Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  Instead of heading home, Torres drove sluggishly north along Marpi Road, passing through Tanapag where the fateful drug raid had occurred. Occasionally he flung an empty bottle from the truck. Akumu counted five bottles along the roadside by the time they crept through the village of San Roque. She tailed at a discreet distance, trying to keep at least one vehicle between them and hoping to stay out of his rearview mirrors.

  The sergeant finally parked the truck near Suicide Cliff where he stuffed his face with popcorn, Doritos, Fritos, and two chocolate candy bars. He removed his duty boots and walked barefoot toward the cliff, holding a beer in one hand and the tequila jug in the other. Once the beer was gone he tossed the bottle over the edge. The sun beat down as he took three long pulls of tequila, closing his eyes each time he swallowed. He needed to numb the pain of failure. Akumu watched him through her compact birding binoculars as he stood staring out at the sea without moving. It was as though the man was in a trance or made of stone.

  Twenty minutes elapsed before he began stumbling along a trail that led into the dense, green jungle growth. He stopped abruptly, leaned unsteadily against a thick tangan-tangan plant and urinated. The trail soon opened onto a small clearing with a panoramic ocean view. Torres sat with his back resting against a banyan tree and sipped from the jug. Moments before falling asleep, his mind filled with dark thoughts and he reached for his handgun, only to realize it was in the top drawer of Chief Napuna’s desk along with his badge.

  Akumu stealthily moved through the high grass until she was behind the tree. She could hear the sergeant snoring loudly. The handle of tequila lay on its side, the contents slowly dripping into the thirsty soil.

  Akumu unrolled a five-foot strand of climber’s webbing she carried in her pocket and deftly wrapped it around the sergeant’s neck. She pulled it tight, bracing her feet against the back of the tree as he awakened, realized what was happening, and started to struggle. She held the pressure until the man was unconscious.

  Torres felt the water droplets on his face. His wrists were tied behind his back with webbing, his ankles bound with duct tape. A petite Asian woman with short black hair and facial tattoos was standing over him.

  “Welcome back.”

  “Who are you? And why did you try to kill me?”

  “Never mind that. I need some information.”

  The sergeant began to wriggle and tug at the restraints. Akumu kicked him low on the spinal cord. When he cried out in pain she kicked him again.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to know what you did with the money. Is there any left over or did you spend it all at the casinos?”

  “You must have mistaken me for somebody else. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Akumu kicked him a third time. “Did you steal the money from the police station?”

  The sergeant shook his head.

  “You’re lying.”

  Another slow head shake.

  “Did you spend it all?”

  “Let me go. Take these damn cuffs off of me or you’ll be under arrest.”

  “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me where you hid the money.” She swung her lead-filled leather slapjack so that it struck between his legs. The sergeant’s eyes bulged. “Maybe that will help you remember.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “No. I’m Akumu. Now tell me about the money you stole because it belonged to someone I know and he’d like it back.”

  Tears welled in the sergeant’s eyes. “You’re making a huge mistake. I’m a police officer, not a thief.”

  Akumu began to softly sing a Cole Porter tune in her Japanese accent. “In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking, but now heaven knows, anything goes.” She did a little dance step and curtsy, then struck the sergeant’s nose with the leather-covered slapjack, causing rivulets of blood to spill over his lips and chin. “Good authors too who once knew better words now only use four-letter words, writing prose, anything goes.”

  “I didn’t take any money.”

  “Don’t you like Cole Porter? He wrote the most wonderful songs.”

  The sergeant tried to roll so that he would be in a kneeling position. Akumu let him do it.

  “I get a kick out of you. That’s also a Cole Porter song.”

  “Untie me now.”

  “I’m afraid not. You’ve been very bad. People who are bad need to be punished,” she said, plunging the ice pick into his lower back.

  Torres screamed.

  “Were you trying to tell me something?”

  “You stabbed me.”

  “Oh, it was only a little pick that made a teeny-tiny hole. Stop being such a baby. Now tell me, did you take the money?”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you spend it at the casinos?”

  Another nod.

  “Shall I presume that’s a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “All $36,000?”

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  “No. You didn’t say which casinos and you didn’t tell me if all the money is gone.” She stuck him in the back again with the ice pick.

  The sergeant looked up at Akumu with eyes seeking mercy. “Round Two.”

  “That’s the only one?”

  “The Lucky Carp.”

  “How much money is left?”

  “None.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I blew it.”

  “Yes, you did,” she said, pushing the ice pick into his chest until it pierced his heart.

  Torres’s expression suggested he was having difficulty believing this was really happening to him. Akumu dragged his body into the underbrush, untied the webbing and cut away the duct tape. She knew Tanaka would be unhappy with the results of her mission. That made her sad because she was hoping to show her loyalty and deliver better news about the whereabouts of the $36,000. Now she’d have some serious explaining to do. Tanaka had warned her about keeping her temper under control. She vowed to become more patient when such situations arose, though she doubted her need to kill could be kept in check. Tanaka would just have to understand that whenever she killed, she did it for him.

