by Hughes, Chip
“We tell da truth in dis family.” Mr. Song uncovered his tear-streamed face. “Jus’ prove he nevah do ‘em.”
“Honey . . . .” His wife put her hand on his shoulder.
“Are you sure you want me to investigate?” I looked into his pained eyes.
They both nodded.
“Okay, I’ll need a retainer to get started,” I said. “Five hundred should do for now.” That was half my usual.
Mrs. Song disappeared and then returned with a rusty Spam can. She pulled out a wad of crumpled bills, flattening them one by one on the coffee table. She counted to five hundred.
I took the bills, but didn’t feel good about it.
“One last thing.” I suddenly remembered something that was bothering me. “Why did Ryan take board shorts to France?”
“He planned to surf at a place called Biarritz,” Mrs. Song said.
“Sure, maybe that explains it,” I replied.
We exchanged goodbyes, Mrs. Song gave me Ryan’s laptop, and I left.
Walking to my car I realized that while Ryan’s intending to surf Biarritz explained why he brought board shorts to France, it didn’t explain why he had them on when he died. So I still had a problem.
four
Returning to my Waikīkī Edgewater studio that night I unfolded the map of Paris Serena had given me and studied the dizzying array of streets and the river that wove through them. Why Parisians called one bank of the Seine right and the other left didn’t make sense to me. The orientation looked more north and south. But eventually I found the Left Bank and the Latin Quarter. A 5E was printed smack in the middle. That meant nothing to me, so I Googled it.
5ème – Fifth Arrondissement –This neighborhood, the fabled Latin Quarter, takes its name from the Sorbonne, where Latin was the common tongue for all students during the Middle Ages. The neighborhood has the feel of a small village and students mix freely with professionals in its winding streets. Ernest Hemingway and James Joyce lived here, and many other writers, artists, and philosophers . . . .
Not a bad start. Next I located the domed Pantheon and remembered Serena saying Ryan and his fellow students lived nearby on Rue des Écoles. I found it and also the cross street she had mentioned as an afterthought: Rue Thénard. I drew a circle around the intersection.
So I had it. The very spot where Ryan Song had died. Hoping to see the actual building, I slipped the disk Serena gave me into my DVD player. The program began with a brassy version of the French national anthem—same as the horn opening to the Beatles’ “All You Need is Love.” The major monuments and tourist attractions of Paris flashed by on the screen. And in case I might miss any of them, a sonorous voiceover identified each. Then the pitch began:
Paradise College, International Studies Division, welcomes you to Paris. Imagine living and studying in this world famous city most people only dream of visiting. Paris, the city of lights. Paris, the city of love. That’s you atop the Eiffel Tower! That’s you admiring the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. That’s you in a sidewalk café watching the glamour of Parisian life stroll by. It’s a once-in- a-lifetime opportunity, and it can be yours!
Sign me up—I was sold already. Soon the narrator got to student accommodations.
You will live in an historic Eighteenth-Century town home, apportioned into single and double rooms expressly for Paradise College students, at the illustrious address: 44 Rue des Écoles . . . .
I froze the image. It was an elegant building—six stories, by my count—with a Mansard roof, brick chimneys, tall windows, wrought iron balconies, and blooming planters. On the ground floor was a florist called L’ile aux Fleur that reminded me of the flower lei shop beneath my office. Only more chic.
I pressed Play and the video continued with course options, excursions, and the school calendar, concluding with another round of Paris images. I kept waiting for the price tag. But it never came. The sonorous voice merely said, “A semester in Paris is more affordable than you might imagine . . .” And that was it.
I ejected the DVD and turned to the police report. Paris Police had a more elegant way of saying a young man had hung himself than Honolulu Police did. The English translation, sprinkled with French phrases, said the American student had taken his own life as a result of feelings of dejection and despair over his spurned love for a beautiful young woman. And he had done so fittingly and symbolically on the evening of her birthday. The suicide note—Au revoir, Marie—and her photo seemed to provide evidence irréfutable. A summary of statements by Ryan’s professor and fellow students corroborated this. The fact that Ryan had apparently taken the rope impulsivement—impulsively, I guessed—from a maintenance room in the building further suggested his desperation. He was pronounced dead at the scene at four minutes after nine on Wednesday morning, March first. It was estimated that death occurred the night before, on February twenty-ninth, no later than ten o’clock. Considering the absence of other motives, and after interviews with persons who might shed light on the incident regrettable, the case was closed.
five
The next morning I drove to the Kaka‘ako campus of Paradise College to interview Professor Russell Van, whose cramped office smelled of pipe tobacco and musty books. He extended a cool pink palm with the grip of a gummy bear, so unlike the warm firm hand of Ryan’s father. The professor pointed to a chair and I sat.
“You’re here about Ryan?” he said with a hint of nervousness in his voice. His double chin and aloha shirt blousing around his belly revealed a plumpness I’d thought was no longer in fashion in the academy. But Professor Van was obviously an old-timer.
I nodded. “I read the summary of your statement to the Paris police and hoped your wouldn’t mind telling me what happened in your own words.”
