Fire and Vengeance

by Robert McCaw

  Koa understood immediately. The human instinct for survival is so strong most suicide victims try to save themselves. “She could have stepped back on the bed and saved herself.”

  “Yep,” Konane agreed.

  “And look at this.” He slid another picture across the table. It showed the electrical cord tied in four square knots to the frame of the light fixture. “She wasn’t tall enough to reach the light fixture even from the bed, and there was nothing else in the apartment to stand on.”

  “You think she was dead before somebody strung her up?”

  Another chin scratch. “Are you familiar with asphyxiophilia?”

  “You mean autoerotic asphyxiation, where people cut off their own air supply to enhance sexual pleasure?”

  “Yes and no. Autoerotic asphyxiation presupposes you’re doing it to yourself. Some estimates back then suggested a thousand deaths a year, but autoerotic asphyxiation rarely killed women. No, I’m talking about a kind of sex play where one partner partially strangles the other for their mutual gratification.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s my theory that MJK and one or more of her partners were playing the erotic asphyxiation game, and got carried away. One of them choked her to death, probably while he was ejaculating. We found a ton of semen in her vagina. He and his buddies got scared and made it look like suicide. Even a good ME will tell you it’s hard to distinguish erotic asphyxiation from suicide. And we didn’t have a good ME. We had a hack.”

  Koa felt a tingle of excitement as he realized where Konane might be going. “You have evidence to support your theory?”

  “Yep. Several things. First, I got conflicting statements. I know it ain’t conclusive, but hear me out. First, this girl comes forward—volunteers, no less—that MJK suffered from depression. Suicidal, said she was going to kill herself. It was too slick. I mean, who volunteers that shit. Made me suspicious, so I—”

  “This volunteer have a name?” Koa interrupted.

  “Yeah, Frannie Kapule.”

  The name meant nothing to Koa. “Go on,” Koa encouraged the old cop.

  “Like I said, Frannie Kapule’s testimony seemed too pat, like someone put her up to it, so I started checking around with other university women, and they told a different story. Said MJK was a real playgirl. What in my day we called a slut, but happy-go-lucky, the life of the party, free love, and all that crap. Several sources told me she slept around with a lot of guys. One girlfriend called MJK a ‘gasper’—that’s slang for someone who gets off on erotic asphyxiation. This girlfriend said she’d been in the room once when MJK’s partner choked her almost to death and they laughed about it afterward.”

  “You said there were several things. There’s more?”

  “Yep. Strangulation marks on her neck. The coroner ruled them consistent with hanging. Bullshit.”

  Konane placed three autopsy photographs on the table. They were close-ups of MJK’s neck from different angles—showing the deep purple ligature mark, higher on one side and lower on the other, where the electrical cord cut deeply into her neck. Less prominent, two quarter-sized dark blotches marked the front of the neck and a series of smaller bruises spread across the back of her neck.

  Koa had seen similar bruising on victims who’d been choked to death. The marks weren’t conclusive, but highly probative of manual strangulation and consistent with the possibility a sex partner on top of the woman had choked her. He noticed smaller red dots on the side of MJK’s lower face, just at the border of the photograph. “Do you have a full facial shot?”

  Konane shuffled through the file and produced another photograph. This one showed MJK’s face. She’d been a beautiful young woman, but her naturally clear complexion showed numerous small red dots of petechiae, not dissimilar from those he’d seen on Hank Boyle’s face.

  Koa looked up into Konane’s eyes. “The coroner called this a suicide?”

  “Like I told you, the university wanted the case closed big-time, and the coroner was a dumb shit into keeping the right people happy.”

  Koa tried to absorb it. Even Shizuo would have called this one a homicide. “What about her parents?”

  “Her dad died in Viet Nam, and the mother, a born-again zealot, disapproved of MJK’s lifestyle. ‘She got what she deserved,’ that’s a direct quote.”

  “Jesus.” Koa took a deep breath. “You had a suspect?”

  Konane snorted and scratched his chin. “Today you’d call them persons of interest. Never had enough to make them suspects.”

  “Them?”

  “Four of them—rich, snotty frat boys, real jerks, from one of those UH fraternities.”

