Mahu Surfer

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “Yup. I’ve also spoken to an eyewitness myself.”

  “Good. What’s your plan for today?”

  “I’m going to hang around the beach for a while, make myself visible, talk to people, and see if anybody has information.”

  “Get back to me before the end of the day, Kimo. This investigation is getting a lot hotter very quickly and I want it resolved.” He hung up, and I stashed the phone in my glove compartment, then looked back at the beach.

  Every time I saw that area of roped-off sand where Brad’s body had been found, it made me want to turn right around and head back to Cane Landing. But I couldn’t; I had a job to do.

  I was pulling my board back off my truck as Mike Pratt’s girlfriend Trish came by. Today her bikini was an electric green, just a couple of swatches of fabric tied together with matching green laces. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “There’s a guy you should know about.”

  “Who?”

  “You heard about the surfers who got shot yesterday?”

  I nodded. “I knew the one guy. Brad.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s a guy who’s been shooting at surfers. Somebody has to tell the cops about him.”

  I leaned my board up against my truck. “Who?”

  “Mike found this great break near Kawailoa, and it was like, totally deserted,” she said. “He took me there once and it was really amazing. But I went back one day by myself, and this crazy caretaker guy came running down the beach, yelling at me and waving a shotgun.”

  This sounded familiar, and I struggled to remember where I had heard a story like it. “Hold on,” I said. “This caretaker, did he have a prosthetic leg?”

  “That’s him. His name’s Rich; Mike used to row the outrigger canoe with him. I heard he’s chased other surfers, too. Even shot at them.”

  “You know anybody he shot at?”

  She shook her head. “Just stories I heard. The guy’s a jerk. I mean, I feel sorry for him because he can’t surf any more, but that’s no reason to crack down on people who can.”

  “I heard Mike had a fight with him after he chased you away. He tell you anything about it?”

  She shook her head. “Just that he told the guy, Rich, to lay off me. I remember I told him that was sweet, but I could take care of myself. He said something like, not if somebody’s shooting at you.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God,” she said. “And then somebody shot him!”

  “You think it could have been Rich?”

  “I don’t know, but when I heard more surfers got shot I thought you ought to know about him.”

  “Thanks. I’ll look into him. I’ll let you know if I find anything out.”

  “Actually, I won’t be here,” she said. “The other reason I wanted to see you today was to say goodbye.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Costa Rica. This guy I know runs a little hotel near a great surf beach, and he told me I can stay there if I help with the rooms.” She wrapped her arms around her. “I don’t want to stay here any more. Not after what happened to Mike, and now those other two guys. It’s just not safe any more.”

  “I’m not sure I would go that far.”

  “Get real, Kimo. I mean, you, like, knew that one guy. Doesn’t that freak you out?”

  I thought about it. “It did at first. But I saw a lot of things when I was on the force, and so many times what happens to people is just random. If it’s your time to go, you go, no matter where you are, or what you’re doing.”

  “All due respect, I think that’s bullshit,” she said, pulling off the band around her ponytail and retying it. “I hope nothing bad happens to you, Kimo, and I hope you figure out who’s killing all these people and the North Shore gets safe again.” She stretched up and kissed my cheek. “Good luck.”

  “Yeah, good luck to you too.” I watched her cross the street and jump into the back of a pickup with a couple of other surfers. There were boards stacked along one side, and a pile of suitcases and plastic trash bags. I thought about surfing, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

  Ironic how when I was chasing cases full time, all I wanted was time to surf; now I just wanted to solve this case. I hung around the beach for a few hours, bringing up the shootings to see what anyone had to say, but the discovery of the bodies the day before had chased a lot of surfers away. I was sure the remaining police tape didn’t help either. Everyone I talked to felt the same way Trish did. They were all leaving the North Shore, because they didn’t feel safe there any more.

  I had tied my board back to the roof rack of my pickup and was just about to leave for The Next Wave and some Internet surfing when a dark blue Ford Taurus pulled up next to me.

  Kawamoto was driving. Ruiz rolled down his window. “Saw you on TV,” he said. “Nice of you to give us a plug.”

  “That’s just the kind of ex-cop I am. Loyal to the force forever.”

  “Why don’t you hop in,” Ruiz said, “and take a ride with us.”

  “All the same to you, I’ll come on my own,” I said. “I’d rather not get stuck in Wahiawa.”

  Ruiz looked at Kawamoto, then back at me. “All right. Be there at three.” Kawamoto floored it down the street, and I was left wondering what it was going to be like being on the other side of a homicide interrogation.

  As I drove toward Hale’iwa, I started thinking about Brad. If I’d gone directly from his apartment to Sugar’s, I might have seen him before he picked up Tommy Singer, and both of them might still be alive.

  Jesus. I hadn’t thought about it that way before. I didn’t chase Brad that night because I didn’t want him to think I was a stalker, and because I felt like I had the right to sleep with whoever I wanted. I hadn’t made a commitment to him, exchanged rings or promised fidelity. We had some fun.

