Death of a Messenger Read online

  ALSO BY ROBERT MCCAW

  Koa Kāne Hawaiian Mysteries

  Off the Grid

  Fire and Vengeance

  Copyright © 2015 by Robert B McCaw

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  While this novel draws on the spirit and history of Hawai‘i, it is a work of fiction. The characters, institutions, and events portrayed are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-60809-403-5

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing

  Sarasota, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For my mother, Sally, who inspired me to read … and write. And who so much wanted to see this book in print.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Among the many people who helped make this book possible are my dear friends in Hawai‘i who generously shared their knowledge of the culture, history, and language of the Hawaiian people. To them I owe an enormous debt of gratitude.

  Special thanks must also go to Makela Bruno-Kidani, who has tirelessly reviewed my use of the Hawaiian language, correcting my many mistakes. Where the Hawaiian words and phrases are correct, she deserves the credit. Any errors are entirely of my doing.

  Lastly, this book would not have been reprinted without the amazing support of my agent, Mel Parker of Mel Parker Books, LLC. His faith in my work and his tireless efforts made the publication of this story possible. I would also be remiss if I failed to acknowledge the support of Pat and Bob Gussin, owners of Oceanview Publishing, who have devoted their phenomenal energies to supporting and publishing my work and that of many other aspiring mystery and thriller writers.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HAWAI‘I COUNTY CHIEF Detective Koa Kāne strapped in, and the US Army UH-72A Lakota helicopter lifted off the Hilo tarmac. An anonymous 911 call to the Hawai‘i County Emergency Command Center had reported a corpse at Pōhakuloa, the Army’s remote live-fire training area, or PTA. Sergeant Basa had alerted Koa, and was now sitting next to him as the chopper headed for the Army reservation in the Humu‘ula Saddle between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, two of the five volcanoes that form the Big Island of Hawai‘i.

  The chopper turned west and climbed toward the saddle. Koa barely noticed, though. The mad dash to catch the chopper had aggravated the pinched nerve in his neck, and he sat stiffly erect to avoid further jolts of pain.

  As they passed over an ambulance heading up the Saddle Road, Sergeant Basa leaned over, shouting above the roar of the engines, “That’s the county physician and the crime scene techs down there. I told them to get their butts up to Pōhakuloa.”

  Koa spotted flashing lights in the distance and felt a spark of excitement. A crime scene did that to him. He counted ten vehicles: military police jeeps, EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) vehicles, a tracked ambulance, and a fire truck. As the helicopter approached, Koa saw that the vehicles were spread out along a barely visible jeep trail that meandered east of a sizable cinder cone. Yellow tape marked a path cleared by EOD personnel. Several men stood near an oval pit at the end of the tape.

  As the chopper settled between two MP vehicles, a military policeman dressed in camo with a silver first lieutenant’s bar broke away from the cluster near the pit and hurried toward the chopper. Jerry Zeigler’s ferret-like face and crooked nose identified him as the commander of the military police detachment at Pōhakuloa.

  “Hello, Jerry.” Koa shook hands with the twenty-five-year-old military police officer. Though they came from different backgrounds, they shared a common bond. Both had grown up dirt poor. The Kāne family had been respected in ancient times, but Koa’s father and grandfather had been virtual slaves at the Hāmākua Sugar Mill. Zeigler had been a South Dakota farm boy. Both had known hardship growing up, and both had been rescued by the US Army—Koa with the Fifth Special Forces Group and Jerry by the military police. They’d worked together a half-dozen times when the Army had pitched in on disaster relief, and bonded while helping folks after a big earthquake hit the west side of the island, wrecking hundreds of homes and schools.

  Koa remained smiling even as Jerry’s vigorous handshake sent a blazing streak of pain radiating down his right arm. Without being obvious, he placed both hands behind his neck and arched his back. The pinched nerve was getting worse, just as the doctor had said it would. He dreaded the thought of spinal surgery, but it might be better than the damn pain. He wasn’t supposed to feel this old at forty-three.

