Mahu Fire (4 page)

MR. AND MRS. WHACK JOB

I stopped at my desk on my way out, and Steve Hart, a night shift detective who’d come in early to work some cases, pointedly got up and moved away. He was a tall, tanned Texan who had a chip on his shoulder the size of Amarillo. At least I was getting shunned for being smelly, rather than being gay. That was a start.

I ran Hiroshi Mura through the computer, but didn’t get anything more than I already knew. So I gave up and went home. I took a nice, luxurious shower, then dropped my stinky chicken clothes in the washer on the ground floor of the building. While they ran through rinse and spin, I researched my latest case, using my spiffy wireless laptop.

The network didn’t have far to reach; I live in a studio, with a galley kitchen, a small bathroom, and a picture window with a view of a narrow slice of Waikiki Beach. I sat at the kitchen table and pulled up the property appraiser’s website, where I saw that Hiroshi Mura was no longer the owner of the property where he’d been shot; it had been transferred a few months earlier to a corporation.

I made a list of all the homeowners on the streets around where Mura had been killed, and typed up the notes on my interviews with Rosalie Garces and Jerry Bosk. By then it was time to switch the clothes to the dryer. After that, I checked department records for all shootings of homeless men and women over the past year, hoping that there would be a match in some way to my crime.

No luck. But at least I felt I was earning my pay, even as I sat around in my boxers nibbling on a microwave pizza. Around five, I drove back to Makiki and started canvassing the neighborhood again. I interrupted a few dinners and got no response from a few houses, and I was starting to give the whole enterprise up when I came to the house with the rainbow flag.

I remembered speaking with the cabinetmaker that morning, and checked my notes. Jerry Bosk, and his lover, Victor Ramos. Ramos had already left for work by the time I arrived. But there was a second car in the driveway, which I thought might be his.

Bosk answered the door. “Hey, detective, come in. Vic just got home from work. I haven’t had a chance to ask him about this morning, but you can.”

A handsome olive-skinned Filipino man in his mid-forties, dark hair cut short, stepped out of the kitchen, and Bosk introduced us. “There was a homicide down the street this morning,” I said. “I wondered if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.”

“How about the creepy woman next door in a lead-lined apron and plastic goggles?” he asked. “Out of the ordinary enough for you?”

We sat in the living room. This time I avoided the plush cushions on the chintz sofa, taking the hand-carved rocker instead. I pulled out my notebook. “When did this happen?”

“Saturday,” Ramos said. “I sing with the Honolulu Men’s Chorus, and we had a rehearsal on Saturday afternoon. I got home around six, and I saw Mrs. Whack Job from next door looking like some kind of mad scientist. I’ve tried to tell Jerry that there is something strange going on out in their back shed, but Jerry likes to think the best of people.”

“What’s her last name?” I asked, not understanding what he’d called her.

“We don’t know,” Jerry said. “Vic has decided she and her husband are crazy, so he calls them the Whack Jobs. Mr. Pender died a couple of months ago, and his daughter is renting the house out. I tried to introduce myself to them but neither of them would even answer me.” He smiled. “Guess they’re not accustomed to living at the end of the rainbow.”

They were a well-matched couple: haole and Asian, dark and light, about the same height and body size. For a moment I had a pang of longing for just that kind of life—a partner to come home to every night, a collection of art and furniture and books that reflected our life together.

The neighbors Jerry was describing were next on my list to canvass, so I made a note to keep an eye out for anything strange. Unfortunately, Ramos hadn’t seen or heard anything that morning, so, declining offers of a drink or staying for dinner, I said my goodbyes.

There was a breeze blowing in from the windward side of the island, bringing smoke and tiny particles of soot with it. I’d been smelling all too much smoke lately, and I knew the fire department was under the same pressure we were to solve the rash of arsons.

A couple of the fires had been simple accidents—a cigarette extinguished in dry brush, an air conditioner short-circuiting. But others were clearly arson—a failing restaurant in Chinatown, a trash fire outside a gay bar in Salt Lake, a duplex in Kaka’ako where a married woman had moved in with her new boyfriend, an amateur Molotov cocktail through the window of an X-rated video store on Kuhio Avenue, a warehouse fire just off the Pali Highway where a bag of greasy potato chips had been used as an accelerant.

About half the arsons had some connection to gay people or businesses serving them, which was enough to get the local bar rags in an uproar about official indifference to the gay and lesbian community. I’d been called for an opinion by one of them, but I’d said I had no comment.

It seemed that all over the island, gay and straight people were living in an uneasy balance. When we’d been quiet enough in our closets, our businesses had been allowed to run, with darkened windows and little advertising. Now that we were pressing our claims to live freely, marry like everyone else, things were getting more difficult.

It couldn’t have been easy for an openly gay couple like Jerry Bosk and Victor Ramos to live next door to a religious family, the kind who kept a statue of St. Joseph on the front lawn.

The house itself was nondescript, maybe a little more rundown than the average house on the street. It was a single-story ranch, painted a faded green, with brown grass in the front yard and a small outbuilding at the back. The slant-eyed St. Joseph said nothing as I walked up to the door and rang the bell.

A trim, dark-haired young woman in a light-blue polo shirt and dark slacks answered. I showed her my badge and introduced myself. Though I knew she was a tenant, and not the owner, I asked, “Are you Mrs. Pender?”

“Mrs. White. We’re renting from the Penders.” She didn’t invite me inside.

“I understand you’re a runner,” I said.

“Sometimes.”

“A man was shot about a block away from here, early this morning,” I said. “Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary?”

“I wear headphones when I run. I get into a zone, and I block everything else out.” I could just imagine her; I saw women like that every day on the streets of Waikiki, their grim determination seeming to suck all the joy out of exercising.

