Murder on Easter Island (3 page)

As he rounded the top of the ridge, he crouched and carefully concealed himself behind some brush. As he peeked over the top, he saw a huge tan cat, around eighty pounds — probably a male — the eastern cougar.

Daniel squatted back down for a moment and listened. When the noise of eating stopped, and he was certain the cat was finished with its meal, Daniel stood, intentionally cracking a twig.

The cougar pricked up its ears and intensely stared at him, unafraid. The two locked eyes for a few seconds, then the cat ambled away, not bothering to look back.

Daniel watched the cat until he was no longer visible. He had brought no photographic equipment — nothing to record this moment — because it wasn’t necessary. His mind worked like a camera, and once he saw something it was tucked away in his memory forever. Some called it an eidetic memory, others, a photographic memory. Whatever they chose to name it, all Daniel knew was that he remembered everything he saw in the minutest detail. For that moment, all he wanted was the image of the cat in his mind, and he had it.

He sat down by the brush, pulled a water bottle from his belt clip, and said a silent prayer of thanks to his grandpa, Hunter Fishinghawk, who had raised him since he was two years old and had educated him on the skills of tracking. He had taught Daniel the subtle things that could never be found in books. Because of him he was able to experience this moment.

God rest his soul . . .

Daniel grimaced as he brought up the memory.

Not so many years ago, when Daniel was attending classes at Northeastern State University (NSU) in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, his grandpa was killed one morning by an intruder who entered their humble home in the countryside. Daniel, who still lived with him, found him that evening on the front porch with his throat cut, wild dogs and vultures fighting over his body.

After Daniel shooed them away, he was horrified to see that large portions of flesh had been eaten away from his legs, arms and face. Daniel turned his head away, knowing he would not forget. Still, his grandpa was larger than life, and that was a memory he’d not forget either.

Grandpa had been tall and strong with his salt and pepper black hair tied behind his head in a small ponytail, wearing his buffalo nickel belt buckle with
one coin in the middle, depicting a proud Native American, surrounded by six more coins showing buffalo in a circular pattern. That was his grandpa, yes, larger than life.

And so Daniel took heart and stepped into the house to make a call to the police. That done, he warily walked through the ransacked home, checking every dark nook and cranny, revenge on his mind — but as he suspected, the intruder was long gone. A quick glance around the rooms proved the only thing of value, his grandpa’s collection of rare Indian arrowheads, had been stolen.

As a young boy, Daniel loved to look at all the arrowhead colors — waxy shades of black, white, green and brown. He was especially fond of one large green one, razor sharp with a brown area in the center, which had all the appearance of an engraved hawk. Daniel was sure there was none like it in the world. Given his last name, he hoped to keep it forever in memory of his grandpa.

It was not to be.

But at least the belt buckle was left behind, and Daniel kept it propped upright on a coffee table in his New York City apartment where he could see it often.

Per his grandpa’s wishes, Daniel had him cremated and several days later solemnly scattered his ashes in the nearby Illinois River, three miles east of Tahlequah. His grandpa was an only child, as was Daniel, and there were no other living family members. All that was there was a pair of red-tailed hawks circling overhead.

It was just as well, Daniel thought. He and his grandpa were both loners.

It was then that Daniel made the decision to be a police officer. If he could keep just one person from losing a family member prematurely, then it would be all worthwhile. After getting his undergraduate degree at NSU, he attended police academy in Tulsa and, after three years of beating the streets as a police officer, took the necessary courses and became a detective.

In the years that followed his career change, violent crime in the city of Tulsa plummeted to a nationwide low, creating quite a buzz in the national media. A visiting investigative reporter from CNN determined that the primary reason for the dramatic improvement was the work of Tulsa’s newest and brightest detective, Daniel Fishinghawk. No one wanted to break the law there; the risk of being caught was far too high.

Shortly after word got out, Daniel was recruited to the Big Apple. He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave his beloved Oklahoma hills, but when he heard of the proximity of the Catskills and the Shawangunk Mountains, both less than a three hour drive away, he had a change of heart. New wilderness areas to explore struck at his Native American roots.