  “Tau Kappa Epsilon?” Koa prompted.

  “That’s it. I must be getting senile to have forgotten that handle.”

  “I doubt it,” Koa responded. “I couldn’t recall a forty-plus-year-old investigation half as well as you’re doing.”

  “I had a witness, a guy in one of the apartments downstairs, who put the four of them in MJK’s apartment less than an hour before we got the panicked call from her girlfriend. I brought all of them downtown. Took their written statements. Had ’em sign. They all had the same story—they’d all been out drinking at some strip club. All together, all night long. A fairy tale. Doctor Seuss from beginning to end, but I couldn’t break it.”

  “Any witnesses see them at the club?”

  “A bartender at the strip club backed up their alibi. Nasty little weasel with a big fat black facial mole. They probably paid him off, but shit, I couldn’t prove it.”

  The word “mole” made Koa’s synapses jump. “This weasel have a name?”

  “Watanabe. He couldn’t play poker worth a rat’s ass, and I’d have busted his balls, except one of the strippers came forward. Said she’d been lap dancing for these four dudes just exactly when the hanging went down. A goddamn law student, no less.”

  Koa could hardly believe the way the pieces were falling together. “Cheryl Makela?”

  Konane went bug-eyed for an instant. “Yeah, ’cept her stripper name was Babylips. I saw her onstage one night in nothing but a G-string. Great body. Guys chanting: ‘Babylips … Babylips.’ She must have raked in a fortune in tips. How’d you know?”

  Well, well, well. Koa figured Makela wasn’t the first female law student to augment her scholarship by working in a strip club. And she’d made her bones with the rising TKE elite by lying to the police. No wonder she’d participated in more land development transactions than all but the most notorious public officials. She’d been lucky the bar examiners never got wind of her law school nightlife.

  Koa wanted to get the rest of the story, so he ignored Konane’s question. “What about the guy in the apartment downstairs?”

  “Funny you should ask. The son of a bitch changed his story. Said he’d confused the days of the week or some such shit.”

  Koa jumped to the denouement. “Let me guess,” Koa said. “The frat boys were Gommes, Boyle, and Witherspoon.”

  Konane did a double-take. “How did you know?”

  “And the fourth guy?”

  Konane shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Koa couldn’t hide his surprise. “You questioned him, but you don’t know his name?” The question came off more critically than he intended.

  “A redheaded kid. Gave his name as Abercrombie—Billy Abercrombie, and he had a Hawai‘i driver’s license—but later after the coroner closed the case, and I went poking around, I couldn’t find him. No student by that name registered at UH for the semester, and the driver’s license was a phony. He snookered me.” Konane looked down at the table, embarrassed by his mistake.

  It all fit together like a prize-winning Tonga canoeing team. One of the four of them—Boyle, Gommes, Witherspoon, or the mysterious Abercrombie—had strangled MJK during a wild sexual orgy in her apartment, and the four of them with the aid of Watanabe and Makela had covered it up. No wonder they’d stuck together, like Linus and his blanket
, scratching each other’s backs, for more than four decades. Any one of them could have sunk the others with a five-minute phone call to the state attorney general. But like an Escher print, there was a huge uncertainty in the center of it all—who was the red-headed Abercrombie?

  Koa thanked the old detective. “You’ve no idea how much you’ve helped us. After all these years, we might even nail these fuckers. Pardon the pun. But we’re going to need your help.”

  Konane’s face lit up. “Whatever you need. Can’t tell you how often I’ve dreamed of putting those arrogant pricks behind bars.”

  “We need to borrow the file. And we’re probably going to need you to come to the Big Island and testify. Are you up to it?”

  “Count me in. All the way,” Konane said as he pushed the file across the table to Koa.

  Koa was proud of Piki for his work in uncovering the long-hidden TKE secret, and he took Piki to a Japanese restaurant in Honolulu to celebrate. “What do you make of it?” Koa asked with a beer in hand.

  “Well, one of the four of them is a killer, and since Boyle and Witherspoon are dead, it’s got to be Gommes or this guy pretending to be Abercrombie.”

  “Why?” Koa challenged.

