Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  Corky was especially intrigued by the diagram of the truck’s interior with the x’s marking Stan’s prints, checkmarks indicating Leilani’s, and question marks in the few places where older, unidentified prints had been raised.

  “Look, Hank. There aren’t any prints on the steering wheel.”

  Hank reached for the phone. When he hung up, he grinned. “Scotty was pee-oed. He says if the diagram doesn’t show any prints on the wheel, then there aren’t any there.”

  “So it was wiped. But why? Almost for sure anyone who handled the wheel would have touched other parts of the cab. What would be the point to just cleaning off the wheel?”

  Corky placed the folders in her in basket when she left work that evening, but the puzzle still bothered her. It continued to bother her for almost two weeks. Amaral and Andrade weren’t exactly clean, but no one could be expected to come up with an alibi covering at least a twenty-four hour period. Airport personnel were no help. A recheck with all of them found no one who recalled seeing either of the two suspects or the missing couple. No one had seen the pickup entering the airport. With no parking slip in the pickup, there was no way of knowing the exact time it had entered the lot.

  A return visit to the Nobriga’s produced little more than shrugs from the parents. Fortunately, Stan’s younger brother happened to be there and produced some information that might not have been of any value, but which Corky circled in her notes for further investigation, or at least for further thought.

  The brother said Stan’s departure might have been long planned. “He told me he was gonna take off to California one these days. He had a good job waiting for him—if he wanted it.”

  The answer to Corky’s subsequent question was more informative. Knowing Stan was unemployed, and that the fare to the mainland was expensive, she asked, “Where was he getting the money for the trip?”

  The brother grinned. “He had fifteen hundred dollars, last I talk to him.” He made a gesture around his waist. “Safe in a money-belt.”

  There was no point in asking where an unemployed twenty-two year old would come up with so much money, since the answer would most likely have been a lie. The real answer would have been ice—crystal methamphetamine—the latest drug being handled by local small-time dealers.

  “Was he going to take Leilani along?”

  The grin widened. “The Johnson wahine? No way. A goodbye wave, maybe.”

  An interview with the high school counselor, Melissa Fujii, produced further food for thought, but certainly no solution.

  “Leilani was really a very bright girl. I used to teach in intermediate school and was her homeroom teacher for a year, in seventh grade. Back then she was really interested in school, was a good reader, and was doing well in just about all of her subjects. I don’t know what her IQ was, but I’m sure she was well above average.” She paused, then went on, “After she turned thirteen, I guess her hormones cut in.”

  The counselor’s expression was impenetrable as she continued. “She wasn’t very attractive, so she did what a lot of plain girls do at that age. She chased the boys, and was only too ready to offer them the only thing she could.”

  Corky had the feeling the counselor, who could at best be called plain, might well have been looking back at what adolescence had held for her. With her own looks better than average, and no need to do any boy chasing, Corky could nevertheless still remember cutting a wide swath during those trying years.

  “By the time I was counseling her here in high school, it all seemed pretty hopeless. She’d completely lost interest in school. She was using drugs, of course, but then I’d be hard pressed to find any of the students who haven’t at least smoked pakalolo. She skipped classes more than she attended, and when she was here, she got into several fights. She was a big girl, and strong, so most of the damage was to others. That didn’t set too well with the parents of the girls she fought with.

  “She had problems at home, too. Her father is a minister in some small Christian church. He apparently was very strict with her, and she took out a lot of her hostility toward him right here at school. I got the impression she was really terrified of her father, yet kept right on crossing him. You know how it is. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but we were about to have a final conference with her parents when she disappeared.”

  “Incorrigible?” Corky phrased the word as a question.

  The counselor nodded. “We call it ‘attention deficit disorder’ these days. Not that that makes much difference, since she was headed for a special school on Oahu.” She smiled, and added, “We also have to be politically correct these days, but you know as well as I do, a reform school by any other name is still a reform school.”

