DAWSON’S TWO PRISONERS COULD not have been much older than eighteen. Both of them quickly came to, and Dawson was able to question them. Someone in town by the name of Dzigbodi had paid them off to beat Elizabeth “because she’s a witch.”
“You are such stupid boys,” Dawson told them. “Get up.”
He cuffed them to each other and got them up, pushing them in front of him to the car. He opened the trunk. “Get in.” “What?”
“You heard me. Get in before I knock your heads off.” They struggled in, one uncomfortably on top of the other, and Dawson slammed the trunk shut.
When he got to the police station, Constables Gyamfi and Bubo were there but not Inspector Fiti.
“What happened?” Gyamfi asked in surprise as Dawson came in with the two disheveled youths.
“Book them,” Dawson said. “Assault, battery, conspiracy to murder, attempted murder.”
He gave a quick version of the story. Gyamfi listened attentively, but Bubo avoided making any eye contact with Dawson.
“We’ll take care of them, Inspector, sir,” Gyamfi said, shooting a disparaging look at the two boys.
“I’ll write my report in a minute,” Dawson said. “Can I see Samuel?”
“Yes, no problem.”
Dawson went down the two-stair drop to the jail.
“Samuel?”
The young man had fashioned a rope from his shirt and was hanging from the bars of the jail window, his toes about an inch from the ground. His head was slung forward, and the bucket was on its side on the floor along with the excrement it had contained.
“Gyamfi!” Dawson screamed. “Gyamfi! The keys, bring the keys!”
The constable came quickly. He saw Samuel hanging and gasped. “Oh, no.”
The key rattled against the lock, and it seemed too long before Gyamfi got the door open.
“Hold him up, hold him up,” Dawson said.
Gyamfi lifted Samuel’s legs, and Dawson flicked open the blade of his Swiss Army knife and cut above the knot.
Live, please live.
They got him down. His body was limp, his neck had been stretched, and his face was swollen with engorged blood.
Bubo came down with the two new prisoners just as Dawson tried blowing a breath into Samuel’s mouth. He pumped on Samuel’s chest and gave another breath. He had forgotten the correct number for each action, but he performed the sequence just the same and repeated the cycle for he didn’t know how long and until he was pouring with sweat.
He thought he heard someone say, “Dawson, stop,” and then a hand squeezed his shoulder.
“Dawson, you can’t do anything more.”
It was Gyamfi talking. Dawson looked up at him and then down at Samuel.
He was dead. It was all over.
Dawson jumped up with fists clenched and cried out in the purest anguish. He hurled himself against the wall and then crumpled to the floor with his head in his hands. He didn’t make another sound.
“Inspector,” Gyamfi whispered, touching his arm. “Inspector Dawson, it wasn’t your fault, hear? You couldn’t have done anything wrong.”