Primal Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  Somebody heard something. Somebody saw something. Somebody knew something. Meanwhile, Professor Donald G. Claxton was offered protective custody but refused it, leaving Parry to put a couple of men on him, reckoning that if Oniiwah had given up Claxton as the possible killer in the Linda Kahala case, then Claxton would next disappear. And if a white man, however despicable of character, happened to be beaten or killed by kanakas...

  All efforts at locating Oniiwah looked bleak until news came over the wire that the body of a young Hawaiian male was found floating in relatively remote Waimanalo Bay just northwest of Makapuu Beach Park and the Sea Peace Museum and whaling village at Waimea Falls.

  Parry grabbed Jessica and drove as if possessed through the Pali Tunnel on State Route 63. The tunnel, carved through the dark bowels of the mountain, took them to the other side of the island. There they sped southeast on State 72, Parry praying they wouldn't find the body of the hapa Japa he'd rousted at Paniolo's the night before.

  They arrived at a scene already secured by uniformed officers from the district, finding the usual curious onlookers edging closer to have a better look, necks craned, the crowd absurdly held at bay by hundreds of yards of black and yellow plastic ribbon. The streamer tape formed a series of U's and W's where it dangled and flailed in the wind, extended at intervals between coconut trees along the mile-long stretch of beach.

  Jessica could tell two things at a distance: Her cane would be useless in the sand, and the body was extremely fresh. She left her cane and heels in Parry's new vehicle—a sporty-looking new Dodge Stealth—pulled a lab coat over her blouse and slacks, grabbed her medical bag and trudged after Parry, who'd not bothered to wait, anxious to know the truth he feared.

  She'd sensed his growing anxiety as the day had worn on, and with no sign or word of George Oniiwah until this, Jim was understandably concerned.

  If it was Oniiwah's body out on the sand, Jim would bury Hal Ewelo. Jessica had caught a glimpse of the man in lockup, and had found Halole “Paniolo” Ewelo not at all like Joe Kaniola. Joe, despite grief over his son, despite his frustration and the fact that he'd lied to her, had never displayed a fraction of the malevolence found in Ewelo's eyes. Paniolo was a big, burly man whose leathery face—never the same twice—folded with light and shadow as he walked through the dimly lit corridors between holding cell and interrogation room. He looked powerful enough to snap a boy like George Oniiwah in two, and his smile, which could not be wiped away by his predicament, was that of a crocodile.

  They'd learned that he had, for most of his life, been a working cowboy on a huge ranch on Maui, of which there were several centered around the town of Makawao, where the famous Makawao Rodeo was held each year on July 4th, where cowboys of every size, shape, color and hue of Hawaiian ancestry or otherwise competed in a day of wild sport. From the look of him, Ewelo rarely lost, but scars on his face, hands and arms were reminders of a rugged life in which he more than once was stepped on by a Brahman bull. It was quite conceivable that the man could easily lose control, go over the top and kill Oniiwah while trying to get the truth—that young George knew something about the disappearance and death of Lina Kahala, at least according to the Ala Ohana, which Ewelo, an illiterate even in his own language, had read to him each moming.

  Parry didn't need any further reason to suspect Halole Ewelo after learning of a rumor that the rugged cowboy was carrying out a vigilante search for the sadistic killer of a native girl. Parry had desperately tried to make this clear to Donald Claxton, but the man wouldn't listen to reason.

  As Jessica now approached the body on the beach, dredged up by a local man's net, she feared the worst; Parry's instant reaction to the body lying face down in the sand, the head turned to one side, the mouth agape and playing home to a sand crab, told the story.

  Jim's eyes spoke clearly of his hurt, and for a moment she searched his gaze deeply, trying to share the pain, to feel with him, and for an instant she snatched at and caught all the emotions that had cauldroned between them since their first meeting. The empathy surged through her heart.

  “I'm sorry, Jim.”

