The Poi Predicament

by Lyle Christie

Jessica looked at John and delivered a look of scorn.

  “Don’t worry, as Sasquatch, aside from the excessive drinking, was actually a very good boy last night.”

  “Good to know, though who knows if it will even matter with all that’s going on.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to fix this. Now, did you have a lot to drink?” I asked.

  “No, in fact I only had a couple glasses of wine.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you feel this morning?”

  “Shitty—as though I’d had a lot to drink. In fact, I was still a little groggy when the police showed up at my door. I can’t tell you how embarrassing it was to be standing there in my pajamas.”

  “I can imagine. No one wants to wake up to the police banging on their door. So, to recap—you left the bachelorette party a little before midnight, returned to your room, and remember nothing until the police woke you up this morning.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, I think I’ll go to the Police station and talk to the detectives and forensics people who are actually working on the case, as you can only learn so much from a Police report,” I said.

  “Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that you’ll be working with a local FBI special agent,” John said.

  “Seriously? Why? I don’t need some asshole in a suit telling me what to do and where to go.”

  “It was the only way to guarantee you any official kind of authority.”

  “So, the vice president of the United States doesn’t have the pull to get me any authority? Like I always say—you’re just a glorified lackey.”

  “Well, that might be the case for a long time if you don’t find out what the hell is going on here.”

  “I’ll do my best. I don’t want one of my dearest friends to always be an underachiever.”

  Jessica stood up and came over and hugged me.

  “Thanks, Finn. I’m glad you’re on this,” she said.

  “It’ll all work out. I promise.”

  I said goodbye and headed back to my room to brush my teeth and put on some more official looking clothing. I kept the black board shorts but threw on a short sleeve button up shirt and some light weight breathable Saucony Jazz sneakers. Of course, I would have preferred thongs, or, as the locals called them, rubba slippas, but I was an official representative of the vice president and decided I should dress in accordance with the position—mostly, anyway. Fresh and ready for the day ahead, I left my room and headed down to the resort’s parking lot and slid behind the wheel of my metallic blue Subaru Impreza rental car. It wasn’t even close to the three hundred horsepower monster I had at home, but it was at least all wheel drive and would be nice if I ventured onto any of the many backcountry dirt roads.

  I left the resort and headed south towards Honolulu, and it took about forty minutes before I was finally pulling in front of the Honolulu Police department, which just happened to reside about a half mile west of the iconic Waikiki Beach. I parked on the street and entered the air-conditioned building and stopped at the front desk to figure out where I needed to go first. After a brief conversation, I showed my ID and was sent upstairs to meet with the lead detective on the case. His name was Alan Kamakana, and his desk was the third from the door, and he just happened to be eating a plate of Korean Barbecue consisting of pork, rice, macaroni salad, and cole slaw.

  “Is that from Helena’s?” I asked, as I looked at the plate of food.

  “Of course. You know about Helena’s?”

  “Oh yeah, I like to eat where the locals eat when I’m in the Islands.”

  “Smart move. How can I help you?”

  “The name’s Finn, and I’m here to talk to you about the Steven Green murder case.”

  “Ah, yeah. They said there would be some kind of VIP coming in on this one.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say VIP. More like helpful friend.”

  “Well, friend. How can I help you?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you about the evidence you have against Jessica Thurman.”

  “It’s a slam dunk—pretty much everything but a signed confession.”

  “Seems that way, but my problem is that it’s just a little too perfect. Body is found at 7:40 a.m., and by noon you have the murderer and at least five major pieces of evidence.”

  “Sometimes we get lucky.”

  “Have you ever been this lucky on any other murder case?”

  “Honestly—no.”

  “And don’t you think it’s a little odd that the maid went into his room that early?”

  “Apparently he called the night before and requested an early maid service.”

  “I can’t help but think that it all sounds a little too perfect.”

  “Granted—me too, but it doesn’t take away from the fact that all the other evidence is air tight, and she has a pretty substantial motive. I mean, let’s face it—she’s very likely about to become the next first lady of the United States. People have killed for a lot less.”

  “Indeed they have, but not Jessica Thurman. I know her.”

  “Everyday, I meet people that you would never think could commit murder—right up until the moment they confess.”

  “Trust me, I’m absolutely sure on this one.”

  “I’m sorry, but it is what it is. We’re just doing our job and going wherever the evidence leads us.”

  “Or going wherever you’re being led.”

  Ed shrugged.

  “So, where is the evidence lab?” I asked.

  “Downstairs in the basement. Your liaison from the FBI just went down there to go over the evidence.”

  “Lovely.”

  I left Alan and boarded the elevator and hit the button for the basement, where I would enter the geek center of the Honolulu Police Department. I exited into a plain white lobby and walked through a double door to find a large open room with offices situated at its perimeter. In the middle, there were a number of people in white coats fretting over various pieces of forensic evidence, and one of them, a tall gangly man about thirty years old and wearing the obligatory horn rim glasses of a tech nerd, saw me looking lost and came over.

