Primal Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “Do that. Keep her fully apprised; you got that, Tony? Tony?”

  “If you say so, Chief.”

  “I say so. Don't forget, we asked her in on this case, pal, and without her we'd still be blowing smoke.”

  “All right, all right. She's just...”

  “Just what, Tony? Out with it.”

  Tony hesitated before saying, “Distracting.”

  “Distracting? Why, Tony, I didn't notice you noticed.”

  He grunted and said, “I noticed you two together are distracting for one another. Chief.”

  “Good! I'm glad your eyesight's not fully gone, buddy. Now mind your own goddamned business, okay? Just do your job, okay?”

  Parry grimaced into the phone, angry with himself for losing it, half understanding Tony's concern. But the big Italiano angered him, too. Tony could be so damned stubborn, he thought. “Just concentrate for the time being on the manhunt, okay, Gag?”

  “Every man and dog knows what he's looking for,” Gagliano continued, wanting to add, Do you? but thinking better of it.

  “So, what's the problem, Tony?”

  “No problem... not really, sir.”

  The use of “sir” was a sure sign there was a problem. “Damnit, Tony, I got no time, and I'm in no mood for twenty fucking questions.”

  “Hey, I just thought you'd like to know about the word on Bethel at Hotel, and on River Street.”

  Parry knew each comer gathering place with its tavem row, a hot bed of street information representing the entire rainbow from truth to gossip to pure fabrication, a gauntlet for the detective to run. What Joe Citizen thought and what he knew often broke a case wide open. River Street ran through the slum areas just northwest of downtown Honolulu.

  “I'm hearing the same story all over, Chief, down in Chinatown, too, and I get the same word from the wharf rats.”

  “Really?” Parry was instantly curious. The wharf rats were Hawaiians and half-Hawaiians who worked as stevedores and mechanics and hands along the wharves. They routinely hung about Aala Park when relaxing with a beer and a smoke. Their talk was never guarded or encumbered by fears that anyone might care enough about what they said to pay any attention. It was a far cry from the mentality of the Oahu Country Club set.

  “What's the word around, Tony?” he asked, wondering if it might jibe with the information he had himself picked up on Kukui Street where local sailors and “homeboys” hung out, frequently settling differences of opinion loudly and violently. But the word he'd been hearing on the street had been directly countered by Joe Kaniola the evening before.

  “Spill it, Tony. What're you hearing?”

  “That Lopaka got a boat out.”

  “Really? Out of where?”

  “Other side of the island, Mokapu Point, Kaneohe Bay.”

  It was one of the old ports, used by innumerable small fishing vessels, by many native fishermen who skirted the law in Hawaii with both abandon and finesse. “You think there's any truth to it?”

  “If there is... a search of the mountainside's a really stupid idea. And you know the kanakas. They'd go to the mainland and back if they thought they could make a haole—especially one in a position of authority—look stupid, Boss.”

  “So people've told you he got a boat out of Kaneohe Bay and so—”

  “Possibly Heeia Kea Boat Harbor, Boss.”

  “What kind of a boat, Tony? Did you get a fix on it?”

  “Fishing vessel, in ill repair.”

  “Wow, that really narrows it down.” Now it was Parry who was sarcastic. “What about its call numbers, its goddamn name, the captain?”

  “Sony, Boss... couldn't get anything specific on it, except that it sailed for Molokai.”

  “Molokai, huh?” Parry's thoughts came in a plethora of recall and questions. Molokai had been home to Lopaka Kowona in his childhood. It would follow that he'd race for some safe place, somewhere he felt comfortable. On the other hand, he'd been banished from that place by his chieftain father. And people like Kaniola were sending messages that were going counter to one another...

  Tony kept talking. “Even the wharf rats were guarded about it, but I loosened some tongues with a few greenbacks and, well...”

  “And well what?” Parry threw his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up.

  “Sounds possible that whoever boarded Lopaka was maybe a family member or members.”

