by Robert McCaw
“Whatever …”
“We’re going to need his medical records. Did Keneke have a doctor here on the island?”
“A pediatrician, up in Hāwi, kind of a friend of the family. That’s the only doctor Keneke saw. So far as I know.”
One by one Koa opened the drawers but went unrewarded for his efforts. He found no letters, no diary, no address book, and no computer. Using his handkerchief, he picked up the photograph. “His girlfriend?”
“That’s probably Soo Lin, but I can’t say for sure because I’ve never met her. Somebody’s … somebody’s going to have to tell her about Keneke.”
“Yes. It would probably come a little easier from you, but we’re going to have to talk to her.”
“I’ll call her. Keneke would have wanted me to do that.”
Koa and Basa went through the whole place from top to bottom, not once, but twice. Even with Koa’s sharp eyes attuned to anything out of the ordinary, they found nothing. Koa came away convinced the little house hadn’t been the site of Keneke’s murder. Otherwise there would have been some blood or sign of a struggle … something out of the ordinary. Besides, Honoka‘a was a long way—over sixty miles—from where they’d found the body. Only a brave or stupid killer would transport a dead body that far.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KOA WAS EAGER to see if pōmaika‘i—the lucky happenstance of Nālani’s job at the Alice Observatories—might give him some insight into the victim’s workplace. Yet despite several attempts at reaching her, Koa was unable to talk to Nālani until late in the day, when she’d been driving to the Kīlauea Lodge. The 1930s-era Boy Scout Lodge was one of their favorite restaurants. Koa arrived first and was seated next to the Lodge’s huge stone fireplace. He ordered white wine for Nālani and a beer for himself.
A few minutes later, she bounded into the restaurant with an excited expression and practically ran to the table. “Oh, Koa, it’s so thrilling,” she began before he could mention the Pōhakuloa case. “Director Masters has made a monumental discovery. It’s all hush-hush for now, but he’s brought in a verification team, six of the world’s foremost experts. And guess what?”
He loved her enthusiasm, the eagerness in her eyes and the glow on her face. “What?”
“Director Masters asked me to assist one of the verification team members, Herr Doktor Reinhardt Schlingler from Heidelberg. I met him today … funny man. He looks like a chipmunk with a mouthful of acorns.” She tried to mimic a man with heavy jowls, but only succeeded in making Koa laugh. “I can’t believe Director Masters asked me to help. It’s really exciting.”
He raised his beer to toast her success. “Congrats.”
“I want you to meet Herr Doktor Reinhardt Schlingler.” She emphasized the “Herr Doktor,” again making Koa smile. “In addition to astronomy, he’s an opera expert. He makes all kinds of allusions to operas.”
Koa had seen only a few minutes of opera on television, but that was more than enough. Action movies were more his style. “What’s the discovery?”
“I’m not supposed to tell anyone. There’s a press embargo until Director Masters addresses the North American Astronomical Society conference here next week.”
He’d never seen her hold anything back. “So you’re not going to tell me?”
“You don’t share the details of your cases.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Speaking of cases, I tried to call you several times. We—”
She cut him off. “I know. I saw the calls. We spent the whole day in the mirror room putting the shine back on worn mirror segments. You know, I can’t even take my cell in there.”
“I know,” he conceded. “I wanted to tell you we finally identified the Pōhakuloa victim.”
“That’s great, Koa. Who died out there?”
“Keneke Nakano. You might—”
“Oh my God, not Keneke,” she said more loudly than she’d perhaps intended. “That’s absolutely horrible!” The color drained from Nālani’s face and tears came to her eyes. Other diners turned to see what had provoked her distress.
Koa put his hand over hers. “I’m sorry, my ipo. I didn’t mean to shock you.”
She choked back a sob and, by slow degrees, regained control. “He was the nicest, brightest young astronomer. I can’t imagine why … why anyone would … and mutilated in a lava tube like that. It’s horrible.”
Her display of emotion surprised him, since he didn’t recall her mentioning Keneke. Despite feeling badly for upsetting her, Koa needed to know more about this revered astronomer. “Tell me about him.”
