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obsessed with procedure, insisting on doing everything “by the book.” Me? By the book, my ass.
    I read through his report. Not much there, he did not have much to work with, but the implication was clear that the bomber must have had help from the security guard at the gate: Without a friend on the inside, how else did he get past the front gate? I finishedthe report but it did not answer the most important questions, so I interrupted him. He would tell me what he would not put in writing. “What do you make of Okon Abasi?”
    He looked up. “Who?” He looked drained from the long hours of concentration. He started earlier, I stayed later. Pity we had no laptops like police do in the “civilized” countries, where a detective’s work is made easier by technology. In Nigeria, we work largely by experience, common sense, instinct, judgment—detective work. No software program to break the information into bitesize pieces, no fancy electronic gadgets to show you patterns—there is only paper, what you remember, and your intelligence to help see you through.
    â€œThe security guard at Okpara’s. You interviewed him. What did you think of him?” I asked. “Does he strike you as the square and straight?”
    Instead of being square and straight with me, Femi decided to wax philosophical: “How straight can one be in the face of poverty and the greed bred out of poverty?”
    â€œOkpara probably pays him well, if only to keep him loyal.”
    â€œYou’d think. But he doesn’t seem to hold any leads for us.”
    â€œI’m thinking the bomber must have had help from the guard. How else did the bomber get into the compound?”
    â€œThat would be one way.”
    â€œWhat was it you said: How straight can one be in the face of poverty?”
    â€œWhat if the bomb plot did not work—which it didn’t. Okpara is still alive, he’d figure out what had happened, and the guard would not see the next sunrise.”
    â€œMaybe the guard did not think of that,” I said, nodding. “Come to think of it, how much would you accept to help someone murder me?”
    â€œIt would have to be more than two weeks’ pay,” Femi said to me. “For enough money they could blow up the Chief, for all I’d care. I’d be long gone.”
    â€œThat isn’t a nice thing to say about your chief of police.”
    â€œHe isn’t chummy with
me.
”
    â€œMaybe whoever paid the bomber already took care of the guard. We should interview him again. In depth.”
    â€œBring him in?”
    â€œYes. Meanwhile, I want to pay the Karibis a visit.”
    â€œWhat are you up to?”
    â€œI want to speak to Mrs. Karibi a second time. Maybe we missed something the first time around. Maybe I’ll speak first to the guard’s wife. Your report has her address.”
    â€œWhat good would that do?”
    â€œI want to see if the guard has suddenly come into money since his master was nearly blown to bits. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find out he’s bought a new TV he can’t afford.” I got out of my chair. “Bring in the security guard and keep him until I’m back.”
    Femi nodded and picked up the phone as I left. I walked outside and regretted leaving even my office; the intensity of the sun created a vapor steaming up from the nylon tar covering the courtyard floor. Nylon tar was a poor choice compared with interlocking tiles or even concrete. However, contracts are awarded not for quality of work but for who you know.
    Before I saw Mrs. Karibi, or the guard’s wife, I knew I first had to go up to Chief’s office.
    As usual, Stella was busy at her desk. She waved me in. Neither of us had the time for a frivolous chat.
    â€œGood day, Chief,” I told him as I walked in.
    He looked up from his endless paperwork. “Good day to you, detective. I expected you.