by Robert McCaw
Alexia glanced over the materials and looked up, satisfied with his credentials.
“Okay,” Dr. Kepler began, “this breaks into five parts. First, Ikaika had two extremely slow-growing tumors located in the front part of his brain since childhood. That is established by the pathology of the tumors, his mother’s recollection of absence seizures in early childhood, notes from the doctor who treated him back then, and prescriptions for Depakote, an anti-seizure medication.
“Second, neurological research, including a number of case studies, establishes that tumors located in this particular area of the brain affect behavior. In essence, when spurred to anger such a patient is unable to grasp the consequences of violating social norms and does not learn from punishment. These patterns are self-reinforcing and typically become more pronounced as the child and the tumor grow.”
“It fits my brother’s conduct,” Koa acknowledged.
“Third, research in this area has accelerated a thousandfold because of extraordinary advances in brain imaging technology and the numerous brain-damaged patients coming from the Afghan and Iraqi wars. We now have electronic images actually showing the patterns of brain activity. In other words, historically, we only intuited the cause-and-effect relationship, while today we can see the abnormalities in electrical impulses within the brain.
“Fourth, I obtained interactive scans of Ikaika’s brain, literally watching the electrical impulses at work while we subjected him to various stimuli. His tumors disrupted normal brain patterns, but with the removal of the tumors, his brain patterns are slowly returning to normal. Most importantly, his brain patterns after surgery were not consistent with the psychological profiles we would have expected based on examinations conducted during his periods of imprisonment.”
“You’re saying,” Alexia asked, “you have scientific evidence his thinking is different today than it was in the past?”
“Essentially, that’s correct.”
“And the fifth point?” Koa asked.
“My expert opinion is that his brain tumors contributed substantially to Ikaika’s antisocial behavior. It is also my opinion the removal of those tumors significantly reduces the risk of antisocial behavior in the future.”
“That’s pretty powerful stuff,” Koa said. “Don’t you agree, Alexia?”
“I do agree, if we could get it before the parole board.”
Dr. Kepler looked quizzical. “I don’t understand. I thought Ikaika was entitled to a parole hearing.”
“He is, but under Hawai‘i law, his right to such a hearing accrues when he has served his minimum sentence, and that won’t be for another four years.”
Dr. Kepler appeared crestfallen. “Isn’t there some way to do it sooner?”
“Yes, but it’s dicey,” Alexia began. “Ikaika would have to request an earlier parole hearing, his prison counselor would have to submit a compellingly favorable report on his adjustment and conduct in prison, and an administrative board would have to approve.”
“How can his prison counselor file a post-surgery report when he won’t even be back in prison for several more weeks?” Koa asked.
“That’s the point,” Alexia emphasized. “We’d be asking the parole board to do something it normally wouldn’t even consider.”
Dr. Kepler wasn’t ready to give up. “If I wrote a letter outlining my findings, could Ikaika submit it with his request for an earlier parole hearing?”
“Yes, and it might help.”
“What else can we do?” Koa asked.
“Well,” Alexia said, looking pensive, “I could talk informally to a member of the parole board and explain the special circumstances.”
“And slip him a copy of my letter?” Dr. Kepler asked with a grin.
“That’s a bit outside the rules.” Alexia grinned back. “But I could probably do it.”
“Looks like we have a plan,” Koa said. He thanked Dr. Kepler, and he and Alexia headed home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
KOA HAD SERGEANT Basa pick up Drake, the Monarch bartender, and bring him to the Hilo police station. They left him sitting in an interrogation room for an hour before Koa walked in and sat down with Bane watching through a one-way mirror.
The skinny barkeep wore his work clothes, cutoff jeans, and a none-too-clean, black tee shirt. Koa wondered when he’d last washed his stringy yellowish-gray hair. His eyes had a cloudy, glazed-over look, reminding Koa, as he’d noticed once before, the man had untreated cataracts. “Hello, Drake.”
“What’s this ’ere about? I need to git down to the bar. It’s nearly openin’ time.”
Koa ignored Drake’s needs. He’d heard it all before. “Tell me about Leffler, the Army guy who’s been coming into the Monarch.”
