Death of a Messenger

by Robert McCaw

  “What is all this stuff?” Basa wondered aloud.

  “Our friend Gunter Nelson is an archaeological treasure hunter. He used all this electronic gadgetry to locate burial caves.”

  “You mean like the oil guys use to find gas and oil deposits?”

  “Exactly. Except we have a high-tech grave robber.”

  “Don’t the oil guys use explosive charges or something?”

  “Yeah, and I’ll bet that we’ll find some around here someplace.”

  It was a good bet. In a small shed behind the garage, they found two crates of small explosive charges from a Houston oil industry supply company.

  Gunter had a lot of questions to answer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  WITH NĀLANI, KOA always minimized the dangers he faced as a police officer. Yet there was no hiding the huge black-and-blue bruise on his face from his dive beneath the power lift in Jenkins’s shop.

  “Oh my god,” Nālani said, “what did you do to yourself?” That comment reflected her concern, while “Why the hell didn’t you let the fire and rescue boys check it out?” signified her blazing anger at the risk he’d taken. He could laugh it off with his colleagues but not with Nālani. She made him go to the hospital and swear on his Hawaiian heritage he’d never again do something so stupid. It made for a rough start to the day, but he loved her for caring.

  The two sides sat across the table in the police interrogation room. Gunter Nelson, out on bail and looking older than his sixty-three years, sat on the far side with Aka Kaka, his criminal defense lawyer. Koa and Zeke Brown sat facing the accused. A police technician stood behind a camera, ready to videotape the interview.

  “As we’ve explained to your attorney,” Zeke began, “we’re looking at both the unlawful removal of ancient artifacts from state lands and the murder of Keneke Nakano. You are a principal target of the antiquities case and a suspect in the murder investigation.” He used his booming voice to special effect during criminal interviews, and Gunter drew back, seemingly pained by the volume directed at him.

  “Your attorney has advised us that given the overwhelming evidence against you in the artifacts case, you wish to dispose of that matter. Your plea bargain on an artifacts charge will not affect your status in the Nakano murder investigation. You will remain a subject of that investigation. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are prepared to charge you with over fifty felony counts of unlawful removal and sale of archaeological artifacts, having an unknown value in excess of one million dollars. We have agreed to allow you to plead guilty to a single felony count, carrying a term of no more than ten years’ imprisonment, in exchange for your full cooperation, including the recovery of any artifacts and restitution. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Koa, you want to take over?”

  In this tag team, Koa was the hard guy, even though his voice was much less penetrating. “Yes. Tell us in your own words, Mr. Nelson, how you got into looting artifacts.”

  The astronomer grimaced at the word “looting,” but seemed ready for a full confession. “It’s a long story, an unhappy one. I’ve long been interested in archaeology. When I was working at the Kitt Peak National Observatory in Arizona, I met a petroleum geologist with similar interests. Together, we tested seismology techniques widely used in oil exploration to see how they worked on archaeological sites. My interest intensified after I settled in Hawai‘i.”

  Gunter let out a long sigh, pulled at his beard, and patted it back into place. “We are our own worst enemies, I’m afraid. When I came here, I wanted to be the director. It became my personal holy grail, and it slipped from my grasp. I knew Masters would force me out and then where would I be? Sixty-three, sixty-five years old, unemployed and unemployable. I became bitter, corrosively bitter.”

  Koa was grimly amused by all the penetrating self-knowledge on display—which would never have emerged if Gunter hadn’t been caught.

  “I got serious about archaeology. I spent all my free time hunting for caves, using what I’d learned in Arizona. I found an anomaly, a place on Mauna Kea where the data showed a discontinuity, a small cave with a burial vault. I couldn’t believe I’d developed a way to see through the earth, to find things that had been hidden for hundreds of years. I found a carved wooden idol, an ancient female dwarf with pendulous breasts. She became my protostar, the seed of my future.”

  “You did this searching alone?”

