Molten Mud Murder

by Sara E. Johnson

  Rangiora was standing in the middle of the small hut, staring at a three-foot-high totem, a stout figure, tongue distended and bulging eyes made of abalone shell. Its protruding penis was out of proportion.

  “Looky here,” Rangiora said. “This dude is excited about something. Maybe you, Walker.”

  “You’re an egg,” Walker replied.

  “The tiki should not be here,” Cooper said. “It should be guarding the cave.”

  “What do you mean, Officer Cooper?” Alexa studied the carving. Its lopsided eyes stared back at her.

  “It’s an ancestor, carved to guard the sacred cave. Someone moved it.”

  “So you’ve seen it before?” Alexa pried her eyes from the statue; it chilled her.

  Wynne Cooper’s blue lips pressed together.

  Alexa looked around the cramped shack. Maybe there were other treasures or signs of struggle. A narrow camp cot covered with a wool blanket neatly rolled up at the foot took up the far wall. One chair, high back with a ripped cane seat, stood against the window. A wooden crate served as a table, and cooking equipment, a single metal plate, two cans of Wattie’s baked beans, and a half-empty fifth of Blenders Pride whiskey were stored underneath. A shovel, fishing pole, and wooden rake leaned in one corner, the rake tines sharp as spears. Alexa was about to comment when Rangiora pulled a trunk from under the cot.

  “Score,” he said, ready to open it.

  “Let’s take that outside. There will be more light,” Alexa said. Rangiora grunted and lifted the trunk.

  “What the…?” Walker said from a corner. He stared at the rafters. They followed his gaze toward three dangling serpents.

  “Snakes.” Alexa bit back a scream.

  “Tuna,” Cooper said, laughing. “He was drying tuna.”

  “Get out,” Walker said. “They aren’t tuna.” He walked closer, reached up, tapped one. It swung once, twice, stopped.

  “Maori name for eel is tuna,” Cooper said. “He was drying them. Eel are sacred food. Maori have over a hundred words for eel.”

  “What? Like whacked, munted, butt ugly…”

  “Shut up, moron,” Rangiora said. “Start taking photos while we go open this.”

  Outside, Rangiora discovered the metal trunk was locked. “Maybe the key’s under the mat,” Alexa blurted. She had the jitters. Snakes, bones reaching out to grab her. What next?

  A search for the key was fruitless. They could snap the lock or wait and open it back at headquarters. Alexa took a deep, calming breath and said, “Do we think the contents of the trunk might reveal something about Herera’s death?”

  “There’s a chance,” Rangiora answered.

  “I agree. Break the lock. But let me dust it for prints first.”

  All a man’s treasures in a thirty-two by eighteen-inch foot-locker. Who needed more space anyway? Alexa had been growing repelled by American consumerism: McMansions, megamalls, lines of millennials waiting to purchase the latest iPhone. Hadn’t she pared her own life to a single suitcase? A stab of sympathy for the dead caretaker, the bird man, jarred her.

  Rangiora sorted through clothing as Alexa watched. The loincloth Herera had been wearing the day Alexa met him at the pools nestled atop a neat pile of worn chinos, faded red swim trunks, two threadbare T-shirts, a short-sleeved button-down, and a fleece pullover.

  Underneath the clothes lay documents. Rangiora handed them to Alexa, starting with three birth certificates. “This is for Raymond Fitzgerald Herera,” Alexa read. “And this one is for Ramona Marie Caravaner, born the same year: 1971. Maybe his wife? We don’t know anything about a wife, do we?” The third birth certificate was for Eleanor Christina Herera, born 1996. “He has a daughter too,” Alexa said.

  Next came an expired driver’s license, a marriage certificate for Raymond Fitzgerald Herera and Ramona Marie Caravaner, and then two death certificates.

  “Oh man,” Alexa said while Rangiora waited. The first was for Ramona C. Herera and the second for the daughter. “Herera lost his wife and daughter on the same day, blunt force trauma. Ten years ago.”

  “That would turn me into a hermit,” said Rangiora. “Think he killed them?”

