The Poi Predicament

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The Poi Predicament Page 23

by Lyle Christie


  “Caffeinate then rehydrate.”

  “The cycle of life.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I had another question about the GSR test on Jessica.”

  “Fire away.”

  “As I’m a hundred percent sure that she didn’t kill her ex-husband, I’d like to know how it’s possible that she could have gun residue on her hand?”

  “Well, she obviously fired a gun.”

  “Yeah, except that we have pretty convincing evidence that she had been roofied and was unconscious at the time of the murder.”

  “It’s pretty hard to shoot a gun when you’re out cold.”

  “No doubt, so how in the hell did she test positive?”

  “Unfortunately, my tests are absolutely conclusive. The chemical reaction and subsequent discharge from a firearm can’t be faked. It’s not like you could sprinkle the chemicals on someone’s hand. The spread and subsequent traces can only be created when the gunpowder is ignited and shoots out of the barrel of the gun.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “Is there anyway for me to get access to the crime scene?”

  “What were you hoping to find?”

  “I don’t know yet. I suppose I’ll find out when I get there.”

  “I assume you’ve already realized that you’re running around with an FBI agent. She can get you access to just about anywhere you want to go.”

  “Except her pants, sadly.”

  “Very funny,” Violet said, as she back handed me in the ribs.

  “So, Agent Kalili, is her statement correct? Can you really get me access to the crime scene?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “Velma, do you happen to have any extra fingerprint kits I could use?”

  “Yeah, how many do you need,” she asked, reaching into a drawer.

  “Just a handfull.”

  She pulled out a number of kits, and each one contained an envelope, ink strips, and little information cards.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I doubt you’ll need them, as I swept the crime scene pretty thoroughly.”

  “Well, my reason for needing fingerprint kits is twofold, and the first part can be done right here.”

  “Oh really?” Velma asked, looking intrigued.

  “Yeah, I want to have a look at Jessica Thurman’s sweatshirt.”

  “I assume you know that fabric doesn’t really offer up much in the way of fingerprints?”

  “I do, but I’m not interested in the fabric. I’m interested in the zipper.”

  “Interesting, but assuming you can find a print, won’t it most certainly be Jessica’s?”

  “Maybe—maybe not.”

  “OK, come this way,” she said.

  We followed Velma to the official police evidence storage room to find it was manned by a lone officer who resided at a desk behind a steel mesh wall. He was probably in his fifties and appeared particularly bored as he sat and stared at his computer screen.

  “Howdy, Matt, do you mind buzzing us in?” Velma asked.

  “Not at all. I could use some excitement,” he said, hitting a buzzer that unlocked the nearby door.

  Once inside, Velma led us over to the section of shelving dedicated to the Steven Green murder case, and she proceeded to remove the bag that contained the infamous blood stained sweatshirt.

  “Should we be wearing rubber gloves?” I asked.

  “No, all this stuff has already been cleared and catalogued.”

  She pulled the sweatshirt out of the bag and handed it over, and I could instantly smell the dried blood. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, least of all to someone who’d survived combat and already smelled more than a lifetime’s worth of the red stuff. I pulled out a fingerprint kit and proceeded to do the front of the tiny zipper handle. There was a print, but it was blurred and probably unreadable, so I did the back, and, sure enough, I found a readable though tiny partial print.”

  “Hot damn!” I said.

  I wrote the details on the little note then placed it all in the plastic bag.

  “Do you want me to process that?” Velma asked.

  “Normally I’d say yes, but due to the minimal amount of usable print, I want this one to go to the FBI’s lab at Quantico,” I said, handing it to Violet.

  “Fine, go with the feds, but be sure to tell me if they find anything interesting.”

  “I will. Now come, Agent Kalili. Let’s go inspect a gruesome crime scene and build up a healthy appetite for the barbecue.”

  “What barbecue?” Velma asked.

  “We’re going to a little party at the house where Magnum P.I. lived in the TV series.”