  This gave Parry pause, recalling how deftly Kaniola and Lopaka's aunt and cousin had played him. Wouldn't touch Lopaka with a ten-foot pole, huh? But why would Kaniola aid and abet his son's killer? How could he? For the cause of native rights maybe, all that self-determination crap? An order handed down by the PKO? Possibly, for some more fanatical members had already proven that they could be dangerous when they had George Oniiwah abducted, and Kaniola did have his grandchildren to think of, not to mention his wife.

  “Destination Molokai confirmed by more than one?” Parry now asked.

  “One or two said Maui... but the consensus was the closer island, yeah.”

  “Really?”

  'That's what everybody's saying.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Everyone that's talking, that is.”

  “You haul anyone in on this, do any shakedowns? Make any arrest for aiding and abetting?”

  “No, nothing 'long those lines, but I'd be more'n happy to start on that course, if you—”

  “What do you think, Tony? I mean about the reliability of the information?”

  “I think it bears looking into, Chief.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno... same reason I believed George Oniiwah was innocent. 'Sides, these are kanakas we're talking about.” Parry let out a breath of exasperation. “What is that supposed to mean, Tony?”

  “Kanakas have a lot of great qualities, strong hearts, pleasant manners, generous natures, even good diets, I hear, and I grant you that once a friend always loyal as hell, but a crafty ability at conspiracy? That's for us pie-zanoz, heh? Just isn't something I'd expect from the Hawaiians, Chief, not even the PKO.”

  Parry considered the wisdom being hoisted on him by Gagliano, an Italian-American FBI agent passing judgment on the entire Hawaiian race, saying they were incapable of shuffling off one of their own and keeping it a secret. And even if it were marginally true, what did this say about Parry's own foolishness, his being snookered by Kaniola's “golly gee, friendly Mickey Rooney” imitation of the night before? Sure Parry was fatigued, overworked and overtired at the time, but he should have seen through the masquerade. Joe knew that he'd be coming to have it out with him, so he'd prepared a welcoming. Reaching for the gun had been a nice touch, as was the innocent-eyed and protective secretary.

  “For money,” said Parry, “I don't know a lot of people of any stripe, Tony, who wouldn't turn on their own. What about that reward? Did the info get to the press?”

  “A $50,000 reward was posted for information leading to the capture and conviction of Lopaka Kowona.

  'This morning.”

  “Somebody'll tum in the bastard.” Parry breathed heavily into the phone, silent a moment, giving his next move some thought.

  “I know you got word to the contrary, Jim, I mean that he's somewhere in the Koolaus, but I've got my doubts now.”

  He thought again of Kaniola's having so completely faked him out. “Yeah, I got word to the contrary, Tony.”

  “You trust it?”

  Without answering Tony, he said, “Look, you think you can manage with the mountain search? We've got no choice now but to see it through, and it'll give Scanlon something to do, and since we've already called out the goddamned U.S. Army...”

  “Sure, sure, but what're you going to be doing, Jim?”

  Parry had climbed from bed and was pulling on a pair of trousers, balancing the receiver between neck and jaw. “I'm going to make arrangements to get to Molokai.”

  “Good move, Jim.”

  “I hope everyone else thinks so.�
�

  “Hell, you can get clearance, if that's what you're worried about. Now that this thing's cracked open, you ought to be able to write your own ticket.”

  “You'd think so, Tony, but the bureau can move very slowly and in mysterious ways at times, especially if we don't have compelling evidence.”

  “You got clout on your side, Jim. You're the chief here. You call the shots.”

  “Wish it were that simple, Tony.”

  “Nothing's like the old days.”

  “No, no... nothing is.”

  They hung up and Parry wondered how best to deal with his suspicion that Lopaka Kowona was off the island of Oahu, possibly on Molokai, possibly elsewhere. It occurred to him that the information picked up by Gagliano was not so random and lucky as they might think; that it, too, could have been planted to throw them off Lopaka's trail.

  Suppose the murderer did board an old island vessel at Kaneohe Bay. Who would know the boats better than Ivers? Ivers knew every scum-bucket and lowlife on this and all the islands. He'd made it his life's work to know, since he loved the old vessels and he hung about the wharves more than any man Parry knew.