  19

  Yakuza Justice

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  News that a local police officer was found stabbed to death near Marpi Point in the northernmost region of Saipan traveled at lightning speed despite the island’s limited telecommunications network.

  A fisherman’s wife collecting driftwood had literally stumbled upon the body amid the rugged terrain near Suicide Cliff, where Tanaka’s parents had flung themselves to death during World War II. The victim, though barefoot, was otherwise clad in his police sergeant’s uniform. Flies were buzzing about the body, which in the heat of the day already had begun to swell, making it appear as though the victim had donned clothing two sizes too small.

  FBI Special Agents Palmer and O’Reilly cancelled their return flights to San Francisco and joined the investigation. The directive from FBI headquarters was awaiting them at the Saipan airport terminal, along with another rental car. Minutes later, they were studying the roadmap that would lead them to Marpi Point and the dead police officer.

  Detective Mashima was already at the crime scene with Lt. Brick when the FBI special agents arrived. He greeted them with a slight bow and a hidden expression of frustration. The agents barked questions at him, stomping through the tall grass to where other police officers were gathered around the body.

  Mashima shooed the haze of flies away from the dead man’s face as he leaned over the body. He had already smeared Vaseline up his nostrils to ward off the smell of death and decay. The detective was glad Torres’s eyes were closed because he felt a pang of guilt, as though his actions had somehow brought the sergeant to this unfortunate end.

  The victim had
been stabbed three times with an ice pick, one of the wounds puncturing his heart. Although his name was being temporarily withheld from the local newspaper and cable television station reporters from Guam, the island drums had already identified him as CNMI Police Sgt. Alfred Torres. At least two police officers at the scene were distant cousins of the deceased and visibly upset.

  The victim had less than twenty dollars cash in his pockets and a jumble of coins. Had it not been stolen, the $36,000 was to have been turned over to authorities at the Saipan airport and used to pay for police security details at the terminal, but it was gone, every last dollar. And yet there was no absolute proof that Torres had taken it.

  Mashima suspected the police sergeant had blown the entire amount in two of Garapan’s most popular casinos – Round Two and The Lucky Carp. Oddly, it was not considered unusual for an islander to lose thousands to the electronic poker machines.

  Such unbridled gambling had begun in the 1970s, ever since Japanese developers had followed their country’s “Look South” policy by investing heavily in Saipan. Although only native Chamorro and Carolinians could own land, they were not prevented from long-term leasing to the Japanese for fifty to one hundred years. With plenty of lease money in hand and few options available for spending it, the newly-rich locals headed for the casinos.

  Mashima soon tracked down where the dead police officer had gambled away thousands of dollars and, not surprisingly, it was primarily at The Lucky Carp.

  During his investigation, he asked Krill, the night manager, and Tony, the bartender, if they had seen Torres at the poker machines. Both acknowledged they had.

  Mashima shook his head in disappointment. Eyes narrowed and focused studiously on Krill, he said, “Did it ever occur to you he might be spending money that wasn’t his to spend?”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “Please. This is a small island. The Torres family has not leased their land. It’s too far from the beaches to have any value to those in the business of developing resorts.”

  “You obviously know more about him than I do,” she said.

  Mashima turned to the bar where Tony was nervously drying a wine glass. “You knew Alfred. Didn’t you ask him how he suddenly had so much money to put into the machines?”

  Tony stopped drying the glass and set it down on the bar. “I’m just the bartender. I don’t tell people how much they should spend here.”

  “But both of you agree he was at the machines for three, maybe four hours?”

  Krill and Tony nodded like two bobble heads.

  “And neither one of you spoke to him during that time?”

  Tony spoke first. “Whenever he wanted a mixed drink, I brought it to him. Vodka and soda. Alfred was always saying how doctors and lawyers drink vodka because it’s hard to smell, which helps in case they get pulled over by the cops for drunk driving. He also had several beers. Budweiser. His usual. And a couple shots of Cuervo. Nothing fancy.”

  “Sounds like Alfred was on a mission of self-destruction. And what about you, Krill? Did you speak to him?”

  “I waved when he first came in. I give a little wave to all our customers. Just being friendly. But no, I didn’t speak to him. The place was hoppin’. I had a lot more things on my mind than whether some dumb cop wants to gamble away his paycheck.”

  Mashima bluntly asked them what they had heard about the stolen money being Tanaka’s illegal earnings from the sale of marijuana and seized during the Tanapag drug raid. As expected, Tony remained stone-faced while Krill acted as though she was offended by the suggestion she might be privy to yakuza goings on.

  “Detective, I have a child to feed at home — a daughter who needs me. And I need this job. I don’t want to lose it. I work hard every fucking night and when I’m done I leave. I go home. Nothing more. I don’t ask questions because I don’t want to know the answers. I don’t get involved in people’s business, especially the yakuza.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you had any knowledge of criminal activity. But I am investigating the homicide of a police officer and was hoping you might offer any bit of information that might help.”

