Primal Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  Alongside the love letters of the lust murderer, a pathetic little photo album found in a bookcase in the dark slaughterhouse, although less than half filled with images of Kowona and his wife, revealed a lot about Kowona besides his features. Kelia—as the hastily written captions below each shot called Mrs. Kowona— even in her jeans, looked like all of Lopaka's victims. A second and newer album had photos of Kelia on the right, Lopaka's victims in various stages of undress, distress, and mutilation on the left. It was self-evident from his ghoulish gallery that Lopaka was killing and dismantling his victims out of a cataclysmic hatred for the former Kelia Kowona.

  Jessica found an office and a phone to use and worked most of the rest of the day trying to run Kelia Laliiani, a.k.a. Mrs. Lopaka Kowona, down. It took some extensive help from agents in California, but finally she was patched through to a woman answering to the name Kelia Laliiani in San Francisco.

  Jessica found her most cooperative, her voice quivering from time to time as they spoke. Jessica opened with a warning, believing the woman had a right to know that her former husband was at large and wanted for mass murder.

  “I knew... I knew it... I just knew one day he... Lopaka would do something like this. I told them he would...”

  'Told who?” she asked, surprised. 'Told family, friends?”

  “Yes, but not jus' them. I told the police.”

  'Told the police? When?”

  “Four years ago, before I left the islands. I wrote a detailed letter to the Honolulu police.”

  “I'll be damned,” replied Jessica. “Did you address it to anyone in particular?”

  “A guy, yeah, a cop working on some disappearances then.”

  “Do you remember the officer's name?”

  “Yes.”

  “You remember from that far back?”

  “No, now I see his name all the time, in the papers, in the Ala Ohana.”

  “You get the Ala Ohana in San Fran—”

  “It comes late, but I never miss an issue.”

  “Wasn't that dangerous? He could've traced you from your subscription.”

  “No subscription. An aunt, unknown to him, sends hers. I am still Hawaiian, and I care about the movement.”

  “The movement?”

  “The nationalist movement, to return Hawaii to its rightful

  owners.”

  “Hmmmm, then you've also been reading about the Trade Winds Killer case all this time and failed to come forward?”

  “What do you mean, failed? I wrote to the police and told them everything I suspected.”

  “Who, who did you write to?”

  “Scanlon, the commissioner, but he was not commissioner when I first told him years and years ago about Lopaka, just before I left my homeland for here. I told him again when I read about the missing girls and the two police officers who were killed, and I reminded him that I told him so before.”

  “Scanlon,” she repeated, incredulously. “What kind of response did you get for your trouble?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  It explained a lot. How the HPD happened by a dead-end street to find Lopaka's maroon sedan, leaking gas... how they had come to zero in on him some seven years too late.

  “Christ, tell me all you can remember about Lopaka, please.”

  “All I remember?”

  “What kind of man is he? Where is he likely to hide?”

  “He is an insane half-breed, mixed up in his head about his ancestry, and he talks to himself.”

  “Half-breed?”

  “Adopted by his father, or he was a stepfather, I'm not so sure, but he always talked about one day returning to his village and killing his father. He was cruel with me. Tied me up, played... toyed with me... with his knives. Once... once, and I ran first chance I got.”

  Once again, it seemed the predictions of Lomelea, the old prophet, were coming true.

  After she had gotten off the line with Kelia Laliiani, Jessica wondered what Jim Parry might make of this information; certainly it would put him in a much stronger position should the P.C. ever have the balls to go after him.

  Finding her way out of the evidence lockup area, she gave a thought to the grotesque collection of hands Lopaka had foolishly kept; these could prove valuable, though long bones were always easier to identity via long-bone X-ray of arms and legs, if the victims' X-ray histories involved any of these. However, the rings still found on the hands—Lopaka was obviously disinterested in jewelry—could be identified by family members. Lau was also working on that tedious and sad process now.

