A Crime to Report
The setting of the hot sun marks the end of the day shift for most of the Lagos State Police Department staff. Weary, tired officers quietly make their way out of the building after another hard day. The only person bubbling with energy is Andrew. Hanging his jacket over the office chair behind the reception desk, he gleefully waves his colleagues goodbye. Then, he prepares for the most effortless shift of the day, the night shift. Here, he is free to put his feet up, ignore the phone, stream movies and generally not do his job. The previous night had been pretty uneventful; one distressed female, who he managed to brush away with the old ‘call-again-in-the-morning’ line. So he was hoping for tonight to be the same, giving him the chance to finish off the Netflix series he has been binge-watching. But, unfortunately for him, this night has a plan all of its own.
As soon as he touches his laptop, the first interruption presents itself. Ring, ring - the phone bleeps. He contemplates answering it but doesn't.
‘Let’s start as we mean to continue,’ he whispers to himself. Ring, ring – the stupid cordless receiver bleeps again.
'Go away, I don't want to answer you,' he tells it, and miraculously it stops. 'Ha, that is the power of suggestion,' he tells himself. However, his peace is short-lived as his mobile phone starts vibrating.
'Andrew, are you not on duty?' shouts the husky female voice.
'Oh shit,' he says to himself as he buries his mobile into his chest, thinking of a suitable excuse to give his boss. 'Oh, Chief. Hi. Yes, I am working,' he squeals as he solidifies his lie. 'I was just in the toilet.'
'For how long? I rang the main phone twice.' she snaps. 'Please answer the phone. We have a public to serve.’
Putting down the phone, he gently slaps and then rubs his flabby old cheeks and then reminisces about the good old days when he could, figuratively speaking, 'get away with murder.' The uniform: black short-sleeved shirt and trousers symbolized respect and power. A power that he and his colleagues enjoyed significantly. But the department was being reformed by a young, revolutionary woman, Chief Superintendent Mary Nielsen. She had big, bold ideas and was not afraid of ruffling feathers. Although she had been off for a couple of weeks, she was still making her presence felt.
Still reeling from the lambasting he had just received from the boss, Andrew decides to take his duties more seriously. So when the phone rings again, he promptly answers it.
'Hello, this is the LSPD; how may I be of service?' following the new guidelines for responding to the public laid out by the Chief. He listens patiently to the angry woman at the end of the line. 'So, you want me to send an officer because your neighbour won't stop singing?'
Relieved that it's not the Chief, his tone takes a ruder, harsher form.
'Madam, you are not serious. Singing is not a crime, even if it is out of tune. Wear headphones.' Slamming the phone down, he slumps back into his chair and throws his feet onto the desk.
He hits 'play' on Episode Two of Blood and Water, but the phone rings again.
'Madam, for the last time, I cannot send a police officer for that; it's not a God-damn crime.'
He drops the phone down and grunts loudly to himself, 'Useless woman. This is why you don't give women phones!'
Then a brilliant idea strikes him, and he decides to take the phone off the hook and rewind the show back to the beginning. Sadly, he is again disrupted, this time by a tall hooded man who has just stepped into the station. Andrew takes a deep breath and then stands and pretends to be mildly interested in the civilian.
'Excuse me, I would like to report a crime,' calls out the new arrival.
'Yeah, that's fine, come back in the morning, my friend. We can deal with it then,' Andrew says, keeping one eye on the laptop he just tucked under the table. So engrossed in the film, he forgets what he is doing and puts the phone back on the hook.
Ring, ring - the phone is at it again. 'Ahhh, Holy Jehovah!' he screams as he snatches it and vents his anger. 'Madam, you again?' he grunts. 'If you call me one more time, I'll come and arrest you!'
As he prepares to drop back into his seat, he remembers the stranger in front of him. 'Urgh,' he frowns. 'Yes sir, what is it?'
'I want to confess to a crime. A murder in fact,' the strange male calmly repeats.
Andrew's big brown eyes widen as he shakes his bald head, 'Come again?' He studies the attractive, well-groomed stranger. He could easily be mistaken for an American football player with his beefy build and broad shoulders.