  Krill turned to the cash register and opened the drawer, pretending to count the cash. “Sorry. Now I have to get back to work.”

  Mashima planned to interview the deceased police officer’s wife, Amista, on the slim chance the squandered money represented their life savings, but instinct told him it was unlikely. The case was already shaping up as a cop with his hands in the cookie jar, only in this instance, he ended up being ice-picked to death for his greed. Mashima mused. It might have been safer had the sergeant robbed a bank. At least, once apprehended, he would have gone to jail instead of his grave.

  20

  White Powder on Sugar Dock

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Tanaka had a premonition his shipment of processed heroin, being transported by plane from a jungle hideout in the Philippines to the airstrip on Tinian Island — was in jeopardy. The premonition had come in the form of a bad dream and it had left him feeling unsettled. Millions of dollars were at risk and he wasn’t about to lose a single ounce of the precious white powder.

  The battered C-47 cargo plane, built to carry twenty-eight heavily-armed troops during World War II, was flying on fumes when it landed on Tinian during the night without any difficulty despite the absence of runway lights. Capable of hauling up to six thousand pounds, the plane’s factory range was 2,600 kilometers. A few engine modifications since the 1940s helped put the distance from Manila to Tinian at slightly over the maximum range. The skilled pilot, assisted by fair winds and a bit of luck, had brought the C-47 safely to its destination. Tanaka was eager to unload the cargo and prepare it for the next leg of the journey.

  Yuki and Kira — Tanaka’s most-trusted men — were ferried to Tinian by two Saipanese fishermen in their twenties who chewed betel nut throughout the day. One was missing some of his front teeth and the betel nut dyed his exposed gums a bright red. His brother was taller but his back was permanently hunched from hard labor and bar fights. His knuckles were covered in blurry jailhouse tattoos. Both men had gladly accepted a generous wad of cash with the understanding they and their families would be executed if ever a word were spoken about the round trip.

  The two kobun inspected and found intact the shipment of 1,200 tightly-packed bricks of white powder wrapped in clear plastic. Yuki punctured one of the bricks with his knife and licked the gleaming blade. He was obviously delighted with the quality of the product, trusting out his lower lip and nodding enthusiastically. “Totemo yoi. Tanaka will be pleased.”

  Kira poked a finger into the slit made by Yuki’s switchblade and tasted it. “Totemo yoi. Let’s hope all of these bricks are the same quality.”

  Since heroin has a long shelf life, transferring it to a cargo ship for the long passage to Hawaii was a matter of manpower and shuttles rather than a time crunch. Over the next week, the same rickety fishing boat that ferried the two kobun became a shuttle between the make-shift loading platform on the Tinian shoreline and the rusting vessel tied to the crumbling industrial Sugar Dock pier on Saipan.

  Tanaka insisted the approximately twelve hundred pounds of white powder be transferred to the freighter in three equal shipments. He was concerned an inadequate bribe to the local police might cause some disgruntled officers to defect and release information about the smuggling operation to the newly-formed anti-drug task force, or potentially worse, to the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration. It was no secret on Saipan that DEA agents had visited the island in the early 1980s under a directive from then President Ronald Reagan and his “Just Say No” to drugs policy. More recently, island wags had turned to discussing Lt. Louis Brick, the aggressive American police investigator who was already carrying out anti-drug raids in the small villages. In Tanaka’s thinking, if the drug task force boarded the local fishing boat while it was laden with heroin, only th
at portion of the entire shipment potentially would be lost.

  Six kobun were stationed aboard the freighter and along the Sugar Dock in Chalan Kanoa to keep unwelcome police and curious sightseers away.

  Mashima closely watched the activity from the bell tower of the Roman Catholic Church. Father Martin Garcia, the priest assigned to the parish, was a friend who disliked the yakuza as much as Mashima did.

  Mashima first met Father Garcia at the U.S. Naval Hospital on Guam Island where the newly-ordained priest counseled patients recovering from a wide array of ailments. Then a fledgling police officer, Mashima had entered a suspected illegal drug lab on Saipan where crystal methamphetamine, known among the locals as Shabu, was being produced in large quantities. He had been horribly burned when a booby trap exploded, showering him with sulfuric acid. The left side of his face was damaged beyond recognition but doctors had hopes plastic surgery might result in an acceptable reconstruction. Mashima’s spirit had fallen to an all-time low, and he had actually begun wearing a partial mask when in public, but Father Garcia helped him see the bright side. As the priest put it, though disfigured, Mashima was nonetheless young, intelligent, honorable, and perhaps would one day rejoin the active ranks of the CNMI police force. The priest’s words had become reality the day Mashima was reissued his badge and gun.

  As Mashima peered through the binoculars from a windowsill in the church tower, the priest emerged from the stone stairwell carrying a plate of food.

  “They’ve been busy. Two of the fishermen are bringing cargo to the ship.”

  “Do you know them?”