  Skipping breakfast, Parry rushed from his place to drive across the city to see Nate Ivers in his hospital bed, to wake him up if necessary. This morning, he'd pick the other man's brain on this score, see what popped out...

  Meanwhile, the County Sheriff's Office on Molokai had to be put on alert, and although it was likely too late for them to screen every boat in every harbor of that island, he made the call anyway, getting Dispatch to put him though to the other island officials, beginning with the area FBI field operative there. Parry would also have to convince his superiors that the venue of the case had shifted from Oahu to the outer islands. This would not be so simple as it appeared on the surface, because every other law- enforcement agency, plus the U.S. Army, was currently on alert that the killer had been contained on the island of Oahu and was most likely hiding somewhere in the vast Koolau Range.

  The island wisdom and island mentality that still prevailed locally in many sectors also stretched all the way to D.C. when it came to Hawaii. D.C. still thought that getting away from the Honolulu Police Department and FBI was an impossibility given the fact all escape routes were bounded by ocean.

  “It's a goddamned island, Parry!” his superiors had kept repeating long distance. “Why can't you find and stop this motherfucker!” Certainly an island by definition, no matter its size, and Oahu—third largest of the Hawaiian chain with 608 square miles—held eighty percent of Hawaii's population, with seven hundred thousand people in Honolulu alone. Add to this three million tourists swelling her population annually, and it became clear that this was no Martha's Vineyard, Nantucket or circular seacoast isle with only a certain, limited number of hiding places. Never mind the shifting terrain, that areas of the landscape were lunar, mountainous or rain forest, never mind that a man could disappear here as easily as he might in the northwest Rocky Mountains, even more effectively actually, given the lush, year- round vegetation here. Still, the only means of leaving the islands was by flight or ship, and since all steamers, pleasure craft, fishers, and cruise ships had been covered along with all flights out, it followed with syllogistic logic that it must be inevitable that Lopaka Kowona would have by now fallen into their net.

  Parry wasn't so sure. Lopaka was the son of a chieftain, and perhaps the people protecting him for their own misguided or perverse reasons were more cunning than most non-natives were willing to give them credit for. Lopaka knew the islands far better than any of his pursuers. Parry feared he could well have escaped Oahu, and that he might hold out indefinitely against modern law enforcement by returning to the wilds of Molokai, if not some even more remote island in the chains, say Kahoolawe, where they weren't even looking for him. Then he recalled that Joseph Kaniola had indeed suggested Molokai as a possible place where Lopaka might seek help.

  Kowona had as yet to meet his yearly quota of victims. Molokai, Maui and the largest of the chain of islands, Hawaii, were all favored tourists islands where the population and bustle would help him fade into the more urbanized areas. He had harvested human lives on Maui before. He knew the terrain there. He had worked on a ranch there, subsisting as a cowboy, and a cane cutter before that. There were no major metropolitan centers to rival or even come close to Honolulu, and yet he'd managed in his grim calling there for four years. And Maui's population since he'd left had swelled to one hundred thousand, and the island remained the

  most popular tourist attraction alongside Oahu and Honolulu, playing host to two million visitors annually.

  The other islands, and especially his homeland, would not grant the Trade Winds Killer the sort of anonymity that he required. Besides, he'd had ties before in Maui, so he could possibly take up where he left off, working and earning enough to put a down payment on a used car until voila, he was back in grisly business.

  The local expression on Maui was Maui no ka oi, meaning that in everything Maui was the best. The old expression took on new meaning for Parry as his best choice for an explanation of the disappearance of their chief suspect in the mutilation murders on Oahu.

  Parry imagined the monster hiding there on Maui, changing his name and appearance as well as his habits—if he could—which could mean his total disappearance, especially if no one pursued.

  Major crimes had seldom occurred in the islands in the past because there was limited access to escape, but now that was no longer true. Still, what better way to hide than in plain sight?

