Silhouette

III

Dave Coker sits under the shower. The cold water has been pouring on him for four hours. It's the safest alternative to sleep. It's the only way the ghosts won't come to visit him.

His eyes are closed and his head is between his knees. He is naked.

His phone rings shrilly on his bed. He opens his eyes and stretches one hand to turn off the shower. He stands up, grits his teeth and clenches his fists as a long tremor passes through his body.

He pushes open the bathroom door and steps out onto the cold floor of the bedroom. His back is a mass of scarred flesh from bomb shrapnel and bullet wounds.

He picks up the phone at the third ring. Its Detective Rose.

"Dave," she says. Her voice is heavy and sleepy. "Did I wake you up?"

"No." He glances at the wall clock. It is a minute past seven. He goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"There's been a murder."

"Where?" He rinses his mouth. He runs a towel down his body and takes a fresh set of clothes from the wardrobe.

"The Cavendish. This luxury hotel down Allen Street."

"Yeah, I know it."

"Good. See you there. I'm calling forensics."

Dave throws the phone on his bed. He belts his trouser and wears his suit. Takes his SP 2022 from his drawer and puts it in the holster on his waist.

He locks the door behind him and starts his car. The morning air smells faintly of smoke. It reminds him of the smell of wet earth, the green smell of meadow grass and the stink of diesel and grease that stayed on your uniform.

He pulls out of the driveway and onto the road. The rumble of the engine reminds him of the lumbering roar of a tank.

Twenty minutes later, he pulls up at the foot of a dizzyingly long skyscraper that is The Cavendish. Allen Street is filled with police vehicles and morning commuters feeding their curiosity. Here and there a camera flashes.

Dave walks into the crowd and flashes his ID at the young officer by the door who nods and steps aside.

Dave walks into the hotel lobby. White walls, lush carpets and gold chandelier. The receptionist is behind her desk. She is biting her nails.

Detective Rose waves when she sees him. Five foot six, 35, short curly hair, methodical. She has a particular scornful look she has developed after years of working with men who see weakness in feminine grace.

He says, "Morning, Detective."

She nods and hands him a manila file. She walks to the elevator at the end of the lobby. Dave follows her. She presses the button and it whirs open.

"Victim is Tomiwa Badmus. He's thirty." She shows him a photograph. "Do I say he is thirty or he was thirty?"

Dave shrugs. "Does it matter?"

"I guess it doesn't."

The elevator stops and opens. The hallway is cool and empty. The carpet is so thick that Dave feels his shoe sinking. He follows her to the last door which is open. She hands him a pair of gloves.

He puts the file under his armpit and snaps on the gloves. The first thing he sees is the water. It is everywhere, from the doormat by the door to the rug at the end of the room. It is sloshing around the corners.

Rose beckons Dave with a nod, leads him to the white tiled and luxurious bathroom. It is cold inside, smells of lemon air freshener and soap.

There are two forensic detectives. One is holding a camera, flashing away. The other is bending over the bath tub.

Tomiwa Badmus lies in the bathtub. He is submerged under water. He is shirtless. His head bobs up and down as if he's nodding. His eyes are open and glistening, almost lifelike. His hands are tied behind his back.

Dave feels a yawn coming and he stifles it. If he doesn't have a cup of coffee soon, he's going to fall asleep. He scans the bathroom, there is no blood. It is sparkling clean.

"There is no blood," he says.

Rose nods. "No blood. Just water. Clean and cold." She turns to the forensic bending over the body. "What can you tell us, Jonjo?"

Jonjo stands straight and turns to them. Twenty-five, tall and handsome. The poster boy of the Nigerian Police's new Forensic squads. He isn't very liked by some officers, mainly because they do not like someone this young deciphering their crime scenes for them. The other officers accept him grudgingly because the forensic science though a new practice has helped solve their cases.

"On a first glance, it looks like a suicide," says Jonjo.

"Who ties his hands behind his back and deliberately drowns himself?" asks Dave.

"Exactly," says Jonjo. He claps his hands like a school child. Rose rolls her eyes and sighs. "It is very difficult to determine the manner of death when a victim is found in the water. But look closely at his nose."

Dave steps closer to the bathtub and leans forward. He feels Rose's breath on his neck.

"Do you see that froth?" asks Jonjo.

"Yes," says Dave.

"That results from a mix of mucous, air and water during respiration. Which means that he was immersed while still breathing."

"There is also no sign of physical trauma," says Rose.

"That where it gets interesting," says Jonjo. "The suicide that isn't a suicide." He dips a gloved hand into the water and turns the corpse over. "His hands are not clenched."

Dave scratches his cheek. "Which means he didn't struggle. Even someone with a death wish will struggle when he is out of breath. This man here was intoxicated." He stands up straight and folds his arms.

"Very good, Detective," says Jonjo. "Either that or he was drugged. A full autopsy will tell us everything we need to know."

A knock sounds at the door and Rose exits the bathroom. She pops her head back in a minute later and beckons to Dave.

Dave nods at the two forensic scientists and walks out. His shoe is wet. Rose is standing before a short man. He is in a brown three-piece suit.

"This is the hotel manager, Collins," says Rose.

"We will need CCTV tapes and the complete cooperation of you and your staffs," says Dave.

"Er... Yes, of course," says the manager. "But er... you see, there are a lot of... important people who lodge here and..."

Dave smiles slightly and puts his hand on the manager's shoulder. "It will be better if you do as we say and close this hotel for the duration of our investigations. If not, there will be a lot of important people lying dead in bathtubs filled with water."

"Of course... of course," says Collins. "I understand." He swallows. "The tapes are in the security room."

"Thank you," says Dave.
The manager nods and struts out.

"Where do we start from?" asks Rose.

"Friends, family, business partners; the usual bunch. If the autopsy rules this as a murder, then someone wanted to send a message."

"What kind of message?" asks Rose.

Two morgue officials walk in with a stretcher between them. They walk into the bathroom and the sound of water is loud as they heave the body out of the bath tub.

"Whoever did this was clean and methodical. A man on a mission." He turns his neck both ways and it pops. "Something tells me he's going to do it again."