  But what if I had tracked him down? Sure, we would have fought some more. He might have left the bar and gone home, alone, or we might have left together and gone back to his place.

  There was a third choice, though. I might not have been able to reason with him, and I might have left the bar, leaving him open to meet Tommy. But why hadn’t he just taken Tommy back to his place? Certainly they couldn’t go to Tommy’s dorm in Manoa, but why go to the beach? Brad had brought me back to his place; why not Tommy?

  When I reached The Next Wave, the first thing I had to do, I realized, was find out Rich’s last name. Duh. I could have asked Trish or Melody, but I hadn’t. So I went to the web site for the North Shore Canoe Club, and searched until I found a set of pictures, with team members identified. His last name was Sarkissian. That would make things a little easier; at least his name wasn’t Smith or Jones—or in Hawai’i, Lee, Wong, Kim or Young, the most common names in the phone book.

  I googled for Rich Sarkissian and Richard Sarkissian, and found a few hits that I thought were good. A Rich Sarkissian belonged to the VFW chapter in Honolulu, and noted that he had served in Bosnia from January to September of 1993. That jived with the Rich I’d met, who looked to be in his early thirties.

  Then I found an article in an online magazine about people with prosthetic limbs, dated two years before. Rich Sarkissian, 31, of Hale’iwa, Hawai’i, had developed his own physical therapy program, which involved rowing in outrigger canoes. Another direct hit.

  I logged into the police database, noting that my ID and password still worked, and wondered idly who else had access to this data—who knew I was still working as a cop, besides Harry and Terri, and Sampson? Did it matter?

  Rich Sarkissian had been the subject of two complaints, both from surfers who said he had shot at them. Neither ended up pressing charges, because they both had waves to chase in other places. I emailed Lieutenant Sampson to ask him to get hold of Rich’s military records. It would be interesting to find out if he was a sharpshooter.

  The Odd Couple

  I gave myself plenty of time to drive to Wahiawa, almost halfway down the Kam Highway toward Honolulu. District 2 headquarters was on North Cane Street, ju
st off the North Fork of the Wahiawa Reservoir. I stopped at the front desk and gave the sergeant my name. “Here to see Detectives Ruiz and Kawamoto.”

  He looked me up and down. “Have a seat.”

  They kept me cooling my heels for about half an hour, but I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, thinking that they were just too busy to come get me. That had happened to me periodically as a detective. Sometimes I wanted a suspect to sweat; sometimes I was just busy.

  Finally Ruiz came out to claim me, wearing a white dress shirt and navy slacks. He was a good-looking guy, and I could see he cared about his appearance—every hair was combed neatly, his pants had a crease and his black loafers had a shine. I was getting a definite vibe from him and his partner; Ruiz was going to be the one who was sympathetic, who understood my situation. Kawamoto was going to be the asshole. That was fine; they were roles Akoni and I had played, trading back and forth as appropriate.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Ruiz said, as he led me to an interrogation room. “We’re just trying to clean up a few details.” As he opened the door to the room, where Kawamoto was already sitting, he said, “You don’t mind if we tape this interview, do you?”

  “Not at all. I’m glad to help you in any way I can.” I was about to say that I had nothing to hide, but in my experience people who say that usually do have something. These detectives were only trying to do their job—but I was trying to do their job, too. It wasn’t an idea I thought they’d be too happy about.

  “I know you told us how you and Brad Jacobson hooked up, but if you wouldn’t mind telling us again, I’d really appreciate it,” Ruiz said.

  “Sure.” I said that I was window-shopping at the North Shore Marketplace, and Brad saw me, recognized me, and initiated a conversation. Which was all true. I took my time, explaining how I looked, and Brad’s makeover. “It wasn’t until I met up with his friends that I realized this was something he did often.”

  “So you’re saying you didn’t have sex until after you’d been to the bar?” Kawamoto asked. He and Ruiz had a sort of Odd Couple vibe; Kawamoto wore those polyester pants that don’t take a belt, and a light blue polo shirt with sweat stains under the arms. I was willing to bet he had a nicotine habit he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—break. “Isn’t that a little unusual—I mean, you were naked in the guy’s apartment, weren’t you?”

  “Yup. And I wondered about it, too. I mean, the whole time I was in the shower I kept expecting him to come in and join me. I was pretty confused. I thought maybe he didn’t find me attractive, that he was just being nice to me because of what had happened to me.”

  “Meaning the whole coming out thing, then losing your job?” Ruiz asked.

  I nodded. “It’s a funny thing, being recognized on the street,” I said. “Half the people want to say something nice, and the other half want to call you a name. And none of them actually know who you are, or anything about you other than what they saw on TV.”

  “I don’t think I’d like that. Might even make me angry,” Ruiz said.

  I shrugged. “I didn’t ask to be a role model, but that’s the way some people look at me. I keep thinking there’s a kid out there somewhere who feels bad or scared about being gay, and seeing me on TV helps. That’s a real privilege, an honor almost. If I have to put up with some shit now and then, it comes with the territory.”

