“Have you had other problems in the past, before Jean’s death?”
Except for Susan and her activist friends, there hadn’t been any other problems.
“No threats? Break-ins? Vandalism?”
“Now that you remind me, there was one odd break-in just after I signed the lease. It happened during that first week when I doubted the wisdom of what I had done. I was wondering what I was doing with a fully outfitted office and laboratory. Anyway, someone broke into the building and stole one of the computers.”
“Just one?”
Dr. Miller thought that it was odd, but that was all that the thief had taken. There were more than twenty-five other computers plus much more valuable laboratory equipment, but the thief had taken just the one computer.
“What was special about this computer? Who used it before the previous company disappeared?”
She told them that the theft had occurred so soon after she signed the lease that she hadn’t taken a complete inventory of the building. Although she had worked in the building for almost a week before the previous company disappeared on that awful Friday, she hadn’t learned who occupied each office.
“To be honest, since I had a company to found, I didn’t pay much attention to the theft. The burglar had used a key to enter the building. Changing the locks moved up the priority list and I forgot about it until now.”
“What was the nature of Jean’s work?”
“That’s proprietary, of course. Biotech research is very competitive. I won’t tell you, at least not specifically. But in a general sense, you can learn this from our press releases, Jean experimented with the transfer of genes from one organism to another.”
“You mean like those idiotic French scientists who removed the green fluorescent proteins from sea life and inserted them into a rabbit? Just so they could make a glow in the dark rabbit.” Kara huffed.
“NO! It is irresponsible to conduct trans-species genetic transfers for the purpose of art or novelty or whatever they called that rabbit. Stuntmen like that give genetic science a bad name.”
“Bring those goofballs in here and I’ll splice in some rabbit genes. Next thing you know, they’ll be sprouting cottontails on their noses and butts.”
Gybe and Kara stared at the scientist, but didn’t see any horns or other telltale signs of evil.
Dr. Miller waved her hand. “Sorry, that was a bit of genetic humor.”
It was clear to Gybe that Kara’s accusation had touched a raw nerve.
Dr. Miller continued. “Here at GeNesRus, my company, I allow genetic research among plants, not between plant and animal. Our research goals are to add beneficial traits not tricks. For example, we have created and released a variety of corn that was resistant to Begonna cornrottus. In some parts of Africa, only this variety of corn can survive.”
Dr. Miller’s explanation was like rubbing Kara’s nerves with sandpaper. She wasn’t buying the researcher’s arguments. Sensing Kara’s rising hostility, Gybe redirected the conversation away from the ethics discussion and back to Jean. “Dr. Miller, we are trying to find who murdered Jean. If you can be more specific about her work it would really help.”
“All I am willing to say is that Jean, when she was killed, was working on the transference of genes from one plant species to another plant species.”
“Her greenhouse is wall to wall corn. Short stuff, ready to pick?” Gybe said.
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Was she growing experimental corn at home?”
“Oh, definitely not. The US Department of Agriculture, Environmental Protection Agency, Hawai‘i Department of Agriculture, all sorts of agencies have very strict regulations controlling the growth of our experimental corn. A hybrid corn buffer and a tree buffer, for instance, must shield the field test plots. Any two test plots must be at least one quarter mile from each other.”
“No, I assure you that if Jean has corn in her greenhouse, it is most definitely not an experimental variety. There are large fines – several hundred dollars at least – for violating the regulations.”
Gybe stifled the smirk that wanted to mount his face when Dr. Miller mentioned the hundred dollar fines. He waited as Dr. Miller searched for her next words.
“I’ve met Susan, albeit on somewhat adversarial basis.” Dr. Miller went on. “Susan is very determined and steadfast in her beliefs. You may think it odd, but I respect her position. Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying; she is unequivocally wrong about our work impacting the reef. However, she is correct when she says that the reef is dying. It is. The reef is dying.”
“Did you know Dr. Wilson, the other victim?” Kara asked.