  “Well, MJK’s killer and Boyle’s killer used the same MO, right down to the electrical cord, and the fact they weren’t good at staging a suicide. That means the same killer must be responsible for both murders.”

  Koa took a sip of his beer. “I agree that the MJK and Boyle murders share the same MO, but in Boyle’s case, we know Leffler was the killer.”

  “You’re saying the person who hired Leffler knew about the MJK murder and told Leffler to stage a suicide with an electrical cord. Why would they do that?”

  “Maybe to send a message.”

  “I’m sorry, Koa. I don’t follow.”

  The waiter came by and Koa ordered ‘ahi, sea urchin, giant clam, and eel. Piki, far less adventurous, stuck to California rolls.

  Koa liked the young detective’s honesty. Most police officers would nod and pretend to understand. Piki wanted to learn and wasn’t afraid to let his ignorance show. “We got at least six people—Boyle, Witherspoon, Gommes, Makela, Watanabe, and Abercrombie—locked together for life. They all participated in covering up a murder. Any one of them could have destroyed the others. But they established an equilibrium. They scratched each other’s backs. They passed their dirty deals around. They all profited, but each lived with the same ticking time bomb.”

  The light dawned in Piki’s eyes. “Until KonaWili upset the balance.”

  “Exactly. Once the group lost its stability, each became fearful one of the others would spill the secret.”

  “Boyle and Witherspoon were the weak links?”

  “Yeah. Boyle tried to commit suicide. I’m guessing it was right after MJK’s death, and he remained depressed for the rest of his life. Witherspoon, who tried to erase UH and TKE from his life, must have been overwhelmed with guilt when his friend’s daughter died at KonaWili.”

  “You think Boyle and Witherspoon got killed because of MJK and not because of KonaWili?”

  “Not necessarily. MJK just explains why each of them got drawn into the KonaWili conspiracy and why each had a motive to kill anyone who threatened to bolt from the group.”

  “Then any one of them could have hired Leffler?”

  “Why not?”

  “I see two holes in your theory.”

  Koa liked the young detective’s challenge. “What holes?”

  “First, Makela and Watanabe weren’t there for the MJK murder, and second, Boyle’s killer struck just hours after the KonaWili disaster. There wasn’t enough time for one of them to hire a killer.”

  “Good points,” Koa conceded. “But who’s to say Makela or Watanabe didn’t learn about MJK’s death? And any one of them could have hired Leffler in advance. We’re talking about powerful people who typically plan ahead for contingencies, and they’ve had more than four decades to prepare.”

  “Jesus, Koa. That’s ugly.”

  “Reality is ugly. I learned that in Afghanistan.”

  Their food came and they dug in. Koa mixed wasabi into his soy sauce and used chopsticks to dip his ‘ahi before relishing the subtle flavor while keeping an eye on Piki. The young detective picked up a piece of California roll in his fingers. “You’re not into sushi?” Koa asked.

  “I like to know what I’m eating and don’t understand that stuff.”

  “Give it a try,” Koa responded offering Piki a piece of ‘ahi. “Every adventure in life makes you a better detective.”

  Piki tried the ‘ahi before he continued. “Our killer is one of four people—Gommes, Makela, Watanabe, or Abercrombie? And Makela’s not likely because she was obviously afraid for her life when she learned about the hit list.”

  “I wouldn’t rule Makela out. She must have known about Boyle and Witherspoon before I confronted her. She’s brilliant, if devious, and must’ve thought about the MJK connection before I talked to her.”

  “Then we still have four suspects.” Piki picked up another piece of California roll.

  Koa had learned long ago to avoid getting trapped into a particular pattern of thinking by closing off avenues of inquiry too early in an investigation, and he saw Piki with his impetuous mind making just such a mistake. “Not necessarily. I said earlier either MJK or KonaWili could provide the motive, so you can’t rule out Francine Na‘auao. If we just looked at KonaWili in isolation, she’d be the most logical suspect.”

  “You thinking she might be the DOE lady from Honolulu who visited the site before she approved the change order?”

  “Probably not.” Koa finished his ‘ahi and started on the eel. “Tony Pwalú described the woman from Honolulu as a haole. Francine Na‘auao’s Hawaiian, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t know. My sources in the DOE tell me Na‘auao had her fingers in everything. So even if she didn’t make the trip herself, she knew about the fumarole.”

