Death at the Voyager Hotel by Kwei Quartey Page A

hurry to close this case up and forget about it? My daughter
does not drink, nor does she drown in six feet of water.”
    Paula leaned
forward a bit. “Mr. Peterson, I talked to an associate of my husband’s who is a
forensic pathologist. He wasn’t directly connected with this case, but we
called him because he’s one of the best forensic experts we have in Ghana – not
that we have many. Anyway, he told us something I didn’t know before. Forgive
me for this indelicate language, but the bacteria in a dead person can actually
produce different types of alcohol. So, when they measure the blood alcohol concentration
in the lab, it might appear that the person drank more than he or she actually
did.”
    “Really?” he
said, sitting bolt upright with a new brightness in his face. “That must be it.
I knew there had to be some kind of mistake. Could your forensic guy intercede
in the case somehow and do the autopsy over?”
    “He said he
would see, but honestly, I think it’s doubtful. In addition, he’s out of town
until the middle of next week, unfortunately.”
    “Oh,” Peterson
said, deflated again. “Forget it. I want Heather out of here before then.”
    “I see,” she
said, with a sense of disappointment that Dr. Biney wouldn’t get the chance to redeem
the investigation.
    “I was at the
mortuary this morning to officially identify Heather’s body,” he said
despondently. He choked up and attempted to hide it by taking a sip of his
Sprite.
    “It’s hard,”
she said with feeling. “Very hard.”
    He looked away
from her, desperately trying to stem the flow of tears.
    “You also mentioned
the FBI might assist the investigation?” she asked quickly, hoping that keeping
him talking would help.
    “That didn’t
turn out the way I had expected,” he said in resignation. “The agent I spoke to
was supportive, but the bottom line is the FBI can’t go barging into a
sovereign country and start investigating. They’d need the cooperation of the
local authorities,. Apparently, they’re on good terms with the Ghana Police and
they don’t want to spoil that.”
    Paula nodded.
More or less what Thelo had told her.
    “Who is this
man called Oliver?” Peterson asked her, with sudden intensity.
    “Oliver Danquah?
He’s one of the teachers at the High Street Academy.”
    “Before I left
home, I talked to Heather’s best friend, Jody, and she said Heather had told
her Oliver was hustling her to help him get to the States. What was going on there?”
    “I don’t know
the details,” Paula said awkwardly. “I assume Jody also told you that Oliver
and Heather were dating each other?”
    Peterson’s face
twitched as if he’d tasted something unpleasant. “Yes, she told me.”
    “I really
wasn’t privy to their private discussions,” Paula said. “At least, not
regarding this particular topic.”
    He looked
bitter and disconsolate. “This whole thing is crazy. It’s a nightmare.”
    “Have you ever been
to Ghana before?” she asked him. “Or anywhere in West Africa?”
    Peterson shook
his head as if he wouldn’t have dreamt of it. He looked haggard and battered by
grief, bewilderment and jetlag.
    “Things are
very different here from what you’re used to in the States,” Paula said. “I
realize that must make what you’re experiencing all the more difficult.”
    “I just want to
get out of here and take my daughter with me,” he said, his voice trembling.
    “Yes,” Paula
said, wishing she could say something comforting. “How is your wife taking it? She
suffers from multiple sclerosis, Heather told me.”
    “That
demonstrates the level of trust she had in you,” he said, with a look of some
admiration. “She never talked about Glenda, her mother, except with those she
felt close to. A lot of pain there.”
    “I can imagine.
It’s terrible to watch a loved one at the mercy of such a disease.”
    “Not only that,”
he said. “My wife is ill, no question, but she can be harsh,