by Robert McCaw
“What happened?”
“The doctors say it’s some kind of seizure.”
“Jesus.” The news stunned Koa. He’d been sitting in the interrogation room with Ikaika less than twenty-four hours ago, and his brutal, foulmouthed brother had been healthy. Hell, he’d been weight-lifting in the joint and developed the physique of a professional bodybuilder. “How’d it happen?” Koa asked.
“The video shows he just stumbled and keeled over.”
Koa wondered why Ikaika had faltered. Ikaika, a tough bastard, was always eager to take on all comers in a barroom brawl or jailhouse rumble. Koa had seen him, bruised and battered with a black eye and a cut lip after one of his fights, but the other guy lingered in the hospital. Maybe, Ikaika had gotten into a jailhouse scrap with some tougher inmate who’d knifed him. Starting a jailhouse melee fit his brother’s style.
Still, Koa felt an unexpected surge of concern. Not long ago he’d been hoping Ikaika would testify and go back to his cage. Now he wanted to see his brother. With the school disaster relief at a critical stage, the investigation just starting, and the police chief off-island, Koa couldn’t go to O‘ahu, at least not right away. Still, someone from the family had to go. He thought about calling Mauloa, their middle brother, but he had disowned Ikaika years ago. He’d have to call his sister, Alana. It’d be a tough sell. She’d given up on Ikaika, refusing even to talk to him, but in the end, Koa knew, she’d listen to him and reluctantly agree. A combination of respect for her older brother and pressure from Māmā would overcome her resistance.
He called Alana, and three hours later, made his way to Hilo airport, parked in the lot across from the terminal, and walked through the rain under turbulent gray clouds. He’d come to see his sister Alana off to be with his stricken youngest brother. Flashing his credentials, he made his way past security. Alana surprised him by showing up with his mother. He should’ve guessed Māpuana would insist on going to see Ikaika. No one cared more for Ikaika. She’d been there for Ikaika throughout his violent adolescence and beyond, making excuses for him and crying each time the authorities hauled him off to prison. She’d just recovered from a near-fatal bout of pneumonia, and at sixty-eight, the trip would take its toll on her.
The two women peppered Koa with questions while they waited for the flight. What had happened to Ikaika? Had he been attacked in jail? How badly was he hurt? Why did prison officials move him to O‘ahu? Koa told them what little he knew—that Ikaika blacked out in the local jail while waiting to testify in a criminal trial. He hadn’t regained consciousness, and local medics had ordered him airlifted him to Queen’s Medical Center, the best hospital in the islands. His vital signs remained strong, but he hadn’t awakened from some sort of coma.
His mother took Koa’s hand, holding it painfully tight. “You must pray for him,” she said. “E pule i kēia manawa. Now is the time for prayer.”
Koa acknowledged Māpuana’s request, but she didn’t release his hand. “And you must see your brother. Soon. He needs you.”
He nodded, but inside he asked himself when Ikaika had ever needed anyone.
Finally, the gate agent announced the flight, and Koa walked his family to the jetway. He worried as much about Māpuana as Ikaika. Visiting her son in the hospital would be tough on her. Then he wondered if he’d ever see his brother again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Koa stood at his office window, watching the rain come down, and worrying about his brother.
“The mayor wants an update on KonaWili,” Piki announced.
Koa sighed. The young detective, shifting from one foot to the other in the doorway, hadn’t brought good news. Koa hated dealing with politicians. Most of the time, Chief Lannua dealt with the mayor and the county council, shielding Koa from politics. Politicians always had an agenda—intrigue, punishing perceived enemies, outmaneuvering the opposition, winning the next election—but never about justice. Koa felt out of place in the political world, but physicians still had the chief in a California hospital, preparing him for gallbladder surgery, and the mayor wouldn’t wait.