  His terse response was cool, even defiant, a pretense. “I want to know exactly how he died, when he died, what he ate a half hour before he died—down to the last ugly detail. I want all the I's dotted and the T's crossed on this, Jess. I want this sonofabitch Paniolo like I've never wanted anybody before. You understand that?”

  She understood it was personal, that he felt guilty, that he believed himself as culpable as Hal Ewelo and the likely others who'd killed this boy. “I'll do what I can,” she quietly said, going to her knees, creating an indention in the sand alongside the body. She began her superficial examination of Oniiwah's remains. She was keenly aware of the incongruity here between the beautiful landscape and the ugly death at her fingertips, and that all around her stood the island authorities, equally puzzled and bewildered by death's ability to end life at so young an age.

  The men shuffling about and around her were nervous ambulance attendants, uniformed county cops and detectives, some just arriving to have a look, others responding to the alert. Even here, in paradise, men ruled and men squandered and women picked up the pieces, she thought.

  The boy'd been deposited in the ocean without clothing, and his bruises were everywhere over the torso, head and limbs, many of the purple bruises and gashes no doubt inflicted by the coral reefs here, but many also bearing the unmistakable mark of human cruelty....

  On first glance, with the body face down, she could not say for sure which blow might have killed Oniiwah, although there was great trauma to the head.

  “All right.” She firmly gave the order. “Let's roll him.”

  With Jim's help, she turned the body in a controlled, easy manner so as not to add any new injuries, such as a broken neck from wrongful handling of the dead weight. With the turning of the corpse, a collective gasp went around the men standing over her to combine with her own when the real damage came clear: Oniiwah had been literally emasculated, his sex organs gone, the scrotum washed clean of blood and loose matter by the sea. This alone might have been enough to send him into shock and thus eventual death. Multiple contusions about the eyes, nose and mouth were also contributing factors, along with a horrid gash to the left temple by a blunt instrument, most likely a hefty paperweight, brass knuckles, a ball bat or the butt of a revolver.

  “He was severely tortured,” she said uselessly just to break the eerie silence that had materialized all around her.

  “You saying he was butchered before or after he was killed?” Parry asked, his jawbone set and quivering.

  “I'd need some lab work to prove either way.”

  “Your best guess?”

  “If I were guessing... before. All part of the intimidation and interrogation. Strip him and threaten and cut him.” Parry stalked off, unable to stare down at what remained of George Oniiwah a moment longer. She shouted to the waiting ambulance attendants, “Bag the hands—for all the good it'll do—and finish up here. See the body gets to the FBI morgue in Honolulu.”

  She caught up to Parry, who was leaning over the hood of his car. “You can't blame yourself for this, Jim.”

  “Damnit, I should've known better. I should've seen it fucking coming.”

  “Christ, an act of depravity like this? How do you see that coming, Jim? What? You're supposed to be psychic or something? Give it a rest, and give yourself a break, Jim... Jim!”

  He pulled away, not listening, climbing into the car. She gave him some space, going to the passenger side and sliding in beside him.

  He wheeled on her and pointed his finger in her face. “We're all walking on a tinderbox here. Of all people, Jess, I shoulda known. I shoulda foreseen this. I shoulda been more careful. Tony tried to tell me; hell, the population over in the canal district tried to tell me when they dusted my car, but I'm thick! I'm goddamned thick and stupid. I keep thinking the best of people; keep thinking people've got to see right from
wrong, but that's crazy.... It gets people killed.”

  “Damnit, Jim, we've got no time for this... this self-pity crap! If what you say is true about the Trade Winds Killer, he's still searching for another victim, and the sun'll be down in a few hours.”

  His jaw firmly set, he said, “So what the hell do you suggest. Dr. Coran?”

  “I suggest to you that Ewelo be held as long as possible on as many violations as you can get him on, and in the meantime, we do a blood typing on Oniiwah's body, and maybe we'll have a match that will put Ewelo at the scene of the boy's death. But that won't be enough. You've got to have a finger pointed in the right direction. I suggest that finger be the roommate. Lean on him.”

  “Way ahead of you on that score. Tony's working on him as we speak.”