  No, the interview didn’t help much, and the first real break in the case came almost two weeks to the day after Leilani’s disappearance. A relieved Mrs. Johnson called to say she’d received a letter from her missing daughter. Corky’s reaction was immediate. “Please don’t handle it any more than you have already. I’ll be over in just a few minutes.”

  The letter was brief.

  Mom. Dad.

  I know you been worried but Stan and me decided to go to Oahu. He always arguing with his parents and beside he got good job here. I am fine if you want to write me just send letters to Honolulu general delivery. I write more when I got the time. I got a job too.

  Lele

  There was no date on the letter. The envelope’s postmark was Honolulu, with the previous day’s date. Leilani’s fingerprints along with her mother’s were on the letter and envelope. Her mother was adamant. There was no question but that the writing was Leilani’s. A comparison with some of her schoolwork convinced Corky the mother was right.

  And later, at the station, Hank agreed, then asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking.”

  “That Stan made her write the letter two weeks ago and saved it until now?”

  Hank nodded.

  “It’s possible, but doesn’t seem too likely. Her counselor said Leilani was no dummy. He wouldn’t have been able to get her to just write a letter like that. And from what little I can make out about Stan, he wouldn’t have had that kind of smarts.” She shook her head and kept puzzling over the letter.

  The break came almost a week later. The Honolulu PD reported they had Leilani Johnson in custody. Fingerprint identification was positive. She had been picked up for soliciting, had resisted arrest, and had two joints and three amphetamine pills in her purse, along with three hundred dollars in large bills. The weary-sounding sergeant Corky spoke to seemed eager to turn Leilani over to the Elima PD on any pretext.

  Hank had been listening to the conversation over the speakerphone. Knowing Corky’s aversion to flying, he grinned and said, “Here’s your chance to fly to Honolulu. And all at the County’s expense.”

  “Why me?”

  “It’s gotta be at least a sergeant to take over custody, and you’ve been working on the case. Besides, how many women sergeants do we have on Elima?”

  Corky looked grim. “Thanks. The only good thing about the flight is that it lasts less than thirty minutes. With enough tranquilizers beforehand, maybe I won’t know I’m flying.”

  The pills didn’t help much on the flight. They helped even less after she got there. Still groggy from their effects, Corky felt in no mood to interview Leilani. She was in even less of a mood to do so after talking to the sergeant who had called her.

  “Since she’s a minor, we had to bring in a juvenile defender before we could do any interrogating, and he’s a piss-ant.”

  “So what did you find out?”

  “Just what I told you over the phone. I haven’t seen her since. They’re both waiting for you.” He gestured toward the interrogation room. As Corky started off in that direction, he added, “Good luck.”

  As it turned out, the interview went surprisingly well. The defender was only too glad to divest himself of his client, and Leilani was obviously seeing in Corky a free return tri
p to Elima and a way to avoid the existing charges against her. Whatever the reason, Leilani was ready to cooperate, and Corky was pleasantly surprised to find her to be as intelligent as the counselor had described.

  The trip back was uneventful. Corky had sedated herself sufficiently to reduce her usual terror to mild anxiety, while Leilani lost herself in the latest issue of the in-flight magazine.

  Hank made it a point to sit in on the interview at the station along with Leilani’s mother. Mr. Johnson had been unable to get off from work. Corky decided it was just as well. Still feeling the effects of the pills, she struggled to clear up the incidents of the past two weeks.

  A clerk knocked and summoned Hank from the room as Leilani was explaining. “Stan said he was going to the mainland. So we drove to the airport. I decided I didn’t want to go back home, because I knew Dad would be mad about my leaving with Stan. I saw him at the window when we left. So I took a plane to Honolulu with Stan. He went on to Los Angeles, and I decided to look up a friend on Oahu.”

  Corky’s head was still fuzzy, but she knew there were a lot of questions she should be asking. Leilani went on without prompting.

  “She moved and I couldn’t find her, so I stayed at the YWCA.”

  “Where did you get the three hundred dollars that were in your purse?”