  “Robin’s Nest?”

  “Yeah, it belongs to a friend.”

  “Lucky you. Say hello to Higgins and the lads for me.”

  While Higgins was the majordomo in charge of the estate, the lads were two Doberman pinschers named Zeus and Apollo who had a habit of tormenting Magnum.

  “I will, assuming they don’t bite my ass, and that goes for Higgins as well,” I said.

  We left the lab and exited the police station to head out into the warmth of the Hawaiian sunshine. It was afternoon, and the temperature was at its usual eighty degrees. That was actually the joy of Hawaii—rain or shine, it was always the same temperature. Not too hot, not too cold—paradise. We took a seat in the Suburban and headed back to the resort, but, before going to my room, we made a point of stopping at the front desk. An attractive young woman, likely of Samoan or Hawaiian descent, was manning the counter, and she smiled as we approached.

  “Hello, how can I help you?” she asked.

  “Hi, we’re doing a follow up investigation on the murder that took place here, and we’d like to get access to the room where it occurred.”

  The girl looked uncomfortable, which made sense, as no one liked talking about murder, least of all in the place they happened to work.

  “I’ll need to see some kind of identification if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem.”

  “Violet stepped forward and flashed her ID at the girl.”

  Satisfied, the woman typed a command into the computer and, a moment later, handed us a key card.

  “Oh, and one more thing. I was wondering who was working the night of the murder.”

  She went back to work typing on her keyboard then looked up at us.

  “Ah, Scarlett was working that night.”

  “How can I get in touch with her?”

  “Just a second.”

  The girl disappeared into the back office, and Violet looked at me.

  “Why do you want to talk to Scarlett?”

  “Oh it’s probably nothing, but I was just curious about the call for an early maid service.”

  The girl returned a moment later with another woman.

  “This is Scarlett,” she said.

  Scarlett was about thirty, pretty, and full figured, though that description was only in comparison to the stick figures that inhabited most of the media and fashion magazines. In the fairly distant past she would have probably been called healthy or even rubenesque, which was a quality attributed to the Flemish Baroque painter Rubens, who had a propensity for painting women with lovely generous curves. Scarlett looked at us nervously, as she had obviously been told that a member of the FBI was waiting to speak with her.

  “Hi, I’m Scarlett. How can I help you?” she asked timidly.

  “Hi, I’m Finn, and this is Agent Kalili. I heard you were working the night of the murder.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, the report says that the victim called down and requested an early maid service.”

  “Correct, but it wasn’t Mr. Green. It was a woman who called.”

  Violet and I looked at each other, as that was interesting news, though the po
lice would probably believe that it was Jessica who called.

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely, I took the call.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “About twelve thirty.”

  That certainly fit within the time frame of the murder.

  “Did the woman use the room phone?”

  “Yeah, it came through the hotel switchboard.”

  Interesting. People were so attached to their cell phones these days that they often ignored landlines, unless they didn’t want to have a particular call traced to their number.

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, you’ve been a big help.”

  We left the counter and went up to Steven’s room, and I slid the key card through the slot and opened the door, all the while feeling a great deal of trepidation. I had been around death most of my life but had never really gotten used to it, and it was even worse at the moment, as it was becoming a regular occurrence of sorts. We stepped inside, and I looked around to see the room pretty much looked exactly as it had in the crime scene photographs, though the sheets had been taken as evidence. The mattress remained, and there was a large pool of dry blood staining the middle. It was hard to believe that this had been the place that Steven Green spent his final moments on earth, and deep down I felt mildly responsible for his death. I had introduced Jessica to John and therefore brought Steven unwittingly into this mess. Still, he was blackmailing them, and that fact seemed to nicely balance my guilt.

  “So, what are you hoping to accomplish here?” Violet asked.

  “A miracle, unfortunately.”

  I walked over to the phone, pulled out the fingerprint kit, and placed one of the ink strips over the “0” button.

