Chapter 6: THE SECOND CASE

Karim’s mind was a turbulence not even music could drown as he drove through the restless night. The city blurred around him, Lagos neon bleeding across his windshield in streaks of yellow and red. He had rolled the windows down, letting in the humid air that carried with it the stench of fuel, smoke, and sea salt, but nothing anchored him. Not the rhythm of passing headlights, not the hiss of his tires on the tarmac, not even the faint chorus of radios blaring from other cars stuck in the night traffic.

His thoughts kept circling.

The woman at the bar. The curve of her smile, the way her perfume lingered after she vanished. She was there, dancing in the corners of his mind, a ghost of allure. But stronger still was the case—the fresh corpse waiting for him on the bridge.

Two men, both prominent, both former police officers, had been murdered in the space of days. Brutally. Deliberately.

Maybe the public didn’t know it yet, but Karim knew: this was not going to stop. Not yet. Whoever was behind this had only just started.

The lagoon stretched vast and dark beneath the Third Mainland Bridge as he approached. Blue-red sirens pulsed in the distance, flaring against the night sky.

The traffic had been locked into place, a snake of cars honking impatiently as drivers craned their necks. Hawkers pressed bottles of water, packets of Gala, and roasted groundnuts against windows, hustling even at the gates of death.

It all made him sick. How nothing seemed to be organized, how people took advantage of the chaos as long as it wasn’t happening to them. It made him feel like he was watching animals live.

Karim found a shoulder, parked, and stepped into the humid night.

Ahead, under the harsh glare of floodlights, officers were barricading the scene. Reporters jostled at the barricade, their cameras firing. Onlookers stood in clumps, whispering prayers, gasping in morbid fascination. Lagos never slept, not even for murder.

Irene was crouched near the railing of the bridge, tweezers in hand, carefully placing a scrap of material into a sample bag. It seemed like brain matter . Her gloves glistened under the light, her posture rigid with focus. Her lips were pressed into a thin, unyielding line.

Karim tried to cut through the tension. “No date tonight?” His voice carried a teasing lilt.

Her head lifted slowly. She met his eyes with a grimness that made the words shrivel. Then she looked back down without answering. The silence between them was heavier than any reprimand. Karim shifted his gaze, searching for relief in the restless crowd.

Salako arrived moments later, humming softly as though this was nothing more than a shift change. His easy energy cut into the oppressive atmosphere. “What do we have, Ms. Irene?”

Irene didn’t look up. Her voice was measured.

“Likely cause of death: asphyxiation. Rope marks cut deep into the neck. Judging by the bruising, I believe he was still alive when he was hung here. We’ll confirm with the autopsy.”

Karim felt his stomach tighten. His mind painted the scene: the victim bound, dragged here, his body lifted over the railing while he gasped for breath, clinging to life with every shred of will until the rope strangled him silent. Karim shuddered.

He would find the killer. He swore it.

“Detective,” Irene said suddenly, standing now. “I’ve told them to bag the victim. The usual?”

He understood—she meant the pictures, the files, the reports sent straight to him. For a moment he considered bantering, some light jab to ease the mood, but he swallowed it. There was no air for jokes here.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, the glow harsh against his face.

The voice of his supervising officer crackled through: “The DSP is here. He’s demanding for you. Where are you?”

Karim’s jaw tightened. The last thing he wanted tonight was the Deputy Superintendent’s meddling

hands twisting the case. But duty was duty. He turned from the bridge, the city’s chaos following

him back to his car.

—

The precinct was suffocating. Usually, it buzzed—a chorus of typewriters, footsteps, detainees banging on the bars of holding cells, officers barking across desks. Tonight it was muted, like a church after a funeral. A heaviness draped over every corridor.

Conversations stopped as Karim passed. Eyes followed him with unspoken questions, or maybe pity.

He pushed through until he reached the office assigned to him and his team. The fluorescent light above flickered once, then steadied.

The DSP sat at the head of the table.

His uniform was immaculate, his cap placed neatly beside a stack of files he had no business leafing through. His eyes, sharp and calculating, lifted the moment Karim entered. Salako stood awkwardly by the wall, arms crossed. Irene hovered near the desk, her posture taut, her face unreadable. They had both left the scene with him.

“Detective Karim,” the DSP said at last, his voice smooth, laced with authority. “Sit.”

Karim sat. The chair groaned under his weight. The silence thickened.

The DSP slid a file forward. A photograph peeked out—the face of Aisha, wide-eyed, terrified, caught under the harsh flash of a camera.

“This girl,” the DSP began, tapping the photo with a deliberate finger. “She is our answer. Pin it on her. File the paperwork. End it before it escalates.”

Karim’s jaw tightened. He leaned forward. “With all due respect, sir, Aisha is a witness. A frightened one. Nothing ties her to—”

“Everything ties her to it,” the DSP snapped, his smoothness cracking. “She was there. She screamed. She has no alibi. And most importantly—she is dispensable. We cannot afford panic in the streets.

Two commissioners dead, both former police officers? Do you want this city in flames?”

Salako shifted uneasily but said nothing.

Karim’s voice was low, firm. “You want me to sacrifice her because she’s convenient. That’s not justice. That’s politics.”

The DSP’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be naïve, Detective. Justice and politics are the same coin. One side shiny, the other filthy. We flip it depending on who’s watching.”

Karim felt heat rise in his chest. “I’m not here to play coin tricks. Whoever is doing this is deliberate.

They’re sending a message. If we pin it on her, we blindfold ourselves and leave the real killer free.

More bodies will come.”

“More bodies will come anyway,” the DSP barked, slamming a palm against the table. The files rattled. “At least this way, the public has a name, a face, a criminal to blame. That buys us time.”

“Time for what?” Karim demanded. His voice cracked with anger. “Time for the real murderer to hunt another commissioner? Another officer? To carve another number while we sit here pretending we’ve solved it?”

The DSP leaned across the table, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You will do your job, Karim. Pin it on her. Or I will see to it that this case is taken from you. And trust me, in this department, your reputation won’t survive another failure.”

The silence rang heavy. Irene’s gaze flickered between the two men, her shoulders stiff, her lips pressed tightly together.

Karim held the DSP’s stare. His voice was cold now. “With all due respect, sir, if reputation is more important to you than the truth, then maybe you’re in the wrong seat.”

The DSP’s nostrils flared. His face darkened. He pushed back his chair so hard it screeched against the floor. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might strike Karim. Instead, he grabbed his cap, jammed it onto his head, and stormed out.

The door slammed.

The echo lingered in the silence.

Karim collapsed back into his chair, the fight draining from him. He pressed his palms over his face, exhaling sharply. His body felt heavy, every muscle aching from the tension.

Salako shifted uncomfortably, half-opening his mouth, then closing it. He knew better than to speak.

Irene remained still, her face shadowed. Only then did Karim lift his eyes to her—and he remembered . The DSP wasn’t just her superior. He was her father.

That was why their air had always been charged, why every exchange between him and Karim carried unspoken weight. Every clash with the DSP dragged her into the middle, every disagreement pressed against her silently. She was fighting two wars: one for science, truth, and justice; the other, the blood loyalty that tied her to a father who wore authority like armor.

Karim looked away. The room felt colder.