by Toby Neal
They jumped out of the explosive ordnance disposal van, already in full gear. Lei opened the back of the vehicle, and Torufu lowered the corrugated metal ramp to deploy the surveillance and deactivation device, a small, heavy robot on six wheels capable of going in any direction. The witness reporting the explosive was escorted over to them by two burly officers.
“I’m sure it’s safe,” the young man babbled. “I was bringing it in to the station myself when I hit a bump and thought it might go off. It’s something from my uncle’s collection—a missile shell or something. I don’t even know if it’s live.”
Lei, already boiling in the heavy fire- and flak-proof suit, gave the young man a once-over. He had the soft belly and pallid complexion of a video gamer, and his eyes were so wide that white showed entirely around the irises.
“Describe the explosive.”
“I-it’s like a giant bullet. Pointed on one end, f-flat on the other. M-made out of metal. G-green,” the man stuttered.
Torufu had the robot, nicknamed Whiz-Bang, lined up. Using the remote control, he steered the device down the metal ramp into the parking lot. “Sounds like a missile of some sort,” Torufu said. “What’s the origin?”
“My uncle collected World War II memorabilia. I inherited it, all in a storage locker. Today I finally went to sort it out, see if there was anything worth selling. I found the shell in a box. I thought I’d take it to the police station, give it to you folks—but then when I hit that bump, I thought I better just stop where I was and let you deal with it.” He seemed to be calming down, his speech flowing better. Lei resisted an impulse to pat him on the arm.
“I wish you’d called us from the storage locker,” Lei said, gesturing to the snarled traffic and evacuated mall.
“It is what it is,” Torufu said. “Texeira, let’s get a look at what we’ve got. Officers, hold that man until we can verify his story.”
Lei squatted with Torufu in the back of the van as her partner steered Whiz-Bang. She’d never driven the device, which had a large and unwieldy-looking hand-held control panel.
“Never directly approach a possible reported explosive if you can help it,” Torufu said. “Use the robot or an optical lead.”
“I know,” Lei said with a touch of impatience. She felt herself getting hotter by the minute in the protective coverall, and the interior of the van was already an oven.
“And don’t believe witnesses. At least sixty percent of the time, the person who reports a bomb is the one who set it.”
“You told me that already,” Lei said.
Torufu shrugged. The heat and pressure were making both of them irritable. The red Ford Focus containing the device was directly ahead. Lei put her large, heavy helmet on, looking out through the faceplate and activating the built-in interior communication unit. “Comm check.”
“Whiz-Bang on the move. Let’s get this mall back to normal.” Torufu’s voice sounded tinny and distorted in the hollow of the helmet.
Lei crouched beside him in the van as he pushed the lever steering the robot forward, and the little tank-like vehicle picked up speed. Torufu stopped it at the red Ford. “We need to check for wires and trip lines first. Witness said the explosive was in the backseat, right?”
“I don’t think he said.” Lei felt like her voice was echoing in her own ears—her breathing, and the heavy thud of her heart, were amplified inside the protective gear.
She wondered where Stevens was at this minute, and hoped it was somewhere more comfortable than here, in this claustrophobic suit, the eyes of the entire town and the news media on them. No, she definitely didn’t like this aspect of the job.
“Deploying visual,” Torufu said.
“Roger that,” Lei acknowledged.
“Observe and we’ll discuss later.” Torufu held the control panel lower so she could watch him flick a switch and take hold of a small joystick. Looking over at Whiz-Bang, she saw a telescoping sight, like a periscope, rise up out of the top of the robot. When it got to the height of the car window, Torufu pushed a button and a flexible head, somewhat like a headlamp, lifted up into position, close to the window but not touching it. He activated the camera and a bright spotlight beneath it. Suddenly, the digital screen in front of them was filled with a grainy image of the car.
Torufu moved the joystick. “No trip wires, motion detectors, or pressure plates visible.” Lei could see all around the door handles, inside the windows. Inside the car, Big Gulp cups, McDonalds bags, sandy towels, and other detritus filled the screen.