“Don’t know no Leffler, honest I don’t.”
That’s where Drake always started. He didn’t know nothing about nothing. Koa put an Army identification photograph of Leffler on the table. “This guy, tell me about him.”
Drake picked up the photograph and held it a couple of inches from his face. “I seen him.”
Koa knew from his past dealings that the bartender’s elevator didn’t stop on every floor. Talking to him required patience, a lot of patience. “Tell me about him, Drake.”
“He’s a guy. Comes into the bar a time or two. Drinks San Miguel. Had to git me a couple more cases when he started comin’ in.”
“What’d the two of you talk about?”
“Don’t rightly remember.”
“Bullshit.”
“Hell, I got a lot a brahs hangin’ in the bar. They talk story ’bout football, fishing, broads, music, the bitches they married, the damn tourists. Can’t ’member all that shit.”
“You remember talking guns with Leffler?”
Drake’s eyebrows shot up. “I … I,” he stuttered, “don’t ’member talkin’ no gun talk.”
Tired of “don’t ’member stuff,” Koa signaled Bane who entered the room.
Drake had no trouble recognizing Bane. “Aw, shit.”
“You remember Detective Sergeant Bane?”
“Ya’re gonna hassle me, aren’t ya?”
“You want to tell us about Leffler?”
Drake looked down at the table, then around the room, like he was searching for an open door. It took him several seconds to figure out he couldn’t escape. “Okay, my man, okay,” he said finally. “Leffler, he’s bin in drinkin’ an’ talkin’. He’s some kinda Army gun nut, yammerin’ about Army pistols, ammo, M9s, SRS something 1s. Can’t understand half that shit. It’s jus’ talk.”
Koa and Bane exchanged looks. Leffler had stolen a DesertTech SRS A-1, almost certainly the sniper rifle he’d used to attempt to kill Gommes. “What else, Drake?”
“Shit, I can’t ’member.”
Time to jog this idiot’s memory. Koa turned to Bane. “Play the tape.”
Bane pulled a small MP3 player from his pocket and keyed the track of his conversation with Drake: “I’m looking for a dude who can sell me a piece, preferably a nine, without a legend … What ya want it for, my man? … I’m going on a cruise carrying some shit, and I need some protection, you got me? … You got the bread? … What’s in it for me, my man? … A couple of Grants … Hang for a while, okay, my man?”
When Bane turned off the MP3 player, Drake sat with his mouth open gazing into space. It took him several moments to realize the recording had ended, and the two detectives were staring at him.
“Okay, okay, my man, the dude he showed me this gun, said it was an M9. Said he knowed where to git one if anybody was askin’.”
“You handle this weapon, Drake?”
“Yeah, took me a look. Nevah held no gun like that ’fore.”
“It didn’t have a serial number, did it?”
“Ain’t seen no number.”
“And it said U.S. 9mm M9A1 Beretta U.S.A. on the slide, didn’t it?”
“Reckon so.”
“How many people looking for guns did you
send to Leffler?”
Koa could see in Drake’s face he didn’t want to answer, but Koa had given the barkeep no choice. “A couple, I guess.”
“Who?”
“I ain’t no snitch.”
Koa had just about reached his limit with this mental defective. “Conspiracy to sell stolen weapons is a felony, Drake.”
That got Drake’s attention. “The dude, he nevah said nothin’ about stealin’ nothin’.”
Drake couldn’t pick the winner in a one-horse race. “And where do you think he got a U.S. Army handgun with the serial number filed off ?”
“Aw, shit. Ya gonna take me down, ain’t ya?”
Under other circumstances, Koa could have felt sorry for Drake. He was dumb as a box of rocks. “I haven’t decided yet. You want to tell me about Leffler’s clients?”
“The Filipino dude.”
“What Filipino dude?”
“Don’t know ’is name. Works on one ’em freighters. Comes into the harbor sometimes.”
Koa would have Bane check it out, but it didn’t sound related to the KonaWili killings. “Who else, Drake?”
He pointed to Bane. “Jus’ him.”
Koa didn’t believe Drake. “I find you been lying to me, I’ll put you away. You’ll be living in that contract prison in Arizona—”
Panic registered in Drake’s dull eyes. “I swear it was jus’ the two times.”
