by Eric Redman
“I can’t believe you’ve compromised yourself like this,” Smith scolded, zipping up the bag. “Professionally, I mean.”
“Oh, can’t you?” replied Kawika acidly. “We’ll have a chat about professional ethics soon, Doctor. If I’m still on the force.”
44
Hilo
More pilikia. From the moment Cushing’s nose collapsed beneath his fist, Kawika grasped the consequences. He drove through the night to Hilo so he could get Tanaka out of bed and tell him before others did. He asked himself over and over—as he knew Tanaka would—why he’d done it. It began to feel like a stupid mistake.
Did it matter who’d sodomized Joan Malo just before she died? Cushing knew about Joan’s ordeal in Japan. Kawika could imagine Cushing forcing that information from her. But with his adrenaline draining away, Kawika could imagine other explanations. Cushing had said, “Joan told me …” But Fortunato could have told him. Or Shimazu, on Cushing’s recent trip. Which meant Cushing needn’t have forced it from Joan. Which meant …
It dawned on Kawika—and confused him—that Cushing, even drunk, had somehow guessed Kawika might assault him to defend the honor of Joan Malo. Why had Kawika done it? Had her dignity touched him? Her suffering? Was he avenging her when he hit Cushing, he wondered, trying to assuage his own guilt about her death? He even wondered whether thinking so much about Joan Malo—a conclusively unattainable woman—was some sort of irrational flight from the dilemma of Carolyn and Patience, the two women whose looks were fused in Joan’s physical appearance, Hawaiian and petite.
I’m losing it, Kawika thought. “Cool head main ting,” he reminded himself. He could have used Tommy beside him in the car.
Kawika felt relieved after calling Patience to explain, for the second time in their still-new relationship, that he wouldn’t be able to see her that night. His relief stemmed partly from decisions deferred and partly from her reaction. She sounded worried—not angry, not even disappointed, just worried. She cares about me, Kawika thought. I’ve got a little time to figure this out.
A few miles from Tanaka’s door, with midnight near, Kawika pulled himself together and found some hard kernel of resolution, determination. The thought of failing—knowing he was close to failing, might have failed already—stung him. I want to catch this killer, he decided firmly. I will catch this killer, if I’m not fired. That’s what I need to focus on. Not Joan, not Carolyn, not Patience. The killer. Being a homicide detective, solving murders, was what mattered most to him, he realized. Maybe it was even his true self.
Tanaka, roused from sleep, listened to Kawika’s confession, which was unsparing. But Kawika could see that Tanaka was angry—very angry. Kawika knew Tanaka didn’t completely absolve him of Joan Malo’s death. He worried that this time Tanaka might conclude he’d erred irredeemably.
But Tanaka didn’t act immediately, not in the night. Punishment, he told Kawika, could wait till morning. Instead, having listened long, he offered words Kawika knew were meant to help him.
“I’m not surprised you let yourself be provoked,” he said. “You’re human. Cushing pushed your buttons. But you haven’t asked why he provoked you. He isn’t a suspect, and he’d just entertained you in his home.”
Kawika started to answer.
“Shh,” Tanaka admonished him. “Don’t answer. Not yet. Get some sleep first, then think about it. It’s not a trick question. But I think the answer matters.”
“Thank you,” replied Kawika as politely as possible. “I was just going to say: you’ve taught me that what’s true is more important than why it’s true. What’s true is, he did provoke me.”
“Ah,” said Tanaka. “Hoist with my own petard—isn’t that what your fictional detectives would say?”
“Sherlock Holmes maybe. No one more recent.”
“Well, Dr. Watson,” Tanaka concluded, “in this particular case what’s true may not be more important than why it’s true. But this case is an exception.”
45
Hilo
Tanaka took command. He asked Tommy instead of Kawika to question the recently returned Murphy couple. He also asked Tommy to have his Waimea colleagues keep trying to track down Jason Hare, who’d vanished from the shoulder of the Queen K. He pressed Sammy to locate Peter Pukui, whom they’d released, and find Melanie Munu. He placed another call to Shimazu in Japan. And when a call came from Cushing’s lawyer—a Waimea lawyer Tanaka didn’t know—Tanaka handled it himself.
