ironically. “I’m just dreaming.”

Dawson smiled. There was no such thing as a forensic artist in Ghana.

As they washed their hands, Dr. Biney said, “Inspector, I believe you have your work cut out for you.”

“Doctor, I believe you are right.”

5

Dawson ducked into Papaye for a quick lunch-piping hot rice and chicken washed down with ice-cold Malta, the soft drink he loved. If he were on death row, he would choose Malta as his last meal-oversweet, fizzy, rich with malt and hops. While he was waiting for his meal to be brought to the table, he phoned Chikata to tell him about the autopsy.

“It will be tough finding out who this guy is,” the detective sergeant said.

“I know, but we have to keep trying,” Dawson replied. “Get two detective constables, go down to Agbogbloshie, and ask around for a missing boy of about seventeen, about five-six in height with a missing upper right tooth.”

“Ewurade. You’re sending me back to that stinking place.”

“Wear a mask.”

“These people are just not going to talk, Dawson.”

“You never know. Miracles happen.”

“But not in Accra,” Chikata said with a derisive snort.

“Get to work and stop complaining,” Dawson said, ending the call.

Chikata was a spoiled brat. He could be lazy as well. His uncle, Theophilus Lartey, was chief superintendent of police, or chief supol. That made him a senior officer and Dawson’s superior. Chikata thought that gave him the right to take liberties. In truth, it was nepotism that had got him into CID’s Homicide Division with Dawson, and it might well be nepotism that got him promoted.

Dawson was on his last gulp of Malta and considering having some more when his phone rang.

“Dawson,” he answered.

“Inspector! How are you?”

“I’m fine, Wisdom.”

Dawson knew the voice well. It was thin and brittle, like snapping plantain chips in one’s fingers. Wisdom Asamoah was one of the Daily Graphic’s leading reporters. He and Dawson had a long history together, sometimes at each other’s throats.

“I want to know about the man in the lagoon,” Wisdom said.

“How did you hear about it?”

“I have eyes and ears everywhere, Dawson.”

“We have a Public Relations Office for press inquiries, remember? Call them.”

“Come on, Dawson. PRO is too slow for me. By the time they get me the information I need, I’ll be in the afterlife.”

“I can give you something, but you can’t use my name.”

“You know you can trust me, Dawson.”

“We don’t know who the victim is yet, but it’s a homicide-”

“How was he killed? Drowned?”

“Not drowned.”

“How, then?”

“Not drowned.”

“Okay. You’re not saying. How old a person?”

“Estimated sixteen or seventeen.”

“Oh, so a teenager, eh? Dr. Asum Biney did the autopsy?”

“Yes.”

“No witness accounts of any kind?”

“No, nothing.”

“When are you going to release photos?”

“We can’t. Too much decomposition.”

“Ah. You need a forensic artist.”

Dawson was surprised. “How do you know about that?”

“I watch Forensic Files,” Wisdom said with a laugh.

“Well, this is Ghana. We don’t have most of that fancy American stuff you see on TV.”

“Can I make you an offer, Inspector Dawson?”

“What kind of offer?”

“What if I get hold of a forensic artist, you release the victim’s autopsy photos to me, I forward them to him and have him draw a likeness of the victim? You would get that back so you can use it for police purposes, and I would get it to publish it in the Graphic.”

“How would you find a forensic artist?” Dawson asked suspiciously.

“I know one-Yves Kirezi. I met him years ago when I covered the Rwanda genocide. He’s helped identify thousands of genocide victims by re-creating their appearance after they had been beaten beyond recognition, so you know he has to be good at what he does.”

“Are you sure he would be willing to do this?”

“We are good friends, Inspector Dawson. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”