“So his parents don’t think he did it?” the professor said. “Let me tell you, I saw him hanging there over the snapshot of her. How can there be any doubt?”
I shrugged. “Did you talk with him before it happened?”
“When Marie moved in with that French student, it bothered Ryan. He just wasn’t himself. I emailed Serena and she said to call him in.”
“Did you?”
“I did. Ryan said little. Just that he’d be okay. He really didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Did you talk with him again?”
“No—” Van hesitated. “Well, he did come to see me a few days later. But not about Marie. About something else.”
“What?”
“It was unrelated. So I didn’t even mention it to the police.” Van rocked back uneasily in his chair. “He said he wanted to discuss the next exam.”
“Was he worried about his grade?”
“I doubt it. He was carrying an A-minus. Anyway, I’ll never know. I was on my way to a lecture on the medieval French ballade when he came in. I told Ryan I’d be back in an hour, but he didn’t return. The next time I saw him was on that awful morning.”
“Would you mind telling me what you saw?”
“When I got there all the students—except Marie, of course—were standing outside Ryan’s door. He was hanging very still.”
“How did the students react?”
“Meighan was crying. But the others just looked dumbstruck.”
“Is that what you expected?”
“When you take these island kids to a place like Paris, you don’t know what to expect.” He arched his woolly brows. “For many, it’s their first time away from Hawai‘i. Some handle it, others don’t.”
“Did they handle it?”
“For the most part. All seven took my French history course, which included excursions to the Bastille, Versailles, et cetera. So I got to know them fairly well. I usually teach the course as a large lecture with standardized exams. But this was a small, intimate group. To keep the course on par I used the same exams, but otherwise I ran it like a seminar.”
“Did Ryan spend time with anybody besides Marie?”
“Sometimes with Meighan. Sometimes
with Kim and Heather.”
“What about Brad and Scooter?”
“I was told the guys went to the Folies Bergère together. But Brad and Scooter’s appetite—and budget—for cabarets apparently exceeded Ryan’s. Not to mention Brad’s appetite for the dancers.”
“The two guys partied and got good grades?”
“When you’re twenty you can do things us older folks can’t.” Van rocked forward in his chair.
“And Marie—what was she like?”
“One of my best students ever. An A-plus. I rarely give those.”
“I never saw one,” I said. “But, if I care to see hers, Serena said I could look at your grade records.”
“Don’t bother. They won’t tell you anything about Ryan you don’t already know.” The professor frowned. “I’ll never teach in Paris again. What happened there ruined it for me. I haven’t slept well since, even with the little pills my doctor gave me. Best to stay here and finish my book, anyway.”
“To help your chances for the Hilo Hattie Chair? To help you defeat your bitter rival, Professor Blunt?”
Van looked surprised. “How did you know?”
“Serena told me.” I stood and thanked him. “Good luck winning that Chair, sir.”
He let out a breath as I left his office, seeming relieved the interview was over. Why? Whatever could make the professor anxious if he were so sure Ryan had taken his own life?
six
From Paradise College I stopped by the Waikīkī Edgewater and sent identical emails to the five students I planned to interview on O‘ahu. I sent a different email to Marie, who Serena had said was traveling in Europe. The email to Marie contained questions; the emails to the others contained a request to meet.
Moments later, a reply arrived from [email protected]: “I’m still very sad about Ryan but will try to talk with you. Call me. Meighan McMannis.”
She had been first to find Ryan hanging, according to Serena, so it seemed apropos to interview her first.
I called Meighan and arranged to meet her at a Starbucks near Ward Centre. She said she was taking a summer course in French and would stop by after class.
I was sipping a decaf when the green-eyed Michigan blonde stepped in, toting her French textbook. She was no frail flower, but a solid, sturdy young woman who looked as if she could endure those frigid Midwestern winters. She ordered a large latte and joined me. The animated conversations going on around us assured me we wouldn’t be overheard.
“Ryan was a sweet guy.” Meighan fixed her green eyes on me and sipped her latte. “I loved him.”
I said nothing. Just waited.
“I mean, it’s not like that.” She seemed surprised at what she had said. “He was just a good, gentle soul.”
“You said in your statement that you were the first to find Ryan. Can you tell me how that happened?”
“Sure. Heather called and asked me to check on Ryan. She hadn’t seen him and was worried. So I went down to his room. The door was unlocked.”
“You lived on the fourth floor, right? And Heather and Kim lived on the third, same as Ryan?”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t Heather check on him herself?”
“I don’t know. She just asked if I’d mind and I didn’t. So I went.”
“What time?”
“About eight on Wednesday morning. I knocked on his door. There was no answer. I knocked again and then tried the knob. The door opened. I saw him.”
“Did you go into the room?”
“Not really.” She gripped her coffee. Her hands trembled. “It was kind of . . . uh, a shock. And I didn’t want to disturb anything.”
“So you did or didn’t go into his room?”
“I didn’t.” Her eyes glistened. “Look, I’m only trying to help Ryan’s mom and dad. But I feel like you’re accusing me.”
“Sorry,” I said, then pressed on. “What did you do after you saw Ryan?”
