The Missing American Page 3

  Apart from the slow-running water, the bathroom was adequate at best but frequently less than. Overall, her lodgings were scanty, with the kitchen and sitting room practically one space and the bedroom not much more than a cubbyhole. And yet the rent took easily three-quarters of Emma’s salary, first because housing in Accra, Ghana’s capital, was exorbitant at any level, rich or poor, and second because as a constable in the Ghana Police Service, or GPS, Emma didn’t earn much.

  The measly compensation from the GPS would always be the way it was. You had to accept it and live. That Ghanaian police officers were constantly looking for a handout from the citizenry wasn’t even a secret anymore. Cops’ paltry salary was both a reason and excuse for greed, need, and corruption. Everyone, from the lowly constable to the exalted police commissioner, was guilty, and they knew the public knew.

  Emma checked her reflection in the mirror, making sure her conservative gray skirt and cream blouse were spotless and impeccably pressed. She felt she was too skinny. Her problem, as friends and family pointed out without relent, was that she “never ate anything.” Not quite true, but she did often skip meals without noticing.

  She left the house, walking quickly along the unpaved and uneven sidewalk. This time of the morning, already warm and humid, the streets were full of children in their uniforms hurrying to school and workers rushing to get to work on time. Accra’s traffic could foil them yet.

  At the Kaneshie lorry park, tro-tro drivers and their assistants, called “mates,” competed ferociously for passengers. Hustling potential riders, they yelled out their final destinations in an iconic singsong voice. Emma found her tro-tro and squeezed past other passengers to a tattered seat with ratty foam and exposed springs. When the mate had packed the vehicle as full as physically possible, he signaled the driver with a bang on the roof and the journey started. The minivan, like almost all other tro-tros, was in an advanced state of disrepair—no maintenance whatsoever, Emma imagined. Essentially, she and the eighteen-or-so other riders had just agreed to a high risk of death or mutilation going from point A to B.

  The Criminal Investigation Department, CID, building had a new coat of sun-yellow paint, but it could not conceal its age. Seven stories high, it had monotonous rows of old style, dusty louver windows with occasional modernized plate glass sliders.

  A sentry box and armed guard stood to the left of the front security gate and everyone including senior officers underwent an immediate pat down on entry to the premises. From there, it was on to the lobby of the building accommodating an assortment of people on all kinds of business.

  Headed to the second floor, Emma went up the steps, which were so worn they slanted downward. Emma was a true novice with the Ghana Police Service in general and the CID in particular. Twenty-six, she had graduated from the police academy only four months before. She had always dreamed of being a homicide detective. That was what her late father had been. The atmosphere in Daddy’s office milling with detectives, the stacks of folders piled high on desks, the capture of suspects and the questioning of witnesses, a glimpse into this case or that—as a girl, Emma had taken it all in by some unconscious process of osmosis infused with fascination.

  “Daddy, how did you catch the bad man?” she would ask him, sitting on his knee.

  He had never waved her away with that well-known adult dismissiveness toward a child: “You wouldn’t understand. I’ll tell you when you grow up.” He would explain it all to her in a way that made sense. And when she nodded with understanding and satisfaction, he smiled and gave her a kiss on her forehead. She would laugh and run off to play.

  Daddy had been her hero—he still was. His sudden death at the age of only fifty-five had left the two women in his life—Emma and her mother—bereft. He had never taken his hypertension seriously enough. One morning at work, he collapsed—dead almost instantly from an engulfing hemorrhage of the brain.

  On graduation, Constable Emma Djan quickly discovered she would be assigned a department at the discretion of the GPS alone. New recruits didn’t get to indicate their preferences, if they had any. Emma’s fervent hope she would join Homicide didn’t materialize: her station was to be the Commercial Crimes Unit (CCU). She and fourteen other officers investigated the acquisition of land or homes through fraudulent transactions, trespass, document forgery, and so on. Land grabs and property theft were rampant in Ghana. Getting to the bottom of it was tedious, mind-numbing work. Most of the cases remained open for months to years.

  Emma’s heart was not in it. She wasn’t under any illusion that homicide investigations didn’t involve monotonous paperwork, but the motives behind commercial crimes didn’t grab her the way murder did.

  She pushed the CCU door open and went in with a flat, unenthusiastic feeling that meant she would rather be somewhere else. She was more than on time. Only two other workers were already there. The rest would straggle in over the next hour or two. Stolen property wasn’t going anywhere. There was no pressure to get to a crime scene before evidence was destroyed.

  “Morning, morning,” Emma said brightly to her coworkers. She tried to put the best face on it.

  They replied without much enthusiasm as Emma took a seat at the table she shared with several colleagues. The whole unit was depressed and depressing. She tackled the folder at the top of her file—dreary records about this complainant and that defendant. She wished she was Homicide Detective Constable Djan. “DC Djan” had a nice ring.

