Chapter 4: Interrogation III

The policemen repeated virtually the same account. Nothing more, nothing less. The commissioner had a routine, and his men had learned not to pry. Their testimonies aligned with one another so neatly that it almost irritated Karim. He’d sat through enough interrogations to know when a story was rehearsed, but this one was not. It was resignation, habit. The same words repeated by men who had long ago accepted that their superior’s depravity was beyond questioning.

Irene sat through all of it beside him, her expression carefully schooled, though Karim caught the flickers of distaste shadowing her eyes each time one of the officers described the commissioner’s “instructions.” Karim, for his part, wore the mask he always wore in front of juniors or allies—calm, focused, unfazed. The façade was practiced, polished over years of putting walls between himself and the brutality of his work. But deep down, he was weary.

Weary not only from the lack of sleep or the endless loop of testimonies but from the weight of hypocrisy pressing in on the room. A commissioner, once entrusted with the people’s faith, a man given medals and praise for his years of service, had spent his nights drowning in wealth and indulgence whose sources were as murky as the Lagos lagoon. Karim could feel bile rise in his throat every time he pictured the commissioner’s mansion, the grand marble staircases, the obscene chandeliers, and the laughter of girls young enough to be his daughters echoing against the walls.

He thought of the people outside those gates—the same people who struggled for meals, who fought with potholes on the road to work, who feared the police rather than trusted them. And here was the man at the top, wallowing in everything they were denied.

Karim always tried to approach every case without prejudice. He believed in process, in evidence, in separating personal feelings from professional duty. But tonight, a quiet relief stirred in him as he felt himself approaching a wall in the investigation. An intuitive whisper told him the commissioner had it coming. Nobody deserved to die the way he had—bludgeoned, his throat slashed open like a goat in an abattoir and a number carved into his chest—but perhaps, Karim thought, he had invited it all the same.

When the final witness was dismissed, Karim leaned back, massaging the space between his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Irene and Salako remained at the table with him, each waiting for the other to break the silence.

Salako, never one to sit too long with his thoughts, finally spoke first.

“I believe that Aisha girl is far too shaky to have been the killer.”

His voice carried no drama, no exaggeration—just a blunt conclusion. Salako had seen enough trembling hands and darting eyes to know when someone was out of their depth. Karim nodded, his face shadowed with mixed emotions. He didn’t think Aisha had known what she was walking into at all. She had just wanted quick money, a transaction, and instead found herself standing over a corpse.

“I think it would be unfair to dismiss those policemen from service,” Irene said suddenly, her voice sharper than usual. “They were following orders, yes, but why is no one talking about the bigger problem? About the fact that the commissioner left his family behind just to fool around with girls no older than his daughter?”

Her chest rose and fell as she spoke, the words clipped, her fists curling on the table. Her eyes, normally steady, burned with something between anger and disgust.

Karim almost chuckled despite himself. The gravity of the situation, the frustration in her voice—it should have weighed heavier, but there was something refreshing in Irene’s fury. She still believed corruption was an exception, an anomaly. To Karim, it was the air the city breathed.

He met her eyes briefly, then looked away. He knew why she was fuming: the sheer indecency of a man held up as an example abusing his power. But he also knew the truth. This was how the society worked. Someone had to take the blame, someone had to bear the brunt, and more often than not, it was never the real culprit.

The discussion turned toward corruption. Four voices—Salako’s blunt practicality, Irene’s fiery indignation, Karim’s weary cynicism, and the silence of the precinct walls around them.

“It’s not just him,” Salako muttered. “There are plenty like him. He just got unlucky.”

“Unlucky?” Irene snapped. “You call this unlucky? He built a kingdom on lies, on blood money probably, and you’re saying unlucky?”

Salako shrugged. “I’m saying he didn’t fall because of his lifestyle. He fell because someone decided tonight was his night. That’s all.”

Karim drummed his fingers on the table, listening. He could feel the storm building in his chest. He wanted to say something—wanted to shout that they were all complicit, that society had allowed men like the commissioner to grow fat and untouchable, that no one truly cared until the blood was spilled. But the words tangled inside him.

Finally, he said quietly, “This country eats its own. And the people in charge… they sharpen the knives.”

The room fell silent.

For a moment, Karim allowed himself to sink into the weight of his own thoughts. He remembered being a boy, sitting on the cold floor of his uncle’s house, listening to stories of heroes—policemen, soldiers, leaders—who fought for justice. He had believed them. He had believed in the badge he now wore. But nights like this tore at that belief thread by thread. If men like the commissioner were the pinnacle, what was the point of climbing at all?

He excused himself not long after, the fatigue pressing down too heavy to ignore. His farewell to Salako and Irene was brief, but he felt Irene’s gaze linger on him as he walked away.

⸻

Karim’s apartment welcomed him with silence. He dropped his keys on the small table by the door and sank into the couch, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to sleep, but his mind replayed the commissioner’s sins over and over like a broken record.

The hypocrisy was what struck hardest. Men like the commissioner stood at podiums, swore oaths, cut ribbons at ceremonies, and spoke of duty and integrity while their homes were filled with stolen luxuries and the scent of perfume from strangers’ bodies. Karim had seen corruption in files and testimonies before, but this—this raw, physical proof of a man’s depravity—cut deeper.

Eventually, he dragged himself into the shower. The hot water eased the tension in his shoulders but did nothing to wash away the images. When he finally collapsed into bed, sleep came in broken fragments, each dream tinted red with the commissioner’s blood.

⸻

The next morning, Karim drove back to the mansion with Irene riding quietly beside him. The sun was already high, gilding the city in deceptive brightness. Neither spoke much during the drive; their thoughts were heavy, their words unneeded.

The mansion loomed just as it had the night before—grand, gaudy, grotesque. Its beauty only sharpened the ugliness beneath. Inside, the crime scene still bore the marks of chaos. Tape fluttered across doorways, evidence tags dotted the floor, and the smell of cleaning chemicals fought a losing battle against the lingering stench of blood.

Karim moved through the rooms slowly, his eyes scanning every detail with the precision of a hawk. Irene trailed close behind, jotter in hand, her face set in determination.

They entered the study when Karim paused. His gaze had caught on something subtle—a vent in the corner, its cover slightly askew. He crouched, running a finger over the metal. Dust smudged his skin, but near the edge was a faint scrape, fresh and sharp.

“Irene,” he called softly.

She came closer, crouching beside him. Her sharp intake of breath confirmed what he saw. The vent had been tampered with. The screws were loose, one barely hanging on. Someone had forced it open, and recently.

Karim’s mind raced. The dimensions were tight, but not impossible. A determined person could squeeze through, especially in desperation. His pulse quickened as he imagined it—the killer, blood still wet on their hands, slipping into the vent, crawling through the narrow ducts until emerging God-knew-where.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is how they got out.”

The realization chilled him. The house was supposed to be a fortress, and yet its own veins—the vents—had betrayed it.

They documented the evidence, took photographs, measured the opening. Karim tried to reconstruct the escape, piecing together angles and possibilities. Every motion deepened his resolve, even as his heart pounded harder. Whoever the killer was, they were clever. Resourceful. Model-like, to fit that space. And still free.

By the time evening fell, Karim felt drained again. He dropped Irene off, assuring her he’d update her later. When he returned home, the weight of the day pressed into his bones. He was about to collapse into the couch again when his phone buzzed.

A message flashed across the screen. It was from one of his old friends.

“Boys’ night out tomorrow. Don’t even think of saying no.”

Karim stared at the message for a long time, then allowed himself the faintest of smiles. For the first time in days, the thought of laughter and old company tugged at him like a lifeline. 

#Nemesis