Dr. Miller said that Moloka‘i was a small island. Although there were several competing seed research companies, it was impossible not to know most of the other scientists, especially the ones who lived here. She had met him at conferences and social events. She did not know his area of research although she had heard that his company, SynCorn, customized the color of corn kernels.
Taking a different tack, Gybe asked. “Tell us about Dr. Splicer’s, Jean’s, personal life. We understand that she wasn’t married. Was she seeing anyone regularly?”
The intercom buzzed before she could answer. After replacing the handset, Dr. Miller excused herself and said that she had another meeting. Gybe and Kara left her office.
Back in the ’vair as Kara cranked the engine, Gybe voiced his thoughts. “That interruption seemed a bit too convenient. The meeting felt good, but what did we learn?”
Kara wheeled out of the lot and turned left onto Maunaloa Hwy. They headed towards SynCorn’s office.
23
“I’ve been expecting you,” said the SynCorn receptionist. “Have a seat. Director Spooner will be with you in a moment.”
Kara and Gybe exchanged puzzled looks. While they waited for the director, Gybe surveyed the reception area. A deep tan cloaked the receptionist’s lean build including well-developed biceps, probably exercised on the long paddles out and back from the break. Beyond two ear studs equally distributed amongst her ears, he saw no lip rings, nose hoops, eyebrow studs, tongue doohickeys, or other metal. He couldn’t see her navel. A two-inch tattoo, maybe a frigate bird, flew across her upper left arm. Gybe guessed that she was a surfer.
In front of them, several trade publications littered the coffee table. Large plants dominated two of the corners. There were no windows. The hard, plastic, molded seats were tolerable for sits of less than ten minutes. Replace the magazines and this could be the reception area of a doctor, dentist, or lawyer. The best description of the reception area was sterile.
“Hello. Hello,” voiced SynCorn’s director, as he barreled in through a side door. “I’m Dr. Spooner, Lester Spooner – you can call me Les.”
Gybe made the introductions this time. Les led them into his office.
Gybe estimated that Les stood about five nine or ten. He was dressed more like a Texas oilman than a research scientist. Many business people in the islands wore aloha attire – aloha shirt, pressed trousers, and loafers. While in the office, the shirt was worn tucked in. Les, on the other hand, wore starched denims, plaid cowboy shirt, bolo tie, and pointed boots. A forty-quart hat rested on the two-drawer file cabinet behind the desk.
The potbelly above the hubcap sized belt buckle suggested that Les preferred vodka to veggies and/or excuses to exercise. There was nothing distinguishable about his face, but his hair was thick with tight kinky curls that sprung a half-inch from his head. A dark-skinned marauder had swum through this white man’s ancestral gene pool.
“Cigar?” Lester offered the humidor first to Kara then to Gybe. Both declined.
“Isn’t it illegal to smoke in an office building here in Hawai‘i?” Kara, never one to hold her thoughts, asked.
“Sure is.” Les snipped the end from a fresh cigar then after enough affection, foreplay, and tongue action to satisfy most women, set fire to one end and savored the virg
in smoke.
Gybe fought the urge to look up to see what Les found on the ceiling.
The modern desk was the size of a sheet of plywood. A flat panel display and keyboard stood at one side. Gybe had chosen his seat so that he could catch the reflection of the display in the window behind the director’s desk. A naked woman and two small furry rodent-like creatures filled the reflected image of the computer monitor.
A cascade of paper-clipped documents, their edges aligned, sat to Les’s right. There were no bookcases in the office. Over Les’s left shoulder, a poorly concealed wet bar occupied one corner of the room. In the other corner, the one in the sunlight, a terra-cotta pot supported a stalk of growing corn. Behind the stalk, a spear gun leaned into the corner.
Enlarged photographs of ocean reefs teeming with fish covered one wall. In one of the pictures, Gybe saw a diver – spear gun in one hand, string of gored fish in the other. Pictures on the other wall showed Les in various poses on water-skis and jetskis.
