Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  Fortunately for him, they arrived before the outfit backing the race track did.

  The story might not have been the one that built his career, but it did teach him a lesson that he had never forgotten. Whenever performing research, always be sure to do so on a public computer, one that couldn’t be traced back to his name, much less his bedroom.

  The Manoa branch of the Hawaii State Library system was just five blocks from his apartment, a single-story building tucked away on a mostly residential street not far from the University of Hawaii. It was small and unassuming, rarely used during the day by more than a few locals, the occasional college student looking for someplace quiet to study.

  All told, it was the perfect place for somebody like him to come in and do some digging without looking over his shoulder.

  A small, plump woman with rosy cheeks and white hair pulled back into a ponytail smiled at Kimo as he entered. A semi-regular at the place, both knew each other by sight, if not by name.

  Kimo went directly to the back corner of the building, a bank of four computers sitting empty. An elderly man in a loud polo shirt and a mother carrying an infant against her chest both roamed the aisles, though neither looked his way as he passed.

  Twelve minutes after leaving his house he was seated in front of a computer screen, his back to the wall. Two years before he had taken out a library card in a false name, having never checked out a single book with it. Instead, it was used exclusively for gaining internet access, three-hour chunks of time to be spent on the worldwide web, free of charge. Once he was done, he could sign out and walk away, the system wiped clean at the end of each business day. As long as he steered clear of pornography, weapons, or anything that might get flagged in the system, he was virtually invisible as he prowled about.

  For the 10 hours since leaving the palace, his singular focus had been trying to determine the motive behind the string of killings in Honolulu. Whoever was behind them clearly had political motivations, as Kalani had pointed out. The bodies were all displayed to be used against the governor, placed in public areas to embarrass him or worse.

  The fact that he had chosen to hide them was curious to say the least, but didn’t do enough to place any blame squarely on him. Calling on the Chief of Police only bolstered that opinion. From what Kimo could tell, it appeared the governor was guilty of a healthy amount of election paranoia, but nothing more.

  That left the other major candidate, which was an even harder situation to figure out. Mary-Ann Harris was riding on a lot of public sympathy in the wake of her husband’s passing, but few in the state really viewed her as a serious contender to go all the way. Early polls showed her even in the primary, but Kimo was convinced that was more on the Anybody-but-Randle ticket than any merits of her own.

  How she had come to possess intimate knowledge of grisly murders around the city was the part he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around. The first incident could have been chalked up as coincidence, but the second call was too much to brush aside. She had known something was going to happen, this time before it even transpired. That meant she had been in direct contact with the perpetrator of the crime, and even if she was merely being used as the mouthpiece, against her will or not, that made her an accomplice.

  That part of the puzzle Kimo was content to leave to Kalani and Rip. The aspect that most concerned him was the motivation for it all. There was the chance that this whole thing was meant to pull both candidates from the race in favor of a distant third place individual or one of the opponents in the general, but Kimo agreed that seemed tenuous at best.

  The timing, and the involvement of the two candidates, meant this had to be about their upcoming primary.

  In his limited experience with political campaigns, Kimo had found people often sided with whoever’s views most closely aligned with their own. Other times, when that wasn’t tenable, it meant writing generous campaign donations to encourage candidates to agree with their views.

  Starting there, Kimo began to search the Hawaii State Board of Elections. It took him a few minutes before finding what he was looking for, itemized lists of all donations coming in to either campaign. Time stamped three days prior, it was the most current data available, most likely not to be updated for another week or two at best.

  He just had to hope something that had already been documented would jump out at him.

  Exporting the information into Excel worksheets, Kimo sent them to the printer, coming back with two stacks of paper listing contributions. Pulling a highlighter from his bag, he started with the ones for Harris. In Hawaii, the limit was set at $6,000 for both individuals and corporations, several dozen names worth highlighting, but none jumping out at him in particular.

  Once he was done, he pushed the list aside, moving directly to the Randle pile, this one even longer than the previous.

  Twice throughout the process he stopped and looked up, checking his surroundings before returning to work. When he finished, he again paused to scan the room, finding the small branch still quiet. He then bent back over his work, flipping to the last page of both stacks and holding them up side by side, looking from one to another.

  His face scrunched in confusion, he stared at the printouts, checking to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake.

  True to form, he had not.

  “What the hell?” he said aloud, forgetting for a moment where he was, unable to contain himself as he drew the stares of everybody inside.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The same governor who influenced the construction of the state capitol building also served as the galvanizing force behind the only medical school in Hawaii. There was precious little space on the actual university campus for such a large undertaking, so he unilaterally carved out a piece of ground along the shorefront in Kaka’ako, providing the space to finally train medical professionals at home.

  What started as a single building along the Kaka’ako Beach Park had undergone upgrades over the years, expanding into a campus unto itself, with full primary care training, peer-to-peer research facilities, and a cancer center that became the largest in the Pacific Rim the moment it opened its doors.

  In honor of such foresight by the governor, the school was named in his honor, officially dubbed the John A. Burns School of Medicine, though to locals it was known as JABSOM.

