taken, between the slow lights and the even slower tourists. Waikiki is a small place, roughly one and a half miles long and a half-mile wide, and close to 25,000 people live here. Of course, there are also 34,000 hotel and condo rooms, and they are occupied close to 85% year-round. That means an average of 65,000 extra people crammed in on any given day. No wonder traffic’s so bad.
We got into the office just after nine and started filling out the paperwork. Akoni called Mealoha and apologized again, then covered his mouth and whispered something to her. I snickered, just on general principles, and he glared at me. Sitting at my desk, which faced out toward Kalakaua Avenue, filling out forms, I could almost forget I had any personal involvement in this case. Almost.
Kalakaua was swarming with tourists on their way to the beach. Honeymooners holding hands, elderly people walking with slow, arthritic gaits, busloads of Japanese tourists carrying Gucci shopping bags and talking fast. In the middle of them all were people handing out flyers for time-shares and restaurants with early bird specials. I called the medical examiner’s office on Iwilei Road, near the Dole cannery, and found that the autopsy was slated for two o’clock. “Just after lunch,” I said to Alice Kanamura, the receptionist there. “You guys schedule them deliberately like that?”
“We got lots of sickness bags, you need,” Alice said. “I’ll put one aside with your name on it.”
She was laughing merrily when she hung up. I guess you get your laughs where you can when you work for the coroner.
There were no witnesses to interview, yet. Dispatch faxed us a transcript of the call I’d made, which did us no good. The 911 operators have a computer-assisted dispatch system now, which transmits emergency information direct to the radio dispatcher. The computer shows the address any 911 call is made from, along with the phone number and subscriber name. That way, in case somebody’s in trouble and can only dial the number, the police have a way to trace the call.
On a whim, I dialed Motor Vehicles on my computer and checked registrations for a black Jeep Cherokee. There were thousands. I quickly disconnected when I saw Akoni coming over to my desk.
“We got nothing on this case, you know?” he asked. “Nothing.”
“We’ll have more this afternoon,” I said. “Let’s get the reports finished on yesterday before we get buried in this one.”
We spent the rest of the morning writing our reports on the failed drug bust. Neither Pedro nor Luz Maria were registered at the colleges they pretended to attend, and Luz Maria had a drug related rap sheet as long as her sleek black ponytail. We didn’t find any priors on Pedro, but that could have meant he’d been more careful, or maybe he’d given us a false ID. They’d been held downtown overnight and released when there was no physical evidence to tie them to any crime.
At 12:30 we walked up the block for a lunch of saimin, Japanese noodles in a broth flavored with chicken or beef. “Good choice, brah,” Akoni said as he slurped his from a paper bowl. “Easy going down, easy coming back up if the autopsy a bad one.”
The noodle shop was tucked into a corner of a building on a side street just makai of Kuhio Avenue, and we stayed back against the building to take advantage of the meager shade. In Honolulu, we don’t use north, east, south and west. We say something is mauka, meaning toward the mountains, or makai, meaning toward the sea. That’s roughly north and south. West is Ewa, pronounced like Eva Gabor, after a town beyond the airport. The other direction, toward Diamond Head, we simply call Diamond Head.
The sun was high in the sky and the shadows of the palm trees were nearly symmetrical around their bases. There was a light trade wind, though, so out of the direct sun the temperature wasn’t too bad. Around us swirled the constant parade of tourists, beachgoers and store workers who make up the daily population of Waikiki, including a tall Hawaiian guy in a red feathered cape and traditional curved headdress, passing out flyers for Hawaiian heritage jewelry. A rainbow covey of tiny kids, each wearing construction-paper name tags and holding hands in pairs and threes, passed us on their way to the IMAX theater, chirping and laughing.
“You want to go back to your place for your truck or take my car?” Akoni asked. Detectives drive their own cars in Honolulu, though we get an allowance from the department to help subsidize the cost. The department has to approve our choice of vehicles, and requires certain minimum standards-size of engine, ability to install a radio and so on. My truck was a hand-me-down from my father, and its black paint was pitted with dings and dents and the effects of salt water. The back windshield was cluttered with surf decals and the back end sagged a little, but I could carry as many surfers and their boards as I wanted, and it was comfortable and didn’t cost much to run.
Something about Akoni’s comment stung me, and it took me a minute to register why. I wondered how long I would associate going back to my apartment with running away from my troubles. I said, “We can take yours.”
MEDICAL-LEGAL AUTOPSY
There are a couple of reasons why detectives witness autopsies. Often evidence, such as bullets embedded in a victim, is removed during the autopsy and transferred to police custody. The detective’s presence makes the chain of possession simpler. Going to the autopsy yourself means you find out the results much quicker than if you had to wait for the formal report. And most important, if you go to the autopsy, and force yourself to pay attention, you may find out information you didn’t even know you needed.
At the autopsy of an elderly woman who had been strangled while visiting Honolulu on vacation, the medical examiner, Doc Takayama, had mentioned she showed signs of high blood pressure and undoubtedly had taken medication to control it. I wrote that down, and later that day, going through her hotel room one last time, I’d looked for her medication. Hadn’t found it.
A check with her son on the mainland, and her doctor, revealed that she took Prinivil, a blood pressure regulator, and wouldn’t spend a night without it. I filed that information under “unsolved mysteries” until a couple of days later when an elderly man showed up at the station asking questions about her. He wanted to know how to contact her next of kin about money she owed him. I was suspicious enough of him to get a search warrant, and surprisingly, found her Prinivil in his medicine cabinet. He admitted romancing her, and finally killing her.
Akoni and I took Ala Wai Boulevard to the Ewa end of Waikiki, then connected to Ala Moana Boulevard, which took us past the mall and finally connected to Nimitz Highway, sliding us into the flow of traffic along the edge of downtown. Past the Aloha Tower Marketplace and Chinatown, over Nu‘uanu Stream, and into the more industrial district that surrounds the airport. The medical examiner’s office is on Iwilei Road, just off Nimitz, in a two-story concrete building with a slight roof overhang. The paint on the building is peeling and the landscaping is overgrown-after all, the dead don’t vote. The building is between the Salvation Army and a homeless center- something I always thought was an ironic comment, but maybe was intended as an object lesson to those less fortunate. You never know what the city fathers are really thinking, after all.
We pulled into the small parking area in the center of the building, and walked in the glass block entrance, where Alice Kanamura greeted us with a renewed offer of sickness bags. “I’ll get back to you on that,” I said. “Doc ready for us?”
She buzzed him. “He’ll be right down.” Doc Takayama was the Medical Examiner for Honolulu City and County, though he looked barely old enough to have graduated medical school. He was a kind of whiz kid, graduated in record time from the U of H, and he told me once he went into pathology because he didn’t have to worry if the patients would trust him. He came into the vestibule to meet us, patting down the pockets of his white coat for his tape recorder.
“Good, I’m glad you’re here. We can get started.”
We followed him up the stairs to a white-tiled room where we all put on surgical scrubs, paper booties over our shoes, and paper shower caps. You can’t be too careful today, especially with an unidentified corpse. The scent of formaldehyde and death wafted around us, but Doc Takayama was oblivious to it.
We walked beyond the white room into another, where the body was laid out on a metal table, ready for the medical-legal autopsy. That’s a special kind of exam, ordered by the authorities in the case of deaths which may have legal implications. Suspicious deaths, like murders and suicides, or unexpected sudden deaths without clear causes.
Doc’s assistant, Marilyn Tseng, was taking photographs. On the wall beyond us, against lights, were a set of x-rays of the guy’s head. From where I stood, I could see a bloody matted place on the back of the head, where