With the cigar, now on full afterburner, Les leaned forward. “How can I help you?”
Gybe explained their theories about Susan and that they were looking for the real murderer.
Les leaned back and drew a deep lungful of smoke, then another. “Isn’t the Maui Prosecuting Attorney convinced that Susan did it?”
“We aren’t.” Kara responded. “Can you tell us what Dr. Wilson was working on when he was killed?”
“No. That is confidential information. Proprietary. Trade secret, you know.”
“We heard that he was using genetic modification, what do you call it?” Gybe answered his own question. “Gene splicing to create corn kernels of various colors.”
“No comment.”
“How long have you known him?” Kara continued.
Les leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve known, knew, Dr. Wilson for almost five years. We worked together at another company before I founded SynCorn. I recruited Ray, uh must have been almost three years ago now. Brought him out here from the mainland.”
“You knew him well. Did he have any enemies?”
“Not a soul. Ray was a dedicated scientist and family man. You know he left behind his wife, Sharon. Sharon teaches at the Moloka‘i High School near Kualapu‘u. They had two young children – Tyler is eight and Ashley just turned five. I attended her birthday last week. Tragedy, a real gawd-damned tragedy. Pardon me ma’am.” He nodded to Kara.
“Sounds like he was a close friend. Did he use drugs or gamble?” Gybe asked.
“Absolutely not! First, gambling is illegal here in Hawai‘i. Hell, they don’t even have a lottery - one of only a dozen states that don’t. Ray would never use drugs. I know that for a fact.”
Sensing that they were being played like a hooked marlin, Gybe rushed forward with some slack line. “How long do you think he knew the other victim, Dr. Splicer?” Gybe asked.
Again, Les leaned forward in a dominating posture. “Why do you think they knew each other? I have no knowledge that they were acquainted.”
“That’s odd.” Gybe challenged. “Moloka‘i is a small island with a small cadre of research professionals.”
“Look, I’ve tried to help.” The cigar puffed into overdrive. “You two are wrong. Your crazy friend Susan,” he glared at Kara “did it. Hell, the police have arrested her twice here at my company and there have been other times when I should have had her arrested. She is wrong. Our methods are safe. We have nothing to do with that damn reef. She murdered a good friend of mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Gybe pressured Kara’s arm to signal that she should be quiet. They left.
That wasn’t very productive, Gybe mused to himself. Kara started the ’vair and looked to Gybe. The look said what now.
“Let’s go back to Jean’s house. If that cop is gone, I want to poke around.”
24
They didn’t spot any cops as they returned to Jean’s house.
Except for the attached carport, the house was identical to Susan’s. The mismatched carport roof identified it as an add-on. Royal blue window trim accented the fresh bright yellow paint on the clapboard siding of the original house. A dusty pink Jeep Wrangler sat under the carport.
Unlike Susan’s house, someone had maintained the lanai of Jean’s house. Gybe walked up the steps and tried the front door. Locked. Likewise, the side door was locked.
Full of success from entering Susan’s house, Gybe tried lifting the corresponding window on Jean’s house. It wasn’t locked, he could see that. But, it was stuck.
“Whoa big boy. What are we going to do if that cop returns? How will you explain breaking and entering after he warned us to stay away?”
“I got us out of the jam before. This one’s on you. Better think of a good story while I try to get this window open.”
He tried harder, something creaked.
Kara stared at his puzzled expression through the top pane of the entire window assembly that he held in his hands, then she looked at the rectangular hole in the wall. “Nice work, muscles.”
Still holding the window, Gybe looked around to see if anyone was watching. Luckily, the carport and Jeep blocked the view of the neighbors. “Damn termites.” He leaned the window assembly against the house.
Kara stepped through the gaping hole and unlocked the door.
The floor plan matched Susan’s house. Instead of a Porta-Potti in the closet, the second bedroom in this home had been divided into a bathroom and study area. After a quick walk-through, they separated to search the rooms.