  Parry punched the buttons to his Oahu headquarters again and asked they patch him through to Maui County authorities, getting an old friend on the line and warning him to alert all officers patrolling the island to be on the lookout, particularly the harbor patrol. Even as he said it, Parry sensed the alert had come too late. He had been in touch earlier with Maui's Mike Ulupo, who was the FBI's contact man on the island. Ulupo had researched Lopaka's background and the time he'd spent on Maui, forwarding the information to Parry the day before. This came after Hal Ewelo, owner of Paniolo's, began finally to open up about what he knew regarding Lopaka Kowona in order to save his own neck, little knowing they'd filed separate charges of murder in the Oniiwah case which precluded any deals being made. Paniolo's proprietor was going down for his part in Oniiwah's death, hopefully a life sentence. Sometimes Parry wished there was a death penalty in his state, and this, along with the Trade Winds case, was one of those instances where such a penalty was more than warranted, he felt.

  He broke off with Maui now and silently cursed Joe Kaniola, whom he could no longer understand. Why would he help a man who had killed his own son? Was he that warped by his own political views? Could the man actually be harboring this monster merely because Lopaka's blood was “royal” Hawaiian? And because any apprehension of Lopaka Kowona on such atrocious charges would prove an embarrassment to the rising kanaka power base, the new establishment?

  God, had they all sunk to such levels?

  He could believe that the U.S. Government might resort to any underhanded trick possible if the killer had been shown to be a white sailor or soldier; he knew that by white standards and thinking Lopaka, by virtue of having any percentage of Hawaiian blood, was labeled a non-white and a prime example of how a man could be “tainted” by savage blood. It went without saying that Caucasian prejudices, bigotry and fears would run rampant in and out of private circles, in and out of the press. Still, what motivated Kaniola in all this? Was he a man willing to forget his own son's ruthless murder for the sake of appearances? It seemed unbelievable, yet everything pointed toward Joe Kaniola's intentionally leading Parry away from Maui as a possible destination for the fugitive by suggesting that Lopaka had taken to the mountains of Oahu.

  Why? Why? he wondered over and over without answer.

  “And who's going to believe it?” he asked himself aloud between calls.

  It was as if Lopaka Kowona, the Cane Cutter, had been s
wallowed up by the earth; neither the all-points bulletin nor the U.S. Army, working in cooperation with the FBI and the HPD, could turn up any sign of the man the press was now calling the Monster of Maui, as his personal history had him in Maui for several years previous to his arrival in Honolulu. On Maui the fire-haired Lopaka had worked as a cowboy at the same ranch where Paniolo had been a wrangler. Before his cowpunching days, Lopaka had been a cane cutter on Maui.

  Jim Parry had supplied most of the background on Lopaka from sources he had on Maui. Information also came down that both Lopaka and Paniolo Ewelo could be placed on the island during a time when a series of disappearances had had authorities there scratching their heads. Could the two have worked as a murdering duo? Not according to either the evidence gathered at Lopaka's grisly cottage, or Jessica's findings regarding the deaths of Alan Kaniola and Thom Hilani.

  U.S. Army teams and their dogs were now scouring the jungle above Lopaka's repulsive bungalow, everyone now aware of just how dangerous this butcher could be. Jessica had remained at the makeshift outpost along a paved highway, halfway up the mountain. She now saw Jim Parry's Stealth winding its way along the road as Jim drove the circuitous path toward the command post. She walked over to greet him when he opened the car door.

  “How's the search going?”

  “You really want to know?” she asked.

  'Tell me some good news, will you?” His plea hung in the thin air for a moment as he glanced around at the operation.

  Jessica shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun, which was more intense than the noonday sun in D.C. “Only good thing is that since Kowona's gone into hiding, the killings've ended.”

  “So far's we know, you mean.” His smile was easy and sly as he handed her a plastic thermos cup fdled with black Kona coffee and a careful blend of Jack Daniel's. They were high enough up the mountainside that it was cool here, even in the bright sunlight. “Thought you could use a little kick,” he warned.

  “What, I'm not hot enough?” she asked playfully.

  They stood halfway up the face of a mountain, watching intently a platoon of weary men in army fatigues searching alongside dogs for any sign or scent of Lopaka Kowona.