  Mercifully, the helicopter pilot shut down his twin engines and Koa could make himself heard. “You got a body?” he asked Jerry.

  Zeigler nodded. “Stay inside the yellow tape. There are unexploded shells all over the PTA and tons of them around this area.” Zeigler led the policemen between two yellow tapes. “Got Sergeant Basa’s call about eleven thirty this morning, and we put an observer up in a chopper. My man had no trouble spotting the probable site, but it took us awhile to get here. The bomb disposal boys blew a dud on the way in,” he said, wending his way across the uneven ground.

  “The 911 caller nailed it. It’s in a lava tube, mutilated and decomposed—a human male, but it’s gonna take a medic to reconstruct much more. Nobody but me has been in there, and I didn’t venture far or touch anything.” Thousands of lava tubes—underground passages where lava once flowed but then drained away—permeated the Big Island, some extending only a few feet while others ran for miles and were wide enough to hide an eighteen-wheeler. Koa, like all Hawaiians, knew his ancestors buried their dead in lava tubes, often in mass graves, but he’d never been to a murder scene inside one of these natural tunnels.

  Zeigler was a good cop, and Koa listened as the MP related what he’d seen. “There are some odd boot marks on the ground outside the mouth of the tube. The ground’s been chewed up, recently too. You’re lucky it rained … the boot heels left clear impressions. As for the body, it’s been there for days, that’s for sure. I figure someone stumbled on it, got frightened, and fled.”

  Keeping his core tight and his shoulders back to minimize the stress on his neck, Koa climbed down into the pit with an electric torch. He examined the disturbed ground and boot marks. The heels had cut deep, leaving sharp impressions, rounded on the back and flat toward the toe with horseshoe-shaped taps on the heels. Cowboy boots for a man on horseback. The man—he guessed it to be a man from the depth of the marks—wore specialty boots, likely handmade and expensive. He wondered if the boot tracks could be traced to a boot maker.

  He glanced around the desolate area. Who would be out here? A hunter? Only a fool would hunt in the restricted area with all the unexploded ordnance around. And why would a hunter be down in a pit? He peered at the dark opening. Why would a hunter have ventured into this particular lava tube? Koa saw nothing unusual about it. He searched the ground for anything that might give him answers. Not much. Just the heel marks and disturbed rock.

  He directed his beam of light into the lava tube. He didn’t like caves—they held too many unpleasant surprises. Carefully, he picked his way into the darkness. A putrid smell assaulted him instantly. “Oh God,” he exclaimed, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and fastening it across his nose and mouth. Then he saw the body.

  Koa stepped closer and stopped short. Even as a veteran of the Special Forces in Somalia and a witness to more than a few murder scene
s, he struggled to suppress his nausea. Control. Stay in control. Block emotion. Concentrate. He clenched his teeth until they hurt. His nausea receded.

  It was a horrendous crime scene, and Koa sensed that catching the killer would require all of his resources. He’d have to focus his military and police training, his intense powers of observation, and his own criminal experience—as a teenager he’d killed the man who’d tormented and ultimately killed his father and gotten away with it—to find the perverted killer who left this corpse.

  In the dozen years since 2003, when he’d left the Army to join the police, Koa had heard about ritual killings, but had never actually seen one. Until now. The naked body lay with its legs toward him, feet slightly separated. The trunk was bloated from putrefaction. The skin had blackened. The genitals had shrunk into the body, but the deceased was unmistakably male. The sight, the smell, and the walls squeezed in upon Koa.

  The victim’s arms had been drawn out to the sides. The upper arms were swollen, but below the elbows the flesh had shriveled. Bones protruded from shredded hands and smashed fingers. Slash marks cut wide ribbons across the distended chest. The incisions must have been deep, he judged, for the swelling to open up the flesh in those straight, wide tracks. A sharp knife or, perhaps, a straight razor. Something with a real edge. It wasn’t easy to slice human flesh. The killer had been strong. Koa looked around for a knife but saw none.