Kara opened doors and drawers in the kitchen then moved into the bedroom where she looked through the closet and under the mattress. Gybe remained in the study and shuffled through Jean’s desk, then thumbed through the two-drawer file cabinet. Uncomfortable with the amount of time required to search through Jean’s computer, he opened the case, removed the hard drive, and took it with him.
“Should you be taking that?” Kara had returned to the study.
Gybe ignored the insinuation. “Find anything in the other rooms?”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for. I think she likes to cook. The spice rack is extensive and these pots and pans belong in a chef’s kitchen.”
“Can’t say much for her taste in music though. She has at least eighty CDs and a nice sound system. Every CD that I checked was bluegrass!”
“What did you find in the bathroom?” Gybe asked.
“Usual girl stuff. What are we looking for?”
“I’m not sure, but we need to learn about her personal life. Did you find pills, condoms, diaphragms?”
“That’s weak Gybe. Because she’s a woman, you’re trying to turn her into a slut or something?”
“PMS time, is it?”
Kara saluted with both middle fingers.
“Cute. If Jean doesn’t have contraceptives or protection, then that might indicate a sexual preference. Or maybe she was a closet nun.”
Kara relented. “I found some condoms in the dresser, but no pills.”
They returned to the kitchen and were about to leave when Gybe stopped to inspect the extensive spice rack. It seemed too obvious, but he opened the oregano jar. What he found inside was not oregano.
25
Kara pulled the door shut and shook it to make sure it was locked. On a bench at the front of the carport, Gybe found a roll of painter’s tape. He sat the window assembly back into the ragged hole, then ran a length of tape along each side to hold it in place. He placed a can of blue paint and a paintbrush beneath the window.
Kara released the brake and depressed the clutch while Gybe pushed the ’vair back down the driveway. A small, once white pickup, Nissan or Mitsubishi, with a deep gouge above the left rear wheel, bounced past the carport and stopped next to the greenhouse. Kara killed the engine when Gybe stopped to watch a small man climb from the pickup.
“Who are you?” The question emanated from a conical peasant hat floating beneath shoulder level. The hat sh
aded the eyes of the man clad in black pajama pants and shirt with socked feet wedged into the small sandals. Next to him, the truck bed held a well-used lawn mower, two large green trashcans, and a mound of palm fronds. The handles of a rake, hoe, and shovel rested on the tailgate.
“Friend of Jean’s, who are you?” Gybe responded.
“Don’t think so.” The small man’s eyes belied an intelligence the antithesis to his attire or age. “Miss Jean’s dead.”
“OK. You got me, old man.”
Gybe told the old man that he was a real estate opportunist. From the obits, he knew the property would soon be available. There were no local heirs, so he was inspecting the property. To save them the trouble, he would make a fair, cash offer to her mainland family. The old man might have bought the ruse. Gybe couldn’t tell.
“You the gardener?”
The man opened the greenhouse door stepped inside out of the sun. “Garden some. Take care of the corn, mostly. Nice lady. Tragic what happened. That sortta thing don’t happen here. And this old man could kick your haole ass.”
Before him, Gybe counted eleven rows of corn stretching at least forty feet to the end of the building. Each stalk stood above its own small planter – half an oak wine barrel. The corn was much shorter than what Gybe had seen in Iowa. At first, he assumed it was younger corn. Then he noticed that each plant held several full-size ears of corn. Maybe it was a midget variety.
“What will happen to the corn?” Gybe asked.
“Don’t know. Somebody from her work will come for it.”
As the man watered each plant, he told Gybe that he expected to hear from that other fellow any day now. The other fellow, Gybe learned, was a coworker of Miss Jean’s who met with her in the greenhouse on most Saturday mornings. During the week, Miss Jean worked late. That’s why she had hired the gardener to tend the corn during the week.
When she had the ’vair back on the street, Kara asked Gybe where they were going next.
“Take me back to the harbor.” Gybe said. “Tomorrow, we will find Jean’s coworker, the one the gardener told us about.”
Molokai Reef Page 10