  The look in Kawamoto’s eyes told me didn’t believe anyone could see me as a role model. “Getting back to Brad Jacobson.” He stretched across the table for a piece of gum, and his shirttail rode up out of his pants. Not an attractive sight. “You said he dressed you up and then took you to a bar to meet his friends.”

  “Yeah, I think it’s the celebrity thing. He wanted to show me off.” I named all five guys, and passed on all the contact information I had on them. I didn’t mention, though, that we had talked about Lucie Zamora’s murder, or that I’d made plans to meet with each of them to talk further.

  That information was bound to come out, though. I wondered what Ruiz and Kawamoto would make of it. For now, I wasn’t volunteering anything beyond what they asked. Then if they challenged me in the future, I could simply say I’d answered all their questions.

  I told them that I had gone back to Brad’s place to pick up my truck, and that’s when things had shifted between us. I repeated his comment, about his stereo being there in the morning. “You didn’t make plans to get together again?” Ruiz asked.

  “Nope. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if he liked me. You know, maybe that one night was a fluke, him feeling sorry for me, or wanting to be able to say he’d done it with me. But I went back to his place the next night.”

  I wasn’t going to go into detail about Brad’s sexual practices, because I didn’t think they were relevant. He liked to pick up strays, according to his friends. I’d seen that, with me, and then with Tommy Singer. That was important; how he liked his sex wasn’t.

  “So on Thursday night, you still didn’t make any plans?” Ruiz asked, putting down his pen. “Isn’t that a little unusual?”

  “You tell me,” I said. “I haven’t been dating guys for very long, so I don’t know what’s normal and what’s not. I’m still figuring the whole thing out.”

  “But you didn’t figure he’d be upset if you fucked his friends,” Kawamoto said.

  My pulse raced, but I tried to maintain control. “Nope, I didn’t. Since we weren’t exactly dating, I figured I was a free agent. His friends propositioned me, first on Thursday night, and I turned them down. Then again on Saturday night, when I finally said yes.”

  “What made you change your mind?” Ruiz asked. He looked genuinely curious, though I was sure it was all a front. He was, after all, the good guy in this interrogation, and he had to maintain his rapport with me.

  “About six beers. If Brad had been there, I might have gone home with him again. But he wasn’t, and they were. I was horny and curious and I didn’t think through all the implications.”

  I figured if Ruiz and Kawamoto couldn’t understand being drunk and horny, they both had to be neutered. But they seemed to accept how things had happened, and we went on to the confrontation on Sunday at Waimea Bay Beach Park. Then we went back over the whole thing again.

  It was a long, draining experience. Even though the interrogation room was cool, I felt sweat pooling under my arms and at my brow. I was tired and felt a headache coming on. I could easily see how suspects might make mistakes; that’s why we kept them for so long, asking the same questions over and over again.

  “Is it possible,” Ruiz said, talking somewhat slowly and softly, “that you actually did see Brad Jacobson at that bar, Sugar’s, on Sunday night?” He lightly tapped his fingers on the table in front of him. “And you were upset that he was with someone else, maybe jealous? I know you’ve said you’re not very experienced at this gay thing. Maybe you misread some signs, and you were actually way more interested in him than he was in you.”

  “Nope. Not possible. Didn’t happen that way.”

  “Well, maybe it did,” Ruiz continued. “And you were pretty upset seeing him leave the bar with this young boy, much younger than you. You were jealous, so you followed them down to the beach.”

  I wasn’t frightened; I thought this was bush league interrogation, much more blatant than anything that had gone before. I was on comfortable ground here. “Nope. Ask Ari. He’ll tell you I arrived at Sugar’s after Brad had already left. Ari will tell you I stayed at the bar talking to him for some time. Even if I’d wanted to find Brad, I had no way of knowing where he was then.”

  “We will check this out, you know,” Kawamoto said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “If anything doesn’t jive, you can be sure we’ll back at you.”

  “I’ve been honest with all your questions.” I looked from Ruiz to Kawamoto, and back. “Are we finished here yet? Because it’s been a long day.”

  “We’re finished,” Ruiz said. “But you know the drill. Don’t leave
the island. We may need to talk to you again.”

  “I’ll do anything I can to help,” I said. “By the way, I had to move out of the place where I was staying after I was on TV again. A friend of mine arranged for me to stay at a rental property with security.” I gave them the address and phone number at Cane Landing, and left. It felt good to get out of the police station—and that wasn’t a feeling I wanted to contemplate too much.

  Exodus

  After the interrogation, I was very much in need of caffeine. As I headed back to Hale’iwa, I noticed that traffic heading away from the North Shore was much heavier than normal. Everybody seemed to be going down toward Honolulu. Cars and trucks I passed were loaded up with suitcases and surfboards.

  The Kope Bean, on the other hand, was much emptier than usual. The barista, an older brunette woman in a colorful apron, was scared and wanted to leave, but she had a child in school and couldn’t just pick up and walk away. Two other customers, both surfer types in their twenties, said they were leaving in the next day or two.