  When she had first joined CID as a recruit in the CCU, she had begun working with her officemates with reasonable keenness. They showed her the ropes, but with scant hand-holding. “This is like this, and that is like that; now get to work.” In only her third week in the unit, it hit Emma right between the eyes that she couldn’t possibly continue this. She was dying a slow death in boredom purgatory. Several days followed during which she drummed up the courage to approach her superior officer, Inspector Kuma, in his office, which wasn’t much more than a small space in the corner of the unit.

  “Yes?” he had asked irritably as she knocked on his open door. He was youthful in the face and rotund in the body. Too much banku.

  Emma came forward to a respectable distance from Kuma’s desk, deferentially keeping her hands behind her back. “Please, sir,” she whispered, “I want to know if I can also train in the Homicide Division.” She didn’t dare say “transfer to Homicide,” because it would sound like she didn’t like Inspector Kuma or his department—which was true but not a good thought to express out loud.

  “What?” he snapped. “Train in Homicide? What is wrong with you? You think you can just go wherever you like? Why do you want to do that?”

  “Please, I like it,” Emma said.

  “How do you know? Have you been a homicide detective before?”

  “No please, but my father was one.”

  “So, because he was in Homicide, you think you know you will like it?” Kuma laughed. “It’s in the blood, is that what you are trying to say?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Who is your father?”

  “Chief Superintendent Emmanuel Djan. He passed away six years ago.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Kuma said, with a surprising amount of sympathy in his tone. “Where was he stationed?”

  “At Kumasi—Manhyia District Headquarters.”

  “Did he know our director?”

  By that, Kuma meant Commissioner Alex Andoh, the director-general of CID. Next to the inspector general of police, he was one of the most powerful and influential men in the police hierarchy. “Director-General” was his position, while “Commissioner” was his police rank and the titles were used interchangeably.

  “Please, I’m not sure,” Emma said, her fingers twisting around each other behind her. “I don’t think so.”

  “Look, Constable Djan,” Kuma said, “you can’t just change your department like that, eh? Maybe on
e of your father’s associates can talk to DCOP Laryea in charge of recruit assignments, but as for me, I can’t help you. Sorry.”

  “Okay, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Kuma dismissed Emma and she went away surprisingly uplifted because there might have been something to Kuma’s idea. She was lost in thought as she sat down, her work temporarily forgotten. Commander Seidu, the head of the Kumasi Regional Headquarters, had always liked and respected Daddy and had been deeply affected by his death. Emma made the decision to call Seidu.

  But in the months that followed, nothing seemed to result from contacting Commander Seidu. He had said he would see what he could do for her and Emma knew him well enough to know he had meant it, but in retrospect she realized she had set her hopes too high. Slowly, she was becoming accustomed to the grind and tedium of the CCU, and her desire to become a detective constable in Homicide, albeit still there, began to wane. The reality that it wasn’t going to happen sank in. The question she had begun to pose to herself now was whether she wanted to remain with the Ghana Police Service at all.

  Near closing time, Kuma called Emma to his office. “Report to DCOP Laryea’s office,” he said curtly.

  “Please, now?”

  “No, next week. Of course, now!” he thundered. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Yes please. Sorry, sir.”

  Emma nearly tripped over her own feet as she made haste out of the unit.

  EIGHT

  Deputy commissioner of police (DCOP) is among the top ranks in the GPS, and so for Emma it was nerve-wracking to face Cleophus Laryea in his expansive, fifth-floor office chilled by an efficient air conditioner high up on the wall. Receding, patchy hair and a face lined with creases confirmed his seniority. A pair of spectacles perched halfway down his broad nose, and when he looked up over them, his eyes were intense and piercing.

  “Be seated, Constable Djan,” he said quietly, pointing at one of a pair of chairs in front of his desk. She sat down without a word and waited, her heart in her stomach. She suspected this was about her request to move to Homicide, but was it going to be good news or bad?

  “I have heard from Commander Seidu in Kumasi on two occasions now,” Laryea began, his voice as deep as a village borehole. “He informed me of your interest in working in the Homicide Division.” He looked over his spectacles. “Is that still the case?”

  “Yes please, sir,” Emma said.

  “He spoke very highly of your father.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Why do you want to work in Homicide?”

  “Please, as I followed my father’s work until the day he died, I came to learn the ways of working as a detective, and I liked it very much. I have wanted to do it for a long time. I feel the connection with people is stronger and more important than . . .”

  Laryea removed his glasses. “Than what?”

  Emma squirmed. “Than what I’m doing now,” she said in barely a whisper.

  His eyes sliced through her. “Are you having any kind of conflicts or difficulties in the CCU you wish to tell me about?”

  “No please,” Emma said hurriedly. “Everything is fine.”

  Laryea nodded. “I asked Inspector Kuma about you and he said you are a diligent worker.”

  Emma’s heart fluttered. Maybe Kuma wasn’t so bad after all. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I will approve your transfer to Homicide,” Laryea said. “As a matter of fact, they do need some female presence, and so that will be good.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Emma said, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Was there a but coming?

  “But,” Laryea said, “the final decision lies with Commissioner Andoh.”

  “Yes please,” Emma said, her elation beginning to dissipate.

