With Abel’s Tips, Police Arrest returnee from the U.S for Killing Tunde

23 May With Abel’s Tips, Police Arrest returnee from the U.S for Killing Tunde

Abel arrived early at the State Police Headquarters in Ikeja to get an update on the official investigation. He found Fakorede in a small, crowded office. Unlike the night before, when the Sergeant had been alert and focused, he now looked exhausted. Abel signalled Fakorede to follow him outside. He wanted a private conference.

“What have you learned, Sergeant?” he asked.

Fakorede shrugged. “An important man like you, Mr. Abel, you must know more than a humble policeman such as myself”, Fakorede said when they stopped under a mango tree by the fence.

“I am a bloody civilian as they say in the military”, Abel said, knowing he sounded testy and not caring. “Now what have you got?”

“But your people were at the press conference. We held nothing back.” Fakorede said, his voice defensive.

Abel sighed. This was the last thing he needed. A cagey policeman protecting his investigation.

“Collaboration between the police and journalists, remember?” Abel said and moved closer to him. “I am looking for motives.”

“Maybe you should check with one of the detectives working on the case.” Fakorede had become increasingly tense. Abel had isolated him outside and was standing close, watching his every expression. The reporter would not give up until he heard something. If he didn’t already, Fakorede soon would understand why Abel was such an effective investigator, how he got people to tell him things. Abel suspected that Fakorede wanted to help him but didn’t want to get into trouble with his own superiors.

Abel knew the Sergeant was privy to information. And he preferred getting it from people like him, men lower in the food chain. It helped Abel do his work more anonymously. But he would have to give the man a reason to talk. He had to show him how cooperating would be to his own benefit. It was simple human nature. Everyone operated from his own self-interest.

“Remember, Fakorede”, Abel said, “if we share information, any big break will help your career. I would even mention you quietly to Chief Benson. You saw how close he is with the Commissioner?”

He had judged Fakorede correctly. He was ambitious. This became obvious the day before, the way he reacted to Abel’s celebrity.

“Exactly what do you want, Mr. Abel?”

“Just a copy of the visa racketeer’s statement. Nobody will know I have it. And here is my private cell phone number.” Abel thrust out a piece of paper in his open palm. Fakorede smiled as if a great misunderstanding between them had suddenly been cleared up.

“Oh, my God. But why didn’t you say that? Wait in your car.” Fakorede walked away quickly.

He returned five minutes later with a folded document and handed it to Abel through the car window. Abel nodded his thanks and drove off.

After a few kilometres, Abel pulled off the side of the road to read the statement. It disappointed him. He found nothing really interesting related to Tunde’s death, except the revelation that Sunday Ola had been in the visa business for six years. It made Abel suspect there was a connection with a foreign embassy. The perfect front for obtaining fake visas.

As Abel pondered the report, he glanced into the rear view mirror. Some sixth sense made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A car was parked a hundred metres back, too far to tell much about the driver except it was a male. Age unknown.

Abel put the report on the passenger seat and started the engine. He eased the car into the flow of traffic, keeping one eye on the rear view mirror. He saw the other car move into traffic too. Was this a police escort provided by his new friend, Fakorede? Or had someone discovered he was taking up Tunde’s investigation? More likely the latter. Abel headed for home. He lost sight of the car once he left the highway and travelled through the lush tree-lined streets of his neighbourhood. But this meant nothing. A sophisticated tail would use two or three cars, one taking over from another. And the traffic was heavy at this time of day. Too many cars to keep track of.

When Abel reached his house, he parked and waited. Several cars passed by. He recognized none of them. And no one stopped.

Abel went into the house and tried to reach Chief Benson. Instead, he was put through to a news editor. Chief Benson had gone home to escape the stream of sympathisers arriving at the paper’s headquarters. Benson, he was told, did not want to be disturbed.

Abel did not normally call his boss outside the office, especially at night. But there was nothing normal about any of this. Abel picked up the phone and dialled a private number he had for Benson. After two rings, his boss answered, his tone short.

“Can I see you, Boss?” Abel glanced at the clock in his VCR. It was a little after nine p.m.

Benson sighed. Abel knew he was irritated. And the few words Benson deigned to say ruined what was left of Abel’s night.

“Have you found the killer?”

“No”, Abel admitted. A long silence, clearly meant to relay Benson’s disappointment.

“I know you have been working hard, Peter. But all that means nothing unless you solve this case.”

Abel admitted he was stumped.

“This is also about the image of The Zodiac, Peter.”