  “I went out with Keneke a bunch of times, but then one day we went back to a little cave where we’d found a few insignificant stone tools. Keneke thought some of the tools we’d seen on our first visit were missing. He got suspicious that I was taking things. After that I always went alone.”

  Koa thought about what Soo Lin had quoted Keneke as saying: “We have powerful telescopes to search out the mysteries of the distant universe, but no machine to let us see what’s right here under our very own feet. Yet Gunter had devised such a machine and put it to what use?—grave robbing. He was indeed his own worst enemy.”

  “I took the female dwarf to a man in Honolulu, a collector. He paid me $60,000.”

  “How did he make the payment?” Zeke interrupted.

  “Cash, hundred-dollar bills, six hundred of them.”

  “Go on,” Koa directed. “While Keneke and I were still talking, he shared a lot of his archaeological ideas. He thought the archaeologists were all wrong about Mauna Kea. He just couldn’t accept that the stonecutters disbursed back to their villages in the winter. He was convinced the stoneworkers were a cohesive community and worked together all year round. He had a theory about the saddle lands, that it had been a crossroads, that there had to be caves out there.

  “I got really excited about that idea. I mean, if they were a community, there’d have to be artifacts, likely valuable ones. But I had this problem. Individual seismic shots cover only tiny areas. I needed more data, and I wanted data from inside the Pōhakuloa Training Area. I needed an aerial survey, like they use in the oil business. I noticed one of those tourist helicopters—a perfect platform for survey equipment. I didn’t want to risk approaching pilots, so I hired this security consultant.”

  “Ricky Kling?” Koa asked, using one of his favorite tactics to extract the truth. If you could make a suspect believe that you already knew the facts, the person revealed more for fear of being caught in a lie.

  “Yeah, but how—”

  “Never mind how we know. Just continue.”

  “Kling found a pilot, and I paid Kling each time he brought me a data cassette. The data was pure gold, really detailed. Keneke was right. I found indications of a cave system in the saddle, but I couldn’t figure how to get to it. I mean, it was in the middle of the Army training area.” Gunter paused and pulled at his beard.

  “All the while I continued my seismic testing. That’s how I discovered the tunnel. I wandered around that collapsed pu‘u on Mauna Kea for an hour before I discovered the entrance to the tunnel. Then I discovered the workshop. My retirement was in the bag. I was free of that son of a bitch Masters. And that was before I discovered the king’s burial vault.”

  “Did you sell anything from the stonecutters’ workshop?” Zeke Brown put in.

  “Ja, but not the same way. I asked my contact in Honolulu what kind of volume he could handle, and he turned queasy. He refused to handle any volume, only individual pieces, but he put me in touch with Garvie Jenkins—told me Jenkins was a fence.”

  “Go on.”

  “Then I discovered the burial vault off the workshop, the grave of some really high chief. Unbelievable feather cape and the black stone bird woman. You’ve seen the bird woman?”

  “The one you sold to Jenkins?”

  “Ja, frightened the living crap out of me the first time I saw it—like it’s almost alive.”

  “Yeah, we’ve seen it,” Koa acknowledged. “So you and Jenkins went into business together?”

  Gunter drop
ped his head into his hands. He sat in silence, lost in some personal misery. “Ja, a treacherous, conniving man, but he was willing to handle volume and paid good money.”

  “Treacherous?” Koa asked.

  “He wanted to know my methods and sources. I think he wanted to cut me out and take the whole shebang for himself.”

  Koa decided to blindside the old astronomer. “Whose idea was Kaho‘olawe?”

  “You know about Kaho‘olawe?” Gunter was genuinely surprised and paused. “His idea initially. He’d read about an obsidian mine, and wanted to apply seismic techniques to locate it. He promised me 25 percent if I helped with the seismic work. So, I taught him how to shoot seismic. I let him use my equipment. I still did the analysis.”

  Koa set a trap for Gunter. “What equipment?”

  “A seismic box and charges”—Gunter hesitated—“and a GPR, ground penetration radar, machine from the observatory.”

  “How did Keneke discover that you were smuggling artifacts?” Koa asked the question naturally, as though it followed perfectly from Gunter’s recitation.