“My client demands that Detective Wong be suspended and that disciplinary proceedings be instituted to terminate his employment,” the lawyer declared. “Further, my client demands that the County initiate prosecution of Detective Wong for criminal assault. Finally, my client demands that the Department not defend Detective Wong or pay his legal fees in the criminal case or in the civil suit my client intends to file against him.”
“Is that all?” Tanaka asked.
“My client is a reasonable man,” the lawyer said. “He blames Detective Wong, not the Department. Assuming you agree to his demands, my client will not sue you personally as Detective Wong’s supervisor, nor file a criminal negligence complaint against the Department or name the Department as a defendant in the civil suit.”
“You done?”
“Depending on your response, yes.”
“Here’s my response,” Tanaka said. “Detective Wong will apologize to his colleagues for his loss of self-control. He will do so at a meeting I will call for that purpose. Your client is welcome to attend. Or I can send him a tape. Detective Wong will also be suspended from the case—not from the force. His suspension will last for five working days. In a murder case, working days include the weekend.”
“Five days! You’re joking.”
“The suspension is not to punish Detective Wong,” Tanaka continued. “The suspension is to protect your client. Detective Wong needs to cool off. We don’t want him to hurt your client.”
“He’s already hurt my client.”
“I mean really hurt your client.”
Cushing’s lawyer grew incensed. “Captain Tanaka, Detective Wong didn’t just hurt my client, he assaulted my client. The assault was brutal, and it was completely unprovoked.”
“Completely unprovoked?”
“Yes,” the lawyer said. “My client merely expressed disagreement with Detective Wong’s statement that a Mr. Peter Pukui could be ruled out as a suspect in the Fortunato murder case.”
“That’s what your client tells you? Well, here’s what Detective Wong tells me,” replied Tanaka, beginning to lie—he recognized the irony—to protect Mister Clean. “He says your client accused him of covering up for fellow Hawaiians—specifically, for Peter Pukui and his group, HHH. You understand the significance of such an accusation?”
“Of course, but what my client actually—”
“That’s not all,” said Tanaka, lying some more. “Detective Wong says your client also called him—let me get the exact quote, I’ve got it right here—a ‘typical lazy incompetent kanaka.’ And here’s another quote: ‘a shiftless, good-for-nothing, Hawaiian piece of shit.’ You’re a lawyer. You understand the significance of those words?”
“Captain—”
“Those are fighting words.” Tanaka had read the phrase in Kawika’s report of his Frank Kimaio interview, done some research. “Fighting words are racial slurs so insulting and provocative that the law considers them an assault. When your client shouted those words, he assaulted Detective Wong. Detective Wong was entitled to defend himself.”
“You can’t be—”
“It’s a matter of degree,” Tanaka said. “If I call you a haole, you might not feel insulted. If I call you a shyster, you’ll take offense. If I call you an ambulance-chasing shyster, you’ll get angry. And if some Japanese American cop called you a pinko-gray ambulance-chasing shyster, which could happen, you might punch him. You see my point?”
“Captain Tanaka, my client did not employ any racial slurs.�
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“Go ask him. Ask what he really said. Watch his eyes. See if you believe him.”
“I believe him already.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Tanaka said. “You know the hardest job of any lawyer is getting the truth from his own client.”
“Captain Tanaka, these are scurrilous falsehoods.”
“Terrible lies, you mean?”
“Yes, terrible lies. You would not dare assert them in any court of law.”
“You don’t know me very well,” Tanaka responded. “I wouldn’t wait to assert them in court. If I hear one more peep out of your client, I’ll assert them to Mr. Pukui, his friends at HHH, and the folks over at Sovereignty & Reparations. They’re entitled to know what your client says about Native Hawaiians, don’t you think? Pukui and HHH—I wouldn’t worry about them. They’re like a litter of feral kittens. But S&R? You ask me, they’re a bunch of tiger sharks. And I know something about tiger sharks.”
The line was silent.
“Aloha?” Tanaka asked. “You still there, Counselor?”
