by Robert McCaw
“Was there a return reservation?”
“No. It was one-way.”
Koa’s hand went almost automatically to his sore neck as he thought about this new information. It narrowed the time of death. Dr. Cater had given him a window—forty-eight hours beginning at 1:00 a.m. on January 20. Given the time of the reservation, the window had closed to seventeen and a quarter hours starting at 7:42 a.m. on January 21, but more important than the hours, the new time frame ruled out the early morning hours of January 20. And since Keneke had eaten lamb shortly before his death and the crime had most likely occurred at night—the killing had occurred on the night of January 21.
But why a one-way ticket? Had something in Keneke’s past drawn him to Los Angeles? Did the key to this crime lie outside Hawai‘i? If so, there had to be something more. Maybe Keneke had talked with someone in L.A. Koa called Piki and asked the detective to check Keneke’s cell phone records. “And while you’re at it, get the call records for Thurston Masters, Gunter Nelson, and Charlie Harper.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
KOA HAD BARELY set a foot back at headquarters when he got word that the chief wanted a briefing. The chief wasn’t a man to be kept waiting, so Koa grabbed his notes off his desk and headed upstairs. Koa entered the police chief’s office and took a seat at the round table. He hated the damn fancy chairs that supposedly gave the office class. They offered no back support, so he sat forward with his back straight to protect his neck. Slouching in a bad chair produced pain that lasted for hours. Basa came in a couple of minutes later.
Koa studied his boss as he finished a telephone call. For as long as Koa had known him, no one aspect of the chief seemed to explain the grip the shrewd official had on those around him. At times the chief’s sway seemed to emanate from a certain patrician manner. Something intangible in his posture and demeanor made those around him defer, waiting for the chief to speak.
Unfortunately, despite his bearing, he possessed only one of the two qualities Koa considered essential for management of the island’s police department: he had political clout. Chief Lannua’s family had lived on the island for generations, had large landholdings, and commanded the respect of nearly everyone with political influence. Politicians thought twice before double-crossing Chief Lannua or the Hawai‘i County police. Koa had seen numerous instances where the chief’s power and prestige had benefited the whole force.
But his strength was also his weakness. He was a politician. All too frequently, he shared details of police investigations with the mayor and the mayor’s cronies, and sometimes thwarted investigations that cast the mayor in an unfavorable light. In Koa’s view, he yielded too easily to supposed political realities. Too close to the mayor and the county council, he failed to fight for the funds the police department so desperately needed to maintain adequate levels of manpower and competence. And he was too old-school to embrace the technological changes needed to modernize the force.
Koa and the chief had a turbulent relationship. The chief, Koa knew, depended upon him to tackle the department’s toughest cases. Yet they’d repeatedly locked horns over Koa’s unrelenting push for a bigger budget, more detectives, and especially resources for police technology routinely used by mainland cops. But the real fireworks started when the chief tried to steer an investigation away from the island’s power brokers. It had happened only twice—once in a murder investigation and once in a fraud case, but it drove Koa nuts. In Koa’s experience, the rich and powerful surrendered to criminal impulses just as often as common folk.
Putting down the phone, Chief Lannua headed confidently across the room to join the two policemen at the table. As usual, he came directly to the point. “I requested this meeting to catch up on the Pōhakuloa killing. You have my attention.”
Koa glanced down at his notes. “You know the crime scene details. A 911 caller alerted us to the body on January 29. The military police then located the deceased in a lava tube in the restricted area. The killer mutilated the victim, taking particular care to make identification difficult.
“The lava tube site is of archaeological significance. We had an archaeologist, Jimmy Hikorea, from the National Park Service out there.”
“I know him—ex-marine and a good man,” the chief said.
“In the back of the cave, concealed behind a rock wall, we found the entrance to an ancient tomb, complete with a burial canoe and a bird woman talisman. Probably the crypt of an ancient Hawaiian king.