  “Good thinking. Whoever called the front desk would have hit that button, though I doubt they were stupid enough to leave a print,” Violet said.

  “Yeah, but I have to check it just to be sure.”

  I sprinkled the powder, ever hopeful for an easy break, but found all the numbers clean.

  “Oh well, it was worth a try.”

  I turned my attention away from the phone and took a little stroll around the room and tried to visualize how it all went down—specifically the location of both the victim and the shooter. This was clearly a cold blooded act as it was done point blank, and that was something beyond the morality of the average person. The technique of the shooting was also strange and hinted at someone with some serious wet work in their job description. Shooting up from the stomach and bypassing the rib cage to make sure that the bullet remained intact was not something the average person would think to do. It also hinted that the victim was lying down at the time and likely already unconscious. Something was clearly rotten in the sate of Denmark—or in this case, Hawaii.

  Satisfied that I had gotten all I hoped to find, we left the room and ventured over to mine on the other side of the resort. The nerds were still there playing D&D and had apparently just killed a small party of Orcs. I realized that I had a second deuce in me and went over to the coffee machine and made a fresh pot, with the idea being that a little caffeine would help me power out a swift number two before the barbecue. Once it finished brewing, I filled a cup then proceeded to take a nice long swig, and it’s warmth flowed down my throat and entered my bloodstream and made my heart race ever so slightly. Three more equally luxurious sips, and I left Violet with the nerds and made absolutely certain that I closed and locked the door. It had been a decent day thus far, so I wasn’t taking any chances. I pulled out my iPhone, dropped my shorts, and hit the cool porcelain, where I hoped to glance at the local Hawaii news. Before I could even find a decent story, I was forced to listen to Beeber bitching about how much damage his Magic User had just taken.

  “Just use one of your fucking healing spells and shut the fuck up!” I yelled from the bathroom.

  “Blow it out your ass!” Beeber responded.

  “I will, thank you very much.”

  I set back to work herding the pigs out of the pen and sipped my coffee and enjoyed some brief though meaningful alone time. Finished, I entered the shower and emerged five minutes later and put on deodorant, face cream, and cologne then dressed in some board shorts and a T-shirt. Now that I was properly ready for the evening, I rejoined the others to find that Violet had changed and was now wearing a rather form fitting full length tropical dress.

  “Wow, you look amazing. Where have you been hiding that dress?” I asked.

  “In my bag.”

  “Must be quite a bag.”

  “Well, I am going to a Barbecue at the Robin Masters estate, so I figured I should dress up.”

  “Perhaps it’s a magical bag of holding,” Beeber said.

  “Indeed, thoughtful nerd, and apparently it holds many fine linens.”

  I finished my coffee then retreated to the bathroom to brush my teeth before rejoining the others.

  “You nerds ready to call it quits and head to the barbecue?” I asked.

  Doug, who was the DM, or Dungeon Master in laymen’s terms, looked at his players.

  “This is a good place to stop. We can always play more later tonight.”

  Beeber, Doug, and Rachel regretfully put down their various pencils, dice, and character sheets and left to get ready, leaving Violet and me alone to sit and quietly ruminate about the day’s events. I couldn’t help wondering how I might unearth a kernel of evidence that could bring all we had learned into a concise story capable of influencing the police to accept that things were not as clear as they believed. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your viewpoint, people rarely experienced conspiracy on this kind of scale, so the police ultimately saw what they wanted to see, which was a clear cut murder. I, on the other hand, saw the truth, which was far more complicated than anyone could have imagined, and Jessica and Steven were mere pawns, while the intended victim was John Matheson.

  “What are you thinking about?” Violet asked.

  “This fucking case. It’s so obvious there’s more going on here, but how in the hell do we prove that to the police?”

  “Well, at least this FBI agent here believes you. That’s a good start.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  Just then, there was a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Doug, Beebs, and Rachel looking dressed and ready to party. Rachel in particular looked especially lovely, as she was now sporting a short floral patterned dress over a two piece bikini, that showed off her long shapely legs. I’d usually only seen her in her goth city clothes, so this was a rare treat.