“Jesus, Koa, a thousand images come to mind. Happy, friendly, full of life … a fabulous storyteller. He spoke beautiful Hawaiian. Let me see, what else? He loved astronomy, robotics, archaeology—”
The last word grabbed him. He was beginning to get something useful. “Tell me about his interest in archaeology.”
“Keneke loved Hawai‘i. Knew its history, but he wanted to know more. He sought to use scientific methods to discover history’s mysteries.”
“How would someone use scientific methods …?”
“Spectrography to identify the source of rock samples. That would be an example.”
“Like the spectroscopy police labs use to identify illicit drugs?”
“Yeah, it’s the same concept.”
“Sounds like a bright fellow.”
“Amazingly smart, but not arrogant about it.”
“You seem to have known him pretty …” The words popped out of his mouth before he realized that he sounded jealous of a dead man.
She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. “He was a really nice kid, Koa, not a romantic interest.” His face grew hot, and he felt like a fool. After a moment, he refocused. “Tell me about his relationships with his colleagues.”
“He got along well with almost everyone, but especially the younger staff. They loved him.”
“And the senior staff?”
“He worked a lot with Director Masters. Seemed to be one of the director’s special protégés.”
Something wasn’t adding up. Nice kids surrounded by friends didn’t wind up mutilated in lava tubes. He wasn’t asking the right questions. “Was Keneke involved in this big discovery?”
“Not the big discovery. Masters used Charlie Harper on that project.”
Koa felt his jaw muscles tighten at the mention of Harper’s name, but he continued to follow up on Masters. “So what kind of things did Masters assign to Keneke?”
“Masters had him working on a new advanced adaptive optics program for the telescopes. It’s the system we use to compensate for the distortion in starlight caused by the earth’s atmosphere. Sensors read the earth’s moving air currents and adjust one of the telescope’s mirrors to remove the effect of the moving air. It makes the images a hundred times clearer. Not quite as good as the images from the Hubble Space Telescope above the earth’s atmosphere, but almost. It takes really complex mathematics … genius-level stuff.”
“But not related to Masters’ big discovery?” he asked to be sure he understood.
“Only tangentially. Masters made his discovery using adaptive optics, but not the new system Keneke was working on.”
“But they got along well?”
“Famously. Like I said, Masters has his protégés. Keneke belonged to that elite group.”
“What about Charlie Harper”—he didn’t even like to mention the man’s name—“and the other assistant director. What’s his name?”
“Gunter Nelson … poor Gunter.”
“Why poor Gunter?”
“He so much wanted to be director, but never had a chance. He joined the Alice team just before the old director retired. A lot of the staff think he only took the job in hopes of a promotion. There’s even a rumor, break room talk really, that someone on the foundation board promised him the job. Sometimes I think it eats him alive that he’ll never be top dog.” She paused as if she had just
thought of something.
“But it’s funny you should ask. Keneke and Gunter were big buddies for a while, but then something happened. They had some kind of falling-out.”
At last, Koa thought, a lead he could pursue. “Falling-out over what?”
“I don’t know, but the relationship cooled. You might say froze.”
“Harsh words?”
“No, not that I overheard, but Keneke avoided him.”
“And how did Gunter react to that?”
She made a little twirling gesture with her hands; one he’d seen before when she was trying to formulate a thought. “I think Gunter knew he’d done something to offend Keneke.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. Call it intuition.”
The word “froze” stuck in Koa’s mind. He plainly needed to give Gunter a closer look. He returned to a distasteful subject. “And Charlie Harper?”
“Nobody likes that pervert.” Nālani frowned as she emphasized the last word.
“Anything in particular between Keneke and Charlie Harper? Keneke heard he hit on Polly, one of the other techs, not this last time, but the time before that. He offered to talk to Director Masters on her behalf, but Polly’s so … so timid. That’s why she’s so vulnerable. Anyway, she refused to let Keneke say anything to Director Masters.”