  “Hello, can I help you?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I was hoping to talk to the techs working on the Steven Green murder.”

  “You’re looking at them.”

  “Can I speak with the ballistics person?”

  “That’s me,” he said.

  “Oh, perfect! Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “Not at all. They told me someone might be coming, so why don’t you follow me to my office. The Chief and the Fed are already in there. My name’s Bert, by the way.”

  “I’m Finn.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  “You too,” I said, before following Bert across the room and into his office.

  It was fairly large and filled with a lot of equipment and had microscopes, a computer setup with several large flat screen monitors, and on the far end, behind a wall of glass was a small firing range. Standing beside his desk was an older man as well as a woman in a suit, and both were turned away from me and looking at one of the monitors.

  “Excuse me, sir, I have a Mr. Finn here.”

  The man turned first.

  “I’m Chief O’Hara, nice to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I laughed to myself as I thought about his name—Chief O’ Hara. That was the name of the Chief in Batman, which made me wonder if there might also be a Commissioner Gordon down at City Hall.

  “Nice to meet you, Chief.”

  “And this is FBI Special Agent Violet Kalili.”

  The woman turned from the monitor, and our eyes locked in surprise, with neither of us able to speak. The beautiful brown haired Violet was in fact Viola—the stripper I had hooked up with the previous night. Apparently, her true hair color was brown, not blond, so she must have been wearing a wig or managed to visit the fastest hair
salon on the island after leaving my room this morning. Oddly, the unexpected moment also suddenly made me try to remember what color her pubic hair had been and whether or not the carpet matched the drapes. Seeing her now, I preferred her real color rather than the brash blond, as it gave her a much softer and more exotic beauty. As I recovered from my surprised stupor, I smiled and looked into her lovely blue eyes.

  “Nice to meet you, Special Agent Kalili,” I said.

  “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Finn. I assume you have been told that I’ve been assigned to assist you in your investigation.”

  “I have, and please call me Tag, though my good friends call me Bartholomew.”

  Chief O’Hara watched our exchange curiously.

  “Do you two know each other?” he asked.

  “No,” Violet and I said, at the exact same time.

  “Oh, because I kind of got the impression that you two had met before.”

  Clearly, Chief O’Hara was a career policeman and could read people, though I hoped he believed our little ruse.

  “I was hoping to talk to Bert about the ballistics report,” I said.

  “Be my guest. I have to get back upstairs. Feel free to come see me if either of you have any questions,” Chief O’Hara said.

  “Thanks,” I responded.

  The Chief left, and Violet gave me an uncomfortable smile. I smiled back then turned my attention to Bert.

  “So, Bert, this may sound a little silly, but I have to ask—are you a hundred percent certain that the ballistics test conclusively matched the bullet to Jessica Thurman’s gun?”

  “I am, and, if you take a seat, I’ll show you.”

  I sat down, and Bert opened two pictures on the screen then placed them side by side. One was the test-fire from Jessica’s gun, and the other was from Steven’s heart.

  “As you can see, the bullet recovered from Steven was mostly intact, which made it a lot easier to discern the marks created when it left the barrel.”

  I nodded.

  “And now look at the same spot on the test-fire bullet,” Bert said, as he pointed at the picture on the right.

  I did as instructed and looked at the picture.

  “Now, as you can see here, they are absolutely identical.”

  “Absolutely, and is it unusual that the bullet is in such good condition?”

  Bert thought a moment.

  “Actually, yeah, as most gunshots to the heart pass through the rib cage and become greatly deformed. This bullet entered his abdomen at an upward angle, just below the ribs.”

  “That seems like a lot of unnecessary work. I know from my experience that if I want someone dead, I’d just pop two in the chest, and one in the head.”

  Violet and Bert stared at me with a legitimate surprise in their expressions.

  “What? I play a lot of first person shooters. Don’t I look like the type to pown a noob?”

  Apparently they didn’t understand gaming lingo, but it seemed to placate them for the moment and allow us to turn our attention back to the screen.

  “So, my next question is—when were you able to perform the ballistics test?”

  “This morning at nine thirty, when it was all dumped on my desk with orders to drop all other cases and complete this one. Why do you ask?”

  “Honestly, I find the timeline of this entire investigation a little improbable.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “What is the usual turn around time on an investigation like this?”

  He thought for a moment before answering.

  “Weeks, I guess.”

  “So, a two hour turn around is unusual.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “And who made this case a priority?”

  “I’m not actually sure. You’d have to ask the Chief.”

  “Oh, one final question. How did you confirm that the weapon belonged to Jessica?”

  “Serial number.”

  “Can I see the gun?”

  “I suppose it’s OK.”

  He went to an evidence drawer and pulled out the Beretta 92. It did indeed have a silencer and was currently being stored in a plastic evidence bag. Burt opened it up and handed it over.

  “It’s OK to handle it?”

  “Yeah, it’s already been fingerprinted and cleared. I assume you know what you’re doing?”