  When Kalani called Rip to tell him to meet her at JABSOM, his first response was to say nobody was home at Harris’s. His second was to ask, “Jannie found something on the body?”

  “Not at all,” Kalani replied. “But we put our heads together and came up with something else. Tseng’s trying to get us a meeting as we speak.”

  Free of the workday crowd, the city center was almost deserted as Kalani made good time toward the campus, the sidewalks speckled with nothing more than a few tourists. The sun overhead was just past its peak as she pulled in to park.

  Rip was standing in the empty parking lot as she arrived, his bare legs exposed beneath a pair of khaki shorts. He was leaning against the hood of his van with his eyes closed and his face lifted toward the sun, soaking up as much of the warmth as he could. He remained that way as Kalani climbed out, slamming the door behind her.

  “Getting your vitamin D for the day?”

  “Do you realize Point Panic is no more than 200 yards from where we’re now standing?” Rip asked, ignoring her question. “And I still have an extra board stored away for you?”

  Kalani couldn’t help but smile. While her mind was sifting through what little they knew, trying to find a way to pull everything together, Rip was also painfully aware that just over the rise was one of the favorite local surfing spots in the city.

  “Not right now,” Kalani said. “We’ve got to get in here and meet with… somebody.”

  “Well then, that sounds promising.” He pushed himself up and fell in beside her, walking to the entrance.

  The full John A. Burns School of Medicine moniker was stretched across the front on a free-stan
ding sign, a line of pigeons resting on it, watching Kalani and Rip approach, with detached boredom.

  “How many buildings you think they’ll name after this governor?” Rip asked, his voice already transitioned back from the carefree sunbather in the parking lot to an investigator on the case.

  Ignoring the jab, Kalani gave Rip the two-minute overview of her conversation with Song and the reason for their being at the school. He listened in silence, nodding, giving the distinct impression he had been thinking along the same lines.

  Inside, behind a desk, a guard in a rent-a-cop uniform waited for them. At first glance he appeared to be a work-study student who put on the shirt each weekend and collected $10 an hour watching overeager med students study. He looked up as they approached, before standing politely.

  “Aloha,” the young man said.

  “Aloha,” Kalani said, unsnapping her badge from her waist and showing it to him. “Chief Tseng was supposed to have called over here and set up a meeting for us. Not sure who with, but—“

  “Dr. Watari.” He lifted a clipboard from the desk and thrust it out for them to sign in. “She’s on the third floor, just take the elevator up and hook a right. Can’t miss her, she’s the only one here.”

  Kalani scribbled both their names and thanked him, the two of them catching the elevator up to the third floor in silence. When the doors parted, they made a right, walking down a hallway littered with bulletin boards covered in a mishmash of papers and announcements.

  A single light showed at the end, spilling out across the floor. They walked straight for it, Kalani knocking before sticking her head inside.

  “Dr. Watari?”

  Behind the desk, a woman of mixed Chinese and Caucasian features stood, rising just over 5’ tall. Her hair was cut short and spiked on top, a smile on her face.

  “Yes,” she said, leaning forward over her desk and waving Kalani in through the door. “Please, please, come inside.”

  “Thank you,” Kalani said, sliding in, Rip right behind her. “My name is Kalani Lewis, this is my partner Jon Ripowski. Thank you so much for seeing us like this.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Watari replied, waving both her hands at them in unison. “Please, have a seat.”

  She waited until they were in the chairs across from her before lowering herself and lacing her hands across the desk. The large smile remained, almost beaming at their presence.

  “You’ll have to pardon my enthusiasm,” she said, leaning forward, a myriad of gold bangles rattling along her wrist. “It’s not every day I get the opportunity to assist law enforcement through my work.”

  While that assessment wasn’t quite how Kalani would phrase what they were doing there, she couldn’t help but smile at the infectious energy of the doctor. Despite her age looking to be in her mid-40s, she seemed to have the unbridled joy of a teenager on her first date.

  “I take it that Chief Tseng filled you in on why we’re here?” Kalani asked.

  “Sort of. He said I might be able to aid in an investigation, and my assistance would be greatly appreciated.”

  “We certainly do appreciate you coming in like this on a Saturday,” Rip said. “Judging by the rest of the building, you’re one of the few folks here.”

  “That’s only because this is a teaching building. I assure you, next door at the library there isn’t an empty seat in the house. Besides, I was downstairs in the lab anyway. Getting that call was a blessing, brought me up here to actually see some sunshine for a few minutes.”

  “We won’t keep you any longer than necessary,” Kalani said, opting to cut straight the matter at hand. “The reason we’re here today is to ask you about stem cells.”

  “Okay, what would you like to know?”

  Casting a quick glance to Rip, Kalani felt warmth creep up the small of her back. Her experience with stem cells was having read a few articles in the news about various procedures that were either going to be the medical breakthrough of the century or were the spawn of Satan, depending on one’s personal view of the matter and their political affiliation.