“Where’s the missile?” Lei hissed. She felt a trickle of sweat beading along her spine and traveling down into the waistband of the Lycra shorts she wore under the coverall.
“I’m looking.”
They ended up having to reposition the robot and peer into the front seat, where the large artillery shell, still in its wooden box surrounded by shavings, rested. “Looks like the witness’s story checks out,” Lei said.
“We can put this in the containment chamber. Let’s get Whiz-Bang back to the van and prep the containment vessel. You drive him back.” Torufu handed her the controller. Lei smiled at Torufu’s paternal tone.
The control panel was heavier than it looked, and Lei felt her muscles tense as she held her arms at a ninety-degree angle. Her hands, covered in heavy gauntlets, were clumsy at the controls, but with Torufu directing, she managed to get the robot turned around and headed back to the van in a relatively straight line, its camera stowed. Torufu took over to steer the robot back up the ramp and park it in the vehicle. They each took off their helmets. Lei’s hair was plastered to her head with sweat, and the beads of moisture on her spine had become a trickle.
“What now, partner?” she asked.
“Prep the transport container.” They climbed out of the van’s roasting-hot interior, and Lei felt a wave of dizziness as she and Torufu rolled the bombproof containment safe down the ramp. Torufu was talking to the army on his headset. Lei glanced over at her backpack, slung over the back of the seat, and could see it vibrating as her phone went off—but with her hands gloved, there was no way to answer it.
Torufu ended his call. “They’ll take it in at the armory. An ordnance specialist is on their way over to assist.”
“Do we need to wait for them? I’m feeling pretty dizzy,” Lei said, crumpling suddenly to lean on the bumper of the van.
“Hydrate.” Torufu reached back into the van to a flat of water bottles on the metal floor. He tossed her one, twisted the top off his, and guzzled. Lei drank as fast as she could. Torufu tossed his empty bottle back into the van. “No, we won’t wait. Let’s get the device out of the car and contained so the mall can reopen.”
The two of them put their helmets back on and pushed the heavy containment safe across the parking lot. Lei was grateful for Torufu’s brawn as they finally reached the car with the extremely heavy metal container. Working carefully, they opened the door and, careful not to jostle the missile, lowered it, wooden box and all, into the safe and closed the lid, latching it.
“This safe is rated to contain the equivalent of two hundred pounds of dynamite going off,” Torufu said. “I think we should be fine.”
Several officers helped push the heavy safe up the ramp and clamp it down in the van. Lei drank another bottle of water, sitting in the driver’s seat, as Torufu secured the container and finalized the plans to hand off the missile to the army.
Lei checked her phone—Stevens had called but had not left a message. She’d get back to him when she could get out of the heavy gear and have a conversation.
Torufu got in beside her. “To the armory, stat. I can’t wait to get out of this gear.”
“You’re telling me. Turn up the AC,” Lei said, putting the van in gear. “Can’t say I enjoyed that.”
Torufu frowned. “That was about as easy as these calls get.”
Lei said nothing, stewing in doubts and sweat in the bombproof suit.
Stevens slid his phone ba
ck into his pocket. Lei still wasn’t picking up. He sat on the top step of the building’s exterior staircase as personnel came and went from the room.
Someone touched his shoulder. “Mike.” It was Gerry Bunuelos, a crease between his brows as he looked at Stevens. “You’re covered with blood, man.”
Stevens looked down at his hands—they were soaked. So were his shirt, his pants, and his shoes. A violent wave of nausea overcame him, and he turned to the side to vomit over the railing. Bunuelos patted his shoulder. “I need to get your statement. Let’s go to the station for that.”
Stevens wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his shirt, hoping it was clean. “Yeah.”
“Let’s go.”
Stevens barely registered that Gerry put him in the back of the police cruiser for the short ride to the station, but he began to come out of the fog of shock when the crime-scene tech wouldn’t let him wash. Instead, eyes flat and expression concealed behind a paper mask like he was diseased, she swabbed samples of blood off of the various areas on his body, pulled a hair sample and photographed him from all directions.