  “We’ll have to check it out,” she said, “but I doubt he’d be walking around free if he had. Blunt force trauma is a common cause of death. Might have been a car wreck. Car crashes, pedestrians or bikers being hit by cars, plane crashes, boat accidents, all can cause blunt force trauma.” And being attacked with a greenstone paddle.

  “Who’s been in a boat accident?” Walker asked, appearing suddenly.

  Rangiora explained and then continued the trunk inventory. He pulled out a blank envelope, opened it, and counted three hundred eighty-five dollars in cash.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Walker said.

  Photos were in another envelope. Rangiora flipped through them and handed them to Alexa. She had to study one hard before recognizing the caretaker she had last seen dressed as a warrior. He was younger, and his arm was wrapped around a small, dark woman. No facial tats. The other photos were of the same woman, and two were of a little girl at different ages. School photos.

  “Ouch,” said Rangiora, whipping his hand out of the trunk.

  “What?” asked Alexa, imagining the sharp edge of a greenstone club.

  Rangiora sucked his finger and then felt around more cautiously. He pulled out two intricate fishing hooks and examined them in his large hands. “These are made from bone, not wood.”

  “What kind of bone?”

  Rangiora looked puzzled. “I can’t tell. Maybe whale, combined with paua shell. Watch.” He held one hook from a short string, and Alexa watched it dangle, the rainbow-colored abalone shell catching light and sparkling. “It’s a trawling hook. The paua attracts a fish’s attention.”

  “Are you Maori, Officer Rangiora?” Alexa asked.

  “Half,” he said. “My father. Why?”

  “You know a bit about the culture. Do you speak Maori?”

  Rangiora shook his head. “Most Maoris don’t. Coop’s an exception.”

  A small carving knife tucked in a leather sheaf. The Holy Bible. Empty binocular case. Alexa continued to watch Rangiora inventory the trunk and thought of Herera with his broken heart guarding the island, scanning the lake with the missing binocs. Perhaps he had spotted Paul Koppel and his partner plying the waves toward his refuge.

  “Nothing suspicious unless you count the cash,” said Rangiora. He was kneeling and sat back on his haunches. “He probably had no bank account. This was his bank. The fish hooks could be valuable. They look old. But no greenstone weapon.”

  Or stolen duct tape. “No signs of struggle in the hut or out here either,” said Alexa. “Just the totem.” She was disappointed there had been nothing to connect Herera with Paul Koppel. Both she and Rangiora eyed the outhouse twenty feet to the right.

  “Officer Walker,” Rangiora said, “go suss the loo.”

  Walker frowned. “Are you kidding me, mate?”

  “That’s senior officer to you,” Rangiora answered. “Go check it out.”

  Cooper, grunting, was wrestling the totem out the door of the shack. Alexa almost said something about not disturbing the scene but bit her tongue. It didn’t appear that this was a crime scene. She heard a sudden moan and jerked around. Walker emerged from the outhouse, shaking his head.

  Alexa needed to let the DI know about the discovery. She checked her phone, relieved to see two bars, and speed-dialed his direct line.

  “Horne here.”

  “It’s Alexa. I’m calling from Pirongia. We’ve discovered human remains. Old bones.”

  “Another murder?” came the stunned reply.

  “I don’t think so. The bones were defleshed. Officer Cooper thinks maybe they were the remains of a slave.”

  “A slave?”

 
; “Dug up or something. The grave was exposed. We need to get a forensics anthropologist out here.”

  “I cannot believe we have another body on our hands.”

  “Bones. Not a body. We secured the area, and now we’re at Herera’s shack.”

  Silence.

  “Anyway, no sign of struggle. No sign of more than one person living here. A large totem pole was in the shack. And there’s a trunk with personal papers, three hundred eighty-five dollars, and clothes. Two death certificates for Herera’s wife and daughter. COD is blunt force trauma. Can you check that out?”

  “Yes. Tell me about the totem,” Horne said.

  “Officer Cooper says its place is outside the sacred cave. That it has been moved.”

  “So Herera was stealing. Or protecting.”

  “What would you like us to do? Should we continue searching the island?” Alexa looked toward the fringe of trees bordering the clearing and then at the three officers standing around her, listening intently.