Koa grew more anxious when he found Watanabe and Inaba with the mayor. They’d worked themselves into a state of agitation. “This whole fucked-up situation is out of control,” the mayor announced. Short in stature and powerfully built, Tanaka wielded authority like the Army lieutenant colonel he’d once been. Koa could almost see the silver oak leaves on his shoulders. Yet, he looked tired, and an unusually prominent five o’clock shadow darkened his face. “The press is running wild, printing crap like ‘criminally negligent,’ and that’s one of the nicer things. Parents are screaming for blood and Na‘auao’s head. The governor called me earlier and wants to take control of the investigation. And then there’s Cheryl Makela, God help us. The conservatives on the county council wanted her arrested. It’s a goddamn mess. And the timing shits. We got an election coming up.”
“We need,” Tomi Watanabe, the small ferret-like man who served as the mayor’s press aide, interjected, “to call this KonaWili thing an unavoidable accident—an act of God—a disaster no one could control.” Koa couldn’t help watching the ugly black mole on Watanabe’s right cheek jump around as the spin doctor carried on in a shrill voice. He and Koa crossed swords every time the weasel stuck his nose into police business. He’d even tried to get the department to fix DUI and speeding tickets for his friends and threatened to retaliate by cutting the police technology budget when Koa intervened. Neither liked the other.
“Can you sell that?” Ben Inaba, the mayor’s top political advisor, asked. Inaba had the polish that Watanabe lacked—carefully tailored clothes, a soft but authoritative voice, and an intuitive ability to ask just the right question.
“We can sell anything if we say it loud enough and often enough,” Watanabe responded. “We make our own reality.” As a press jockey, he knew what he wanted the public to believe and never let the facts get in the way.
“Then we need to put out a statement saying no one in government knew anything about a volcanic vent on that property,” Inaba said. More thoughtful and less abrasive than Watanabe, Koa viewed him as smarter and therefore distrusted him even more.
“Agreed,” the press aide responded. “And we need to get it out fast. A full-scale media blast—newspapers, TV, radio, and social media.”
Koa held his tongue, but when the mayor turned to him, he could no longer stay silent. “Remember the old military adage—never make a crisis worse. You say nobody in government knew, and it comes out they did. Then you’re fried. Better to say nothing.”
Watanabe glowered at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Koa kept cool and responded calmly. “Higher-ups in government knew, and the facts are going to come out.”
Watanabe jumped at him like a rabid rat. “How’d they know?”
“First, the contractors knew about volcanic activity and tried to cover it up. And the contractor showed the vent to someone from Honolulu, probably a DOE official. So, the government has a problem—”
“That’s news to me, Detective,” the mayor interjected.
“I just learned that fact, sir. The contractor used concrete—thousands of cubic yards of it—to cover up the vent. Cement costs money. That money didn’t come out of thin air. Somebody, most likely someone in the DOE, approved a big bill for several hundred thousand dollars.”
“That doesn’t mean they knew about the vent,” Watanabe responded.
Koa wasn’t about to be bullied by the former newspaper reporter. “Then explain to me how a government employee approves a big-ticket bill for thousands of yards of concrete without knowing what it’s for or why it’s needed.”
“You’re guessing,” Watanabe accused.
There was no convincing Watanabe, but Koa could see from Inaba’s face that he understood. “Moreover, as I told Mayor Tanaka, somebody killed Hank Boyle, the general contractor—”
“I hear he hanged him
self,” Watanabe interrupted. “Probably felt guilty ’cause his school snuffed a bunch of first-graders.”
Watanabe’s callous attitude appalled Koa. “That’s what the killer wanted you to think,” Koa said. “And it doesn’t explain why his KonaWili file went missing.”
Watanabe wouldn’t give up. “That’s just your opinion.”
“It’s backed up by the ME’s opinion,” Koa responded.
“Shizuo’s opinion?” Watanabe said. “That’s not worth a pair of twos.”
“As a matter of fact, we brought in Anne Ka‘au, the Honolulu ME. She called it murder, not suicide. There’s no doubt.”
“Jesus, we’re screwed,” Inaba said.
Watanabe pointed a bony finger straight at Koa. “Not if the police call it an act of God and halt their investigation. They can treat the Boyle thing as a separate matter.”
Koa locked eyes with Watanabe. The man was a viper—as black as the mole on his face. “That’s not going to happen,” Koa said calmly.
