snatched open her valise and pulled forth her white lab coat and gloves. She searched next for the necessary tools of her trade. It was time to do her part.
18
First-rate intelligence is the ability to hold the test of a two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.
Dr. Asa Holcraft and others at the academy had taught her that there was no such thing as the ideal crime scene, but here in Lopaka Kowona's murderer's den, she and Parry had come damnably close to perfection. With the help of the FBI's Major Crime Scene Unit and ident techs from the HPD, the hours-long search now under the blindingly bright lights went ahead. Through-out the lair they uncovered much that would insure that Kowona would go down quickly and efficiently, unless defense counsel saw the fantastic opportunity presented him, deciding the Kowona case would mean a major leap forward for anyone capable of proving Kowona innocent by reason of insanity. She imagined some hotshot lawyer calling in his shrinks-for-hire one atop another, to attest to Kowona's inability to know right from wrong, good from evil or pain from pleasure, muddying the waters just enough forjudge and jury with sad tales of civil-rights violations to the defendant, stories of childhood molestation, split-personality syndrome and a hundred other euphemisms for animal behavior. They'd done exactly that in the Matisak case and countless others. An eager young F. Lee Bailey could make Kowona out to be the victim, leave a jury believing that the real victims here-Lina Kahala, Kia, Hiilani and countless others-didn't much matter in the grand scheme of jurisprudence. Like the photos taken by the killer himself, which would likely be labeled as inflamatory and prejudicial and therefore inadmissable. Didn't matter, she kept telling herself, struggling to do her part to counter all the possible scenarios that lay ahead of them.
In order to convict, she had to do a painstaking job here and now.
“ The ideal situation is the one you don't have,” her M.E. father had once confided. “Whether it's a tourist attraction at Disneyland or a Georgia swamp. All you can do is your job, which is to protect the integrity of the crime scene and the gathered evidence, even from the fools who think it's their scene and evidence, too.”
She had done a fair job of keeping control here, knowing there was no such thing as total control. Fibers, hairs and minutiae from the living would find a way into Hiilani's innumerable wounds. Hell, even a single open wound at the crime scene acted like a vacuum for all the microscopic debris floating by. The CSU guys at least knew enough to strap on aprons and hair nets just like the ones she'd pulled from the side pocket of her black valise. Still, Lau and his staff would have their hands full back at the lab. Everyone remotely near the body, including Jessica, would have to be ruled out as suspects when the specimens were examined under microscopic conditions. Evidence of Kowona's hair, fibers from his clothes were what was needed here, to corroborate the gruesome photos heedlessly left by the killer. At least the crime-scene photos taken here by FBI and HPD photographers could not be held inadmissable, not since Jim had been so careful about securing a warrant to search on probable cause.
When Parry asked her if she needed help orchestrating efforts here, she'd been short with him, replying curtly, “Just be damned sure that you protect the place from everybody. That includes the PC.”
Harold Shore, Chief Medical Examiner for all Oahu, who had been gravely ill, had been escorted in by Police Commissioner Dave Scanlon, who wanted some say-so and input; in fact, he wanted the scene turned over to HPD, making loud noises about his jurisdictional powers here, regardless of the fact that “discovery” came out of an FBI investigation and warrant. The P.C.'s argument was that Kowona was wanted for killing two Oahu cops and attempted murder of a third, and also for killing at least three Honolulu civilians, not to mention the fact that Kowona's bloody bungalow sat just this side of his city limits.
“ This is no time to be playing your fucking little political games, Scanlon!” Parry erupted, silencing everyone in the place. “Besides, we got him on multiple murders dating back to 1987. He's our man and this is our scene.”
Jessica stopped in her work long enough to insist that the two angry men take it outside, which they did, Scanlon beet red. Shortly afterward, Jim Parry returned, his jaw firmly set but still quivering with rage. Yet he'd clearly come out today's winner. Jessica knew it for certain when the P.C.'s car squealed all the way down the street. Dr. Harold Shore, looking a little sheepish and uncomfortable, was left in the P.C.'s wake as both eyes and ears for his friend Scanlon.
Shore was not ancient by any stretch, perhaps in his late fifties, but his skin tone was ashen, his near-bald pate barely covered with angel hair, white, wispy and graveyard thin. Dark age spots made a polka-dot fabric of his forehead and hands, lending a britde appearance. He'd obviously seen a lot over the span of his career, but like everyone here, he was stunned by the condition of the body still dangling from Lopaka's rack.
Jessica knew that if she and Shore could not play well together in this macabre sandbox, then the nightmare of problems arising long after they'd both left the scene could be enough to hand that hotshot defense counselor just what he wanted to prove police bungling and poke holes in the evidentiary protocol that a Cat bulldozer could be driven through.
“ Some guys you just can't satisfy no matter what,” Parry now said of the P.C., his eyes boring into Dr. Shore.
“ Hey, Dr. Shore can't help it if Scanlon is a hemorrhagic fart,” she ventured.
Shore erupted with laughter, and she knew immediately that she could work with this man. Meanwhile, the CSU guys stretched a twanging, metallic tape measure from two fixed points in the room to Hiilani's body, triangulating to fix the exact spot where she was found. It would form a ghastly thumbnail sketch, which she and others could use for future reference. The body was found intact, that is in one place, the shoulders dislocated from struggling against the bonds that held her fast, impaled butterfly-like, one final sword plunge fixing her to the wall so that even her entire weight pulling on the rack could not bring it off the wall. The rack itself would also be taken in evidence. Let's see 'em try to keep that out of the courtroom, Jessica silently mused. Aloud she said, “Talk about premeditation…”
She and Shore both saw that the cuts and tears from which her blood had run were symmetrical, one long scar down each side, followed by two lesser cuts coming together at the center of the body. Each cut was done with some precision and care so as to not perforate a vital organ or collapse a lung, all save the final plunge; ugly rents marred each arm, each cheek, each side of the throat; each breast had two sharp, distinct slashes, all done as she'd lived as indicated in the vital reactions around each wound. No doubt, after the first of several such slashes, Hiilani had been sent into a convulsive and merciful traumatic shock with the sudden blood loss. The insults were quickly classified as incisions by both Jessica and Shore.
Shore looked as if he might faint at this point, but he was instantly alert when Jim Parry, on hearing Shore use the word incisions, shouted in his face, “What the hell do you mean, incisions?”
“ Not just incisions, Jim,” she cut in. “Slices, rents, cautious piercings and controlled stabs.”
“ This sure as hell doesn't look controlled to me.”
“ We'll know more when we do some molds of the stab wounds,” said Shore, “determine the exact number of cuts, the depth of each, the nature of each.”
“ But from where I stand,” she continued, “I'd say our boy toyed with her for hours before he began the deep wounds, and by then, she was already dead.”
“ Don't hand me a pile of crap about he didn't mean to do it, Jessica.”
“ No one's saying that,” she countered, angry at his tone.
“ This creep's not getting off on some fucking technicality or nut plea, Jess.”
“ No one wants that,” Shore insisted.
“ But we've also got an obligation to the truth here, Jim,” she said. “And no one knows that more than you. Besides, the fact the first cuts weren't meant to kill, but to torture, doesn't in any way lessen the crime. In fact, it makes it that much more grisly, and it makes Kowona even more vulnerable to an angry jury. The length of time she suffered is significant, but you know that already.”