Since in New York, though, Daniel had made an unnerving discovery. He had been here only three months and already, as hard as it was to believe, at twenty-eight
years of age, he was getting burned out. All those years of seeing grisly murder after grisly murder had finally taken its toll, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on in his current employment.

Daniel sighed.

He fondly recalled the days when his grandpa took him to the woods around the Illinois River. During those adventures his grandpa taught him respect for Mother Earth and how important it was to be close to the land. City living, he told Daniel, took one away from the rhythms of nature, and he made Daniel promise that wherever his life led him, he would take time to commune with the great outdoors. In this way he would always stay linked to his Cherokee beginnings — and his grandpa.

Daniel loved his grandpa almost as much as he despised his parents, who he never knew. When Daniel was only two years old, his father and mother, Daniel senior and Jenny, who were both crackheads and unable to stay off the bottle, were high as kites one late night when they had a head-on collision with another car on a narrow country road just outside of Tahlequah.

Both were instantly killed. But miraculously enough, little Daniel, who was unrestrained in the back seat of their beat-up brown Chevy Impala, was found unharmed at the scene by the police. It was odd, they said, that the little child in the devastating wreck never cried a lick, but smiled when his grandpa arrived at the hospital to pick him up. Since that time, his grandpa called him not only by his given name, but also “A-da-do-li-gi,” Cherokee for “blessing.”

It was all for the better, Daniel reasoned as he sipped his water. What would he be like now if he had been raised by two druggies? He didn’t want to think about it.

Daniel was disgusted by what he knew of his parents. For that reason, he never used the abbreviation, “Jr.,” at the end of his name. His father deserved no credit for what Daniel would become in life.

No credit at all.

The sun now fell below the tree line and was invisible. All that could be seen was a hazy glow as nightfall approached. Daniel clipped his water bottle back onto his belt and turned to find his backpack, which he had dropped off around a hundred yards to the east. He hadn’t wanted the sounds of moving fabric to notify his prey.

Daniel returned to his camp, a thirty minute walk away, and bedded down for the night. The sound of tree frogs filled the air, and his mind was peaceful — until he remembered in three more days he had to return to work. No doubt, by that time, in such a large metropolis as New York City, there would be more murders to solve — lots more.

He couldn’t bear the thought.

“H
awk, you ol’ son of a bitch, how in the hell did you do it?”

Daniel Fishinghawk had just sat down across the desk from his detective chief, Kip Kelly. The smell of cheap cigars lingered in the air around him.

“I mean, c’mon, tell me. I’m all ears.”

“Chief Kelly,” Daniel insisted, “it wasn’t that hard. The clues were all there.”

“What in the hell are you talking about? I had two of our best men at the scene, Anderson and Dockendorf — seasoned veterans who had worked all these murders — and they couldn’t come up with a damn thing.”

“Well, chief, I —”

“Don’t ‘well, chief’ me,” Kelly said as he stood at his desk, veins bulging on his forehead. “Now I get it that you found the smudge of blood on the air conditioning on-off switch, but for Christ’s sake, Hawk, from that point on you made one leap of faith after another. If you’d have made one goof on any of your assumptions, you’d have been up a creek without a paddle.”

Kelly sat back down. “But the irony about this whole mixed up case is that you were right — you hit the nail right on the head! What the fuck? We did medical background checks on the victims, and, just like you said, they all had the same endocrinologist. And yes, the killer, Miranda Oberstein — isn’t that a helluva name? — put the moves on them while they were sitting in the doctor’s waiting
area. And, I can’t believe I’m saying this, all had trouble getting their dicks up — every fucking one!

“Now, about our murderer: She used to live in San Francisco, and before she left, there were a number of similar unexplained killings. After we arrested her, she confessed to all the crimes without the slightest bit of remorse. Seems her father was an alcoholic who beat the shit out of her at least once a week while she was growing up. And — get this — she then married an alcoholic who did the same thing. After divorcing him, he was her first victim.