“I think I should bid you good day, Captain.”
“Okay. But tell your client this: Joan Malo sends him greetings.”
Kawika had not misrepresented Cushing’s words. He’d repeated them exactly, triggering Tanaka’s indignation—and prudery. That’s why, in the night, Tanaka had already set his heart against Cushing: This is a bad man. I won’t allow him to destroy Kawika.
Cushing’s insults to Joan Malo made Tanaka choose to communicate—not conceal—his hostility and its source. To avenge an insult, Tanaka reasoned, it isn’t enough just to inflict punishment. The wrongdoer must also realize that the punishment is actually vengeance.
This logic satisfied Tanaka deeply. It also puzzled him a bit. He wasn’t sure he’d thought it up. Had he remembered it from somewhere? Read it someplace? It did seem to ring a distant bell.
46
Hilo
Things got worse. Sammy couldn’t find Peter Pukui, who hadn’t turned up at his house in Kawaihae, nor had Melanie Munu. The lawyer who’d arranged Pukui’s bail said he’d taken Pukui to the lawyer’s home outside Hilo that first night, settled him outdoors on the covered sleeping porch, found him gone in the morning. Assumed he’d headed home, probably hitchhiking.
Sammy assured Tanaka he’d already run the license plate of the young men who’d brought cash for Pukui’s bail. But he hadn’t gotten far at the time. The car was registered to a granny down in Pāhoa, a small town in Puna. She’d recently fled the area, destination unknown, for fear of an approaching lava flow, one that actually never got past the village outskirts. No one in her ‘ohana knew where to find her, but they knew she had a grand-nephew—Akela, Akoni, or Alika something—who might live in Kea‘au or Kurtistown or somewhere like that in Puna, or maybe over in the old sugar town of Pahala.
Anyway, that grand-nephew was a bad kid, people said. Very bad. Sometimes he and his buddies had been seen driving the granny’s car in remote areas of Puna, where people tend to remember such things.
Sammy conferred with Tanaka. They didn’t have much to go on besides that license plate. They decided to put out an all-points bulletin, an APB for the whole island. Of course, the APB had to be explained to cops all over the County. “So while we’re at it,” Tanaka told Sammy, “we might as well include Peter Pukui by name in the APB. It’s really him, not the car, we’re trying to find.”
“Melanie too?” Sammy asked.
“Not yet,” Tanaka said. “He wasn’t with her when last seen.”
Word that Pukui was missing spread quickly after that. Tanaka soon received a faxed press release—Call me, Ted Pohano had scrawled on the cover sheet.
Native Hawaiians Demand Suspension and Investigation of Detective Wong, Hilo’s “Killer Cop”
HILO: Sovereignty & Reparations, Hawai‘i’s foremost Native Rights organization, today demanded the immediate suspension and investigation of Detective K. Wong after Hilo police admitted that Native Hawaiian leader Peter Pukui has not been seen alive since police took him into custody near Waipi‘o as part of a Hawaiian-persecuting investigation led by Detective Wong.
Insisting on anonymity for fear of reprisals from Wong, individuals close to the investigation speculate that Pukui, a descendant of Hawaiian royalty, may well have met death by foul play.
“We fear the worst,” said S&R spokesperson and orator Mele Kawena Smith.
“Peter Pukui could be the third Native Hawaiian to die violently in Wong’s investigation into the demise of real estate developer Ralph Fortunato,” Mele Kawena Smith continued. “That’s why Hawaiians all over the state are now calling Detective Wong a ‘killer cop.’”
Tanaka read no further. He put down the press release and called Ted Pohano.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” said Pohano. “You got our press release okay?”
Tanaka had dialed too quickly; just then an e-mail from Tommy appeared on his computer screen. He took a few seconds to read it.
I met the Murphys at their house. Lawyers wouldn’t let them talk. I said RF got snatched from their place, so not talking was a mistake. The Murphys said that’s impossible, but I told them we found his Teva at their door.
The Murphys got upset. Lawyers couldn’t shut them up. They insist RF put on his Tevas. Mr. M even says he walked RF to the gate.