  She had to get back to the lab. The autopsy on Hiilani would begin at ten sharp. She'd gotten her rest, sleeping alone the night before. Parry having called her from his desk. He'd been obsessed with the case when she met him, and he was even more so now that he could smell something other than the odor of the victims' blood. Now he could smell the blood of his prey, Lopaka Kowona's blood.

  19

  Quarry mine, blessed am I

  In the luck of the chase.

  Comes the deer to my singing.

  Navaho Hunting Song

  July 18, FBI Headquarters

  It was growing late, almost twenty-four hours since Lopaka Kowona's moldering bungalow was turned out for the world to see. Jim Parry had just finished staring once more through Lopaka's disgusting victim photos. He next examined the mildewed, dusty black binder, which revealed the man's early days with his wife, Kelia.

  The photo album had shots of Lopaka on horseback swinging a rope overhead, a herd of grazing cows in the background. Parry was running it by people in the know, including Hal Ewelo in his cell, trying to get a fix on the name and location of the ranch. There were all manner of pictures of Lopaka sporting long knives and swords, several of which had been confiscated as evidence, some of which would undoubtably match the Hiilani girl's wounds, their edges and the corresponding marks on her flesh fitting together like pieces of a de Sade puzzle. There was another photo collection, separate from this album, which featured each of his swords, some extremely expensive and beautifully ornamented.

  A dealer was called in and grilled about the types of weapons, their availability and prices. He was startled by one sword in particular, declaring it to be priceless, an ancient ceremonial blade that people in the business world literally cut their own throats for.

  “How'd he get hold of such a sword if no one knew of its existence?” had been Parry's immediate response.

  “Maybe he murdered someone for it? Most certainly it's a stolen piece, perhaps from a museum or one of the old traditionalist families,” replied Arthur Early, curator of the Museum of Antiquities at the University of Hawaii, when Parry consulted him.

  “Call the Bishop Museum,” Parry told Gagliano after Early had left. “See if they're missing anything, but don't lead them. Don't tell them what we have.”

  “Hey, leave it to me,” Gagliano assured him. “What's the street word on Kowona's whereabouts?”

  “Silence, nothing.”

  “That's bullshit. Somebody's gotta know where the SOB goes when he gets scared.”

  “Nobody's talking, else they really don't know. He's been a loner for a long time, and even family—and it seems he's got some on the island—aren't sure, as I read 'em. They say nobody ever went near him, especially after his wife left him. Said he didn't come around.”

  “Somebody's lying.”

  “Sure somebody's lying, but I haven't found him yet.”

  Parry's exasperation escaped in a sigh. He fell into his chair, stared about the room and put up his hands. “The guy just disappears off the face of the... islands?”

  “Could've gotten a plane to the mainland. Could've done so under an assumed name, hours before we got to his place.”

  “Check out the museum lead. See if anybody there knows a Lopaka Kowona, if a Robert or a Bob matching his description ever worked there.”

  “You got it, Chief,
and hey, maybe you'd best get some shut-eye.”

  It was getting dark again and Parry had been pulling a twenty-four-hour shift. So long as Jessica was exhausting her efforts at the lab, he felt the least he could do was exhaust his efforts at headquarters.

  Then he thought of Jospeh Kaniola and George Oniiwah. It was Kaniola's paper that had gotten Oniiwah killed, so far as Parry was concerned. Maybe Kaniola had other thug friends like the owner of Paniolo's who, for a price, would take Lopaka Kowona to a deserted beach and kick the shit and life out of him before feeding him to the sea turtles.

  It was the kind of island justice that had been in operation since men first discovered the islands and set up shop; it had survived civilization, the presence of the U.S. Navy, the white man's law and courts, and it would survive Jim Parry, he reasoned. But damnit, he had a right to Kowona as much as anyone. Who was it that'd brought the case out of an officially sanctioned oblivion— “who cares if a few kanaka whores are taken off the street”—and dragged it kicking and screaming into the light? Not the HPD, not Scanlon for damned sure, not the nationalists, not Kaniola's fucking newspaper, not the FBI... but him alone. The least he deserved was to see the case through and to know Kowona's fate, and in the best of all possible worlds, to mete out that fate.