“Through another rock wall, we discovered a huge underground cavern used, according to Hikorea, by ancient adze makers. A lava tube leads from that cavern under the Saddle Road to a collapsed pu‘u on the southern slopes of Mauna Kea. We have no proof the site played any role in the killing, but we do know that someone entered the cavern in modern times.”
“How do you know that?” the chief asked.
“We found a cigarette butt and wrapper in the adze makers’ workshop.”
Koa had the chief’s undivided attention. “Go on.”
“With Hikorea’s help I talked to Prince Kamehameha.”
At the mention of the prince, the chief’s eyebrows shot up, and Koa knew he’d entered politically sensitive territory. “He played coy, giving us tidbits of Hawaiian history, but he knows something about the site, if not the murder itself. I’d bet a month’s pay on it. Smokes Gauloises, the same brand as we found in the workshop. Now, how many people on this island smoke Gauloises? Not many.”
“You’re not suggesting that the prince was involved in this murder?” The chief’s voice took on a hard edge.
“I have no real evidence, but he knows more than he let on about the site, and he had Aikue ‘Ōpua with him—”
“Christ, we don’t need trouble from the sovereignty crowd,” Chief Lannua interrupted.
“According to the Maui police, ‘Ōpua’s involved in stealing artifacts from Kaho‘olawe, and he’s the 911 caller.”
“What the hell. How do you figure that?”
“Boot prints and voiceprints.”
“That’s pretty thin.”
“I talked to him. He admitted it.”
“I’m surprised he talked to you.”
“I didn’t give him much choice. I had a warrant and a court order in my pocket.”
The chief’s eyebrows again shot up, almost meeting across the bridge of his nose. “Go on.”
“So Prince Kamehameha’s in the middle of this mess. I think he’s been in the workshop. His buddy ‘Ōpua’s into stolen artifacts, and ‘Ōpua just happens to stumble on the body. Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it?”
“Jesus, Koa, you’d better proceed with kid gloves. Prince Kamehameha’s one of the true power brokers on the island.”
“Yeah, well, he’ll be less powerful if the feds find out he keeps endangered hawks.”
The chief’s voice took on a menacing tone. “Slow down, Detective.”
“I need his cooperation,” Koa insisted.
“There will be fallout. I need to talk this over with the mayor.”
“Okay, but I do need to talk to him again,” Koa insisted. “And we’re going to execute a search warrant on Aikue ‘Ōpua this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“I think he has the knife used to carve up the victim.”
The chief appeared thunderstruck. “Christ, the sovereignty crowd will go ballistic.”
“I can’t help that. I’m sympathetic to some of their goals, but they’re subject to investigation like all other citizens.”
The chief seemed to sag in his chair. “Go on.”
“We’ve identified the Pōhakuloa victim. He’s Keneke Nakano. Age twenty-nine. An island native. Educated at UH–Honolulu and the University of California. Employed for the past nine months as a staff astronomer at the Alice Observatories. His grandfather, a master wood carver, made traditional furniture in a small workshop outside Hāwi.”
“Kawelo Nakano, the old wood carver … a legendary craftsman and a mar
velous story talker,” the chief interrupted.
“You knew Keneke Nakano’s grandfather?” Koa’s voice betrayed his astonishment.
“Yes, and so did Prince Kamehameha. He and old Kawelo were both steeped in the old ways and very close. The prince should want to help avenge the death of Kawelo’s grandson.”
“Good …”
“Many old Hawaiians knew Kawelo, and thousands have enjoyed his handiwork,” the chief said, speaking in a reverential voice. “His work is in the Bishop Museum, but more than his artistry, he had a passion for preserving Hawaiian antiquities. As one of the founders of Protect Kaho‘olawe ‘Ohana, he fought to stop the Navy bombing of archaeological and religious sites.”
The chief paused, searching his mind for even more information. “He and ‘Ōpua participated in the trespass protests during the mid-1970s. Old man Nakano must have been over sixty when he and eight others violated Navy restrictions. The Navy arrested and prosecuted them. The papers called them the Kaho‘olawe Nine. The old man drew a suspended sentence. A lot of us admired him.”