So, Koa thought, Keneke tried to stop the serial stalker. If Nālani was right that Masters would have fired Charlie Harper for his unwanted sexual advances, Keneke was a potential threat to Harper’s position. And what else might Keneke have known about Harper? “You think Charlie knew of Keneke’s discussion with Polly?”
“Keneke may have had words with Charlie about it, but I don’t actually know for sure.” She paused to sip her wine. “Oh, Koa, it’s awful. He was such a fountain of energy. Life is so … so tenuous.”
He nodded. “Did Keneke have any enemies?”
“No, none that I know of.”
Later that night, Koa sat bolt upright in bed. Asleep one moment, he was now wide awake, thunderstruck by the connection he’d missed. He must have been replaying the scene at the prince’s castle in his dreams, and his mind had stuck on Aikue ‘Ōpua’s tirade—not on the words, but ‘Ōpua’s voice. He had heard that voice before, and he knew where—the tape of the 911 call. After returning from Pōhakuloa, he’d replayed the tape of the call, not once, but several times. Aikue ‘Ōpua had been out at Pōhakuloa. The native-rights activist had called 911. Koa knew it, now he just had to prove it.
An hour after dawn, he called Cap Roberts, the head of the police department’s technology section, and then Zeke Brown, the county prosecutor.
Koa was soon sitting next to Cap Roberts in front of a large computer screen. “It’s him. I’m 90 percent sure.” Cap pointed to two jagged lines, one red and one black, on a graph. “This black spectrographic line represents ‘Ōpua’s voice at his news conference on Hawai‘i public radio, and the red line comes from the 911 tape. Here’s the word ‘Pōhakuloa.’ See how the lines match?” The screen shifted. “And here’s the word ‘devil.’ He uses that word a lot.”
“You can tell despite the pidgin?” Koa asked.
“Yeah. He used pidgin in the 911 call to disguise his voice, but I’ve got eleven words that match almost perfectly. There’s a nine out of ten likelihood it’s him.”
Koa thought of an old law enforcement adage, particularly applicable to crimes of arrogance and greed: “Nobody does it just once.” ‘Ōpua had been hunting antiquities on Kaho‘olawe. There was every reason to believe he had other hunting grounds. His boots could well have left the tracks out at Pōhakuloa, and now Koa had a reasonably definitive voice match. “Is there a way to be positive?”
“Sure, with more samples I can get to a 99.5 percent probability, but you’d likely need a court order to get the samples.”
Koa smiled. “Be careful what you ask for.”
After meeting with the county prosecutor, Koa asked Sergeant Basa to join him for the afternoon. “Where we going?” Basa asked as they headed toward the saddle.
“To see Aikue ‘Ōpua.”
“The big-shot native sovereignty asshole?”
As with all Hawai‘i policemen, Sergeant Basa had been through community sensitivity training, but he was still a haole, and many Westerners had little patience for native activists, especially loud-mouthed sovereignty types like Aikue ‘Ōpua.
“That’s him,” Koa acknowledged before adding, “Some of his views about recreating the monarchy are a bit extreme.”
“A bit extreme … hell, he wants to wind us back to the dark ages.”
They drove up the slope into the saddle between the mountains before Koa turned off onto a dirt road. Stopping to open a gate, he drove through a pasture filled with grazing cattle and headed toward a weathered farmhouse. Aikue ‘Ōpua stood on the lānai, watching as they parked the car and walked toward the house.
“You’re trespassing, Detective.” ‘Ōpua wore the same boots with “1893” embossed on the shafts.
“It’s official business,” Koa responded evenly.
“Kaho‘olawe’s out of your jurisdiction, Detective, and, like I said, I’ve already told the Maui police everything I’m gonna say.”
“It’s not about Kaho‘olawe. It’s about Pōhakuloa.” Koa saw a flicker in ‘Ōpua’s eyes. Surprise, maybe fear. A tell, in any case. “How about you show us a modicum of Hawaiian hospitality?”
‘Ōpua stared at them mulishly, and Koa thought he would refuse, but he finally shrugged. “Sure, Detective, even for a ho‘ohaole.” He stepped back, turning to usher them into his house.