  Where was the justice? Where was the bastard?

  He got into his car and rushed through congested traffic, honking at the tourists buses, to get to the Ala Ohana storefront office. He found Joe Kaniola behind his desk, his secretary trying desperately to stop the bulldozing FBI man, but far too small to accomplish the task. She looked like a grown-up Hiilani, he thought.

  “That's all right, Suzy,” Kaniola called to her as he saw the train coming. “Welcome to my humble establishment. Chief—”

  “Cut the pilau, Joe. I want to know what the word is out there on Robert Kowona, and don't give me any shit about how you don't know any-fucking-thing.”

  “Like I told Tony, I don't. I swear it. The street's gone stone deaf and dumb on this, almost like everybody agrees with the sonofa- bitch who killed my kid, that what he's doing is righteous, or some such fucking dog crap.”

  The tone of Joe Kaniola's voice and the conviction in his eye calmed Parry a bit. “Why? Why would your people—”

  “First off, they're not my people... not no more. Not if they're hiding that sickening bastard. They're nobody's people. They're more displaced and disenfranchised than ever if—”

  “I didn't come here for a goddamned political debate on the conditions prevailing in the islands, Joe. I came here for some answers.”

  “And I'm telling you that no fucking one's talking, no one”

  “HPD behind this? Your Hawaiian civil rights PKO guys? Who?”

  “If I knew—”

  “I'd be the last you'd tell, I know, but maybe if you got your goddamned dentures cracked...”

  Kaniola whipped out a gun from his top drawer when he saw that Parry was serious. “You lay a hand on me, and there'll be something new for this town to talk about.”

  “Put it away! Mr. Kaniola, don't!” shouted Suzy.

  The two men, staring across the desk at one another, were like a pair of bulls sizing each other up. Little Suzy stamped her foot and repeated her demand, until Kaniola, relenting, allowed the gun to softly slide back into its hiding place.”I keep it for protection. You got no idea how often some bozo comes in here threatening me.”Parry gave a little shrug. “Likely a daily occurrence. Lucky you've got Suzy here on your side.”

  'This thing with Kowona, it has no sides,” he replied, pulling at his facial hair, shaking his head. “I mean, everybody I speak to wants him dead; everybody is looking for him. I can't believe he just vanished, but they say he is a survivalist type, and if he had gotten up into the mountains, well... it'll take the entire U.S. Army on foot to get him out of there. But bottom line is, nobody's helping him, not even his family.”

  'Take me to them.”

  “Who?”

  “His family.”

  “They're scattered all over. That would take all night, and the way you look and smell, Mr. Parry... why don't you go home, get some rest.”

  “Goddamnit, Joe!”

  “All right... all right... but I got duties here. I'll get a cousin of mine to drive you round.”

  “Whatever and however, but I want to talk to everyone remotely related to this animal.”

  “I've already done it. You'll be wasting your time, I tell you.”

  Suzy handed Parry a cup of steaming tea. He looked into her big, oval eyes. She was pretty and petite, a candidate for Kelia's murdering husband if she were six or seven years younger.

  “I am shamed to say I'm second cousin to Kowona,” she quietly admitted, “and Mr. Kaniola is telling truth. No one in my family knows where 'bout he is hiding. He jus' never did come by. I don't think I would know him if I see him. My mother remembers him, but even she say she would never have nothing to do with him, that he was ona lama, maino and hewahewa.”Joe Kaniola was blinking furiously. “You never tol' me you were related!”

  “Nobody want say dey related to him, 'specially now, Mr. Kaniola.” Her oval eyes drooped. “I afraid for my job here.”Kaniola asked her pointedly, “Pupule? You mean, insane?”