He had to stop her to vomit again, into a nearby trash can, and he wasn’t even surprised by then when she scooped a sample of that unspeakable muck into a plastic container.
“Change into these clothes,” she said, handing him a neatly folded stack of scrubs marked Maui Department of Corrections. “I need your clothing.”
“I didn’t do anything but try to administer first aid. And it was too late,” he said to the woman. Knowing it was useless. Knowing there was nothing he could say that would shortcut this horror—or end the horror that now lived in his memories. Knowing that this crime tech and her judgment of him was only the beginning.
Finally, somewhat washed and changed, Stevens took his phone out of his pocket, removed his belt, his weapon, creds, wallet, and badge.
“I need to process all of that,” the tech said, and with the numbness that had fallen over him, he watched her bag it all.
He was obviously the prime suspect in his pregnant ex-wife’s murder.
Of course he was. He’d think the same, arriving at the bloodbath of that room, seeing a man unresponsive with shock standing there, covered in blood.
Gerry and Pono appeared together in the doorway. “Do you want to call counsel or your union rep?” Pono asked, his bass voice serious.
“Yes, I believe I will,” Stevens said. The tech held his bloodstained phone while Stevens scrolled through the contacts and contacted his lawyer. They put him in an interview room to wait, and he sat down on the hard chair, crossed his arms, and lay his head down on them.
He wished he could cry, release even a fraction of the grief and horror that felt locked inside his throat. As many crime scenes as he’d seen, as much blood as he’d waded through, both in the army and the LAPD, it still shocked him that so much blood could be contained in such a tiny woman.
The thought made him want to vomit again.
His lawyer, Shawn Shimoda, finally arrived along with his union rep, Cal Bendes. Captain Omura, her lips pale and pinched together, followed them in, a notebook and pen in her hand.
“I have recused Bunuelos and Kaihale from this case against their wishes,” she said. “They’re too close to you. I’m putting McGregor and Chun on the case going forward.”
Stevens nodded. Looking at his hands, he spotted a rime of blood under his nail. He wondered if it was hers, or from the baby.
“Did the baby live?” he asked.
“We’re not sure yet.” Omura flicked on the recording equipment. Gone was the easy camaraderie of their working relationship from that morning. When she sat down, her eyes were expressionless, her face almost immobile. “Why don’t you tell us what happened today.”
“Anchara called me.” Stevens picked at the blood under his nail. He needed to get it off him, every bit of it. “She called me and told me she needed to see me, right before we had our Skype meeting with the Hui leader. She said she was in trouble. I told her I’d call her after the meeting.” He got the bit of blood out, flicked it away, and ran both hands through his hair. He felt a suspicious stickiness. He resisted the urge to rip out his hair in handfuls. Instead, he placed his hands on the table to control them. “Anchara asked me to meet her at the motel. I said no; let’s meet at Marco’s. She said she was injured, I had to meet her there.” He raised his eyes to Omura’s. “I was worried about how meeting her at the motel would look. I knew Lei wouldn’t like it, and that motel doesn’t have a good reputation. I was only two blocks from the place by then, though, and decided to see what was up before I called anyone else. I went to the door, knocked. She didn’t answer. I was alarmed. I pounded and called a second time. I tried the knob—it opened, and she was there, naked. There was blood everywhere.” He stopped. Swallowed. Glanced at the mirrored interview window. He knew Pono and Gerry and half the station would be watching, if they’d been allowed to.
“Go on,” Omura prompted.
“I approached the bed. At first I thought she was having the baby and hemorrhaging, but when I approached, I saw she’d been stabbed.” He ran a hand through his hair again, tried to tame the tremble in his voice. “She was bleeding out from wounds to the chest.”
“Had you known she was pregnant?”
Shimoda stirred beside Stevens. “You don’t have to answer that,” the lawyer said.