  The face had blackened to pulp, much of it bludgeoned beyond recognition. The lower facial bones had been shattered. Nose broken. Jaw smashed. Most of the teeth knocked out. The killer must have directed numerous blows at the victim’s mouth. Dental identification would be difficult, maybe impossible.

  An empty socket leered at Koa from the left side of the dead man’s face. A gaping blackened hole surrounded by withered flesh. The hole on the left side of the skull seemed to fix upon him. Koa’s own eye, his left eye, began to hurt. He shook his head to dislodge the false pain. Mutilated hands, battered faces—he’d seen those before, but desecration of an eye was something new. The killer must have gouged out the eyeball.

  But why? Why pluck out the left eye? Some savage had derived great pleasure from acting out this rite. That was Koa’s job, to stop people from acting like ancient savages.

  Koa swung the light back and forth, searching for any other evidence. Trying to absorb every aspect of the scene. To miss nothing. To avoid being misled by false clues. No clothes. No shoes. Where were the victim’s clothes? The killer must have taken them.

  Farther back in the cave his light revealed piles of small rock fragments. A blackened spot. Remnants of charcoal. A fire ring. A long-doused fire. It looked as though it had been there for ages.

  The light fell on a peculiarly shaped dark gray or black rock next to the victim’s left leg. It was rectangular at one end, angled in the middle, and tapered to an edge at the other end, like a cutting instrument. A man-made shape, not a natural rock form. Some kind of primitive stone tool. The ancient fire and now this strange rock. Maybe this place had some historical significance. Koa made a note to call the state archaeologist.

  He stooped down, keeping his back straight, and directed his beam of light to examine the object more closely. Dried blood covered part of the dark gray stone.

  Blood? He examined the floor around the corpse. Blood was only in one small place, where a puddle had congealed and dried. He looked more closely. Not much blood. Odd. There should be more blood—a lot more blood—given the carnage wreaked upon the body.

  Koa walked out into the sunlight. Tearing the handkerchief from his face, he sucked in the clean, dry air. Questions ricocheted in his mind. It was always like that at the beginning of an investigation, and he’d learned to let the questions accumulate unanswered. Questions opened the mind to unlikely possibilities. That and his own secret criminal history were what made him such a good investigator.

  CHAPTER TWO

  KOA’S CELL PHONE sounded the “Star-Spangled Banner,” the ringtone reserved for his boss. Chief Lannua inevitably picked the worst time to call, but he wasn’t to be denied. “Detective Kāne here,” Koa answered.

  “Where the hell are you? The budget meeting started fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I’m up at Pōhakuloa at the scene of a grisly murder.”

  “And you didn’t bother to let me know?”

  During the mad dash to the helicopter he’d asked Piki, the youngest of his detectives, to tell the chief that he’d been called to a crime scene. For some reason the message hadn’t gotten through, but Koa wasn’t about to hang his junior out to dry. “Sorry, Chief, I should have remembered the meeting when the balloon went up.”

  “Your numbers are way out of line.” The chief got to what was really bothering him.

  This was the part of his job Koa hated the most … begging for money. He didn’t have enough detectives, his men were underpaid, the department was light-years behind the mainland police in technology, and crime was getting worse, especially with the spread of illegal methamphetamine labs. Some days he wished he’d stayed in the Special Forces. At least they got budget priority. “I can justify every dollar, Chief. Let me get through here and I’ll walk you through it line by line.”

  “Call me when you get back, but figure out how to cut seven percent, unless you want me to apply it across the board.”

  Ouch, Koa thought, 7 percent. He’d built in a 2 percent cushion, knowing the chief would cut, but seven was going to be a bitch and across-the-board was out of the question. Still, now wasn’t the time to argue.

  “Okay, Chief, I’ll come up with a proposal.”

  “It better be good,” the chief retorted before hanging up.

