“We were hoping you could help us with that. He had been struck in the head, and fragments of shark’s teeth were found in the wound.”
“Oh, leiomano!”
“Excuse me?”
“Leiomano. It is an ancient Hawaiian war club made of Koa wood embedded with shark’s teeth.”
The minute he said it, I remembered seeing one in
Uncle Ray’s exhibit.
I pulled the slip of paper with the words found in Uncle Ray’s mouth and handed it to Buddy. “Do you recognize these words?”
He looked at the paper, and a shudder of fear racked his body.
“Mano nuha. It means that the shark is angry. I was afraid of this.”
I could see the fear in his eyes. “What does that mean? Angry at what?”
“In order for this to make any sense, you have to understand the beliefs of our forefathers. To them, Mano, the shark, was our brother. It was he who led the early seafarers from Polynesia to Hawaii. He was a god, of sorts.”
Ox was confused. “So why is he angry?”
“Because we have taken holy things from the sacred ground.”
“Are you talking about the exhibit?” I asked.
“Yes. The artifacts were found in a burial cave on a sheer cliff face inside the Haleakala Crater. They were the possessions of very powerful alii, or chiefs, and had been hidden there for centuries. It was forbidden that anyone even know the whereabouts of these things, let alone remove them.”
“Then why were they taken out of the tomb?”
“There are those among my people who want to share the culture and history of our forefathers with the world, but they do so at the risk of angering the gods.”
“Go on.”
“It is said that the great volcanoes that formed our islands, the home of Pele, the Goddess of Fire, are sacred, and those who take from the sacred land shall be visited with the curse of Pele.”
“Do you believe this is true?”
“What I know to be true is that over the years, many tourists have ignored the warnings and have taken rocks from the mountain as souvenirs. The Hawaii tourist bureau has received many a box of rocks from distraught tourists, begging that the rocks be returned to remove the curse.”
Ox was having difficulty following Buddy’s story. “But to your knowledge, no one has been bludgeoned with a war club?”
“No, but it is one thing to take a rock and quite another to disturb the resting place of the alii. In ancient times, it was forbidden for even the shadow of a commoner to fall upon a chief. Such an offense was punishable by death, often with such a club.”
“Wow. That seems awfully harsh,” I said.
“You have to understand that my people had traveled three thousand miles to a new land. They were able to prosper because everyone respected the kapu, the strict social order that made their survival possible. Those who didn’t were killed.”
I should have been more sensitive, but I blurted out, “So other than the angry gods, can you think of anyone else who might want your grandfather dead?”
“Please do not mock our beliefs.”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Yes, there are those who do not believe as my grandfather did. There are many of my people who long to return to the ancient ways before the white man took everything away. It is they who warned that to remove the sacred things would anger our aumakua.”
The mention of the word aumakua got my attention. It was the word Uncle Ray used when he gave me the tiny lizard.
“Tell me about this aumakua.”
“All things in nature are our brothers. We were all created by Wakea and Papa. Each of us has a special connection with one of our brothers in nature. For some, it may be a shark; for another it may be a sea bird. We are encouraged to form a bond with our aumakua to help guide us through life.”
I pulled the black obsidian lizard from my pocket.
Buddy stared in disbelief. “Where did you get that? It has been in my family for years.”
I told him the story of our encounter with his grandfather and shared my experience with the tiny lizard the day of Maggie’s abduction.
“There is great mana in this aumakua. My grandfather knew much of the old ways and had far greater understanding than I will ever have. You would be wise to heed his words. Did he say more?”
“He said that Maggie was to be called Hualani and that I was to be called Kamamalu. Does that mean anything to you?”
Again Buddy sat in shocked disbelief.
“Roughly translated, Hualani means ‘child of a chief,’ and Kamamalu means ‘protector.’”
“He also said that his homeland was calling to us, that we wouldn’t understand now, but the day would come.”
“It is my belief that all things happen for a reason. It is no coincidence that you came to my grandfather’s lecture. He was led by the spirits of our ancestors to speak to you and give you mo’o’ala. It is no coincidence that it is you who have been sent to avenge his death. You have been chosen by the gods. It is a great honor and responsibility.”
Buddy Kalakoa’s words played in my mind as we left the gallery.
Why did Uncle Ray have to die?
What does all this have to do with Maggie and me?
Is there really no such thing as coincidence?
What if we hadn’t gone to the gallery that day?
If I was confused, I could only imagine what Ox was thinking.
Finally, on the way back to the station, he muttered, “Partner, I think we just stepped into some deep shit.”
“Amen to that.”
Later that evening, Maggie was devastated when I told her of Uncle Ray’s tragic death. She too had felt a connection with the old man.
I had not, as yet, shared the story of the role that the tiny lizard had played in her rescue. In retrospect, in the cold light of day, the whole thing had seemed so improbable. After my visit with Buddy Kalakoa, I figured she should hear the whole story.
Maggie is a modern girl and, like me, has a rather skeptical attitude toward folklore and superstition, but I could see that she was visibly shaken as I recounted my experience with the aumakua.