  “Jus' what I say, alcoholic, crazy and cruel. “Kaniola nodded. “Come on,” he said to Parry. “I'll take you to see Suzy's mother, but that's all I can do. From there, you're on your own.”

  Parry relented, feeling that both Suzy and Kaniola were being straight with him. Even if they had resorted to their Polynesian language, their body language spoke plainly enough.

  The visit to the girl's mother proved yet another dead end, however. She knew nothing and was without guile, and Kaniola reiterated his faith that no one knew anything, and that most likely the psycho had seen from a distance that they'd discovered and turned out his killing ground, and so had fled most likely into the thick cover of the jungle in the Koolau mountain range just above his house.

  “And just how long do you suppose he could survive up there?” Parry asked sarcastically, pointing to the enormous dark green range at the center of Oahu, troubling clouds at the summit.

  “How long can the wild beast exist in its home?”

  “He's that comfortable in the rain forest?”

  “Yes, well, he grew up in the jungle.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Most of his family, his immediate family, lived on Molokai's remotest edge.”

  “Molokai?” Parry fixed for a moment on the size, shape and location of one of the more remote and less visited islands in the Hawaiian chain. “Then maybe he's run to Molokai.”

  “Perhaps, but unlikely.” Unlikely? Why?”

  Kaniola stroked his small beard. “He himself was made an outcast, or so the story goes. Any of the family can always return home, that is a given, but Lopaka was officially banished from that place.”

  “Why was he banished? For crimes against man?”

  “A series of troubles with his father, the chief, which some say began with the death of a girl child when Lopaka was hardly more than a child himself. But nothing was ever proven. When he came of age, he was sent away, lived for some time in Maui by his own wits. Later, he came here and enrolled in college without much of a plan; he'd gone to the missionary school on Molokai and there learned the white ways, and his father, a chief, had believed there was some special reason for his having conceived Lopaka with a white woman, some notion he would learn white magic. But the old chief never completely accepted the son, treating him like an orphan, an adoptee or foundling, finally claiming the boy was not his and banishing him.”

  “So Lopaka's mother was a white woman, a haole?”

  “His mother was British, yes.”Parry and the others had remarked how soft and fine Lopaka's features were despite the native rust-colored skin and kinky red hair. “Go on.”

  “Lopaka's story was told to Dr. Coran by my great-granduncle.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, she's told me about her visit to him, and how helpful he was.”

  “Then you know Lopaka saw his brother killed by his father, his body burned to return it to the gods.”

  “Sounds all a bit fairy-tale-ish for me. But tell me, this brother was also from the white mother?”

  “The brother was actually no relation, just a friend adopted by Lopaka, made his brother through a secret pact between them, but Lopaka himself considered the other boy his twin, or so it is told. The other boy was supposedly malformed.”

  “Defiled, so to speak?” asked Parry.

  “One of the enticements of Christianity for my people, a casting away of such superstitions that lead to killing a retarded child, yes... yes, defiled.”

  “Then your great-granduncle knows a lot about this Lopaka?”

  “He knows every important person's history.”

  “Every important person's history? What do you mean by important?”

  “Lopaka is the son of a chief, Chief.”

  Parry's mouth swung open a moment before he continued his interrogation. “A chief? A chief on Molokai? What's his name... no, don't tell me. Kowona.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And so what happened? The chief banished his own son, or sent him away to college?”

  “Sent him away to school, but on learning that the boy was not attending school and instead squandering his money on a young woman, and then when he married without the father's permission, he was banned from the island.”

  “Not because he kills young girls? But because he marries a girl here, he's banished?”

  “Island law makes about as much sense as white law, my friend. Besides, the chief never believed his son truly evil.”

  “Everyone knew about this story?”

  “It was repeated so many times it took on the quality of a legend, or as you say, fairy tale.”

  “Which is it? Truth or fiction?”

  “Look around you, Parry,” said Kaniola, waving a hand like a wand into the Hawaiian night sky. “Who can say what in Hawaii is truth, what is myth?”

  “I see...”