Abel asked the Chief if he was all right. He sounded odd.

“My doctor is here to manage my blood pressure.” The words were harsh and impersonal. They expressed a mood Abel had not seen in him since the early days of The Zodiac, when they had to work all day and night to find space in the highly competitive media in Lagos. He couldn’t help but feel badly for his boss.

Abel had wanted to tell Benson about being tailed, but now he didn’t want to cause him any more stress. So he simply apologised for the lack of progress and promised more hard work. The conversation ended abruptly.

Abel asked Ikomma to make him some coffee and headed for his book-lined study. As Ikomma served him, the phone rang.

“Hello”, Ikomma picked up the receiver.

Abel saw him strain to listen, his eyes widening with horror, then “Hello, hello.” He stared briefly at the dead receiver and then put it down. “He has dropped, Oga.”

“Who was that?” Abel said, somewhat uneasy.

“Ah, Oga. I don’t know who he is. He just said, ‘Tell your boss to back off. We are many where I come from’.”

As Ikomma tried to pick up the coffee pot his hand trembled.

“Forget the coffee and sit down, Ikomma. Your boss is okay.”

“Alright, Oga.” He struggled into the seat across from the writing table.

“Now, Ikomma, you are a very keen observer of things. You pick up on details like a good reporter.”

Ikomma knew his boss’s methods. The elaborate compliment was delivered in the service of getting something from him.

“You do not need to smooth talk me, Boss. Just ask me what you want to know.”

Abel smiled, caught at his own game.

“Very well”, he said. “Think carefully. What kind of English did the caller speak? What was the accent like?”

Ikomma smiled wryly, nodding. “I picked it up right away, Boss. I was going to tell you. He spoke with a heavy African-American accent. The slang of the American street culture.”

“Any word he stressed or repeated?”

“ Back off, back off’. He was almost shouting it.”

“Okay, Ikomma. Thank you. I’ll have my coffee now.”

As Ikomma poured the steaming brew, Abel reached for his satellite phone. He began to dial Lola but stopped. He didn’t want to speak to her until he could give her real news. All he had now were suspicions. So instead, Abel dialled Fakorede’s number, which he got out of the small notebook he carried with him everywhere. When the policeman answered, Abel told him he might have a lead.

“Ask Tunde’s wife if someone called for Tunde the night before he was murdered.”

“Why? What’s this about? If you have a lead I was to know. Remember your promise?”

Abel smiled sadly. People never failed to disappoint him. Fakorede’s first thought wasn’t about breaking the case and bringing a killer to justice. It was about his own advancement. Well, at least he wasn’t trafficking in young girls.

“I just got a threatening call”, Abel said. “Someone warning me to back off the investigation. Ask Lola if Tunde had such a call.”

“The woman is too distressed to talk, Mr. Abel.”

“Then ask the sister, Bimpe.”

“Okay, I will come back to you shortly”, Fakorede said.

As he waited, Abel sipped his coffee and read one of the many computer printouts on the criminal trafficking of women. He became absorbed in the story of a Nigerian woman who had been found murdered in Turin, Italy. She had entered the country on a false visa and was working there as a prostitute. Nobody attended her burial or contacted the police about the case. No family member came to visit the grave. The killer got off with a light sentence, because nobody objected when the authorities allowed him to plead guilty to some lesser charge. Disposable people, Abel thought as the phone rang. It was Fakorede.

“Yes, Mr. Abel. Tunde received a similar call.”

“Did she have any idea who it was? Did she recognise the voice?”

“No. It was a stranger to her.” Fakorede sounded agitated.

“Easy, Fak”, Abel used a familiar address now with the policeman. He was getting somewhere and therefore needed him. “Did she say anything in particular about the way the caller spoke? Maybe an accent?”

“As a matter of fact, she did. She thought he sounded African-American.”

Excited, Abel gulped some more coffee and stole a look at Ikomma, who seemed to be enjoying the exchanges.

“Fak, listen carefully. You may be on your way to your next promotion…”

“I am listening”, he said, excitement growing in his voice.

“I think I know how to find our killer. Go to the station where they are holding Sunday and Majayi. Take them to an interrogation room. Tell them you have identified the killer as an African-American. Study Sunday’s body language. If it is positive, tell him you know he has met the man. And if he cooperates you will do him a favour.”

“What favour could I do him, then?”

“You won’t destroy Majayi’s church for trafficking in human flesh.”

“Can you prove they are doing such a thing?”