  Gunter stopped fiddling with his beard and looked directly at Koa.

  “I didn’t kill Keneke. Let me say it again. I did not kill him. I don’t know how much he discovered about my activities. He never confronted me. He just stopped talking to me, and mostly stayed away.”

  “You lied to me about discussing archaeology with Keneke.”

  Gunter remained unflinching. “Ja.”

  “And you lied about exploring the saddle with him. You were out there in that cave where we found his body, weren’t you?”

  Gunter hesitated, but then confessed, “Ja, but … but nothing happened. That was weeks before his death.”

  “Bullshit, Mr. Nelson, you had a falling-out with Keneke.”

  Gunter became more assertive in the face of this challenge. “That’s not accurate. I think he suspected me of taking artifacts, but he never confronted me. He just stopped talking to me about archaeology and generally avoided me.”

  “And you lied to me about that too.”

  “But I didn’t kill him.”

  “You’re telling us that Keneke suspected you of stealing Hawaiian treasures, and he did nothing to stop you. Is that what you’re asking us to believe?”

  “That’s what happened … that’s the truth.”

  “You’ve lied and lied and lied. Why should we believe you now?”

  “Because now I’m telling the truth.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  TWO HOURS LATER, Chief Lannua, Koa, Sergeant Basa, and Detective Piki met in the chief’s office to discuss the Nakano murder. Koa gave up any effort to disguise his pinched nerve and stood against the wall while everyone else gathered around the table. The chief took no note, and Koa wondered if Basa had said something to him.

  Before they could get started, the chief’s assistant entered, saying that the National Weather Service had issued a severe weather warning. Heavy rains and high winds were expected, with wintery conditions at higher altitudes. The chief thanked her and turned to the detectives.

  Koa laid out a rich stew of suspects and crimes, starting with the grave-robbing ring: Gunter Nelson, trafficker in antique treasures stolen from state lands. Ricky Kling, unlicensed private eye and a go-between for Gunter. Skeeter Slade, drunken helicopter pilot and collector of geologic data while flying tourists over the Pōhakuloa restricted area. Garvie Jenkins, ex-con, map forger, dope smuggler, and black-market antiquities dealer.

  Koa then enumerated the other suspects: Charlie Harper, bizarrely jealous husband, serial sexual harasser, and possible accomplice on the Starfish shipment and the GPR machine. Prince Kamehameha, guardian of the Pōhakuloa adze makers’ cave, sworn to kill any trespasser. Aikue ‘Ōpua, Hawaiian activist, owner of the whalebone pāhoa used in the killing, and the man who had called 911 after finding Nakano’s body.

  But who’d actually killed Keneke Nakano? That was the question.

  The chief looked at Koa. “I take it from your list that Masters is in the clear?”

  “Yeah, he’s got an ironclad alibi for the night of Wednesday, January 21, when Keneke was killed.”

  “Okay, that’s good.” The chief never wanted to see any of the island’s important people in the police spotlight. He turned to Piki.

  “Detective Piki, who’s your suspect?” Koa had seen the chief play this game before, asking each of his officers to state and defend an opinion. And the chief liked to put young Detective Piki on the spot.

  “Aikue ‘Ōpua,” Piki responded forcefully, confident he’d nailed it. “The lab ran tests on his dagger. His pāhoa’s got Keneke’s blood on it, and he admits ownership. Unless someone snuck into his house, stole the dagger, and returned it after the killing, he’s our killer. It’s an open-and-shut case.”

  “So why haven’t we arrested him?” the chief asked.

  “Because,” Koa responded, “I have doubts. The Kaho‘olawe Nine, including ‘Ōpua, accepted Keneke into their ‘ohana, their family. I just don’t see ‘Ōpua killing Kawelo Nakano’s grandson. Besides, ‘Ōpua saved Reggie’s life on Kaho‘olawe. That’s not the act of a killer—”

  “But what about the pāhoa?” Piki interrupted loudly.