  “Keep searching another couple hours and then come on in. I’ll have to call Auckland for a forensic anthropologist. You’re not certified?”

  “No. If there is a skull, I can examine the teeth, but I didn’t see one. Gone or still buried, I guess. Any word on how Herera died?”

  “Autopsy is ongoing. No word yet.”

  “What about Ngawata? What did he say?”

  “He acted shocked about Herera. Said he hadn’t been back to the island since the day you met him.”

  “Did Cooper’s uncle show?”

  “No. We have a ten-one out for him.”

  “Ten-one?” asked Alexa.

  “Broadcast to all units. Think he’s done a run.”

  “Did Ngawata consent to be fingerprinted?”

  “He acted insulted and refused.” The DI’s voice was strained.

  “I’ll check in when we get back.”

  “Be careful, Glock. Whoever killed Herera could be on the island.”

  The warning made the hair on her neck stand at attention. The team looked at her expectantly. She studied them as she tucked her phone in her pocket. Walker: grim, Cooper: stoic, Rangiora: impatient.

  “Detective Inspector Horne wants us to continue searching.”

  “The cave. That’s where we need to search,” Cooper said.

  “Yeah nah. Not going there,” Walker said.

  “Orders,” Rangiora said, scowling at Walker. He shouldered the footlocker. “I’ll put this back in the hut and latch up. We need to get going,” he added. “Lead the way, Coop.”

  Alexa gathered her dusting supplies and samples. She’d lifted three prints from the trunk and secured them back in the kit, along with the documents. They could return for the trunk later. Apprehension, like a storm cloud, cast a shadow. The sacred cave. Pākehā were forbidden to even approach. Should she remind the team? But wasn’t that folklore or superstition? What did she believe? Standing, Alexa swung the kit strap over her shoulder.

  If someone was on the island, the cave would be the perfect place to hide.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  First Cooper, then Walker followed by Alexa and Rangiora, single file. The forest they entered wasn’t dark or cloistered this time. Midday sun pushed through branches, and birds chattered and twilled, tweeting warnings or welcomes. Alexa scanned the trees, hoping to spot one like Fanny, with its tail spread like a hand of cards: pick one and I’ll tell your fortune. Rangiora interrupted her thoughts.

  “Looked like Herera was looting.”

  “Because of the totem?” Alexa asked, turning toward him.

  The trail widened, and Rangiora caught up and walked by her side. “Maybe Koppel caught him looting the cave so Herera killed him.”

  “Maybe,” Alexa said. “But then who killed Herera?”

  “We only suspect he was murdered, right? He may have drowned. Maybe he felt guilty and threw himself in the water. Couldn’t swim. Drowned.”

  “That’s not how men usually kill themselves,” Alexa said, thinking of guns, nooses, and carbon monoxide.

  “More common for Maori,” Rangiora said.

  They walked in silence, Rangiora dropping back, a tall presence bringing up the rear.

  Just as she disappeared when entering the forest, Cooper vanished again as she exited. The others followed and found themselves at the edge of another clearing, breathing in lake and wind. Across the clearing was a rounded butte spotted with tufts of grass and ferns.

  The sacred cave. Not as formidable as Alexa had envisioned.

  On either side of it, Lake Rotorua sparkled and shifted.

  The team had gathered in a straight line facing the dome as if readying for battle. “So there’s some top dog chief buried in there, eh?” Walker said. “There’s no way I’m going in. Just so’s you know that. I respect Maori rules.”

  “I see the entrance,” Cooper said, pointing at a slit between shrub and rock, ignoring Walker. The narrow black gash looked impenetrable.

  “Let’s search this area first,” Alexa said. “This is where the archaeological dig was, right, Officer Rangiora?”

  The senior officer pointed to a flat area flanking the cave. “That’s where the tents were. Three of them. The excavation was between here and the pā.” He pointed to the small hill.

  “Pa?” Alexa asked.

  Rangiora scowled. Cooper looked from him to Alexa. “Hill fort,” she explained. “Strategic for the iwi. This was once a great fortress.”

  “Thanks, Officer Cooper. Let’s see if there’s any trace of that dig, and then you can show me where the totem was when you last saw it.”