“You can’t help but feel bad for her, but the truth is she is one sick lady — she’ll never go to jail, but she’ll be in the nuthouse for the rest of her life.”

Kelly shook his finger at him. “Okay, Hawk, time to fess up. Are you psychic? Have you been using the fucking psychic hot line?”

Daniel laughed. “No — let’s just say I have a way of putting two and two together.”

Chief Kelly stared at him, doubt in his eyes. “It’s more than that. You see things that no one else can, and it turns out you’re right — always! You haven’t missed a case since you’ve been here — how long has it been?”

“Three months,” Daniel answered.

“Commissioner Walsh has you on a par with buttered bread. If you weren’t so damn good in the field you’d probably be taking my spot, and I’ve been in this position over twenty years!”

“Chief, you don’t have anything to worry about. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about —”

“Hawk, stuff it for a sec. I didn’t have you come here on a Saturday morning just to tell you how wonderful you are. There’s something that’s come up — an international deal — and I’ve got strict orders to give it to you. Your country needs you.”

“Me?”

“Yep — you. We have to send our best man to handle this one, and as much as I hate to say it, I’m afraid you’re the guy.”

“What’s going on?”

“How’s your geography, Hawk?”

“Not bad, why?”

“Have you ever heard of Easter Island?”

“Of course. Isn’t that the place way out in the middle of nowhere with all the statues?”

“Yes, and because of that, lots of tourists,” the chief said. “That’s what makes this deal so sensitive. I’ll tell you straight. There’ve been a number of murders down
there, and each and every one has been tourists. Easter Island is part of Chile, and recently the State Department got a call from Santiago asking for help. The Chileans have been investigating these killings for the past six months without any success. Yesterday the commissioner got a call from the secretary of state himself, asking us to take it on.”

“Why us?” Daniel asked.

The chief looked at him like he was crazy. “Because we’ve got the best fucking detectives in the world! Didn’t you know that?”

Daniel said, “I —”

Kelly interrupted, “Listen up, Hawk, this investigation has to be hush-hush. If any word gets out about these murders, their tourist industry will be shot to hell and, with it, the local economy. Chile’s cash cow will be dead.”

“How many have been killed?”

Chief Kelly’s watery blue eyes narrowed. “Brace yourself.”

“Yes?”

“Twenty-four and counting.”

“Twenty-four? How have they kept this under wraps? I haven’t seen anything about this in the news.”

“Let’s just say that freedom of the press, on this issue at least, isn’t happening. Any reporters who have gotten wind of this have been told in no uncertain terms to keep their traps shut.” Kelly took a deep breath and added, “Another thing: When you enter their country you’ll be under their command. Whatever they say goes — within reason.”

Daniel shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “Chief, there’s one big problem. How long would it take for a boat to get down there?”

“Fucking forever,” Chief Kelly said. “Hawk, what’s the problem with you getting on one of those things called an airplane? You can be there in just two or three days.”

“I drove a rental truck here from Oklahoma, not just to move my belongings, but also because I don’t fly. I don’t like heights,” Daniel confessed.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Listen, Hawk, I want you to get to a shrink pronto and get yourself right. I’ve already promised the commissioner you’ll be on a plane next week. And, if worse come to worse, that’s what drugs are for. Take two milligrams of Xanax at the start of your flight, and you’ll wake up when you’re landing.”

Daniel felt dizzy just thinking about it. “Well —”

“Oh, by the way,” Kelly interrupted, “what did you want to talk with me about?”

“It was nothing,” Daniel answered as he stood to leave, cracking open the office door. “I’ll get back with you, Chief Kelly, in the next few days.”

As he departed, he heard stifled laughter from a desk to his side. He didn’t turn around, but he got the joke.

I’m a Native American and I’m calling my boss — chief.

Daniel grimaced and walked on.

D
aniel Fishinghawk woke in a cold sweat; his green plaid Patagonia hiking shirt was soaked with perspiration.