  Leilani looked over at her mother, then said, “Stan gave me some money when he left.”

  Corky thought that unlikely, but didn’t press the matter. “There was a blood stain in the pickup. Was that your blood?”

  Leilani nodded. “I was filing my nails when Stan had to jam on the breaks. She held out her hand, palm down, to show a healed, three-inch gash in the web between her thumb and index finger.”

  Corky’s respect for Leilani’s intelligence was now extended to Leilani’s skill at manipulating the truth. She looked across the table at the tall, rather ungainly girl, and asked, “Why did you wait so long to write a letter to your folks?”

  While waiting for the answer to her question, the pieces began to fall into place. Streetwalking competition in Oahu was rugged. Leilani had little to offer in looks, and perhaps not much else to offer in experience. Money was running out. And Stan was hardly the type who would have given her any large amount, if any, when he left—if he left. Nor did Leilani seem like someone who would have taken the news of their breakup lightly. And there was the steering wheel devoid of fingerprints. Before Leilani could answer the previous question, Corky asked, “Can you drive?”

  Leilani’s mother broke in, with a broad smile. “Leilani’s been able to drive ever since she was a little thing. She used to sit on her father’s lap when she was only four and steer just as nice as you please.”

  Leilani glared at her mother. Corky shook off the last remnants of the pills. Almost every piece was in place. Leilani had driven to the airport. Stan had never been along. The blood was to send the police off in the wrong direction. And the money had finally about run out.

  At that moment, Hank entered the interrogation room. “Sergeant,” he said, addressing Corky and ignoring the other occupants, “A badly decomposed body was just found at Noe-noe point, washed up by the waves and wedged into the rocks. There’s enough left to show a snake tattoo around the neck. And there’s a fishing knife sticking in his chest.”

  Corky, Hank and Mrs. Johnson turned to look at Leilani.

  A pause. “He tried to rape me,” the girl blurted out.

  Hank’s expression was grim. “His money belt was still on him—empty.”

  Leilani looked at each of the others, then said, “I want a lawyer.”

  MAN OVERBOARD

  “What gets me, Hank, is that we know for sure that either Mildred Hawkins or Alfred Lurma pushed her husband overboard, but the Prosecuting Attorney just won’t agree to having them charged.” The pitch of Sergeant Corky Medeiros’ voice was much higher than usual as she sat uncomfortably on the edge of one of Homicide Lieutenant Hank DeMello’s garage-sale office chairs. The furniture went well with the rest of the shabby office surroundings in one corner of the old converted Napua Theater, temporary quarters of the police station and several flimsy jail cells—all waiting on the county council to authorize funds for the proposed public safety building.

  The lieutenant couldn’t help but smile at his subordinate’s intensity. “So, what did the PA say, Corky? Lack of evidence?”

  “Hardly. Even he had to admit the evidence is overwhelming. The problem, according to him, is that there’s no way of knowing which of them did it, so how can he charge either of them?”

  Hank sighed, pushed some papers aside to make room, and held a hand out to her. “OK. OK. Hand me your report. Let’s go over it to see if there are some leads. Maybe a little more investigating will separate them. Or, better yet, put them together. My guess is that they both assisted Conley Hawkins over the railing.”

  As the lieutenant began reading, Corky said, “I’ve gone over that thing so many times, I can recite it by heart. Their stories jive—too well. In a nutshell, the three of them were out drinking. They decided to go out to Conley’s boat, sleep in it overnight and take off at daybreak for the fishing grounds. They heard the mahimahi are running, so they took the boat out near the entrance of the breakwater and anchored there, planning to be the first ones out in the morning. There are two cabins aboard. Conley got ready for bed and then decided to go topside after telling Mildred he wasn’t sleepy. Mildred dozed off and didn’t wake up until daylight—according to her. When she woke up and realized Conley hadn’t come to bed, she got up and went topside to look for him. When she couldn’t find him, she came back down and woke Lurma, who was in the guest cabin and claims he didn’t wake up until Mildred knocked on his door and told him Conley was missing. They scoured the boat, which isn’t hard to do in a twenty-foot cruiser. So then they went back to the dock, calling 911 on their way in.”