“I know what you mean. I’m a surfer, and I focus the same way.” I paused for a minute. “Did you ever notice the homeless man living on the empty lot?”

She grimaced. “Creepy guy. The city shouldn’t let people like that live on the street.”

“Did he ever threaten you?”

I thought I saw something flicker in her eyes, but she said, “No. I never had anything to do with him.”

“Well, thanks anyway.” I checked her left hand before I said, “Your husband. Can I speak with him?”

Again, there was something strange about her eyes, the way alarm seemed to register in them. “He sleeps late. He snores. He wouldn’t have heard anything.”

“If it’s okay, I’d still like to talk to him.” I looked over her shoulder. A man I assumed was her husband stood in the background. “Mr. White?”

Grudgingly, the woman stepped aside, and her husband came forward. He was dark-haired, a bit pudgy, wearing a shapeless T-shirt and jeans that were too tight around the waist. There was something familiar about him, but couldn’t place him. I repeated what I’d told his wife. “Did you see anything this morning?”

When I’d first come out, my friend Gunter gave me some interesting advice. “Straight men won’t look you in the eyes,” he said. “Gay men will. That’s a big part of gaydar. It’s not about whether a guy has a limp wrist or says Mary every five minutes. It’s about whether he’ll make eye contact or not.”

I’d put that to the test a couple of times, with interesting results. Especially because an awful lot of gay people on O’ahu knew who I was, that I was the gay cop, I’d gotten some surprising readings. It was equally surprising that this guy, Mr. White, looked me in the eyes with something that looked a lot like hunger.

No wonder his wife hadn’t wanted me to talk to him.

Unfortunately, Mr. White really had been asleep that morning, and hadn’t heard a thing. Probably to interrupt any additional flirtation, his wife put her hand on the door. “I’m sorry, detective, but we’re very busy right now. You know how it is, you get home and there’s so much to do.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. and Mrs. White. You have a good evening, now.”

She shut the door firmly without wishing me the same. I could see why Vic Ramos called her Mrs. Whack Job. Not the friendliest person to have for a neighbor. But rudeness wasn’t a crime under the Hawai’i Penal Code, though if my mother had her way it would be.

I had a couple more houses to canvass, but didn’t learn anything more about either shooting—man or chicken. Sometimes it goes like that. I didn’t like to think that this murder would add to my string of unsolved cases, but without a break it probably would.

The next morning, I was adding notes on the evening’s canvass to those I’d already written when Sampson appeared at my desk. “Seen the paper this morning?” he asked, dropping the local section in front of me. It was opened to an article headlined “Makiki Tragedy Continues.”

“Twenty years ago this month, Patricia Mura was brutally slain, her body dumped on the slopes of Diamond Head. Her killer is still at large. Yesterday morning, her father, Hiroshi Mura, was just as brutally murdered, a single bullet fired into his brain at close range.”

“How’d the press get that information?” I asked Sampson. “I haven’t released anything.”

“Read on,” Sampson said.

The article went on to imply that the murders of Mura and his daughter, twenty years apart, were somehow connected. The heart-wrenching story detailed his tragic fall into mental illness, beginning with the death of his wife, continuing with Patty’s drug use and arrests for prostitution.

To make things worse, though, the article’s author, a reporter named Greg Oshiro who was generally critical of the HPD, brought up the rash of unsolved homicides, ending with a generalized indictment of the department for decades of ineptitude.

It was the kind of article that made me angry. Honolulu police officers risked their lives every day to protect and serve with aloha, as our logo promised, and there was a wall right downstairs with dozens of names of officers who had died in the line of duty. I believe that the press should be able to criticize us, especially if we’re not doing our jobs well—but reporters like that were simply out to grab headlines rather than engage in a debate over police procedures.

“The chief’s already been on to me,” Sampson said. “He wants to see some progress in this case. Have you looked up the information on the daughter’s murder?”

I looked at Sampson. “You think it’s connected?”

“I don’t think. That’s your job.”

“I’ll get the file,” I said. He retreated to his office, and I finished my notes on Mura’s murder, then printed them up and stuck them in the case file. I spent most of the rest of the day digging up what little information there was on Patricia Mura’s arrests, her time in juvenile hall, the times she had run away, and her murder.

The crime scene guys had pulled fingerprints off the belt that had been used to bind her hands, though there had been no match at the time. I took the card and went downstairs to the Special Investigations Section and found Thanh Nguyen, a fingerprint tech I knew who worked downstairs in the Records and Identification Division. His division was responsible for serving warrants, firearms registration and permits, handling of evidence, fingerprinting and identification. He was a Vietnamese guy in his early sixties, and word around the building was that he’d been in the South Vietnamese army, escaping on one of the last planes out of Saigon.

“Can you run these through the system for me?” I asked.

He looked at the tenprint card I handed him. “You on a cold case?”

I shrugged. “You see the paper today? This girl was the daughter of my the homeless man shot yesterday in Makiki. The
Advertiser
dug it up, so I figured I’d rule out any connection.”

Thanh nodded. “Come on. I’ll see what I can do. We must have over 200,000 sets of prints in the system by now. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” He was a short, skinny guy, and I was struck by his general resemblance to Hiroshi Mura. Maybe he could help me bring some measure of peace to Mura’s restless spirit.

The card was old and a little faded, but Thanh sat at the AFIS console and scanned it in. While I watched, the computer marked the minutiae points—the things that differentiate one print from another—and assigned each a weight. Then it went through its database looking for matches.

“What do you know.” He motioned me to look at the console. “See that? You’ve got a match.”

The system brought up a mug shot and arrest record for Edward Kapili Foster. He had been convicted of similar crimes around the same time as Patricia Mura’s murder, and had died at the Halawa Correctional Facility, a medium-security prison, a few years before.