I hesitated to bring up the next topic that was on my mind, but after all, I had promised, “No secrets.”
“Do you remember telling me how you felt a connection to some of the places that Uncle Ray showed in his slides?”
“Indeed I do. It was a kind of déjà vu sensation. I’ve thought about it several times in the last few days.”
“Try not to freak out when I tell you this.”
“There’s more?”
“Remember when Uncle Ray said that you were to be called Hualani?”
“Yes, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Well, the literal translation means ‘child of a chief.’”
“Walt, now you are freaking me out. There is absolutely nothing in my heritage that I am aware of that has any connection to anything Hawaiian.”
“Hey, don’t kill the messenger. I’m just telling you what he said.”
“He also said that his homeland would be calling us. What do you suppose that means?”
“Right now, I don’t have a clue, but like Buddy, I don’t believe in coincidences. Something tells me there is going to be more of Hawaii in our future.”
The next morning, we learned at squad meeting that the investigation of Uncle Ray’s death had been taken out of our hands and assigned to Homicide.
When it was thought that the victim was just an old homeless dude, the case had been assigned to a couple of grunt cops. As soon the brass heard that the victim was a dignitary of sorts, it was handed over to the “real cops.”
The investigation had taken on a “celebrity” status, and the headlines in the Kansas City Star pronounced Uncle Ray “an ambassador of goodwill for the Hawaiian people.” We also learned that with his untimely death, the traveling exhibit would be shut down.
Acco
rding to Ronald Kalakua, younger brother of the victim, who was now in charge of the exhibit, “The artifacts will be carefully packed and shipped to the Bishop Museum in Honolulu, where they will become a permanent exhibit for all to enjoy.”
Having been stripped of our murder investigation, Ox and I spent the day on our regular patrol duty.
On the one hand, I was disappointed that the brass didn’t think the “Dynamic Duo” could handle such a high profile case.
On the other hand, I was relieved. I hoped that maybe fate had taken this Hawaii thing out of my life forever.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
When our shift was over, I hopped into my car and headed down McGee Trafficway, anticipating a quiet evening at home.
I had just pulled into the intersection at Eighteenth
Street when an old black Lincoln came barreling through the red light. I jammed on my brakes, but it was too late. The old Lincoln struck me in the right rear quarter panel and spun me around. Neither of us had been speeding, so the impact, while inflicting damage to the cars, was not sufficient to cause either of us bodily injury.
I stepped out of my car and approached the Lincoln.
An elderly lady with bright blue hair coiffed high on her head sat dazed behind the wheel.
I tapped on the window. That seemed to jolt her back to reality.
She rolled the window down.
“I’m so sorry! I just don’t know where my mind was. I didn’t even see the stoplight.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I think so,” she said as she gingerly felt her body parts. “Am I going to be arrested?”
“Well, that depends. Please tell me you have insurance.”
“Oh, absolutely!”
“Well then, let’s get these cars out of the intersection, and we can exchange information.”
We pulled into a vacant parking lot.
“My name is Lottie Crabtree,” she said as she handed me her driver’s license.
“Hi, I’m Walter Williams. I’m insured with State
Farm. Do you have your insurance card with you?”
“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed as she rummaged through her purse. “I used to have State Farm, but I switched to Geico. It saved me a hundred and twenty-eight dollars a year.”
Good to know.
“Here it is,” she said as she proudly held up her card. “And there’s a number here for my agent. Let me give him a call.”
I was examining the huge dent in my fender and thinking about all the time and trouble it would take to get it fixed when Lottie connected with her agent.
“Hello, Lawrence, this is Lottie. Yes, it’s me again.”
Apparently Lottie had been down this road enough times to be on a first-name basis with the agent.
“No, I’m okay, but I think I may have made a little dent in Mr. Williams’s car.”
Lottie is the mistress of understatement, I thought as I surveyed my crumpled fender.
“Here,” she said as she handed me the phone. “He’d like to speak to you.”
“This is Walter Williams.”
“Hi, I’m Lawrence Grimes. Lottie tells me no one’s been injured, so I’m hoping it won’t be necessary to call the police.”
“Actually, I am the police.”
“Oh great! One more incident and Lottie may lose her license. Is there any way we can avoid that? We will, of course, take care of any damage to your car.”
I looked over at poor Lottie, who had a death grip on the steering wheel. On the one hand, my cop instinct told me it would probably be better to get Ms. Demolition Derby off the street, but my more compassionate side knew that taking her license would probably put one more nail in her coffin.
Finally, my compassionate side won.
“Okay, how shall we handle this?”
“You have two choices. Tomorrow we can send an adjuster to you to assess the damage to your car, or we have a drive-in location in Argentine that is open until eight o’clock.”
“I’ll be working tomorrow, so give me the address of your drive-thru, and I’ll take care of it tonight.”
“Thank you so much. I’m sure Grandma—er, I mean Mrs. Crabtree is very grateful. If you’ll give me your information, I’ll call it in, and they’ll be expecting you.”
Grandma! Well, no wonder she switched to Geico.