“I banged on Heather and Kim’s door. I was crying. They knew right away something was wrong. All three of us walked back to Ryan’s room and I opened the door again.”
“How did Heather and Kim react?”
“Heather gasped and said, ‘Oh, my God!’ or something like that. Kim asked, ‘What should we do?’”
“I said we should call the police. Heather said we should call Professor Van first. And that’s what we did.”
“Why call the professor before the police?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t my idea. But Heather insisted.”
“Where were Brad and Scooter when all this was happening?”
“I was coming to that. They sometimes partied all night and then slept in the next day. We didn’t know if we should wake them. But Heather said—‘Let’s get ‘em.’ So she and I walked upstairs and knocked on their door. I was surprised when it opened right away.”
“They weren’t hung over—sleeping it off?”
“Brad looked better than Scooter, who’d obviously been drinking. But Brad said they both had a test that morning and had stayed up studying. We took them down to Ryan’s room.”
“And how did Brad and Scooter react?”
“Brad covered his face. Scooter just stared with a kind of wonder in his eyes. Then Professor Van showed up and walked into Ryan’s room, looked around, and called the police. When they came, we had to leave the building and wait down on the sidewalk. An officer who spoke English came down and interviewed each of us separately. By the time they let us back upstairs, Ryan had been taken away.”
“And you didn’t go back into his room after that?”
“No, not after they took him away.”
Meighan had contradicted herself. First she said she hadn’t gone into Ryan’s room, and then she implied she had. Either she was confused or withholding information.
I asked her more questions about what happened that night, what led up to it, and what followed. Before long nearly an hour had passed. I finished my decaf and said, “Can I give you a ride back to campus?”
“Nah, I’ll just stay here and study my French.”
I stood and said the only French I knew. “Au revoir.”
She sat bolt upright.
“What’s wrong?”
“The note,” she said. “Ryan’s suicide note.”
seven
I drove to my office on the corner of Maunakea and Beretania Streets in Chinatown. I’m on the second floor above Fujiyama’s Lei Shop. The sweet aroma of fresh plumeria lei being strung inside the shop followed me up the stairs—assuaging, in some way, the sad business I’d gotten myself into. Unlocking my door, I glanced at the longboard rider and SURFING DETECTIVE: CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS—ALL ISLANDS airbrushed there and wondered again why I was investigating a suicide in Paris. Ryan was a surfer. That was the best I could do.
I checked my emails: I had new ones from Heather and Scooter. Heather said I could meet her and her friend Kimberly at Magic Island that afternoon. Scooter said he could see me at the Outback Steakhouse in Hawai‘i Kai the next day. I confirmed both interviews, then later headed to Magic Island.
Heather and Kimberly were sitting on a bench by the seawater lagoon when I pulled up. Magic Island is not really an island, but a grassy peninsula on the Diamond Head end of Ala Moana Beach Park with the lagoon at the point. Beyond that is a sea wall and crashing surf.
The two twenty-something island girls were in running gear—tank tops, shorts, and trainers. Heather had long black hair, soft curves, and a fuller, more luxuriant figure than her friend’s. Kimberly, by contrast, was lean and small-breasted and pony-tailed. They told me they both worked at a boutique at Ala Moana Shopping Center, not far from their apartment on Pi‘ikoi Street.
After a few pleasantries, I asked Heather: “Why did you ask Meighan to look in on Ryan? Why not just walk across the hall yourselves?”
There was silence for a moment. Kim swung her ponytail around and gave Heather a look that said, Say something!
&n
bsp; “I did,” Heather leaned toward me, her gaping top revealing more of her ample breasts than a newly-met man ought to see. “Kim and I both did,” she said. “But Ryan didn’t answer. So we went back to our room and called Meighan.”
“Why not just open Ryan’s door? Hadn’t you done that before?”
“Yeah, but this time it didn’t feel right.” Heather again. “We thought Ryan was with someone.”
“Who? Not Marie. She was miles away.”
“Meighan.” Kim finally chimed in.
“Meighan?” I must have sounded surprised. Kim covered her mouth.
Heather gave her a look and then to me said, “It’s no secret Meighan liked Ryan. When Marie left, Meighan kind of . . . well, made her move.”
As my interview with the two friends progressed, I compared what they said with their statements in the police report, and also with the version of events already supplied by Professor Van and Meighan. It quickly became clear that Kim was the sidekick and Heather called the shots. All the time the latter was talking, something was bugging me. I’d gotten the same feeling listening to Meighan and the professor. While their statements were all uncannily consistent, something was being left out. What?
I asked several more questions—with the same results. Finally, I said: “You can speak freely to me. I’m not the police. I’m just trying to help out Ryan’s mom and dad. And I’m not suggesting either of you did anything wrong.”
Kim looked pale. Heather piped up: “We are speaking freely. We’ve told you everything.”
“Mahalo,” I said. But my reply was hardly more sincere than hers. Heather and Kim had told me almost nothing. But from their evasions and omissions came a clearer message than they intended. “If you happen to think of anything else,” I handed both of them my card, “would you please call or email?”