“Maybe we need a new chief detective,” Watanabe threatened.
“That’s enough, Tomi,” Mayor Tanaka ordered. “We’ll sit tight until this thing sorts itself out.”
Mayor Tanaka turned to Koa. “Listen, Detective, you’re the lead on this investigation. This thing happened in my county, and I’m not about to let the governor snatch control to protect his sorry ass. You and the county prosecutor coordinate with the state AG, but we’re going to control the investigation. You understand?”
Tanaka’s orders surprised Koa. Given the state control of the education system, he’d expected the governor to take over the investigation. Seeing the determination in Tanaka’s eyes, Koa realized he hadn’t fully appreciated the antipathy between the mayor and the governor. Tanaka obviously planned to use the investigation to embarrass his rival. “Yes, sir. I understand,” Koa responded even though he wasn’t sure he did.
“You need to clamp a lid on this thing before it blows. I’m looking to you to get to the bottom of it. Fast. You understand me, Detective?”
“Yes, sir,” Koa responded.
“And one more thing, Detective.” The mayor’s dark eyes bored into Koa. “You don’t talk to reporters. Watanabe will handle the press.”
“Yes, sir.”
Koa left the mayor’s office with mixed feelings. He wanted Chief Lannua back to deal with the obnoxious political animals in the mayor’s office. But mostly, he felt intense time pressure. He had a window to investigate, but he wasn’t naïve. Political pressure would rise, like the steam clouds from the crippled school, and unless he got to the bottom of this complex conspiracy, there’d be volcanic political fireworks.
CHAPTER NINE
DESPITE TWO TRIPS to the KonaWili school, Koa hadn’t mastered the crime scene. He’d focused on the rescue operations, checking out the building with the robot, and turning back the mob of angry citizens. The stormy weather hadn’t helped. He needed a feel for the land purchased by the Hualālai Hui development. He worked best when he could absorb the feel of a crime scene in context. And he needed an expert guide, like Richard Tatum, the USGS volcanologist, who’d briefed the governor and mayor. He called the geologist.
“Richard, I’m taking a police chopper for a look around KonaWili. Any chance you can come along and bring any old maps or photos from the USGS files?”
Tatum proved eager. “I’m in. Just tell me when.”
When they met at the Hilo airport to board the police chopper, Tatum had a gleam in his eye. “I’ve got a surprise for you.” He patted the leather carrying case he’d brought with him.
Koa, tired of surprises, asked, “What?”
“Wait until we get our boots on the mountain.”
From the air, Koa studied the western slope of Hualālai, an 8,271-foot volcano. The KonaWili development formed a triangle with its apex about 5000 feet above sea level and its base along Māmalahoa Highway at 2000 feet. A line of cinder cones marked the southern boundary and a barren lava flow the northern edge. The dead school, still emitting nasty yellow smoke, sat near the top of the development.
Tatum pointed to the cinder cones lined up and down the Hualālai slope to the south. “See that line of cinder cones? They mark the northwest rift zone, where gravity cracked the side of the volcano allowing lava to vent before reaching the summit.”
Dozens of cinder cones, blackish chocolate brown hillocks, ran in a narrow zigzag pattern. “Each cone represents an eruption?” Koa asked.
“That’s right,” Tatum responded. “Geologists figure Hualālai is about 300,000 years old and has become a late-stage volcano. Eruptions from the top built the large shield shape of the mountain. Then, the eruptions shifted to those cinder cones—like pumice pimples on the side of the mountain.”
Koa turned to the other side of the chopper and pointed to the sweeping band of ebony lava extending from just above the apex of the triangle down its northern border to the sea. “That’s the 1801 flow?”
“That’s part of it,” Tatum responded “That’s the Ka‘ūpūlehu flow, but 1801 is just an approximate date. We’ve found twenty-three historical references to eruptions with dates ranging from 1774 to 1811—might even have been multiple eruptions during that period. We chose 1800–01 as a proxy date based on geologic testing.”
“And the other part of the 1801 flow?”