Stevens turned to him. “I want to answer. The answer’s no. I heard from Lei that Anchara attended our wedding a month ago, but she sat in the far back by herself. She must have slipped out before anyone noticed, to hide the pregnancy. I haven’t seen her since the day she left me.”
“So how long ago was that?”
“I’m not sure.” His mind couldn’t compute the months. “I want to tell you what happened next.”
“Okay then.” Omura’s voice was gentle. He reminded himself to be cautious—today she was neither his friend nor his chief.
“I approached the bed. She was still alive, trying to speak. ‘The baby. The baby,’ she said.” He swallowed again. “I was calling nine-one-one. I ran to the bathroom and got a stack of towels. The knife she’d been stabbed with was lying beside the bed. I didn’t touch it. I put towels and pressure on the wound to slow down the bleeding. ‘Take the baby,’ she said. ‘Use the knife and take the baby.’” Stevens felt that violent nausea again, and he put his head down until it passed. “I told her no. I said hang on; help was coming. She passed out. I did CPR on her, chest compressions, rotary breathing.” He shut his eyes against the memory of her breasts, unfamiliarly round and full, leaking the thin yellowish milk newborns needed as he’d done the chest compressions. “The paramedics finally got there. They moved her out and took her to the hospital. I heard from Pono that they performed an emergency C-section when they determined she was dead.”
“Where were you when this went on?”
“I just stood there, after they left. There wasn’t anything I could do really. I don’t know if the baby was alive. Pono had gotten there by then. He can tell you.”
“Is it your baby?” Omura’s question was soft but had all the sting of a lash as it sawed across his consciousness.
He shook his head, buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t see how.”
“When was the last time you had relations with Anchara Mookjai? Sexual relations?”
“The morning she left, like I said.”
“And when was that?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think. But if you want to do a paternity test on the baby, I consent.”
“Stop. You’re not thinking clearly,” Shimoda said, holding up a hand. “You don’t have to agree to this.”
“I do. She was my wife!” He pounded his chest with each word. “I didn’t love her, but she was my wife, and if that’s my child, I will do right by him as best I can!”
“If you insist, but it’s against my advice,” Shimoda said. Omura made a note that Stevens cons
ented to the paternity test and pushed it over to him. Stevens signed it.
“So then what happened?” Omura went on.
“I tried to call Lei. I tried and tried. She didn’t pick up. I went outside when the crime techs arrived to help process the scene.”
“All right. Let’s get a timeline of events.” Omura looked down at her pad. “Let’s use your wedding to Lei as a starting point, since we all know that date, and work back from there.” After rehashing various events, they established that there was a physical possibility the child was Stevens’s.
“Anchara and I only stayed in touch with e-mail. She never called, and I didn’t see her after the day she left. She very clearly wanted to move on from the marriage,” Stevens said.
“So did you ever abuse her?” Omura slid it in like a knife between his ribs.
“You’re kidding, right?” He pinned Omura with a hard gaze. “She’d been a sex slave. She’d been abused in ways I can’t imagine. I married her to help her, not hurt her more.”
“And yet that’s what you did,” Omura said. “You just told us you didn’t love Anchara. You hurt her when you married another woman, the woman you loved all along.”
A long pause. Stevens couldn’t think of what to say. It was the ugly truth, if not all of it.
“I advise my client not to respond,” Shimoda said. “I believe this is sufficient for an initial interview.”
Stevens ignored him, still focused on Omura. “I cared for Anchara. But not the way she wanted to be loved or deserved to be loved.”
A long moment passed, raw and charged with the trifecta of grief, guilt, and regret he thought he’d carry forever now.
“Did you kill Anchara?” Omura’s voice was a samurai sword slicing through silk.
“No. I tried to save her. I tried to save her!” Stevens felt his words coming out hard and tried to soften them. “In every way, I tried to save her. But I couldn’t.” And then, to his humiliation, his eyes welled with tears. He put his hands over his face. The tears burned like acid on his hands.