Adimchinma Ibe - Treachery in the Yard

“Did the phone caller say anything else?”

“Just what I’ve told you. No name; I did not recognize his voice.”

I like being tough but I could not bring myself to ask him anything else. I left him sitting quietly with the police officer keeping him company. The driver corroborated his story. The gateman had nothing to add except that he had observed a white Toyota truck driving around the neighborhood around ten in the morning. He thought they were probably looking for an address and were lost. There were two men inside. A huge guy was driving, and a younger, thin man was in the passenger’s seat.

“Thompson,” I muttered to myself. The gateman must have seen the expression on my face, for fear jumped into his eyes as the realization hit him: the occupants of the white truck must have been the killers. Now that this happened, he had to have been thinking he should have alerted the police about the suspicious men.

I let that sink in. He looked reproached enough to make me believe he had a lot of guilt weighing on his conscience. He huffed a sad breath and looked at the other officers standing around when I interrogated him. He must have been thinking of arrest. Poor guy. He was miserable. I left him to go find Okoro.

When I found Okoro, he passed on what the pathologist told him. “Mrs. Karibi’s throat was slashed. The maid was hit in the back of the head. Laz said she was hit in the back of her head with a blunt object. Maybe wood, he thought: round, like a small club. Hard to tell exactly what happened, but it looks like the maid was killed first, maybe right in front of the wife seeing how the judge’s wife fell next to the maid, over some of the maid’s blood from the head wound.”

“Her death meant only one thing. She was right about the driver of the white Peugeot 305 being the bomber.” I pulled out a St. Morris and lit it.

“What makes you think that?”

“She saw the bomber. And was very public about it. She was the only one who can positively identify the bomber. This was not a burglary where someone was accidentally killed. They came for her.”

The case was getting complicated. I had a hunch a lot of what had happened was tied in with Thompson, and perhaps Osamu. Finding Thompson was critical, and his bail form possibly had clues. It was so much nicer when it was just politicians trying to kill each other. It was a long, thoughtful drive back to headquarters.

A half an hour later, back at headquarters, I asked for Thompson’s bail form. But the desk sergeant had other ideas about the form when I approached him. He was old enough to be my father. In a condescending way he said, simply, “You might want to clear this with Chief. Howell Osamu is powerful.”

“Definitely. He is the best ass-crack lawyer around. Any ass that needs a lawyer takes a crack at him.”

“Just because you are a detective does not mean I have to laugh at your bad jokes.” He sounded a lot like my father.

“Sergeant, I don’t have to clear anything with Chief.”

“Really? I love it when you talk like that. Gives me a lot of exciting yelling to look forward to.”

“Are you refusing to give me the bail form?”

“You could put the entire department in trouble.”

“You have a problem with my investigation style?”

“Heavens no.”

“Good. The bail form, then.”

“Oh yes, the bail form. One minute. Mr. Detective.” He slowly-very slowly-walked to a row of old wooden filing cabinets, and looked through the recent folders until he found one. He took the bail bond form from the folder and handed it to me, accompanied by a sarcastic grin and a raised eyebrow.

There was no address for Thompson in the file-hardly a surprise. I would have to get the address off Osamu, his lawyer. I handed the file back.

A few minutes later, I was parking outside Osamu’s law firm. It was a nice little hornet for the superdeluxe lawyer-a four-story modern office block. His office was the whole of the second floor, all of which was Osamu and Associates. His secretary looked up from her computer as I walked out of the elevator.

“Nice dress,” I told her.

She had a smile like Dracula except her teeth were not as sharp. I decided not to bother with the charm. “I am Detective Tamunoemi Peterside,” I said, showing her my badge. “I’m here to see Barrister Howell Osamu.”

“One minute, please.” She was wearing a hands-free headphone/mike. Classy. You don’t usually see such things in Nigeria-they are expensive. She pressed a button on the intercom. “Sir, there’s a police detective here.”

I waited. She listened. She looked up at me and smiled as pleasantly as she could manage. “I’m sorry, he’s busy. But you can fill out the visitor’s form and we can see when he’s free for today.”

I smiled back, already moving around her toward the inner office, where Osamu was. “Excuse me, sir, you can’t go in there,” but I did.

Barrister Osamu was not exactly hard at work. He sat with his feet up on his desk, watching television. He looked up with a scowl, not pleased to be interrupted with his important work. “Who the hell are you?”

“Detective Tamunoemi Peterside, Homicide, State Police.”

He sighed wearily and looked over my shoulder at his secretary, who followed me in. “Carol, you can go back to your desk. Detective Peterside here won’t need anything. He won’t stay long.”

“Thank you, sir.” Carol closed the door and left us alone, after giving me a nasty look.

Osamu turned his attention back to me. “Well?”

“I have a few questions about Thompson, the young man you took on bail this morning.”

“Make it snappy, I don’t have time to waste.”

“I’m trying. Give me his address.”

“His address is my office.” He looked at me more carefully. “My friend,” he finally said, “I assume you know the law if you are a police detective. Mr. Thompson is my client. There are limits to what I must tell you. But, if I knew his address, I would tell you that. However, his address is my office because I do not have any other address for him.”

“I’m looking for a killer.”

“Excellent, that is what you are supposed to do. May I ask who this killer might be?”

“The gentleman you took on bail this morning. Mr. Thompson.”

“I am not aware of a homicide charge against my client.”

“There isn’t one, yet.”

“You must know better than to barge into my office like this. Have you been a detective very long? Do you intend to remain a detective very long?”

“I want Mr. Thompson for questioning in the murder of Mrs. Naomi Karibi. You may know her as the wife of Judge Karibi.”

Finally, I had his real attention. He sat up straight. Well, it is an attention grabber for a lawyer to hear his client may have murdered a judge’s wife. “Karibi’s wife? What happened? When?”

“She had her throat slashed. Half an hour ago.”

But he was not rattled-he was worth his fees. “First, I do not know where Mr. Thompson is. I will attempt to contact him. I’ll see you next when you have a warrant. Until then, our conversation is over.”

“Not so fast. Dr. Puene is your client, isn’t he?”

I had to be sure but Osamu was evasive.

“I have many clients.”

“Just interested. I need you to produce Mr. Thompson for questioning, counselor.”

Smart lawyers pick and chose their battles, like smart detectives. “It may take a bit of time to find him. Next week, Friday. It’s then that I expect Mr. Thompson will be available.”

“Make him available, counselor. Here’s my card. I expect a call, and a lot sooner than next week.” I left him staring at my back.