“That explains the collection of stuff in Keneke’s house.”
“What stuff?”
“A whole bookshelf of legislative reports, bills, pamphlets, and news stories on Kaho‘olawe.”
“I ulu nō ka lālā i ke kumu—the branches grow because of the trunk. Without our ancestors we would not be.” The chief quoted the phrase in Koa’s office.
“It’s always been so,” Koa acknowledged.
The chief redirected the briefing. “What does the county physician have to say?”
“It looked like a ritual killing, so we brought in a forensic pathologist from the US Army Identification Center.”
“Shizuo asked for help?” The chief’s voice registered surprise.
“I didn’t give him much choice.” Koa made little effort to hide his sarcasm.
“Is he going to complain to the mayor again?”
“I don’t think so.” Koa wanted to blast the incompetent coroner for starting the autopsy without him, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good and decided to keep his powder dry for another day.
“He better not. Go on.”
“The Army pathologist thinks the killer subdued the victim with a choke hold, then mutilated the corpse sometime later, maybe a couple of hours later. There is some doubt about the actual cause of death. Shizuo says it was strangulation; the Army doctor thinks it was a brain injury. Could have been the spear of pueo … we’re checking that now.”
“Spear of pueo?”
“A deep puncture wound through the eye.”
“Jesus.”
“Forensic evidence places the time of death between 1:00 a.m. on January 20 and 1:00 a.m. on January 22. The killing most likely occurred in the late evening because the victim’s stomach contained undigested lamb, and the activity out at Pōhakuloa most likely occurred after dark when intruders wouldn’t be observed. The victim used his credit card to make a one-way air reservation to return to the mainland on the morning of January 21. And Detective Piki has confirmed the reservation call came from Nakano’s cell phone. That narrows the time-of-death window to the night of January 21. That’s our working hypothesis.”
“How did you pin down the time of death into such a narrow range given the decomposition of the body?”
“The Army doctor used a new technique based on potassium in the eyeball. So far, we’ve kept the ritual killing part out of the press. In fact, outside the police department only the victim’s uncle, Kimo Nakano, the next of kin, knows the true nature of his nephew’s death. There will be an obituary tomorrow. You or the mayor are likely to get inquiries.”
“Thanks, I’ll alert the mayor.”
“We’ve got a lot of investigating to do at Alice. I need to talk to the secretary who reported the victim missing. I’ll have to interview the observatory staff. There’s some evidence Keneke had a relationship with the wife of one of the assistant directors.”
“Who?”
“Charlie Harper.”
“Don’t know him. What’s the evidence?”
“A note … something about a fabulous, wonderful, marvelous time at a hotel.”
“Jealousy is a good motive for murder, especially grisly murders.”
Koa had known the chief would jump for the easy motive, especially if it pointed to someone the chief regarded as unimportant. “If he knew. Husbands are frequently the last to know. Anyway, I thought you might call the director to grease the way.”
“You’re talking about Thurston Masters.”
“That’s him. He’s on Keneke’s answering machine.”
“Anything significant?”
“Just a message asking for a return call.”
“Masters has been the director of the Alice Observatories for a while. A stuffed shirt. Arrogant, but smart and ambitious, with a pathological need for control. Married money, the daughter of one of the Honolulu elite.” The chief paused. “You do what’s necessary, but use good people and don’t upset the astronomers. They’re notorious prima donnas. Anything else?”
“Yes.” Koa hesitated. “There’s an uncanny resemblance to the last ritual killing on the Big Island, the 1983 Valentine’s Day killing—”
“More than a superficial resemblance?”
“Yes. Both victims were found in lava tubes. Both mutilated, including identical genital mutilation. Both missing the left eye. Both victims bore razor cuts in straight lines … like railroad tracks. Both likely killed with the spear of pueo.”
