by J. E. Trent
Death In Hawaii
A Short Story
J.E. Trent
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
About the Author
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Foreword
This short story is a prequel to the Death in Hawaii series, which takes place twenty years later.
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Death in Paradise is available now. Click here.
Mahalo,
J.E. Trent
1
The Murphy and Pacheco ohanas met at five a.m. on the lawn in front of the Kona Inn. It was a great place to watch the start of the race, and not nearly as crowded as the spectator area at the start-finish line on Alii Drive.
While everyone waited for the race to start, Mike Murphy and David Pacheco, both proud fathers, talked story about their twenty-year-old daughters and their chances of turning pro.
Overhead, a Pitts stunt plane was entertaining the early morning crowd with loops and barrel rolls over Kailua Bay.
“One of these days that guy will crash,” Mike said, and David nodded. The unknown stunt pilot had been a burr in Mike’s saddle for a few years. Every Sunday morning, while Mike was reading the paper and having his early-morning coffee, the stunt plane annoyed him with the buzzing of Kailua town.
Jessica Murphy and Malia Pacheco waited their turn to walk down the stairs onto the spit of sandy beach next to the Kailua Pier. It was only a few steps from there into Kailua Bay for the start of the swim portion of the Hawaii Triathlon. It had snowed the night before on Mauna Kea. The morning air was cool and crisp from the winds that came off the mountain and found their way down to the beach.
A few minutes later, Malia and Jessica stood knee-deep in the bay, waiting for the race to start. The water felt cool and invigorating as they splashed it on their arms and faces.
“After the race, I’ll tell you about the creepy German guy I met at the club last night,” Malia said, as she shook her arms to loosen up the muscles and get the blood flowing.
Before Jessica could say anything, the loud boom of the cannon went off and Malia dove into the bay like an Olympic swimmer, with Jessica following a split second behind.
I wonder if she said that to throw me off, Jessica thought as she matched Malia stroke for stroke, trailing a few yards behind.
2
Dieter Schilling arrived in Kona, two weeks before the scheduled start of the Hawaii Triathlon. Just like he did every year. He always stayed two weeks after the race, then returned to his job as an engineer at the Porsche factory in Stuttgart, Germany.
Dieter was a triathlon weekend warrior. At thirty-two years of age, he was in superb physical condition and competed in races all over the globe whenever his work schedule would allow.
Five years earlier, he’d competed as a pro. But there had been an assault on two female athletes in Kona that year that had gotten him banned for life from racing in Hawaii. The two women had accused Dieter of putting something in their drinks. When they’d woken up, they’d been in a strange hotel room, naked and bruised as if they had been beaten.
When police had interviewed the hotel clerk, she’d described the man who’d rented the room as being tall, with close-cropped blond hair and a fit appearance, like he was an athlete. He spoke English with a European accent. The clerk thought he sounded German.
The police couldn't do anything because there wasn’t enough evidence. However, that didn't stop the race promoter from banning Dieter for life since one woman he’d assaulted was the wife of a major race sponsor. Dieter had tried suing the promotor but lost.
For the last five years, he had rented an ocean front house on Alii Drive, three miles south of the Kailua Pier. The house belonged to a colleague who spent a month in Kona every year and rented the place out to help cover the overhead.
As far as Dieter's friends and family knew, he was in Kona to train and take part in the annual triathlon. What they didn’t know was he was also there to hunt—women.
Dieter had been stalking Malia after reading about her in a triathlete magazine. He knew she would lead the swim, and that was where he would take her life, as his trophy.
3
Malia swam like a shark—, and Jessica knew it would take everything she had to stay with her. Her plan was to keep Malia in sight during the swim and bike portions of the race. She knew she could outrun her during the marathon.
Jessica and Malia had trained hard together for the last nine months to prepare for the biggest race of the year. Malia was the favorite to win the twenty-to-twenty-four age group. Her goal was to become a professional triathlete. If she did well in this race, she would be on her way to sponsorship and the big money.
The only thing standing in her way was Jessica, who could beat Malia on a good day. But Jessica was nursing a sore shoulder from a karate tournament she had fought in a month earlier. Malia had warned her not to fight in the tournament, but Jessica had done it anyway, since she didn’t like anyone telling her what to do. Besides, being a pro triathlete wouldn’t be her career choice. She didn’t know yet what she wanted to do in life, but being a triathlete wasn’t it. Jessica only competed in triathlons because Malia did. Where Malia went, Jessica went. They had been best friends since third grade and were always together, like peanut butter and jelly.
Malia knew she would beat Jessica back to the pier because she had always been the faster swimmer. But she also knew Jessica would run her down during the marathon portion of the race if she didn’t keep a big lead during the swim and the bike parts.
Malia was keeping a record-breaking pace, all alone in front of the pack, when she noticed a scuba diver about fifty feet out in front of her, maybe twenty feet below.