The man leans in closer and slowly whispers, 'I would like to confess to a murder, please!'
Andrew is dumbfounded, and he wrinkles his forehead. 'Listen, young man, this is a police station, not a, a...'
Struggling to find the words needed to complete his sentence, he asks the stranger to wait. Then he lifts the table flap and runs over to two of his colleagues, who are about to exit the station. Quietly he speaks with them, pointing to the stranger in the corner. The officers seem to need a lot of convincing to hang around, but he manages it. Then, on returning to the front desk, he finds another person to attend to. This time it is a distraught woman in her early twenties. She is pretty, with shoulder-length, silky brown hair and black hoop earrings. Her eyes are tired; her hands are trembling; she is an anxious mess.
'The detectives will be with you shortly. Please move to one side so I can attend to this girl,' Andrew instructs the man before addressing the woman.
‘How can I help you, my dear?’
The young lady steps forward while the man calmly slides to the side.
Pushing her curls away from her face, she looks over her shoulder to ensure that she cannot be heard.
'I am looking for Mrs. Nielsen,' she whispers.
'The Chief? Sorry she isn't around today,' responds Andrew. 'But she is harassing me anyway,' he moans under his breath.
Disappointedly she sighs, 'I came here yesterday. Do you know when she will be around?'
'Sorry, my dear. I don't know. You can try again tomorrow.'
This was the same nonchalant, unhelpful response she had received from him yesterday. Still, he wouldn't remember because he didn't bother to look up.
'I have a double shift tomorrow. Can you let her know that Tamara is looking for her? Or just say the nurse.'
She considers divulging more information but is put off when she peers to her left and sees the big handsome stranger grinning creepily at her. He further unnerves her by winking at her.
'You're a nurse? Very good! Well done!' The officer nods, letting her know that he has the utmost respect for her profession.
Feeling the unwelcoming gaze of the mysterious male, she lowers her voice further, 'Yes, Nurse Tamara, she should remember me.'
Then she clutches her bag tightly and hurries out of the station.
As Andrew watches her leave, he catches sight of the stranger, smugly waving goodbye to her. He stares at him curiously.
'Please follow me,' he instructs as he leads the man through a narrow corridor to the interrogation room.
'Please take a seat,' the officer says as he switches on the light. 'it's usually difficult to book one of these, but we are lucky it's late.' Of course, this is a lie, but this stranger is making poor Andrew so nervous he is not sure what to say.
The man calmly sits and studies the poky little room. The green walls are filled with splashes of black mold in the corners. A bucket of stagnating water by the side collects droplets from the ceiling. The tiny table he sits under can barely contain his bulky legs.
'Ok, the detectives will be with you shortly,' Andrew smiles, trying to put himself at ease. He then leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
'This one should be interesting,' he tells himself.
The civilian rhythmically taps his long, well-groomed fingers on the square grey plastic table as he waits patiently. Then, finally, two detectives enter the room: one is a handsome, athletically slim male with an arrogant swagger. The other is a female of average height and moderate beauty. The pair dump their bags on the floor and take the vacant seats.
'Right, let's make this quick,' starts the male detective with a huge grin on his face. 'I am Detective Tunde Abimbola, and this is Ngozi Inneh. Our colleague tells us you would like to report a crime.' He winks at the stranger.
Confused by the apparent laid-back style of questioning, the civilian nods calmly. Detective Inneh presses 'play' on the tape recorder, and the man stares inquisitively at Ngozi's hands, instantly making her uncomfortable.
'Right, let's start with your name; what is it?' asks Tunde, his goofy grin widening as he plays with the black tie hovering freely around his unbuttoned blue shirt.
Still staring intensely at the female detective, the man answers gently, 'My name is Ote.' The deep huskiness of his voice vibrates chills through Ngozi's spine.
Tunde clicks his fingers at the man, 'Hey, over here, I am asking the questions, not her.'
'Sorry,' Ote says, slightly turning his gaze to the male detective while still maintaining Ngozi in his sight.
