Coming out of the manager’s office, Inspector Kowoje couldn’t help scratching his head. But then, anyone who heard what he heard, would be forced to do some head scratching too.
The “company” or better still, the manager and his friends, wanted the case solved with a minimum of fuss. No media attention.
This of course, made his job even more tedious. Like any man with ambition, Inspector Kowoje loved to see his face on television. Imagine if he went to a bar to drink and then the 8 o’clock news came on, and first thing they showed, was the face of yours truly. Gbam! Instant stardom. A free drink or two, as people tried to get the gist of the case. Then he would of course look all serious and forbidding, giving vague but juicy hints and riding on the wave of popularity.
Alas! It wasn’t going to happen. All this thinking ate up the time that it took to get to the office of Mrs. Andrews, the lowly office worker that decided to commit suicide and complicate Kowoje’s day.
Getting to the tiny office, he adjusted the damnable belt, hiked up his trousers, took a deep breath, and stepped in.
The moment he opened the door, it hit him. The slightly metallic smell of blood. At that point, it hit him. This was not a suicide, this was a murder. But then why did the manager refer to it as a suicide?
He probably didn’t want the staff panicking.
That in itself was understandable.
He took slow, heavy steps, dreading what he would find behind the office table, yet drawn to it with a certain morbid curiosity. Eventually he got there, and saw Mrs. Andrews. Or what was left of her.
Her gown was hiked up to her thighs, revealing torn lace panties. There was a smidge of something slippery along her left thigh, and drops of the same whitish liquid on the carpet. Whoever did this was either in a hurry, or didn’t care about leaving evidence.
And then, the source of the blood. Several stab wounds on her belly, and some on the back of her hands. She fought her attacker, for all the good it did to her. But she lost.
The wounds wept, leaking blood to the carpet. The blood was just beginning to congeal. Obviously this was very recent. Probably an hour or two ago. With his mind working out the intricacies of the case, Inspector Kowoje forgot about the secretary at the front desk downstairs.
He called for backup.
Six extra policemen, one forensic expert and three hours later, the workers were rounded up and questioned.
Nobody knew anything, nobody saw anything. The only possible source they had was the cleaner who discovered Mrs. Andrew’s corpse when she came inside the office to clean the toilet. But she swore to hell and high heaven that she knew nothing, saw nothing.
Inspector Kowoje took her outside for another round of private questioning. Eventually, after more prodding and poking, some babying, some threatening, and a plate of food and drinks, she opened up and said someone had rushed past her in a hurry as she climbed the stairs to go to the row of offices to clean the toilets.
But she was scared, and didn’t want any trouble- so she didn’t want to get linked in any way to the crime.
Assuring her of privacy and complete discretion, he got what little detail he could from her and noted it down.
Blue shirt, black trousers. A bit on the short side. And then there was a sperm sample from the scene.
Enough evidence for an investigation. Some information for identification.
A pool of witnesses to sift through.
But the question remained.
Who did it?