SIXTY-SEVEN
June 18, Accra, Ghana
Sowah called Emma into his office after the morning brief. “Have a seat, Emma. I want to talk to you about the Tilson case.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve found Mr. Gordon Tilson as his son requested. This was a classic missing person case with a terrible outcome. We wish it could have been a happy ending. Unfortunately, it was not.”
“Yes,” Emma said. “Very sad.”
“Despite that,” Sowah continued, “we have fulfilled the task Derek assigned to us. The rest, namely finding who actually killed Gordon Tilson, is now in the hands of the police.”
Emma felt her dismay rising as she realized what Sowah was driving at. “You mean we’re not going to keep on investigating?”
“As I said, it’s now in CID’s court. Let them handle it. We are under no obligation to investigate, especially now that DCOP Laryea is overseeing Quaino and Damptey. Laryea is a straight shooter. He will see to it.”
“Oh,” Emma said, defeated.
“Why so downhearted?”
“I promised . . .”
“Promised what?”
“I promised Derek we would find the culprit.”
“And we will. Maybe not you and I specifically, but the culprit will be found.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can see you’re disappointed,” Sowah said, smiling a little. “I know you would have liked to be the one to bring Mr. Tilson’s murderer in, but I would rather we don’t tangle with murderers if we don’t have to.”
“Of course, sir. You’re right.”
“In the meantime, I have a brand-new case for you.”
At her desk, Emma wrestled with her feelings of profound letdown. She agreed that the flavor of the case had changed: a missing person was now a murdered one, and her boss didn’t want her exposed to some potentially dangerous men, but she felt empty and unfulfilled leaving it at that. The logical next step after finding Gordon so hideously murdered was to find out who did it.
Emma’s phone rang and to her surprise, it was Bruno. He almost never called her.
“Bruno, what a miracle,” she said dryly.
“Oh, chaley.” He laughed. “How be, sis?”
“By God’s grace. And you?”
“I’m good, oo. Are you at work?”
“Yes, I am. What’s up?”
“I have a question for you.”
“Okay,” Emma said. “Go ahead.”
“You go to some place every Sunday—what is it called?”
“Autism Center.”
“Ah, autism. I see. Those children, they can’t talk, or what?”
“Some do, some don’t. For example, Kojo, my favorite is thirteen years old and up till now, he doesn’t speak, but he can draw very well. Why do you ask about it?”
“Some guy told me they be devil children. Is it true?”
“No, it’s not,” Emma said. “As for we Ghanaians, as soon as we fear something or don’t understand it, then we call it juju, or the devil, or curses. But it’s not like that.”
“Ah, okay. What about his mother and father?”
“His father, I have no idea where he is,” Emma said. “But Abena, his mother is a very nice woman. Normally, they visit me on Sunday evenings. Why don’t you come to my house this Sunday to meet them?”
“Okay,” Bruno said, with a slight hesitation. “I will do that.”
When Emma ended the call, she toyed with a happy fantasy that Bruno would be quite taken by Kojo and might show an interest in helping at the Autism Center. Somehow, though, she didn’t believe that would happen.