  “Three hours later, Conley’s body is found floating up by the breakwater. Drowned. No indication of foul play. Now comes the interesting part. I talked to his secretary. She’s an old gal. Been with the firm for thirty years or so. Badly broken up when she heard what happened, but a valuable source of info. Seems—according to her—Conley seldom drank, and when he did it was never more than a beer. He never, ever took pills. Not even vitamins or aspirin.”

  “Autopsy?”

  “I’m coming to that, Hank. It’s attached at the end of the report. Looks like he drank some hard liquor, probably vodka, at least two beers and a sedative. Not enough to knock anyone out, but it might make someone woozy who wasn’t used to drinking or taking drugs. Any defense attorney will harp on that, for sure—that Conley was unsteady on his feet, leaned over the rail and fell overboard. Period.

  “Well, I’m with you. I won’t buy that. Either or both of those two are responsible, so let’s nail ‘em.”

  “Right on. I’m going to talk to the harbormaster again. I didn’t have much chance to question him about Conley. About all we discussed was the discovery of the body.”

  “And check with Cal Lim. You know how leery he is of actually writing anything in the autopsy report unless he’s absolutely positive. His guesses can turn out to be good leads. In the meantime, I’ll look into the finances—insurance, will, and that sort of stuff.”

  “Are you going to question Lurma and Mrs. Conley again?”

  “I’ve warned both of them not to leave the Island, which got their backs up. They’ve each hired an attorney and won’t talk without their lawyers in tow.”

  “Who’d they get?”

  “Lurma hired Bill Kuroyama, and Mildred Hawkins hired Sid Chu. Knowing those two, we’re not going to get much more out of either Lurma or Hawkins, but once we’ve built up more of a case, I’ll try again. Just possibly we might get one of them to accuse the other of the murder to get a lighter sentence for themselves.”

  Corky gave a snort. “Not Lurma, that’s for sure. That giant Samoan is like a love sick teenager when it comes to Mildred. Hav
e you seen the way he looks at her?

  “You never know.”

  “Well, I do. He’ll never turn on her. Never!”

  Hank shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s get back together on Friday and compare notes. By then, even that namby-pamby PA will be willing to bring charges against one of them. Better yet, against both.”

  Corky got up, walked out the door, turned, lifted both hands showing crossed fingers.

  ***

  Corky was smiling as she pulled a chair up close to Hank’s desk at their next conference. “You first, Hank.”

  “Sounds like you have something good. Well, so do I, and a good share of it from our two suspects. Even with accompanying attorneys, they were willing to describe what they claim led up to the boating excursion. The three of them went to the Prince Kuhio Tavern that afternoon. According to them, Conley was the one who suggested going out in the boat overnight. That was after he’d downed a couple of beers.”

  “Hah! Wait’ll you hear what the harbormaster has to say about that.”

  “I don’t have to. I heard what the bartender had to say about it.”

  Corky raised an eyebrow as Hank went on. “I went over to the Prince Kuhio to have a heart-to-heart with the bartender who was there the afternoon the trio were drawing up their boating plans.”

  “Well?”

  “It took a little pressure on my part,” Hank said, with a wide grin, “but I finally found out Lurma slipped the bartender a twenty to spike Conley’s beer. He had two drafts with enough vodka in them to bring them up to twenty proof or so. For someone not used to drinking, that could have had him staggering and then some.”

  “Wowie! We’ve got a manslaughter conviction coming up as a minimum.”

  “And you’re going to have a tough time beating what I found out about Conley’s finances. Mildred gets everything. As you might guess, it’s a tidy sum, and there’s a six-figure insurance policy on his life, which she’ll also get. But the nicest tidbit was from his attorney. Conley was about to change his will.”