“You still there, Captain?” asked Pohano.
“Sorry, I got distracted. What’s that you said?”
“S&R issued a press release concerning Peter Pukui’s disappearance. It’s a bit critical of Detective Wong. I wanted to give you advance notice as a courtesy, so I faxed you a copy.”
“You faxed me a copy? I haven’t seen it,” Tanaka lied. It was getting to be a habit—lying to protect Kawika. “Critical of Detective Wong, you say? Why? Detective Wong has never even set eyes on Peter Pukui.”
“Yes, but—”
“I can’t understand your targeting Kawika. He’s a Hawaiian—half Hawaiian by birth.”
“Not quite.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—he’s what, three-eighths? Come on. That’s gotta be a lot more than most of your members.”
“You’re probably right. Still, that’s not the—”
“A lot more than you, I bet.”
“Yes, I’ll concede that.”
“Well, if your release is critical of Kawika, I hope you at least included his Hawaiian first name. I’d hate to see you refer to him without that.’”
“As I explained when we met, Captain, our press releases are purely pol—”
“If you’d brought us Peter Pukui when we asked you to, we could’ve questioned him and ruled him out. That would’ve helped us focus on the case against your clients.”
“Wait a minute—what case? Which clients?”
“The Murphys, of course. That’s why I called. I wanted to give you advance notice, as a courtesy. I’m having them arrested.”
“Arrested? You must be joking. For what?”
“For killing Ralph Fortunato.”
“That’s absurd! The Murphys didn’t kill Fortunato.”
“Well, we’re like you,” Tanaka responded, angry and way out on a limb now. “Sometimes we accuse people of killing other people even when we know they didn’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry,” Tanaka assured him. “It’s purely political.”
47
Volcanoes National Park
Eleven-year-olds have a lot to say. Kawika had time to listen. He’d decided to start his suspension by taking Ku‘ulei on a trip in his convertible. First he drove her to Volcanoes National Park so she could see Pele in action. Then he planned to return to Hilo the next day, so she could see a celebrated hula troupe perform. In the car she talked constantly, sometimes just chattering but other times speaking with utmost seriousness.
“Most boys in my class are named Keanu,” she declared at one point.
“Really?” asked Kawika. It wasn’t a name he’d
heard in his youth.
“Really,” she assured him. “The teachers decided to call them Keanu M or Keanu L or Keanu K, depending on their last names. But that didn’t work—our class has three Keanu Ks.”
Kawika chuckled. “Yeah, we’ve got a lot of K’s in Hawaiian, don’t we?”
“Kawika and Ku‘ulei,” she said brightly.
“Well, yours really is Hawaiian,” he said. “Mine’s just turned into Hawaiian, from David.”
“Who’s David?”
“My uncle,” Kawika replied. “My mom’s brother.”
“Keanu Reeves was named for an uncle too,” Ku‘ulei informed him.
“Hmm. Maybe his uncle’s real name was Dean. You know, K for D.”
“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “Keanu means ‘cool.’ We learned that in Hawaiian class.”
“‘Cool?’” he asked.
“Yup,” she said. “‘Cool.’ Or maybe ‘cold.’ Ke means ‘the,’ and anu means ‘cold.’ But I just say ‘cool,’ because Keanu Reeves is cool.”
When they reached the town of Volcano, they bought some water. The day was quiet, and with the car top down they heard songbirds—first a few, then dozens. Kawika and Ku‘ulei looked this way and that, searching for a flash of bright plumage in the forest canopy. But the songbirds remained hidden, just as they had in the kīpuka.
Soon Ku‘ulei was skipping along a trail near Kīlauea’s great crater. She tugged Kawika’s hand, forcing him to keep up.
“You know what?” she asked. “Madame Pele is really mean.”
“Because she destroys things?”
“No, because she destroys people. Turns them into plants.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” said Ku‘ulei, obviously happy to explain. “Once there were two lovers, but Pele was jealous. She wanted the man herself. So she chased the lovers along the shore. She was going to kill the woman. The man told the woman, ‘Stay on the beach. I’ll climb up in the mountains, and Pele will follow. You run away.’”