Tatum pointed farther down the slope to bands of rust and black lava extending from the bottom southwest corner of the triangle to Keāhole airport on the coast. “There’s the other portion of the 1801 eruption, called the Hu‘ehu‘e flow—the part that did the most damage.”
“Damage?” Koa asked.
“Yeah. Covered Pā‘aiea, one of King Kamehameha’s most valuable fish ponds. Historical accounts say the pond was three miles long and half a mile wide. Its loss marked a true disaster for the early Hawaiians.”
“Wow, that’s a lot bigger than the ponds at Mauna Lani.”
“Yeah, and there’s a legend about the Hu‘ehu‘e flow. Old native storytellers say King Kamehameha stopped the lava by throwing a lock of his hair into the river of burning rock.”
“Too bad he wasn’t around to save the KonaWili kids.”
“Yeah,” Tatum agreed.
“So KonaWili wasn’t the first Hualālai disaster,” Koa mused.
“And it won’t be the last.” Tatum pointed to the town of Kona, sitting south of the Hu‘ehu‘e lava flow. “Almost forty thousand people live in a high threat eruption zone.”
“If there’s an eruption, would it really reach all the way down to Kona?”
“It could,” Tatum responded. “You have to understand, Hualālai extends many miles out to sea. Kona is on the slope of the volcano, not the bottom. And Hualālai is one of the highest threat volcanoes in the United States.”
“I heard you say that the other day. How can it be such a high threat when Kīlauea, on the southeast side of the island, is actually erupting?”
Tatum grimaced. “Good question. The USGS bases volcano threats on risk to populations, and there are a lot more people at risk from Hualālai than from Kīlauea. Sure, Kīlauea is erupting now, but it’s burning forest, a few hundred homes in lower Puna, and altering the seacoast. It’s hard on the people affected, but at worst, only a couple thousand people, some rural roads, and beautiful landscapes are in danger. And, because of the topography, those affected have had plenty of notice. That might not be the case if Hualālai blows. With the mountain’s steep sides, lava could inundate Kona in a couple of hours. We’ve been warning people about Hualālai for years, but it mostly falls on deaf ears.”
“Weird.”
“Yeah. People don’t put enough credence in things that happened a long time ago. It’s just like the big tsunami in Japan. There were tsunami markers way inland warning people not to build close to the coast, but people forgot and built the Fukushima nuclear plant right on the water.”
Koa took in the area between the line of cinder cones to the south
and the lava flow to the north. Once all farmland, only a few old farm buildings, fences, and water tanks remained where the developers hadn’t replaced them with subdivision streets and houses. Tatum pointed to a building—more of a shack than a house—just outside the top of the triangle. “Can you get the pilot to set us down someplace close to that shack?”
Koa looked quizzically at the volcanologist, but Tatum, not ready to give up his secret, only smiled. The pilot landed the helicopter, and the two men walked out to the top of a small rise where they could look out over the triangular development site. The school near the apex of the triangle was as far as possible away from the Māmalahoa Highway, which bounded the lower side of the development.
“Odd place for a school,” Tatum said. “Don’t they usually put schools near major roads for convenience and safety? You know, like in case of a fire or other emergency.”
“Dead-on,” Koa responded. “It’s only one of the many oddities surrounding KonaWili.”
“You asked me”—Tatum held up his case—“to dig out any old maps and photographs of Hualālai.” Tatum opened his portfolio and extracted a single sheet of paper. “I’ve got some maps, but they won’t tell you anything you don’t already know. But this”—he handed Koa a sheet of paper—“I found stuck in with some other papers. I made a copy for you.”
Koa peered at the paper—a handwritten letter, dated forty years earlier, addressed to the head geologist at the Kīlauea volcano observatory. Squinting to decipher the tiny handwriting, Koa read the long rambling letter—its contents somewhat disjointed—describing a steaming vent on the side of Hualālai Mountain and asking the USGS to check it out. It was signed “The Pueo.” Koa looked up at Tatum. “The owl?” he translated from the Hawaiian.
“Yeah. The owl.”
“Sounds like a nutcase.”
“That’s what the geologists thought forty years ago ’cause they never followed up. Just stuck the letter in a file.”
“But you think there’s something to it?”