  Like a car changing gears, Koa’s mind shifted back to the crime scene. He needed a medical examiner—yet Hawai‘i County had none. A county physician, Shizuo Hiro, doubled as coroner when he wasn’t delivering babies, yet the seventy-five-year-old Japanese obstetrician wasn’t up to this kind of a case. The old man could barely fend off the cross-examination of defense counsel in murder cases where bullet holes established the cause of death. God help them if they had to rely on Shizuo for forensic evidence in a case like this one.

  Koa knew the importance of forensic evidence. He’d escaped punishment for his own crime only because he’d staged a suicide by hanging and no competent coroner had ever visited the scene or properly autopsied the body.

  As he looked around, the white cross of the military ambulance caught his attention. That gave him an idea. He joined Lieutenant Zeigler. “Jerry, the county physician isn’t up to a case like this. I need a competent medical examiner. Any chance of getting an Army doctor up here?”

  “I don’t know, but I can find out.”

  Koa was a pro at overcoming initial hesitation. “Get on it, will you?”

  “Will do.” The military police officer returned to his jeep and used the radio. He soon came back with an answer. “We don’t have a doctor up here with mortuary experience, but Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Cater, the deputy scientific director of the Army Central Identification Laboratory on O‘ahu, has a lot of forensic pathology experience. We could hook him in by phone, maybe even with video. Then he’ll fly over to assist with the autopsy.”

  “Okay. Get the communications hookup ready and tell Cater to handle Shizuo with kid gloves. The old man’s going to shit a brick over an outsider, especially a forensics expert, moving in on his turf.” Koa formulated a plan as he spoke. “If necessary, I’m going to tell Shizuo that the Army insists on participating in the autopsy because the body’s on federal property.” Zeigler gave him a sly grin and hurried off.

  Sergeant Basa stepped up as Zeigler left. Basa hailed from a large Portuguese family. They’d originally come to the islands to work as engineers on the sugar and pineapple plantations, but nowadays his nine brothers were into everything from shipping to cement manufacturing. Koa had once joined the sergeant at a Basa family reunion and met some of his colleague’s 250 relatives. The who
le family, Basa in the forefront, played sports with fearsome competitiveness.

  Basa himself had worked his way up the police ranks from patrolman to one of the key leadership positions, and Koa trusted him to be thorough. They had developed a sort of partnership that made both of them more efficient. Yet that didn’t stop the two of them from going after each other in their favorite sport, open-ocean canoe racing. Koa always joked that Basa used more muscle than insight into the ocean currents. At least until lately, when his neck had started plaguing him. Now he let a lot more of Basa’s barbs go unchallenged.

  After working together for a dozen years, the bear-like sergeant knew how Koa liked to process a crime scene. “Koa, it’s gonna take manpower to search this whole area.” Basa paused before continuing. “Want me to talk to Zeigler and see if I can get the bomb boys to start checking for ordnance?” Basa had made no bones about his admiration for Koa’s skills as an investigator or his own ambition to become a detective.

  “Good idea, go for it.”

  Shizuo Hiro and the rest of the Hilo crime scene team arrived by jeep, having left the county’s red ambulance on the Saddle Road. Koa immediately drew the diminutive county physician aside, well out of earshot of everyone else. He took a deep breath. This was going to be tricky. Shizuo was all about his own self-importance. You called him Doctor, not Doc, unless you wanted to get under his skin, which Koa relished from time to time. You paid lip service to his authority as the makeshift coroner, even though he had the job only because he lost one poker pot after another at the mayor’s Thursday night smokers.

  “Shizuo, this is a bad one. Mutilated victim. Smashed face and hands. An eye’s been gouged out. We’re going to need sophisticated tests. When we catch the murderer, we’ll need courtroom—”

  “What are you saying? You think I can’t handle the medical exam?”

  “Sure you can, Shizuo, but we’ve arranged for you to work with an Army doctor, an expert in forensic pathology.”