  “I’ve discussed it with him already.” Laryea looked at his watch. “It may be too late, but let me see if he’s in the office and if he can see you now.”

  Emma’s disquiet spiraled into outright terror. She was to meet Commissioner Andoh in person? For a junior officer like her, the director-general was God himself.

  Laryea got on his mobile and after a few seconds said, “Yes, sir. I have interviewed her. Yes, I believe she is, but of course, it is ultimately your decision. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” He put away his phone and looked back at Emma. “He says you can go up now.” Laryea must have detected her anxiety. “Don’t be fearful, Djan. The director would never summon you if he wasn’t open to your request. You should understand that.”

  “Yes please,” she said, slightly reassured but no less nervous.

  “Just be yourself, as you have been with me and you’ll be okay.”

  “Yes please. Thank you very much, sir.”

  Like an anxious mountain climber, Emma went up two flights to the seventh floor, the summit of the CID building. Sergeant Thelma Bright, Commissioner Andoh’s decades-long assistant, showed Emma into the room. It was, as she had expected, larger than any other she had seen at CID. The carpet was plush. Pictures of the commissioner—one a full portrait by himself, the others with various luminaries including Ghana’s president—adorned the walls.

  Andoh’s desk was dark, polished, and massive. Half a dozen chairs were arranged in a line about three meters away from it. Part of the director-general’s role was to give audience to select members of the public who had a particularly serious matter or grievance to bring to his attention.

  In size, the commissioner matched his desk and the large, leather executive chair that supported his heft. Resplendent in a dark blue uniform with impressive insignia on his chest and epaulets, he was writing something, and he didn’t look up.

  “Sit down there, please,” Bright said to Emma, indicating one of the chairs.

  Emma didn’t make a sound as she took a seat. She realized she was holding her breath. Bright remained standing with her hands respectfully behind her back.

  After a short while, the commissioner glanced up at her, but not at Emma. “You may go, Thelma. Thank you. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Thelma left, closing the door quietly behind her. Andoh continued to write as if Emma were not there. Then he capped his pen, leaned back, and looked her over. Like Laryea, he was graying, but his face was much pudgier, with heavy jowls. “Yes, Constable Djan. How can I help you?”

  Emma didn’t know how to begin.

  Andoh saved her the trouble. “DCOP Laryea tells me you want to transfer to the Homicide Division. Do you know you can’t do whatever you want here at CID?”

  “Yes please,” she whispered.

  “You think you’re special just because your father was a homicide detective?” He sounded contemptuous, which made Emma want to shrink.

  “No please.”

  “Eh? Speak up.”

  “No, sir.”

  “How do you think you will personally benefit the Homicide Division?”

  Emma was undecided on how to answer. Should she continue to cower or speak her mind? “Please, I understand there aren’t many women in that unit.”

  He pressed his lips together. “That’s your reason?”

  “Please, I believe it’s my destiny.”

  Andoh looked incredulous for a moment and then began to laugh. “You are funny,” he said. “Funny and naïve. But one thing is that you are motivated, and that is good.”

  Emma felt a small wave of relief.

  “If you are to get this position,” Andoh said, “then you must perform well and to my satisfaction. Do you understand?”

  “Yes please. I will.”

  He inclined his head. “Are you sure you can look at dead bodies? You look too soft.”

  “No please,” Emma said with a tinge of indignation. “I’m not soft.”

  “Come here and let me show you some photographs of homicide crime scenes and we will
see how you react,” the commissioner said. “Bring the chair over with you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Emma sat to his left and he brought a laptop in front of them from the right side of the desk. After some clicks, he brought up several gruesome photographs—people butchered to death by blunt force or deep machete wounds; a woman with her throat cut almost clean through; a man hanging from a tree branch.

  “These are all real cases the Homicide Division has seen,” Andoh said, looking at her. “How do you find them?”

  Emma was leaning forward with fascination. “This one has a very personal signature,” she murmured, pointing at the woman with the severed neck. “Maybe her husband or boyfriend, or a family member.”

  “You know about signature,” Andoh said, clearly surprised. He nodded. “Anyway, you are correct. In fact, it was the husband who murdered her. He thought she was committing adultery with the neighbor. Good job.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Emma said. Her heart was racing with excitement. He seemed impressed. This was working out beyond her dreams.

  “What about this one?” he asked, clicking to another image and at the same time resting his large hand on Emma’s right thigh. She flinched, startled. The commissioner’s attitude toward her had transformed. Now he was friendly, even intimate. Perhaps he was just being kind, but she felt uncomfortable.

  “Constable Djan?” he pressed, and his hand shifted a little higher on her thigh. “What do you think?”

  “Well,” she said, flustered and distracted, “from his injuries, it seems he was dragged to the location where he was found.”

  Andoh was watching her closely. “Something like that.” He stood up, towering over her. She found him intimidating. “Come with me,” he said.

  Uncertain, she rose to follow him to a door in the back of the room that she had not noticed till now. He unlocked it, opened it, and stepped inside. “Come,” he said, as he saw her hesitation.