Koa thought about what he was hearing. Maybe Drake was telling the truth and Koa was asking the wrong questions. He tried a different tact. “But Leffler met people at the bar, didn’t he?”
They’d scared Drake so bad his hands shook. “Yeah, yeah, my man.” Drake talked faster. “He met that slant-eyed townie. He come in all stiff, like he ain’t nevah bin in a damn bar ’fore. I seen ’im once in the county building.”
That sounded like Watanabe. “Anyone else?”
“Naw. Ain’t got no memory.”
Koa slid the Army surveillance photo of Leffler and Watanabe across to Drake. “Is this the townie?” Koa tapped Watanabe’s picture.
“Yeah, that’s ’im. They sat at the corner table. The townie, he wanted plum wine. Now, ya know, I ain’t got none of that shit.”
“You overhear them talking?”
“Naw. But they had their heads together foah a while. Talkin’ some kinda serious shit.”
Koa switched back to his previous line of questions. “What else did you and Leffler talk about?”
“Nothin’. Done told you all I kin ’member.”
Koa pushed. “You’re not thinking hard enough, Drake. What else did Leffler say?”
“Shit. Ain’t got no memory.”
“That’s not good enough. I want to know what Leffler said, every last word. You got that?”
“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya.”
“Now Detective Sergeant Bane and I are going to go outside to get a cup of coffee. While we’re gone, you think, think hard about Leffler. We’ll see what you remember when we get back.” Koa laid a picture of a man in a jail cell on the table—a trick he’d used before. The picture helped some people focus their thinking, and Drake needed a whole lot of focusing. He and Bane got up and went out, closing the door behind them.
Outside, Bane said, “He’s a dumb son of a bitch. I think you’ve got all you’re going to get.”
“Maybe,” Koa responded, “but Drake’s slow, and I’m not sure we’ve got it all yet.”
They gave Drake fifteen minutes before returning to the interrogation room where they found Drake staring at the jail picture. “What else did you and Leffler talk about?”
Drake looked up from the picture. “Pig huntin’. Dude’s bin shootin’ ’em wild pigs.”
Wild pigs, Koa thought, that’s a bust, and he caught the thin I-told-you-so smile on Bane’s face. Drake’s intermission with the jail photograph had yielded zip. Then Koa felt a spark and turned back to look at Drake. “Where? Where’d he go wild pig hunting?”
“Mauna Kea.”
Thousands of wild pigs—pests, tearing up native plants and doing environmental damage—roamed Hawai‘i’s forests. Hunters favored them as targets because everyone loved kālua pork from the imu. And a man on the run could feed himself on wild pig. “Where on Mauna Kea?”
“Some cabin off the jeep road on the east side. Some old dead guy, a pig hunter, he’s buried up there.”
Koa knew the area and the old dead guy. David Douglas, a botanist, not a pig hunter, had died on the mountain in 1832 under suspicious circumstances, giving the island one of its first modern murder mysteries. The island hadn’t had a coroner back then, and Douglas’s body had been salted to preserve it for the coroner on O‘ahu. “Off the Keanakolu Road, near the David Douglas grave?”
“Yeah, ’cept mau ka.”
A cabin mau ka, uphill, from the Keanakolu Road would offer a near-perfect hideaway for a fugitive on the run, especially one trained to survive in hostile conditions. It would probably be a bust, but Drake might just have told them where to find Sergeant Ralph Leffler. They needed to move quickly—they had a killer on the loose with a sniper rifle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
KOA AND LIEUTENANT Zeigler brainstormed ways to see if Leffler had hidden on the eastern slope of Mauna Kea. They considered airborne surveillance but concluded they’d be unlikely to identify Leffler from the air. “The only sure way is to go in boots-on-the-ground and stake out the place,” Koa argued.
“The theft of military weapons is a federal crime. You want me to bring in the Bureau?”
Koa wasn’t buying that option. He wanted Leffler on state murder charges and wasn’t about to let the feds haul him off on gun-theft charges. “No. I want him for the Witherspoon killing, and I want him alive.”
“I could send in a couple of experienced scouts,” Zeigler suggested.