  All four moved cautiously over the remaining twenty yards toward the cave. Alexa’s eyes scanned systematically right and left, right, left. The ground was swept clean by the wind. Nothing out of place. No trace people had camped here and spent days sifting through dirt and rock for clues into the past.

  A path wound to several terraces leading to the top of the mount. “Officers Walker and Rangiora—why don’t you follow that path? Cooper and I will finish searching this area and enter the cave.”

  “The path leads up to the pā lookout,” Cooper said. “The terraces are eroded about halfway up. There have been slips into the lake.”

  “Maybe Herera jumped,” Rangiora repeated.

  “Or was pushed,” Walker said.

  Alexa had not noted abrasions or bruises on Herera’s body to indicate a fall, but she kept quiet as the two men set off.

  “The totem stood here.” Cooper pointed out a flat area to the left side of the cave entrance.

  An impression of darker earth was clear. “I’ll take some photos of it.” Since Walker still had the camera, Alexa turned on her phone camera. “How much does it weigh?”

  “I couldn’t lift it, and I can bench ninety kilos,” Cooper replied. That explained why her uniform shirt was taut against her biceps. “It had to take two people.”

  “How much is that in pounds?”

  Cooper thought for a moment. “Around two hundred. The totem is of Chief Rangituata. His mission is to watch over and protect his people. His absence shifts the maintenance of order.”

  “Order?”

  “No person should defy the laws. Moving the totem is a serious violation. There will be punishment.”

  Alexa’s mouth dropped.

  Cooper continued. “The totem protected us. Now we must protect him.” Blue lips pressed together; the spirals on her chin lay stark against dusky skin. Cooper walked over to the cave opening.

  Alexa had a sudden urge to confess to this young Maori that she was worried about entering the cave. That she didn’t want to trespass into the sacred womb and offend the gods. Or meet someone hiding, waiting. But distrust of Cooper kept her silent. “The cave was off-limits during that dig, wasn’t it?” she asked, sta
lling.

  “It is urupā, a burial site. No one is allowed in.”

  But now we must ignore custom, Alexa thought. This is police business.

  “Let’s go.”

  Cooper said something in Maori, possibly a prayer, and then turned her body sideways to enter the small fissure. Alexa followed, glad to be slimmer, but got stuck anyway. The crime scene kit refused to follow, and she had to back out and reenter, kit first. How could anyone have gotten a body or casket through here? Alexa was a cave virgin. Her heart was pumping at high velocity, and the taut red tissue crisscrossing her back itched. Inching forward, neck bent so she wouldn’t concuss herself on a rock overhang, her hands on the cold slick walls on either side of the winding passage, the kit banging her thighs, she struggled to keep up with Cooper. If there was any crawling involved, she would be backing out, pronto. Each step brought fading light and cooler temperatures.

  They were heading down. After twenty feet, Alexa could no longer touch both sides of the damp walls. Slowly, she lifted her head and stood fully upright in the chamber, an image of Neanderthal evolving into first man. Well, woman. Cooper’s broad back disappeared around a bend. Alexa, trying not to freak at being abandoned in the dark, switched on her cell’s flashlight, worried about the battery.

  “Don’t.” Cooper’s voice floated untethered. “Let your eyes adjust.”

  Adjust to what? You can’t adjust to total darkness.

  Alexa switched the light off and inched toward the hollow voice, her left hand on cold clammy rock, the right stretched ahead. The sudden flash of light and its blunt disappearance intensified the darkness. Afraid she would smack into a wall or fall into a pit, Alexa was about to turn the light back on when she edged around a passage.

  What the hell?

  The ceiling and walls were a spatter of BLUESTAR forensic spray. Yet not. More distinct. Like pinpoint stars on a moonless night. A shimmering turquoise faerie village.

  “What is it?”

  “Light of the enduring world,” Cooper whispered. “Titiwai. Glowworms.”

  “So beautiful.” Alexa remembered the guidebook touting these rare creatures unique to New Zealand and Australia. Mary had promised to show her some. “I know a place where you ride boats through a cave and they hang above like stars.”