Fortunately, the car was drivable, and I headed to Argentine. This is an area on the northwest side of Kansas City, between downtown and the Missouri River. There are homes and businesses in the area, but it is also the hub of the vast railroad network that connects Kansas City with the rest of the continental United States.
As luck would have it, I approached a set of tracks just ahead of an oncoming train. The signal arm dropped, and I was stuck there watching a seemingly endless stream of boxcars and flat cars loaded with eighteen-wheel trailers stacked two deep.
After the train had passed and the signal arm rose, I noted that the street that led to my destination was lined on each side with acres and acres of huge lots, filled with the same trailers that had just passed by.
There must have been thousands of them, each one carrying a cargo precious to someone bound for some distant location.
As I passed one of the lots, I noticed smoke curling skyward, but the exact location of the fire was obscured by a row of trailers. Given the industrial nature of the area, I figured it was probably just burning trash.
I glanced at my watch, and seeing the late hour, I thought it might be worth a look.
I turned into the lot and rounded the trailer, and the scene before me could have been lifted right out of a Wes Craven horror novel.
Tied to a wooden pole, the figure of a man was barely discernable as the leaping flames consumed his body.
A few feet away, a sign had been erected, and the words, “Kapu. Pele Nuha,” were inscribed in a red substance I feared was blood.
I dialed 911 and frantically looked around for something to extinguish the blaze but found nothing.
I stood there helpless, watching the remains of some poor soul go up in smoke.
Soon the area was filled with fire trucks and police cars.
I retreated to my car, and as I stood there watching the firemen and officers secure the grisly scene, I realized that I had been clutching the tiny amulet in my pocket.
At that very moment, I noticed for the first time a huge billboard overlooking the lot. My heart skipped a beat as I found myself staring into the eyes of the Geico lizard.
The next day Ox and I were summoned to Captain Short’s office.
I was surprised to see the lead detective from Homicide, but I was even more surprised to see Buddy Kalakoa.
“Come in. I think you know Detective Blaylock, and I believe you’ve met Mr. Kalakoa.”
I shook Buddy’s hand and gave a nod to Blaylock, who didn’t look at all happy.
Blaylock was a good detective. Ox and I had worked a couple of cases with him, and I thought we were on good terms. I was surprised at his somber expression. Maybe he was just having a bad day.
“Unfortunately,” the captain continued, “the body you discovered last evening was that of Ronald Kalakoa.”
I looked at Buddy. His head drooped, and I could tell he was doing his best to not lose control.
“I’m so sorry, Buddy.”
He nodded.
“Mr. Kalakoa had spent the day supervising the packing of the exhibit and had followed the truck to the rail yard. It was to be loaded on a flat car today and transported to Los Angeles, where it was to be loaded on a container barge and shipped to Honolulu.
“After the trailer was dropped off, he was apparently accosted and—well, you know very well what happened. The trailer was found empty. The artifacts in the exhibit are missing.”
“Buddy, I saw the words on the sign. If I remember correctly, kapu means forbidden, Pele is the goddess of fire, and nuha means angry. I’m guessing all this is connected to your gra
ndfather’s death.”
“We have angered the gods. We have broken the kapu, and they have sought vengeance. The only way to appease the gods is through sacrifice. My grandfather was sacrificed to Mano, the shark, and my uncle to Pele. I will be next.”
“Walt,” the captain said, “Mr. Kalakoa for some reason believes you may have some special insight into this case and has asked that you be reassigned. We want to honor his wishes, so you and Ox will be working with Detective Blaylock until further notice.”
No wonder Blaylock was ticked.
“It will be an honor to work with Mr. Kalakoa. We will do our best.”
CHAPTER 6
Later that evening, after a “Hungry Man” meal was hastily prepared in the trusty microwave, I poured a flute of Arbor Mist and spread my paperwork on the dinette table.
I figured it was time to separate fact from fiction in this most unusual case.
I labeled the first page “fact” and started listing what we knew to be true.
Artifacts that were considered sacred to the ancient Hawaiians had been discovered, removed from their resting place, and placed in a traveling exhibit to be shared with the world.
The caretakers and promoters of this exhibit, the Kalakoa family, had been warned by Hawaiian fundamentalists that they were breaking the kapu and had angered the gods.
Subsequently, Uncle Ray had been bludgeoned to death with a Hawaiian war club studded with shark’s teeth, and his brother, Ronald, had been set ablaze, both as human sacrifices to appease the angry gods.
Buddy Kalakoa, the grandson, now feared for his life.
And finally, the artifacts from the exhibit were taken.
I started to label the second page “fiction,” but then the thought occurred to me that fiction really meant “not true,” and I wasn’t ready to concede that yet. So I scratched that out and wrote “superstition.”
Upon further reflection, I decided that what we had encountered went beyond “Don’t walk under a ladder,” or “Don’t let a black cat cross your path.” It was definitely more than that.
I finally labeled the second page “unexplained” and started to write.
[Lady Justice 03] - Lady Justice Gets Lei'd Page 5