It wasn’t unusual to see divers taking photos of the racers passing by overhead. What was unusual about this diver was that he had no camera equipment. Instead he was carrying a spear gun and wearing a camouflage wet suit. He looked like a typical spear fisherman, except he was using a scuba tank instead of free diving.
Malia focused on counting her strokes and paid no attention to the diver until she swam above him. She looked down just as he fired the aluminum spear into her chest. It was too late for her to react.
Just as fast as the diver appeared out of the deep, he disappeared swimming south. The surf had been high the last couple of days, and visibility was poor from all the sand churned up from the sea floor. That was why Jessica didn’t see him, although she was only a hundred and fifty feet behind Malia.
What she did see was her lifelong best friend floating below the surface with a spear embedded in her chest, blood streaming from the wound.
Jessica knew enough first aid not to remove the spear. She grabbed Malia, pulled her to the surface, and screamed for help. She waved her right arm, holding Malia with her left, while treading on the surface.
The Coast Guard quick-response boat was four or five hundred yards away when a lookout spotted Jessica waving for help. The boat sped to the scene and brought Malia and Jessica on board. After working on Malia all the way back to the pier, the paramedic looked at Jessica and shook his head.
4
When the press interviewed him, Chuck Jones, the triathlon promotor, said Malia's death was a horrific accident. Everyone but Jessica agreed. In her gut, she felt someone had murdered Malia. If it was an accident, why hadn't the person responsible come forward? No, this was deliberate, and two days later, the autops
y had confirmed it.
In over twenty years the Hawaii County medical examiner, Dr. Kalama had seen all kinds of different ways people could kill other people. But a custom-made aluminum spear attached to a spear gun was a new one. It had been deliberate all right. It was clear, once he removed the spear from Malia's chest, that it was designed to kill people—not fish. The tip of the spear had an explosive charge built into it that had exploded on impact and spread shards of aluminum throughout Malia's chest, killing her instantly.
A week later, Malia's memorial at sea was scheduled to start at eleven a.m. on Sunday. Early that morning, Jessica went to the jogging track at the old airport to run a few miles. Running always helped her clear her thoughts. Her head was full of questions about Malia that she just couldn't answer. Why? Who? How could this happen?
Whenever Jessica went to the park to run, she always took Mojo with her. He was a two-year-old Aikita, with a fierce-looking face, which was enough to keep most predators of the two-legged variety away.
Jessica had run four laps and was getting into the zone. She had noticed two guys, sitting on the grass in the center of the jogging track, leering at her each time she passed by. On the fifth lap they were gone. They had walked to the end of the track that had a lot of trees and vegetation to hide in. When Jessica jogged around that turn on the track, they jumped out from behind the bushes and attempted to rob her.
These must have been the two dumbest muggers in Kona. Mojo would not let them touch Jessica. He was snarling and ready to tear into them. All Jessica had to do was let go of the leash. Then she did something unexpected. She told Mojo to sit-stay, and she dropped the leash. He did as commanded.
Both men were close to six feet tall and very thin. They were drug addicts thinking they would roll Jessica for some easy cash to finance their next high.
"You give us your wallet and we'll let you go," said the bigger of the two men. His face looked like it had caught fire and the flames had been put out with an ice pick.
"Yeah, bitch, give it up,” the skinniest one said.
Jessica's eyebrows narrowed. "You want it? Come and get it,” she said through gritted teeth and then dropped into her fighting stance.
The man with the cratered face lurched towards Jessica with a right hook. She responded with an inward-outward parry and a simultaneous slap to his face. His partner in crime laughed.
As he rubbed his right cheek, he screamed, “You bitch!”
Then he charged Jessica. She side kicked him in the face. He went down and didn't get back up. The kick to the head didn't kill him. However, the rock lining the jogging path that he hit his head on when he fell to the ground did the trick.
The dead guy’s partner had no desire for that kind of beat-down. He turned and ran. Jessica's shoulder was still sore, so she let him go. It was his lucky day.
She picked up Mojo's leash and finished her lap then jogged home to get ready to meet her dad and sisters at the pier for Malia’s funeral.
5
The thing about a small town like Kona is that everyone knows everyone. Jessica was seen at the park early that morning kicking the crap out of Keoni Wagner.
Jessica and her family were at the Kailua Pier, waiting in line to board the charter boat for Malia's memorial, when two detectives from the Kona PD walked up to her.
"Jessica Murphy?" Detective Kealoha asked. It was a formality; he already knew who she was. The other detective was Kinji Teshima, who stood there quietly observing.
Jessica's father interjected, “What's this about?"
"We need to have a word with Ms. Murphy," Kealoha answered. Though Jessica was twenty years old, her father knew the ways of the world— and he knew talking to detectives without a lawyer wasn't a good idea, most of the time.
"It's okay, Dad. I haven't committed any crimes lately."
