rode a bucket skull, Brylcreemed black hair touched at the temples with gray. Whereas most of the detectives wandering through the Detective Bureau were Hawaiian, their ill-fitting wrinkled Western suits looking like costumes they were uneasily wearing, this guy was strictly Anglo-Saxon, and his dark brown suit looked neat and natural.
Both Chang and Jardine scooted their chairs back and stood, and I followed their lead.
“Inspector McIntosh,” Chang said, “may I introduce honorable guest from Chicago Police, Nate Heller.”
Never losing the kindly smile, he ambled over to me, held out his hand, as he said, “You’ve wandered off your beat.”
We shook; his grip was surprisingly soft, though his hand was like a catcher’s mitt.
“I do that from time to time,” I said. “Actually, Clarence Darrow is an old family friend. He’s come out of retirement for this case and doesn’t have an investigator on staff anymore, so I’m helping him out.”
“I’ll bet Mr. Darrow had to pull some strings to arrange that.”
“He knows how. I’m pleased to meet you, Inspector. I mentioned to Detective Apana that I hoped to speak with you.”
“Chang said as much. Isn’t the trial getting under way? I’d figure you to be at Mr. Darrow’s side.”
“Jury selection began Monday. I’m still doing leg work till the trial proper begins.”
“Ah.” He gestured like a gracious host. “Why don’t you step into my office, Detective Heller.” He cast his benignly beaming face upon Chang and Jardine. “I’ll speak to our guest privately.”
The two detectives nodded and sat back down.
Moments later, door shut behind us, I was taking the seat across from McIntosh’s big desk; other than filing cabinets, the oversized cubicle was bare: no photos or diplomas on the wall, only a few personal items on the desk to tide its occupant over till these temporary quarters were behind him.
McIntosh settled his rangy frame into the wooden swivel chair behind the desk and sat nervously rubbing his forefinger against one graying temple as we spoke.
“I wanted to speak to you one on one,” McIntosh said. “Chang Apana is a living legend around here, and Jardine is one of our best, most dogged investigators. But they’re Chinese and Portuguese, respectively, and I wanted to be able to level with you.”
“What does their race have to do with anything?”
The patient smile widened condescendingly; the lids of the world-weary, worried eyes went to half-mast. “Everything in Honolulu has to do with race, Detective Heller.”
“Well, then…how, specifically, in this instance? We have more than one race in Chicago, by the way. I’ve seen colored people before.”
“I didn’t mean to patronize. But even the sharpest detective from the biggest city force is going to find himself, well, frankly, in over his head in these waters.”
“Maybe you can toss me a life buoy.”
He chuckled mildly, even as he continued rubbing his temple nervously. “Let’s start with the Honolulu Police Department. We’re under terrible political pressure right now, and are in the midst of a reorganization. Our authority is being chipped away at, with this Territorial Force under Major Ross. And do you know why?”
“I have a hunch, but I don’t really want to seem impertinent.”
“Speak frankly.”
“It would seem you screwed up the Massie case.”
He swallowed; rubbed his forehead. “Race and politics, Detective Heller. Some years ago, white and Hawaiian political factions here threw in together, to keep the Japs and Chinese from dominating local government. Part of the deal was, the whites tossed lesser governmental jobs to Hawaiians. There are two hundred and eighty men on the force, Detective Heller—and two hundred and forty of them are Hawaiian, or of mixed Hawaiian blood.”
“What’s the difference, as long as they’re good men.”
McIntosh nodded, bringing his hands before him, folding them prayerfully. “Most of them
“Isn’t there any kind of testing, training…”
“Certainly. Cops here are trained to be able to give tourists directions. They have to be able to spell the names of the outer islands, and recommend points of interest.”
“Are they cops or tour guides?”
McIntosh’s mouth flinched. “I don’t like to bad-mouth my men, Detective Heller. Some of them—like Chang and Jardine—could rival any cops you could find anywhere. My point is that there are political pressures on this Island that undermine the department’s performance.”
“And how would you rank your performance on the Massie case?” I purposely used “your” ambiguously.
“Under the circumstances, we performed well; there was the blunder at the Quarantine Station, with the tire tracks, that simply can’t be excused. But there was pressure to prosecute, even though the case was weak.”
“You admit it’s weak?”
“We needed more time, we weren’t ready for trial. There were too many damn chinks in the government’s case that hadn’t been filled.”
I presumed he didn’t mean “chinks” in a racial sense, but it was an interesting choice of words.
