Murder on Easter Island (2 page)

Haumaka smiled as he floated above his new home, and he wondered what the future held for his clan there. Like any good shaman, he had the ability to see into the future, yet knew he could see only the waves of probability — no future was predestined. He closed his eyes and scenes unfolded before him.

As he had predicted, the search party sent by the chief indeed found the isle to be suitable for habitation, and two large canoes containing Hotu Matu‘a and a number of his kinsmen set out to sea and successfully landed. Haumaka noted he was not in either of the boats. He grimly nodded to himself.

Death approaches sooner than I would have guessed . . .

In spite of this unexpected revelation, Haumaka was pleased to see how his people flourished on the new island and was awed by the beauty of the statues they constructed. But as the window of time quickened, there was deforestation, and the trees vanished.

He frowned.

He saw conflict among his people, shortage of food supplies, and the statues toppled over. He witnessed as slave traders and diseases devastated the population to a fraction of its previous size. Then there was a period of relative calm, accompanied by population growth, and the placement of many of the statues back to their upright position.

All seemed well again.

Haumaka sighed in relief.

He started to bring his consciousness back to the present when a dark, dense, red-tinged cloud formed over the island of his dream, obscuring it from the light of the sun. He felt revulsion at what was easily the most evil manifestation he had ever perceived and was surprised to find himself becoming fearful.

Suddenly Haumaka knew that the evil force was aware of his presence, and large black, clawed hands reached out from the cloud for him. He screamed and immediately found himself back in his body, sitting upon the mossy rock, sweating profusely.

He leaped from the rock and washed his face frantically with cold water. He jerked his head from side to side and nervously looked around — no further sign of the apparition.

Calming himself, he looked to the sky and felt the late afternoon sun on his face. He had to depart soon or he would be at the mercy of the night jungle.

Haumaka thought deeply. Was he sending his beloved people to a place of doom? Perhaps, but it was the only choice. The immediate future demanded they leave, and leave soon.

But the evil was the strongest he had ever seen. Was there a good strong enough to oppose it?

That was a question for the future.

He picked up his food pack and walked back down the trail, anxiously glancing at any sounds or shadows.

Would the black hands come back for him?

While he knew he had not long to live, he would rather not die in the clutches of evil. He quickened his pace and rushed down the jungle pathway as quickly as his aged legs would carry him.

“O
h, God, this one’s even worse.”

“You can’t mean it.”

Detective Dockendorf stumbled from the kitchen of the small apartment as pale as a ghost and holding a handkerchief over his mouth. To his partner, he managed, “Have a look for yourself.”

Dockendorf plopped down on the living room sofa, doing all he could not to vomit. The chili-cheeseburger and onion rings he’d had for lunch made a return visit to the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and choked them back down again.

Detective Anderson wiped the sweat from his brow and headed toward the kitchen. Why are these crime scene investigations always like working in an oven? he wondered.

“Dockendorf,” he said with a look of disgust on his face, “you are such a gutless fool. Why couldn’t the chief have given me a partner with more backbone?”

Anderson entered the small kitchen and the smirk on his face quickly faded into a look of horror. Before he could stop it, a high-pitched scream erupted from his throat, and he fell back through the doorway — ending up next to Dockendorf on the sofa.

A uniformed
NYPD
officer, who stood guard outside the door to the apartment, cracked it open and peeked inside. From the hallway loud conversation and camera flashes entered the room.

Anderson thought: The press — shit — why don’t they just leave us alone?

The policeman asked, “You guys okay?”

Dockendorf answered sarcastically, “Yeah, we’re just taking a siesta.”

“I’m sure,” the officer responded. “When you’re finished with your nap, you might actually do your job and investigate the scene.” He shook his head and snapped the door shut to keep the press at bay.

Anderson turned to Dockendorf and asked incredulously, “Did you see what I saw in that kitchen?”

“You mean the guy tied to a chair with his head cut in half by a meat cleaver? The one with the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s at his feet?”

“No, you idiot, I meant his cute, pink IZOD shirt,” Anderson retorted as he rolled his eyes.

Dockendorf stared at him blankly, “I thought the last murder we investigated was bad —”

“You’re not just a kiddin’. His head was nearly taken off with a butcher knife.”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“The chief says we better get to the bottom of these killings fast,” Anderson said. “Now the press has gotten hold of this and has started calling them the Culinary Murders, because each one was killed with something from the kitchen. This guy will make the seventh. The press might not want to admit it, but the worse this gets the happier they are. Those scum suckers are selling a shitload of newspapers over this deal.”

“Fuck the press,” Dockendorf said, “and the chief can screw himself. How do you solve murders when there aren’t enough clues?”

The ringtone of Anderson’s cell phone started playing “Three Blind Mice,” and he pulled the phone from his coat pocket and answered, “Anderson here — okay, Chief Kelly — right — will do.” The conversation ended and he dropped his cell phone back into his pocket.

“Hawk’s on his way,” Anderson said. “Kelly wants him to have a look around before the rest of the gang gets here.”

Dockendorf sighed. “You talkin’ about the new guy, from Oklahoma of all places, Daniel Fishinghawk, the crime scene genius? What do you know about him?”

Anderson answered, “Rumor has it that his background is Cherokee Indian — though you could never tell by looking at him. I’ve heard he’s smart as hell — could be in Mensa if he wanted — a speed reader who digests over five books a week —”

“I’m sick of that guy,” Dockendorf interrupted. “He makes the rest of us look bad. So he’s gotten lucky on a few cases. So what?”

“The ladies in the office can’t keep their eyes off him,” Anderson added. “Tall, slender, dark hair — they all think he’s hot stuff.”