  “And in the meantime, run a check on any possible connections Ewelo may've had with any of the victims. If you find there are any threads there, that he knew Kahala and perhaps Kia, if they frequented his place, and if he put them on the street, that gives him a ticket to the show.”

  He considered this in quiet reflection until the ambulance sirened for clearance and sped out of the sand. A cascade of pebbles responded as the ambulance careened onto the tarmac, taking Oniiwah's body off with little fanfare.

  “Better keep the ambulance in view,” she suggested. “No telling how long Ewelo's reach is.”

  “This Paniolo guy disgusts me, but I don't think he's the Trade Winds Killer,” he flatly observed.

  “Aren't you being a bit premature?”

  “He doesn't fit the profile.”

  “Sometimes the profile doesn't fit, so? You can't be a slave to it. Let your instincts guide you. Besides, the color of his skin certainly fits.” She hesitated, doing battle with her seat belt. “Serial killers tend to kill within their own race. At least you've got probable cause which, even if it doesn't stick, may get Ewelo on Oniiwah's murder, not to mention the fact it'll give you some breathing room.”

  “Ever the opportunist, aren't you?”

  “Drive,” she replied.

  He tore out and flipped the switch to his strobe light, in hot pursuit of the ambulance. Bodies had been known to get lost before, and if Ewelo did have friends in high places...

  Jessica, still with her lab coat over her shoulders, and tearing away the surgical gloves she'd used in examining the body, now said, “Ewelo's mean enough and ugly enough to please Pearl, the city, county, state and the boys back home in D.C. Hell, his eyes alone'll convict him. Just see to it the newsies get his photo-graph—preferably a mug shot.”

  “I like the way your mind works, Jess.”

  “And Jim?”

  “What?”

  “It's time to warn the women of this island in complete detail just what turns the Trade Winds Killer on, just in case Ewelo's not the real thing, which given our doubts...”

  Jim, thinking aloud, said, “You think Ewelo used a cane cutter on George Oniiwah?”

  “Possibly, but whatever he used, if the evidence supports it, you'll have him on the boy's murder.”

  “But you agree with me; you don't think he's the Trade Winds Killer, do you?”

  “My luck doesn't usually run that well. How 'bout yours?”

  “I've seen overly helpful men volunteer, join in search parties, work day and night on a case—”

  “Sure, and shout the loudest for police to do their job,” she added.

  “And go ballistic and self-righteous and do the vigilante thing as a cover.”

  She considered this a moment as the lush island landscape flew past. “It'd make for a hell of a cover. Yeah,” she conceded, “I've been involved in cases where the killer revisited the crime scene, relived the events over again, fantasized about his emotional release at the point of killing, all without the least worry of being caught by a stakeout, because he's part of the damned stakeout.”

  Parry, nodding, added, “Not to mention the fact he becomes privy to the investigation.”

  “Sure, Ewelo could be our guy, but we won't know that unless we can make the connections. One is his proximity to the university where the women were going to school; a second is the fact he may've feared what Oniiwah knew, and in a show of civic duty, he offs Oniiwah, as a lesson to those who dared to harm Hawaiian women. A third connection, Oniiwah's blood, will give us an opportunity to revisit Paniolo's, his den, not to mention his home. Hopefully locate other blood samples. We need to know everything there is to know about this man: who his friends are, who does business with him, where he's worked before on the island, and if he likes to cruise the strip where the women disappeared.”

  Parry liked what he heard, and he gunned the Stealth until they were a hundred yards behind the ambulance, which was now cutting off 72 for 63 and the Pali Tunnel. Once they were back in Waikiki they'd tighten up to be sure the driver knew he was being watched. Never again would Parry assume anything when it came to the mind of a Hawaiian national. He gave a thought to the political power of the PKO, the Preserve Kahoolawe Ohana, which had come into greater prominence in the nineties.

  Parry radioed ahead that they were coming in with George Oniiwah's body, and said that information should be conveyed to Claxton for his own safety and that Claxton was to be picked up.