The chief gasped and stiffened in his chair. “Goddamn. You better arrest someone before this gets into the papers. The reporters will have a field day.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE HEADQUARTERS OF the Alice Telescope Project occupied a prominent place along Waimea’s main drag. A tribute to its designers, the ultramodern headquarters of the world’s largest optical telescope blended seamlessly with the ranch architecture of the Hawaiian cowboy town. Thirty-six glass panes arranged in an arrow-shaped array of overlapping hexagons decorated the dormer above the entry doors. The thirty-six glass panels represented the thirty-six interlocking hexagonal mirrors of the Alice telescopes on the mountain, eighteen miles away as the crow flies, but nearly fifty miles away by road. Symbolically, the arrow pointed upward toward the heavens.
Koa wasn’t admiring the architecture as he entered the building’s small atrium on his way to see Thurston Masters. A cold, almost hostile, receptionist directed him toward the right wing of the building. NASA posters and paintings inspired by Russian science fiction writer Isaac Asimov decorated the hallway.
At the end of the hall, Koa entered the vestibule outside the director’s office. An austere older woman glanced up from her computer monitor. “Detective Kāne?” Though they had spoken only briefly by telephone, Koa recognized her Boston accent. Her plain white blouse was buttoned to her neck, and she wore no jewelry. Her brown hair, combed into a tight bun, gave her a stern, but efficient, appearance.
“Yes, I’m Koa Kāne. You must be Julie Benson.” He smiled. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me. May I sit down?”
“Of course. It’s awful about Mr. Nakano. Just awful.” Koa registered her drawn-out New England pronunciation of the word “awful.” He sat in the chair next to her desk and pulled out a small notebook.
“Your chief called the director, and he instructed me to help you in any way that I can.”
“I understand that you reported Keneke Nakano missing?”
“Definitely … after his girlfriend, Miss Hun, called the director.”
“Tell me about that, please.” Koa jotted down notes as she spoke.
“I met Mr. Nakano maybe a dozen times. He seemed to know everything about the Big Island, all about its history before the Westerners. Anyway, he called one morning about two weeks ago. I get into the office promptly at seven thirty, and he called right after I arrived. I definitely remember that.”
“What did he say?�
�
“He had to go back to the mainland. Something about his girlfriend. I remember he said he hadn’t talked to the director. I told him I couldn’t speak for Dr. Masters, but I did promise him I’d let the director know about his call.”
“And you did that?”
“Definitely.”
“How did Mr. Nakano sound? Was he excited … nervous?”
She pursed her lips before answering. “He sounded, uh, normal. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Then what happened yesterday?”
“Miss Hun called.”
“And what did she say?”
“She called just before I arrived at seven thirty and spoke to the director.”
“But you reported Mr. Nakano missing.”
“Yes, I did. The director told me Miss Hun had called and asked me to check up on Mr. Nakano. I called his home, but I got no answer. So I looked in his personnel file. He listed an uncle here on the Big Island as his next of kin. I tried the number but couldn’t get through. So I checked back with the director, who told me to call the police.”
“I see. Would Mr. Masters typically answer the telephone at that hour?”
“It’s Dr. Masters, Detective,” she corrected him. “Yes, that happens. I cover breaks for the receptionist, so the main lines ring in here. If no one picked up, the director would answer. He can’t stand a ringing telephone. He insists I answer every call before the second ring.”
“What exactly did Dr. Masters tell you?”
“That Miss Hun, Mr. Nakano’s girlfriend, called looking for him … claimed she hadn’t heard from him in two weeks. Director Masters said she got pretty upset when he informed her Mr. Nakano had returned to the mainland.”
“Anything else?”
“She’s some kind of postgraduate fellow in astronomy. She told the director she’d been in Chile … said Mr. Nakano had known about her trip there. I gather she got pretty upset.”
“Can you fix the date of Mr. Nakano’s call, the one when he said he had to return to the mainland and said something about his girlfriend?”