Dockendorf threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t give a shit about how good looking he is.” Then he grinned and said, “But this case will kick his ass — just like it’s kicked ours. I can’t wait to see the chief’s new golden boy go up in flames.”

Hawk arrived wearing a black suit, a black dress shirt without a tie and black Merrell hiking shoes.

“I’m Detective Fishinghawk. Just call me — Hawk,” he said. His trimmed black hair was neatly combed into place, and his piercing dark eyes were bright and alert, as if all seeing. As he extended his right hand, he remarked, “I’ve seen you both around the office. Good to see you again.”

Anderson and Dockendorf stuck out their hands and Hawk shook them.

Hawk asked, “What do you know so far?”

Anderson and Dockendorf glanced at each other before Anderson spoke. “This is the seventh murder over the past four months, and they have several things in common. First, as you know, they have all been killed with a kitchen utensil. Number one victim was murdered with a wine corkscrew, and this one a meat cleaver. Each time it was something different, but always something from the kitchen.

“They have all been men and were all tied to a chair with rope. The killer wore gloves, so there have been no fingerprints. And all of the victims let the murderer into their apartments — like they knew him. And, for a coup de grâce, after they were killed, each and every one of our victims was anointed with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”

Fishinghawk’s dark eyes blazed. “How do you know it was a him?”

Dockendorf answered. “There’s been so much blood at the scenes we were able to check the shoe tracks. All were the same Nike tennis shoes, men’s size six and a half. Must be a little guy.”

“I see,” Hawk said warily. “Have you found any connections between the victims? Education? Jobs? Clubs? Prisons? Any common history — any at all?”

“Nope,” said Anderson.

“Let me look over the scene,” Hawk said.

Dockendorf and Anderson ushered Hawk into the kitchen.

Hawk slowly walked around the area, nodded, and led the way back into the living room.

“Was the window AC turned on when you came in?” he asked.

“No,” said Anderson. “What of it?”

“How about the other murders? Was the air conditioner turned off at those scenes as well?”

“Come to think of it — yes,” confessed Anderson.

“Don’t you think it’s a little odd, in the middle of summer, for it to be off?”

“Maybe the guy that lived here liked it hot,” Anderson guessed as he nervously loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar.

“No, I believe his killer liked it hot. Look at the on-off dial.”

Dockendorf and Anderson both stepped over and stared at it. A small smudge of blood was smeared on the dial. They groaned and reluctantly turned to face Fishinghawk.

“Gentlemen,” Hawk said, as he folded his arms across his chest, “I’m no doctor, but I do know that cold intolerance is often associated with glandular disorders, especially hypothyroidism. The killer turned off the AC because she couldn’t stand the cold.”

“What do you mean she?” Dockendorf exclaimed. “We told you that he was wearing men’s shoes. We matched it up.”

Hawk shook his head,
“She
meant for you to assume that. That’s why she made the tracks so obvious. She’s actually a woman’s size eight, but she wore men’s shoes to confuse you.” Then he looked off thoughtfully and concluded, “Our suspect is a woman who is really angry with men — hard to say why, though off the top I might guess it’s because she has been around too many who are alcoholics. Besides, women are many times more likely to be hypothyroid than men. It’s a dropkick — it’s a woman.”

Anderson protested, “But —”

“I have a hunch, gentlemen — could be right, could be wrong — but it’s worth a shot. I want you to check on the past medical records of our dead, and I believe you’ll discover that they all saw the same endocrinologist. What are men usually seen for in an endocrinologist’s office? In our group of victims, I’d bet my bottom dollar that they were being treated for impotence.

“If you check the appointment schedule, you’ll find that there was a woman who had a hypothyroid condition who happened to be in the waiting room at the same time. I believe she let each and every one of her victims know that she was willing to help them with their problem. Little did they know what they were getting into.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dockendorf said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand.

Hawk ignored him. “Oh — one more thing, once you discover her name, I believe you’ll find she is a new resident of New York City, probably lived here around
four months, and in the place she has lived before there were a number of similar unexplained crimes.”

“Hawk, I think you’ve gone off the deep end,” Anderson said, shaking his head. “This is the wildest thing I’ve ever heard of. There’s no way anyone could connect these dots. Are you crazy?”

“Crazy is as crazy does,” said Hawk as he shrugged and his handsome face broke into a friendly smile. He nodded, bid them a good day and departed.

D
aniel Fishinghawk dared not make a sound.

His weathered moccasins, given to him many years ago by his grandpa, moved silently across the moist earth. Years of yoga, combined with strength training and aerobic exercise, allowed him to move his toned body across the rugged landscape as quietly as a wraith. The sun began to dip below the wooded horizon. He was about to run out of time.

Just a little farther, he thought.

He had arrived in the Catskill Forest Preserve five days ago and had but one goal in mind: Track and find the eastern cougar, which had been pronounced extinct over three years ago by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Daniel was aware of numerous previous sightings, all of which had been pooh-poohed by the Service. The ploy used to discredit these viewings was to make the finder look like a complete moron.

“Oh, you must have seen a house cat,” they would say. Or giving the discoverer just a little more credit, “. . . a bobcat.” You’d have thought that by the disdain the Service had for such accountings, someone had said they’d seen Sasquatch.

They just don’t want to be wrong, Daniel guessed.

Daniel had been here nearly every weekend over the past three months. He had discovered tracks he was sure were those of the eastern cougar, but his two-day
weekends weren’t enough time to accomplish the task of finding one. At long last the chief reluctantly gave him a week off, and now he was certain that, just over the wooded ridge, one was feeding on its favorite prey, the white-tailed deer. He heard the sounds of ripping flesh and hoped the animal was distracted by its meal.