  “On what charges, sir?” asked Dispatch. “Contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

  “Roger that. Number 1. We have your orders.” Even Dispatch liked the sound of it.

  “You think you can make it stick?”

  “Maybe not, but when we wheel Oniiwah's body past him, maybe he'll change his mind about protective custody and a change of scenery.”

  “What about Claxton as a possible suspect in the Trade Winds killings?”

  “No, won't wash.”

  “Why not?”

  “He's a lover; likes pretty young women, can't keep his hands off them, but he doesn't get his jollies by beating or humiliating them, no... and he's not into carving them up for sexual arousal as obviously our boy is.”

  “So, what're the Cowboy's sexual proclivities?”

  “Closer to our killer's, I'm told.”

  Jessica could never quite fathom the sadistic sexual urge that led to a primitive need to destroy a sexual partner completely in order to ejaculate and thereby conquer wholly the being of another. Murder and sex, an ancient story. The Cane Cutter didn't murder to cover a rape, however; in fact, what he did was not classified at all as a rape by FBI standards, but rather he raped in the ultimate sense by raping life from his victim in order to fulfill his peculiar, deviant sexual urges. The Trade Winds Killer punished his victims because they had something he did not: a normal sex drive; he tortured them and cut into them to prove himself a man, to prove that he could overcome his own impotence, showering them no doubt with his sperm when it finally came forth, ending the ritual of foreplay and ejaculation only to open the door to the final ritual of death, the last act played out between victim and killer.

  Having enjoyed the victim's pain and blood, which “turned him on,” blinded by a mad desire for more, the final raining blows and cuts—which Jessica postulated from the Kahala arm must number in forties and fifties—filled the killer with a mystical and religious release from this plane of existence.

  Not everyone could comfortably contemplate or fully comprehend such a religion; it wasn't everyone who had to examine such diabolical acts to make sense—however twisted—of sexually motivated mutilation murders. But she and Parry had to do exactly that. Tenderness, caresses, kisses, soft touches, all that love meant for normal, God-fearing human beings who found a healthy lust in mutual respect, care and fondling, were turned to their opposite extremes by the sado-masochistic Cane Cutter and others of his kind. The Cane Cutter preferred brutality to tenderness, punches and knife wounds to caresses, a disgorged tongue to a kiss, a clawing, tearing rake of nails to a soft touch, madness to a healthy lust, tearing and rending to fondling, humiliation to respect. He wanted total domination over life, to completely
bond with and take another life. Ironically, he preferred pain to pleasure, death to life. Subconsciously wanting death for himself, but too cowardly to destroy himself, he instead becomes the carrier, the reaper.

  The more Jessica thought about him, the more she both recognized and despised the Trade Winds Killer, and the more she believed him still out there, despite the Claxtons and Paniolos of the island or other deviants behind bars at the moment. For not only was he a psychopath, the Cane Cutter was quite cunning, planning out his every move, cautious to a fault and invisible even when seen.

  It still remained true that Officers Thom Hilani and Alan Kaniola were the only two lawmen who'd come even remotely close to ending the terror of the Trade Winds Killer.

  4 P.M., July 16. FBI Crime Lab, Honolulu

  Back at Lau's labs, as they'd come to be known since Dr. Shore's extended departure, Jessica prepared Oniiwah's blood to be tested against that found at Paniolo's. Each specimen was carefully processed, but it would take time to know for certain if they had a match or not. In the meantime, she had to know whether she could or could not trust Lau, who would be overseeing the tests.

  Lau had not been present when she'd arrived with the samples she had taken from Oniiwah's corpse. It was 6 P.M. and Lau had gone home, but now his sudden return surprised her.

  “You've heard the news?” she asked.

  “The Japanese-Hawaiian boy, George Oniiwah, yes,” he admitted.

  'Then you knew of him?”

  “Only what I have read in the papers.”

  She knew he was lying and from the speed of his darting black eyes, and the pretense with his hands over a rack of test tubes and slide trays he fiddled with, Jessica knew that he knew she'd just assessed his body language.