  “Rachel, might I say that you look lovely in your island attire.”

  “You may, and at least someone noticed,” she said, as she gave Beeber an icy glare.

  “Hey, I also noticed,” Doug said.

  “And so did I!” Beeber chimed in, with his voice suddenly going up about three octaves.

  “Yeah, but the difference is that Finn noticed and bothered to say something.”

  “I’m still training him, Rachel. He’ll get better.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Everybody ready?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Magnum,” Doug said.

  We strolled through the resort and out to the Suburban, where I started the engine and began humming my best rendition of the Magnum P.I. theme song, and it took three measures before Beeber finally realized what I was doing.

  “I get it now,” he said, as he joined in.

  The rest soon followed his lead, and it became a Magnum P.I. chorus.

  “Ne-ne-ne-ne, ne-ne ne ne ne neeee-ne. Ne-ne-ne-ne, ne-ne ne ne ne neeee neeee!” everyone belted out.

  The car came alive with an absolutely terrible rendition of the Magnum P.I. theme song, as everyone’s timing was a little off, but it showed a lot of car spirit and kept everyone happy as we headed out of the resort and south towards Robin’s Nest.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Robin's Nest

  WE DROVE
ALONG the eastern shore of Oahu, and, as we passed through Waimanolo, I could see a crowd of locals hanging out and smoking in front of the Blow Hole. A little farther down the road, we passed a beautiful stretch of beach and eventually came to the estate, which looked exactly as I remembered it in the show. I waited for a break in traffic, then I pulled across the road and up to the gate, where I saw that we were under video surveillance. I waved, and a moment later a voice came over the intercom welcoming us to Robin’s Nest. The gate swung open, and in we drove along the very same winding dirt driveway that Magnum used to race Robin Master’s Ferrari. Off to the left was the famous tennis court, and ahead was the main house. It must have been over twenty-five years since they filmed the last episode, and it was odd to see that the place looked pretty much the same.

  We pulled up and parked in front of the open garage, and inside was a red Ferrari, though it was not the original 308 GTS but rather a 458 Spyder. It was the convertible version of one of their latest and greatest models and could rocket from zero to sixty in the three second range—which was quick enough to make most people lose their lunch. We exited the Suburban, and our entire group walked over to check out the Ferrari, and no sooner had we arrived that we looked up to see Frank coming out of his garage, and he was dressed in shorts and a Polo shirt, which was the most casual outfit I had seen him in thus far.

  “How do you like the car, Magnum?”

  “Love it. Do you think Robin will let me take it for a spin?”

  “He might—since I’m him.”

  He held out his hand to shake.

  “Welcome to Robin’s Nest.”

  I shook his hand, then he led us all around to the patio below the main house, where meat was already on the barbecue, and the tables had already been set.

  “Get yourselves a drink, then I’ll be back to give you the tour,” he said, walking off to check on how the food was coming along.

  We had a moment to ourselves to take in the estate, and, as I already knew from watching the show, saw that it was indeed a beautiful piece of property. It resided directly on the ocean on the eastern side of Oahu, and that meant gentle surf and ideal swimming conditions—even when you weren’t in the fabled tidal pool. Once you left the beach, you came onto the highly maintained grounds of the estate where the grass was cut to perfection, and every tree and bush was neatly trimmed. Clearly, Frank liked order in his personal universe, and he took that penchant into his landscaping preferences as well. I ran my gaze past the shrubbery and along the beach towards the front of the house, where I was surprised to see that it now had a swimming pool—occupied by none other than Melissa Williams. She saw me then smiled and climbed out to come over and say hello. She was wearing a tiny red two piece bikini, and the wet, thin fabric was adhering to her skin and leaving very little to the imagination. She was truly a temptress, and a woman I now preferred to keep at a safe distance.

 

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