  It was clear from the utter joy etched across the doctor’s face that Tseng had given her no details about the case.

  “Obviously,” Kalani began, again flicking her gaze over to Rip and back, “everything I’m about to tell you is very, very confidential.”

  The smile receded a bit as Watari stared back. “I understand.”

  “Okay,” Kalani said, drawing in a deep breath. “This week alone, the remains of three women have been found in Honolulu. All were in the late stages of pregnancy, all three had the entire fetus and umbilical cords removed.”

  Watari’s hand flew to her mouth. She drew in a sharp breath and said, “That’s awful.”

  “We’ve been working the case in terms of the victims, checking out their back stories, any connections they might have, but after the third one showed up, it became apparent that the only thing any of them had in common is that they were pregnant.”

  The hand slowly lowered from Watari’s face. She looked aghast as she glanced from Kalani to Rip.

  “So you’re thinking whoever is doing this is after the fetuses for their stem cells?”

  “Well, that’s why we’re here. We’re hoping you can tell us.”

  The look of sorrow remained on Watari’s face as her gaze lowered, staring at nothing. She remained that way, sitting in silence, before finally saying, “You know, I knew it upset some people, but I never would have thought...”

  A bolt of adrenaline shot through Kalani, looking across to Rip, who looked much the same. She ran her hands down the front of her jeans and rested them on her knees, her body poised, staring at the woman across from her.

  “You knew what upset some people?”

  The question seemed to snap Watari out of her thoughts, her eyes coming up to meet Kalani’s, her body rocking back to lean against her chair. Gone was any trace of the excitement she’d had a few minutes before, now replaced with a sense of dread.

  “Let me back up and answer your original question first,” Watari said. “It will help put everything in context.

  “As you know, every part of the body, from the heart to the skin to the hair on our heads, is made of cells. All told, there are over 200 different types.

  “What sets apart stem cells from other types, though, are two distinct things. First is self-renewal, the ability for it to go through numerous cell divisions while maintaining its original undifferentiated state.

  “Most of the time, a cell divides once in its lifetime, producing two duplicate daughter cells. This is what allows the body to repair itself, hair and nails to grow, things like that.

  “The second key aspect of stem cells is the potential outcomes of that differentiation. Like I said before, most of the time, a cell duplicates into two daughter cells. Skin cells beget more skin cells, hair cells become hair cells, etc.

  “A properly stimulated stem cell, though, can become any one of the 200 types of cells in the body.”

  Again, some of the backlash Kalani had heard over the years came to mind with what the doctor was explaining. “Which is why some people are against their use.”

  “Among other things,” Watari said, nodding. “Some, especially religious groups, feel like we’re playing God, trying to use stem cells to repair injuries or replenish tissues that can’t regenerate on their own.”

  “You used the pronoun we,” Rip said. “They feel like we’re playing God. Is that what you do here?”

  Watari shook her head and said, “That’s why I was here this afternoon when your chief called. I’m always here these days, trying to turn out as much research as I can before the project gets shut down.”

  Without even knowing how exactly the information fit with everything she knew, Kalani could tell a big piece of the puzzle had just been dropped into their lap. A prickly sensation rippled through her, sensing that for the first time all week they were making progress.

  “Is that what y
ou meant when you said you knew it upset some people?” Kalani asked.

  Again, Watari’s focus shifted down to the desk before rising up to meet Kalani’s.

  “For the past three years, a small team of researchers, myself including, has been working exclusively on stem cell research. Set up through discretionary funding from the governor’s office, we were tasked with trying to determine if there was anything that could be done to battle the growing concern of brain injuries in sports.”

  Kalani made no made attempt to hide her surprise.

  “I had no idea,” she said. “I’ve never heard the first word about it, despite all the talk of sports injuries in the media lately.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” Watari said, shaking her head. “The funding was granted under conditions of confidentiality, all of us made to sign very strict gag orders before coming aboard.”

  “And so recently it went public?” Rip asked. “Is that what would anger some people?”

  Watari shook her head again. “No, quite the opposite. This year, the funding was removed from the governor’s budget. When the new fiscal year starts on July 1st, we will go dark, and I will go back to teaching full time in the fall.”

  It was a struggle for Kalani to remain visibly calm, fireworks exploding in her mind. So many questions, beginning with the secrecy the governor used in starting the research, and running through why he had suddenly decided to stop funding it.

  “What were you guys working on?” Kalani asked. “Was it something that might have brought down political fire in this election?”

  “And he shut us down out of fear?” Watari asked, sensing where the question was going. “Only insomuch as we existed. As far as our work went, we were making good progress, but we were very careful not to cross any moral lines. I think more people would be angered knowing we were shut down than that we were conducting research.”

  “What makes you say that?” Rip asked.

  Watari extended a hand toward Kalani. “As you just stated, concussions and head injuries are cause for great concern today. Did you know that former football players are 19 times more likely to develop Alzheimer’s disease than a regular person? Or that the average 35-year-old NFL player has the brain composition of a 70-year-old man?