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card in the door slipped the lock, and we went in. It was dark inside. Dark and quiet. Until I heard a scraping sound, coming from what was probably a bedroom. The doorway was open; a faint light shone from inside. I took my pistol from its holster as we approached. When we got to the open doorway, a tall, heavy man lunged at us from inside the room. He had a bandage around his ear. Our boy. He tried to grab my gun but never got close because I kicked him in the crotch.
    Kicking an attacking suspect in the crotch is basic police technique all over the world.
    He went down and Femi was on top of him as he hit the floor,rapping his gun across the back of the man’s head for good luck. Our friend was unconscious but we cuffed him anyway. I stole a look at him as I took out my cell. He was bearded, tall, young, heavy-set, hardened by his years on the streets of Port Harcourt.
    I got through to the desk sergeant, told him who I was, where we were, and what we had. Given we had no warrant, I fabricated a little and said he opened the front door and attacked us. It was true, except for moving the bedroom door about twenty feet forward. The suspect, being unconscious, did not dispute my account.
    While I stood over the man, Femi went into the kitchen, got a glass of water, came back, and splashed it onto the suspect’s head. He grunted and slowly came to. I jacked him up and pushed him against the wall. “Who paid you to bomb Okpara?”
    â€œI want my lawyer.” Now there was a surprise.
    â€œYou don’t have a lawyer.”
    â€œWell, I want one.”
    â€œYou’ll want your balls in a minute. Shut up.”
    â€œI’m not telling you a thing. Kiss my fat ass.”
    Instead of kissing his fat ass, I gripped his neck and squeezed. In a moment, he was gasping for breath, cuffed hands flailing uselessly behind him. When I dropped him roughly into a wooden chair, he slumped on his left side and grunted like a wounded animal. As far as I was concerned he
was
an animal. An animal who tried to kill. An animal who would not talk.
    Femi watched him sit in the chair and cough while I got two cold beers from his fridge. His taste in beer was good. I was impressed. Femi and I had nice cold ones, waiting for our colleagues to arrive. And arrive they did, within about fifteen minutes, four of them.
    I stepped forward to greet them. “Detectives Peterside, Adegbola. Homicide.”
    â€œAre you here officially?” Sergeant Opuwari, the lead officer, asked as he walked up to us and shook hands.
    â€œHe’s a suspect in the Okpara bombing.”
    â€œDoes he want a lawyer?” Opuwari asked.
    â€œSure,” I replied.
    Opuwari grinned.
    It was a jolly ride down to the Central Police Station of Njemanze. The officers at the Njemanze Police post had to put up with almost no resources and a crumbling, mosquito-infested station that had been half demolished to put up a block of fancy shops. They still did their work, though. I respected them.
    Angus Sekibo was booked, allowed his one phone call, then put in a holding cell. After letting him sit for a while, I figured he was ready and approached Opuwari to interview him.
    â€œYou know I can’t do that. His lawyer is not here yet.”
    â€œYou want to tell Okpara you held up the interrogation of the guy who put him in the hospital and killed several of his people? Do you think this is the only attempt on Okpara we’ll see? What if there’s another one on the stove right now?”
    â€œWill you take complete responsibility for interviewing him without his lawyer present?”
    I nodded, and that let him off the hook. He watched as Femi and I walked into the holding cell. “When his lawyer comes, I’ll make certain he fills out all the appropriate forms I can find, in triplicate, before he’s allowed to see his client.”
    We police like to work together.
    Our suspect was seated at a table, hands cuffed behind