  “Could she have known what happened to MJK?”

  “She was at UH when it happened, and the death of a coed would have been a pretty big deal on campus.”

  “Then we have five suspects.”

  Koa nodded, but thinking of Mayor Tanaka, he worried there might be a sixth suspect.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE typically served grand jury subpoenas, but Koa had personal reasons to deliver the summons to Cheryl Makela. The voyeuristic side of him wanted to see her face at the moment she recognized her predicament. Then, too, she might talk. People often felt compelled to explain themselves when silence served them best. Lastly, he and Zeke had devised a strategy for dealing with Ms. Makela, and he needed to plant the first seeds of misdirection.

  Looking even more haggard than the last time, she frowned when she saw him. The public persona, the sophisticated makeup, and fancy riding clothes had disappeared. The heavy circles under her eyes evidenced stress, anxiety, and sleep deprivation.

  “I have a subpoena for your appearance on Friday before a grand jury.”

  “About what?”

  “The Hualālai Hui and KonaWili.”

  “I told you I won’t answer your questions,” she said, showing a spark of defiance.

  “You’ll have to tell that to the county prosecutor.”

  She started to say something but apparently thought better of it. “I’ll have my lawyer talk to the prosecutor.”

  Hawai‘i law restricts the access to grand jury proceedings to the grand jurors, prosecutors and their assistants, a legal counselor to the grand jury, the witness, and a court reporter. But Zeke Brown, the county prosecutor, wanted Koa’s knowledge and insights available in the grand jury room and appointed Koa an assistant prosecutor.

  The day before Makela’s scheduled appearance, Zeke put retired Honolulu police detective Konane Kahaka before the grand jury. Under Zeke’s skilled questioning, Konane walked the jurors through the 1975 MJK crime scene and explained his investig
ation. He told the jury how Boyle, Witherspoon, Gommes, and the mysterious Mr. Abercrombie—all suspects in the crime—presented the same alibi and emphasized the importance of Watanabe’s and Makela’s independent confirmation.

  Koa whisked the retired detective in and out of Hilo so only those present in the grand jury and a few trusted police officers knew he’d testified. In that way, the trap they’d set for Makela remained secret. Time would tell whether she would come clean, refuse to answer all questions, or lie to preserve a secret hidden for more than forty years.

  Not surprisingly, Ben Braff, Cheryl Makela’s lawyer, called Zeke to ask for her testimony to be postponed. When Zeke refused, Braff argued Makela’s appearance should be canceled because she’d assert her constitutional right to refuse to answer questions.

  Unmoved, Zeke played hardball. “It’s her right to decline to answer, but she is going to have to appear and do so in person.”

  Zeke left Makela with no alternative but to appear or face contempt of court. Frigid didn’t capture the icy quality she projected when, having exhausted all pleas for escape, she showed up on Friday morning. Dressed in a dark gray pants suit, unadorned by jewelry, her mane of snowy white hair reinforced her haughty appearance. She wore makeup, but sparsely applied, just enough to conceal most of the effects of the weariness Koa still saw in her eyes.

  Zeke left her attorney in the waiting area as he escorted her into the grand jury room. A guard at the door ensured the session wouldn’t be interrupted. Makela sat rigidly in the witness chair, unaccustomed to the intense scrutiny of the grand jurors arrayed in a semicircle in the small amphitheater around her.

  In front of a grand jury, Zeke Brown could put Rudolf Nureyev, the great Russian ballet dancer and choreographer, to shame. Intending to play on the human emotions experienced by people before such a panel, he set her up for a hard fall. He started with the usual name and address questions, which she answered.

  Zeke guessed her attorney had instructed her to invoke her right not to answer as soon as he began to ask questions about either the Hualālai Hui or KonaWili. Zeke also knew that most witnesses are reluctant to invoke the Fifth Amendment because they think it evidences guilt. Playing on that fear, Zeke avoided KonaWili questions and instead asked about Makela’s educational background. She saw no harm in talking about her education, and Zeke took her through her undergraduate education and then her legal education at UH law school.