'What is your full name?' Tunde asks again.
'Everyone calls me Ote,' he replies.
'Do you mind removing your hood, please?' requests Ngozi.
The man slowly removes his hood to reveal a very unconventional hairstyle. Tunde fails to control himself and bursts into a fit of laughter. His colleague shoots him a disapproving glare which restores his senses to him.
'Fine, what crime do you want to report?' Tunde asks.
The man strokes the front strand of his braid and tries to blow on it as if he was chasing a fly away. 'I want to report a murder.'
'Sorry, the tape didn't quite get that,' smiles Tunde.
Ote smiles as he bends his head and then slowly raises it. Then, starring Ngozi dead in the eye, he coldly repeats, 'I want to report a murder.'
She tries to avoid his gaze, not because he isn't pleasing to look at. On the contrary, he is perfect. Chiselled cheeks, full lips, and a square jaw that his well-groomed beard covers neatly. Yet, his beautiful dark brown eyes are cold and dead, and when he stares at her, she feels as if he is piercing right through her, accessing the deepest, darkest parts of her mind.
'Murder of who?' Tunde enquires.
'My wife.' Ote nods. 'I have killed and buried my wife.'
Shocked by the laissez-faire manner of the confession, Ngozi tries to confirm what she has just heard.
'Your wife? You've killed your wife, and you are confessing to it?'
Casually, Ote places his elbow onto the table and relaxes his head onto his hand. 'Yep, I killed and buried my wife,' he repeats, even more calmly than before.
'Oh really?' scoffs the male detective. 'What's your wife's name, and how did you kill her?'
The suspect folds his arms as if he expects something before answering, 'You know what? I can't remember her name nor how I did it. Isn't that funny?'
Tunde bursts into a fit of laughter again, this time holding his stomach, leaving his partner bewildered. He then stands up, still chuckling, and says, 'Listen, man, tell Andrew and Tony, they have to do better than this if they want to catch me out. Bunch of jokers.'
His female counterpart stands up, her petite frame just reaching his shoulder, 'What are you talking about?'
'Sorry, Ngozi, the guys wanted to pay me back for the spider prank last week, and this is the best they can do; it's so lame. You can stop the tape. Mister, you can go home. Tell your buddies to try harder next time.'
'Uhm, Detective, may I have a word?' Ngozi turns away from the suspect and whispers to him. 'Are you sure about this? There is something about this guy that gives me the creeps.' She then grasps her arms as if they had been suddenly subjected to a sudden burst of arctic frost.
Tunde dismisses her concerns with a flick of his hand, then he leans over the tape recorder and speaks into it. 'This is Detective Tunde Abimbola terminating this ridiculous interview. Thank you, Andrew and Tony, for the prank. Goodnight and God Bless.'
He stops the recording and looks at the proclaimed criminal.
'Mr. Ote or whatever you call yourself, please go home; the joke is over.'
Ote is clearly confused. He stands up and protests his guilt, 'But I have committed a crime, are you not going to arrest me? Put me in jail?'
'Consider it your lucky night; you've got away with murder,' jokes Tunde. 'Detective Inneh, please get this joker out of here.'
The civilian strolls out of the room as calmly as he had entered, with Ngozi following cautiously behind. They walk past the front desk, and she pushes the black metal door to let him out.
'I suggest you don't waste police time in future, sir.'
Standing on the steps to the building, Ote nods and gently strokes his hair. 'Do you like my hair, Detective? I did it especially for you.'
'Goodnight, Mr Ote,' she says, leaving the door to swing closed. Then she marches over to the other officers. 'I am really tired of your childish games. This is a police station; we have serious work to do. I wish you would all just grow up.'
'Ah-ah Ngozi, can't you take a joke, now?' chuckles Tunde.
Offering no reply, she storms off.
Tunde turns his attention back to Andrew. 'Yeah, man, that was pretty pathetic,' before racing off to catch her. Poor Andrew is left holding his arms out and shrugging. 'Guys, this was not me, I swear. I have never seen that man before in my life.'