“Leffler will be on the lookout. You got men who could get in and out without being spotted?”
Zeigler didn’t hesitate. “There’s a pair of scout instructors here who could shave Leffler’s butt, and he wouldn’t know it.”
“Can they get me close to Leffler?”
Zeigler looked skeptical. “You want to go in yourself?”
“Yeah. Leffler banged up one of my guys and tried to take me out. So, it’s personal. I want the SOB, and I want him alive.”
“You don’t want much, do you?”
“You going to bitch or help?” Koa shot back.
“Okay. I’ll set up a meet with my scouts.”
“I’ll be bringing Dr. Corwin with me.”
“Who’s Corwin?”
“He’s a doctor, an expert who may be able to help us bring Leffler in alive. I’ll explain when we meet.”
Five of them, Koa, Zeigler, two scouts—Sergeant Rich Olson and Sergeant Newel Boggs—and Dr. Corwin met in a Quonset hut at the Pōhakuloa Training Area. Koa sized up the two scouts. Both men were in top physical shape and had the hard, watchful eyes of soldiers who’d lived close to danger for long periods of time. Olson, thirty-eight years old and a grizzled veteran of three tours in Iraq and two in Afghanistan, hailed from Alabama and spoke with a distinct southern accent. Boggs, younger than Olson, was black with curly black hair and a startling intensity. He, too, had been on his share of clandestine ops.
After introductions, Zeigler led them to a large-scale map of the eastern slope of Mauna Kea and handed out pictures of Sergeant Ralph Leffler.
“We have a lead putting Leffler somewhere in this area.” Koa drew a circle with his finger around an area about 7500 feet above sea level between the Hakalau National Forest and the summit of Mauna Kea. “He could be in a cabin here.” Koa tapped the map.
“How do y’all get in there?” Olson asked.
“The only civilized access is along Keanakolu Road here.” Koa traced the road with his finger. “It’s passable in a four-wheel-drive vehicle if it’s not raining, but it’s a bitch in the mud. Leffler, if he’s up there, will be watching the road.”
&
nbsp; “You want to go in another way?” Boggs guessed.
“Yeah, from the summit. It’s wild, volcanic country with only a few trails, but Leffler won’t be expecting visitors from higher elevations.”
Olson grinned. “Just my kind of Sunday walk in the park.”
Boggs turned practical. “We’ll be above the tree line ’til we get down to somewhere around 9,000 feet.”
“Then we move,” Olson suggested, “in the late afternoon and evening when the sun’s setting in the west and the eastern slope is in deep shadow.”
“Right.” Zeigler spread a series of high-resolution satellite photos on the table. “We drop you here—” he pointed to a trailhead on the east side of the Mauna Kea summit—“and you work your way down the slope along this route.” He traced a red line on the photo.
He pulled out another satellite photo—this one taken early in the morning when the sun was low in the eastern sky. “See the shadows. We chose this route because most of it won’t be visible from Leffler’s probable position. I’ve marked GPS waypoints.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Boggs responded.
Olson moved to the next topic. “And if we find this dude?”
Koa had planned this part. “You get me into position where I can take a shot.”
“You gonna take him out? No warning?”
“Yes and no. That’s where Dr. Corwin comes in.” Koa motioned to the doctor who’d been standing at the back of the group. Compared to the others, Corwin looked like a teenager—young enough to be Sergeant Olson’s son. Koa patted Corwin on the shoulder. “Dr. Corwin is an anesthesiologist and a bit older than he looks.”
Corwin placed a long black gun case on the table, unfastened the latches, and opened the lid. An odd-shaped gun with a long barrel extending back over the stock lay nestled in the case.
“What’s that, Doc, a blowgun?” Boggs asked.
“Good guess,” Corwin responded. “It’s a CO2-powered dart gun. It shoots chemical darts.”
“A tranquilizer gun,” Olson said, “but they don’t work on humans.”
“You’re partly right,” Corwin responded. “Neither the police nor the military use them on humans because you need to know the weight and muscle mass of the target in order to set the dosage. That’s not practical in most situations, but I’ve reviewed Leffler’s medical records and calculated the dosage.”