Koa bristled at the slur. ‘Ōpua had denigrated the authenticity of his Hawaiian heritage, attributing to him the ways of a Westerner. Yet Koa had heard the barb before. The sovereignty types frequently demeaned Hawaiian policemen as lackeys of their white oppressors. He let it pass, focusing on his mission.
They entered a simple ranch house filled with Hawaiian artifacts—a feathered cape, stone kukui nut lamps, and poi pounders. One wall held a collection of old knives, including whalebone pāhoas, or daggers. But the room also sported saddles, ropes, spurs, and other implements of cowboy life. Koa thought it an odd mixture of native and haole objects for a native-rights proponent. Cattle weren’t native, and Hawai‘i’s paniolo cowboys had come from Spain.
‘Ōpua took a seat in a koa wood rocking chair, while Koa and Basa took the opposite ends of a wooden bench. As ‘Ōpua hooked one leg over the arm of his chair, Koa caught the glimmer of a horseshoe-shaped tap around the heel. Before Koa could begin, ‘Ōpua challenged his ethnicity more openly. “You know, you’re not a real Hawaiian, Detective. You’ve sold out to the haoles, and you’re out here doing their bidding.”
Koa wondered if the sovereignty activist’s baiting was intended to distract him and chose to respond with a hardball question. “Tell us how you discovered the body out at Pōhakuloa.”
“What makes you think I discovered the body?” ‘Ōpua responded coolly.
“Because you left boot prints before you made the 911 call.”
‘Ōpua looked toward his upturned boots, then chuckled. “There’re thousands of cowboy boots with underslung heels on the island, Detective. The heel keeps a cowboy’s foot from sliding through the stirrup.”
“True,” Koa agreed amicably, “but I doubt we’d get the same voiceprint match.”
“A voiceprint. You don’t have a valid voiceprint, Detective.” Despite his nonchalance, what ‘Ōpua intended as a statement sounded more like a question.
“Because you disguised your voice with pidgin? Guess again, Mr. ‘Ōpua. We matched the words with your public statements. You seem particularly fond of the word ‘devil.’ You used it twice at Prince Kamehameha’s, many times in your speeches, and four times in the 911 call.”
‘Ōpua tensed for just an instant before relaxing again. “What do you want, Detective?”
“To know wh
at happened out at Pōhakuloa.”
“I’m not interested in helping you, Detective.”
“Mr. ‘Ōpua, if you force me to do this the hard way, I’ll serve the search warrant I have in my pocket for your boots. Then I’ll serve a court order for further voice samples. Finally, we’ll haul you before a grand jury. You’ll have to answer questions, unless you want to invoke your Fifth Amendment rights.”
The man was tough. He barely flinched. “And if I talk?”
“Unless you murdered that poor bastard out at Pōhakuloa, I have no interest in making your life difficult.”
“Okay … okay, mister tough guy. I made the 911 call.”
‘Ōpua had locked horns with the authorities many times over the years, and he obviously knew when he held a weak hand.
“I knew it,” Basa exclaimed, unable to contain his hostility toward the native activist.
‘Ōpua scowled at the sergeant.
“And before that?” Koa asked.
“I was out riding.”
“In the restricted area?”
“I don’t accept that the white man can restrict what belongs to my people.”
The words had a hollow ring, and Koa didn’t miss the fact that they weren’t responsive. Basa hadn’t missed the evasion either. “That attitude won’t protect you if your horse triggers unexploded ordnance,” he chided.
“Whatever. Something spooked my horse. He trembled and shied. Then I got a whiff of a noxious smell. I investigated and found the body in the lava tube. I called 911.”
Koa knew the Pōhakuloa site intimately. No one would have just casually ridden a horse over that nasty ground. ‘Ōpua’s visit had to have been deliberate. He thought about pursuing it but chose to bide his time. “Why call anonymously? Why disguise your voice?”
“The haole police and the haole courts discriminate against native Hawaiians. You’ve seen the statistics, Detective. Forty percent of those in jail are Hawaiian, way out of proportion to their share of the general population.”