“No”, Abel admitted. “But he doesn’t know that. And I visited the church of the Prophet in Tunde’s story today. They are terrified of being dragged down by this scandal.”

“And what if his reaction to my assertion is negative?” Fakorede said, always cautious.

Abel was becoming irritated with this bureaucratic policeman. Must he be told everything?

“You guys know how to make people talk.”

Fakorede laughed, as if Abel had somehow just granted him permission to do whatever he wanted.

“I will pull all his fucking nails off, trust me”, he said, and sounded as if he might mean it.

“I don’t need to hear the details”, Abel said. “And Fak, I suspect the killer might be an American diplomat, or at least work at their embassy.”

“No problem, Mr. Abel. If he turns out to be a diplomat, I will consult the Commissioner.”

“If you need any help, just call. The paper has powerful connections, which Chief Benson will be more than happy to use.”

The conversation ended.

Abel had given up smoking shortly after he was widowed. He didn’t know why. He supposed it was a way of imposing self-discipline at a difficult time. Whatever the reason, his good efforts crashed that night. He needed something to relieve the tension and pressure.

He asked Ikomma for more coffee and a pack of cigarettes, which he had kept hidden away. Ikomma gave him a disappointed look. Abel scowled and repeated his request. “Please, just do it.” Ikomma brought the cigarettes to his boss, delivering them with a cold glare.

Abel ignored him and lit up, enjoying the familiar taste. Then he got down to work. Like a football coach, he sketched his strategy on a piece of paper, smoke enveloping his head.

Arresting the killer was only the beginning. He was about to start a war with a much bigger enemy. And he needed a plan. So he scribbled away. Names and places, people to interview, records to search through, neighbourhoods to canvass. The article about the murdered girl in Italy gave him another set of leads.

Thirty minutes into his strategy session, he was convinced he was dealing with a powerful international syndicate. Ties to foreign embassies and churches and God – knows – what other upstanding organisations. So much hypocrisy. He would sink them all. He finally dismissed Ikomma, sending him to the boy’s quarters as he continued the vigil.

Two long hours later, Fakorede called.

“We got him after one nail”, he said.

Abel didn’t know if Fakorede was serious and didn’t care. He had only one question. “Who killed Tunde?”

“He’s a returnee from the U.S., lives in Yaba. Must have picked up the accent in America. The irony is he hails from Tagry.”

Abel understood. “The town noted for its history in slave trade.”

“We are headed to Yaba now.”

“Will there be any trouble with the embassy?”

Fakorede laughed. “I doubt it. The Commissioner is going with us.”

“And then you must make this man talk, give up the whole syndicate of traffickers.”

“He will. When he begins to lose nails, too. I will let you know when he is in custody.” The policeman hung up.

Abel immediately decided to inform his boss even though it was well past midnight. He felt Benson needed the good news to help relieve the stress on his ailing heart.

Benson answered, clearly having been roused from a deep sleep.

“Sorry to wake you, Boss. But you’ll want to know.”

“You got him?” Benson was suddenly wide awake.

“Yes. I provided the police with some information. They used it to get Majayi to talk. That and some old-fashioned persuasion.”

“Whatever it took. I don’t care.”

“Majayi identified a man who earlier this evening called to threaten me. He is most probably Tunde’s killer. A heavy battalion of the police, including the Police Commissioner, is headed to Yaba.”

“You did a good job, Abel. What would I do without you? ” His voice was deep but very weak.

Before Abel could say, “Thank you”, Benson had hung up.

Abel suddenly felt exhausted. He hadn’t slept the night before, and today had been gruelling. He lay down on the couch, intending only to rest his eyes.

When the phone rang, it was after two a.m. Benson’s voice boomed from the other end of the line.

“Abel, boy! I have stopped the press. The Commissioner called.”

“They got him?”

“At his home. And without resistance. He is the mastermind. But some embassy staff are also involved. The Commissioner is going to see that this is handled quietly. That way, the Americans will cooperate.”

“You must be relieved, Boss.”

“Aren’t we all?  Listen, I need you to write a short piece about the arrest for the front page of the paper. Keep it brief because the Police will address the press tomorrow. Thank you again, Abel. Good night.”

Unbelievable! Abel shouted with a pump of the air then sat down quickly to write the story. As he did so, an excited Fakorede called to supply all the details of the encounter. His four-paragraph story, entitled: POLICE ARREST PICKETTS’ KILLERS, was mailed to the newsroom a little before 3 a.m. Now Abel could sleep. Without fear of interruption.