  “We’ll see.”

  I took hold of the Beretta, dropped the clip, then pulled back the slide to check the chamber to verify that it was indeed empty. More gun owners shot themselves or family members during cleaning or routine handling than any other time, so I always made a point of clearing a weapon—even after it had been taken into Police custody. Satisfied, I set my attention to the silencer and noticed the expert mill work that had gone into its creation. I unscrewed it from the barrel and freed it from the end of the gun, so that I could look at it more closely. In the movies, they always showed the assassin screwing on the silencer, but no one ever thought about the mechanics and craftsmanship involved. The end of the barrel had to have threading machined into it, and it had to be absolutely perfect so that the bullet’s trajectory wouldn’t be affected. A good silencer was therefore a hybrid of art and engineering, and this one was as good as any I’d seen before. I set it down and began disassembling the pistol by thumbing the release and taking the upper slide off, so that I could inspect its inner workings. I had installed a modified spring on Jessica’s pistol to reduce recoil, and I found it cozily nestled just below the barrel. Next, I checked the bottom of the grip and saw the tiny mark I had made at its base. We had gotten our Berettas mixed up at the firing range one time, so I had made a small mark on hers, so we could tell them apart. This was indeed Jessica’s pistol.

  “This is Jessica’s Beretta, but I find the silencer a little troubling.”

  “How so?” Bert asked.

  “It’s incredibly well made. The person who fashioned it is seriously world class. Do you know of any master gunsmiths on the island?”

  “Not offhand, but you could talk to one of the local gun stores. There’s a good one on Queen Street, and their gunsmith is top notch.”

  “Any chance of me taking the weapon and silencer with me?”

  “No, but as a Federal Officer, she could—as long as she fills out a temporary transfer of evidence form.”

  “Do you mind doing that, Special Agent Kalili?”

  “Not at all.”

  Bert rustled through a drawer and came up with a piece of paper, which would officially transfer temporary custody of the pistol and silencer to Violet. She filled it out, then Bert made copies and handed one to us.

  “We will need it back if and when this case goes to trial.”

  “No problem. It should only be a couple days at most. Alrighty then, I suppose we’re done here. Can you point us to the person who did the gun powder residue test on Jessica?”

  “That would be Andrea.”

  “Is she here?”

  He looked at his watch.

  “No, but she’ll be back from her lunch break in another fifteen minutes.”

  “Excellent. Any place to get coffee nearby?”

  “Starbucks is around the corner.”

  I reattached the silencer then slipped the pistol into its bag before handing it over to Violet, who stuck it in her purse.

  “Perfect. Agent Kalili, what say we go for coffee and get to know each other a little better.”

  “That would be nice, Bart,” she said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My So Called Secret Life

  SPECIAL AGENT VIOLET Kalili and I exited the building, and waited until we were on the street and well away from the Honolulu Police Department before speaking. We were obviously going to have an interesting conversation, and it would best be done far from prying eyes or ears.

  “Well now, Special Agent Kalili, it would appear that fate did indeed bring us back together, and now that we’re alone, is there anything you’d like to tell
me?”

  “Not really, but I guess I have to.”

  We reached the Starbucks and ordered a couple of large coffees before taking a seat at one of their outdoor tables. I had a sip of coffee and eyed Violet, as I was anxiously waiting to hear how it was that she happened to be an FBI Special Agent and part-time stripper. She took a sip of her coffee then set it on the table and looked at me and let out a long sigh before speaking.

  “Obviously you now know my official profession and should at least understand why I keep my other one on the down low.”

  “Obviously, but at least it explains your proficiency with the handcuffs and the whole sexy cop thing,” I said, stifling a laugh.

  “This might seem funny to you now, but for me it isn’t a joke. It’s my life.”

  “I understand, but I’m a little surprised you haven’t thought to do the whole sexy special agent routine. You could wear a tear away suit with nothing but a tie on underneath. I’m telling you right now that it would be in my top three stripper fantasies.”

  “You done?” she asked, seriously.

  “Yeah, sorry. It’s just that you are the first FBI Agent and part-time stripper I’ve ever met.”

  “OK, jackass. If I agree to tell you the whole story, will you stop with the comments?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  “Yes. I promise.”

  “OK. Two years ago, I did an undercover assignment at a strip club down on Waikiki. It was believed that the owners were involved in human trafficking. As it turned out, they were importing their strippers illegally then making them work off the cost of their passage.”

  “Lovely business model. So, let me guess—no one ever actually managed to work it off?”

  “Of course not. Anyway, while on assignment at the club, I found myself taking home about four grand a night.”

  “Well, you clearly have the requisite assets for that kind of haul.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Finn,” she said, looking a little uncomfortable.

  “You can stop with the whole Mr. Finn horse shit. After last night, I think it’s more than appropriate to call me Tag or Finn, or even Bart of you prefer.”

  “Fine, as long as you call me Violet.”

  “Deal, so what’s the rest of the story?”