  “I agree that the pāhoa is powerful evidence,” Koa acknowledged, “but I think ‘Ōpua lied. He collects old knives and couldn’t resist taking that blade when he discovered Nakano’s body.”

  “You’re making excuses because he’s a native-rights activist,” Piki challenged.

  Koa wasn’t about to stand for that nonsense. He glared at the young detective. “His political activities have nothing to do with my opinion. Maybe you need to learn to look beyond the obvious.”

  “Ouch,” Piki responded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Who’s your second choice?” the chief asked, again pointing at Detective Piki.

  “Garvie Jenkins,” Piki said, a little more hesitantly. “He’d know people who’d gladly cut your throat for pocket change. Strong motive … he was making a fortune smuggling. Nakano must have stumbled onto the grave-robbing scheme, and Jenkins killed him or maybe had him killed.”

  “Sergeant Basa?” the chief asked.

  The sergeant scratched his head. “The whiz kid makes a good case, but I don’t buy it. It’s true that Garvie has nasty associates, but he has no personal record of violence.”

  “That’s not quite right,” Koa interrupted. “According to Reggie Hao, Garvie chased him with a knife out on Kaho‘olawe.”

  “Fair point,” Basa conceded, “but still, we have no evidence that he and Nakano ever met or even knew of one another. No, I put my money on Charlie Harper.”

  “Harper?” The chief’s tone sparkled with surprise. “What’s his motive?” The chief seemed to have forgotten that Harper was once his favorite suspect.

  “Jealousy, one of the strongest motives around. Harper kept his wife locked up like a glass figurine in a museum case. That marks Harper as a covetous man, a jealous man. He knew that Nakano met his wife at a hotel. Figures they shacked up and got nasty. It eats at his manhood. He beat up his wife over Keneke and he must have been out to get even. He’s big and he’s tall, capable of getting behind Nakano, locking ’im up in a choke hold and crushing his windpipe. And his alibi is a lie.”

  Koa turned in surprise. “How do you know that?”

  “I checked with his friend Pete Chalmers. It’s true that he got cashed out of the Wednesday night poker game, but a parking ticket on his car issued at 5:00 a.m. on January 22 outside a sleazy bar in Hilo says he wasn’t far from where we found Nakano’s truck, and he lied about going home.”

  Koa nodded. The sergeant had made a good case. Koa once again hoped Basa would work toward becoming a detective.

  “Koa?” The chief almost always called on him last, both out of concern that the others would follow his lead and because Koa had an uncanny ability to get it right.

  “Well,
Chief, I’m not betting on Jenkins or Harper.”

  “Explain.”

  “Nakano was last seen at the observatory. We don’t have a shred of evidence that Garvie had anything to do with the observatory or Nakano’s sudden departure. There are too many missing links for me to pin it on Jenkins.”

  “What about Harper?”

  “Sergeant Basa is right that Harper kept his wife like a caged bird. The SOB has the morals of a mongoose, and jealousy is a potent motive. But even if Harper threatened Nakano, and we have no evidence of that, it’s hard to believe that Nakano would leave the observatory in the middle of the night and make reservations to return to the mainland. That would be a pretty extreme reaction.”

  “What about Gunter? We know,” the chief began, “that his relationship with Keneke soured, because Keneke suspected that Gunter was looting Hawaiian grave sites. He has no alibi. As an Alice insider, he’d know Keneke’s habits. He’s been in the cave where we found Nakano’s body. His cock-and-bull story would have us believe that although Keneke suspected him of stealing treasures, Keneke did nothing about it. And he’s lied repeatedly.”

  “He’s the obvious suspect, but I’m just not sure, Chief,” Koa responded.

  The chief didn’t like to be contradicted, but he and Koa had disagreed so often the chief wasn’t surprised. “Why?”

  “There are pieces that don’t fit right.”

  “Like what?”

  “Keneke’s computer. He appears to have left it when he walked out of the observatory. Why didn’t we find it there? Gunter’s only motive would have been to protect his illegal trade in ancient artifacts. Where does Keneke’s computer fit into the motive?”