Both Kealoha and Teshima stood there stone-faced. Mike sighed and nodded.
Jessica and the two detectives walked to the other side of the pier away from the crowd and talked for six or seven minutes. People began boarding the boat, and Mike stepped out of line while waiting for Jessica. He told his other two daughters, Pua and Jasmine, to go ahead without him; he'd be along in a few minutes.
"Are you kidding me!" Jessica yelled at Detective Kealoha.
Mike walked quickly towards Jessica and the detectives; now he knew for sure it was time to lawyer up.
As Mike hurried the fifty yards, the detectives were putting the cuffs on Jessica.
Detective Teshima walked Jessica to the Crown Vic and placed her in the backseat while Detective Kealoha stepped between them and Mike as he approached the car.
"Why are you arresting her?" Mike demanded.
"We aren't arresting her. We're just taking her in for questioning. The handcuffs are for our safety.”
"I got news for you. Those handcuffs would be like pissing on a forest fire if she decided to kick your ass. I'm begging you guys to consider letting her attend her lifelong best friend’s service at sea and the spreading of the ashes. The boat will be back to the pier in an hour, and you could take her then as she comes off the gangplank.”
Detective Kealoha looked at Detective Teshima for a second. Teshima shook his head no. He was strict and by the book.
"You guys could go over to the Ocean View Inn and have lunch, on me."
Detective Kealoha's stomach was growling. He loved eating the Chinese plate at the Inn, and since he was the senior detective, he decided why not? Kealoha told Detective Teshima to get Jessica out of the car and take the cuffs off of her.
"One hour, Mr. Murphy. Any shenanigans, and we'll arrest you for obstruction,” said Kealoha.
"You have my word. As soon as she comes off the boat—, she'll go to the station with you,” promised Mike.
As Mike and Jessica hurried back to the other side of the pier to board the boat before it left, she thanked her father for talking the cops out of taking her in right then.
"What the hell happened this morning that you forgot to mention? Give me the Cliff Notes version before we board."
Jessica told her father about the two would-be muggers in the park, that she’d knocked one out and left.
"You better hope he's not dead."
Mike didn't say another word as they walked up the gangplank.
“Thanks for the support, Dad.”
Mike thought about it for a second and stopped midway up the gangplank. He turned and looked at his eldest daughter.
“I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have said that.”
6
As promised, after Jessica spread the ashes of her best friend and the boat returned to the pier, she went with Detectives Kealoha and Teshima to the Kona police station.
Mike had told her not to say a word to them until her lawyer arrived at the police station for the interview.
The only attorney Mike could find to represent Jessica on a Sunday was Michael Zamboni. He had defended the last guy accused of murder in Kona. Mike tried to ignore the fact Zamboni's client had gotten convicted. But everyone knew the guy had done it, and Zamboni was better than letting Jessica sit in jail until a more seasoned criminal defense lawyer could fly over from Honolulu.
After two hours of questioning, the police arrested Jessica and charged her with manslaughter in the death of the mugger.
Mike posted Jessica's bail and grumbled to himself that he should have hired a better lawyer from the start.
The next day, the local newspaper ran a front-page story about the arrest of Jessica Murphy in the death of Keoni Wagner, a local thug. The reporter who wrote the story was a cousin of Wagner, and by the end of the biased article, the reporter had made it sound like Jessica was the criminal.
Monday morning, Dieter Schilling sat at an oceanfront coffeehouse, near the Kailua Pier, and drank his coffee while reading about Jessica Murphy's arrest in the newspaper. The story said Kona police had arrested the local karate instructor and triathlete for manslaughter in the death of Keoni
Wagner.
It was the perfect scenario in his twisted mind; Jessica would be his second trophy, and everyone would think it was retaliation from a friend or relative of Keoni Wagner.
Dieter had murdered a female triathlete every year for the past three years as revenge for his being banned from racing in Kona. After Malia's death, he craved the thrill of ending another's life one more time before he had to fly back to Germany. He had five days left before his scheduled departure. He would take Jessica's life before leaving the island.
Dieter called the Kona karate dojo for permission to come to a workout session later that day. Sensei Sakata said he was welcome and to wear a white belt.
As instructed, Dieter showed up for the class with a white belt. Although that was the custom when visiting a foreign dojo, Dieter was a black belt, and he wanted everyone to know it.
Sensei Sakata paired Dieter with a green belt. After watching Dieter show off his skills with two cheap shots to the green belt, sensei Sakata knew the guy was a jerk and needed a special lesson.
Jessica saw the punishment that Dieter was handing out and hoped the sensei would let her teach the obnoxious visitor some manners.
Sensei Sakata nodded to Jessica, and she took over for the green belt. By the time it was over, Dieter had two cracked ribs and a bruised ego. But he had found out what he’d come to learn. Killing Jessica by hand would not be an option.