“… so that’s it, then, Mr. Malcolm?” the NTSB agent said; she finished scribbling. “Your CliffsNotes version of Mr. Logan’s arrangement with the Navy?” The agent clicked her pen, lowered her clipboard. She removed her aviator sunglasses, squinted at Evan and Mr. Logan both.
“In a nutshell, yes,” Evan said. “In place since the fifties. I’ll send over some declassified documents tonight, plus other peripheral info, some of it redacted. A little more than what the media already has. I know your superiors won’t be bashful asking for more if they need it.”
The five of them—Evan, Mr. Logan, Philo, Patrick, and Detective Ujikawa—walked the perimeter of the fenced animal pen in observation mode, ogling the copter’s front deck pieces, blades, twisted bulkhead skin, and at the far end of the rectangular animal pen, the rear section including the tail rotor.
“You feeling anything here, Philo?” Evan asked.
“Nothing more than wondering what the NTSB’s going to do with these chunks of helo, how they intend to cart it off, and to where. A planes, trains, and automobiles solution to the max.”
“Some bigger Sikorsky military-grade copters,” Evan said. “Forklifts, maybe a small crane to either move it onboard or tether it underneath for a cable ride across the channel. I’m waiting for orders.”
“I can vouch for that,” Detective Ujikawa said. “It’s getting airlifted to a small warehouse at Lihau Airport. Chief Koo’s already gotten clearance. This isn’t only an air disaster, it’s a murder investigation. The Kauai police get to sink their teeth into it, too.”
Philo crouched down outside the front passenger side of the flight deck, positioned himself for a clear view across one bloody seat to the other. “To the naked eye, there’s blood where you’d expect it, on the pilot’s seat—”
His pointer finger was in motion. “… and here you can see droplets splattered around the interior. Originating from the victim probably, from the centrifugal force of a copter starting to spin out of control. And there…”
He directed them to the pilot’s door. “A bloody left handprint, pressed against the inside bulkhead. The pilot trying to steady himself, after he’d been attacked maybe. And right here, if you look closely—”
His finger swept its way from the bulkhead to the joystick. “His bloody right hand held onto the controls until he no longer could, which was until—stay with me—”
Philo pointed. “Until the passenger dragged him across the interior, across his own seat, and out of the helicopter with him. See? More blood. A left-to-right bloody skid mark on the seat cushion, a smear I figure is from dragging the pilot across it.”
The detective dropped to a crouch next to Philo, his facial expression noncommittal, his head taking its time swiveling everywhere that Philo had directed them to look. When he rose from a squat he retrieved a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. His nod was slow and pronounced, affirming. He addressed Philo.
“I like it. I like all of it. And I liked it just as much when our investigators arrived at the same conclusion. But one part of that scenario is problematic.”
Philo, out of his crouch, ran a hand through his rooster-comb hairline, coming up empty on a response.
“Time’s up,” the detective said. “The issue with that scenario…”
“I got it!” Patrick said from the fringe. “There was, um, no need to drag the pilot out of the copter after his throat was slit, sir, because, you know, he was already gonna die.”
“Exactly,” the detective said. “Yes. So here’s what happened, based on an expedited autopsy by the coroner, and something you guys couldn’t know: his throat was cut in two places. The first thrust of the knife caught his aviator helmet’s chinstrap on the way to cutting into his neck. Not a mortal wound, so it probably only pissed him off. Unfortunately, the second wound was. Mortal, that is.”
Philo, seeing it now: “The second wound came after he was pulled from his seat.”
“Bingo. They might have even struggled some after they both exited the copter. Chances are there’s a knife or some other sharp instrument out there in the channel, or maybe it’s somewhere on the island. Either way the body, and this spectacle we see here, is enough to tell what happened to bring the aircraft down.” He clicked his pen, flipped open his notepad. “Gimme some contact info on you and your associate, Mr. Trout. Maybe we can talk later. Name-wise I have Philo Trout, and it’s Patrick… what did you say your last name was again, Patrick?”
A newly distraught Douglas Logan turned away, found a seat on a bench outside the church, and dropped hard onto it. Ella and Ben sidled up alongside, comforting him. Detective Ujikawa finished his notetaking, then checked for a phone signal, eventually finding one. Philo, Patrick, and Evan converged on Mr. Logan at the bench but kept their distance.
He waved them forward, finished sniffling into the large yellow kerchief raised from his neck. “So this is the young man you were talking about.”
“Yes, sir,” Evan said.
Mr. Logan stood, took measure of Patrick, a visual scan north to south and then north again, Patrick cooperating but uncomfortable at so close an inspection. His face, his coal-black Polynesian hair, they were similar in color and texture to Ella’s. Mr. Logan’s squinty scrutiny stopped just short of gripping Patrick’s chin like a rancher does livestock.
“The short answer is many families have left the island with their young children and moved to Kauai over the years. The timing could have been right. But no, I don’t recognize him as one of them. Ella, Ben?”
Heads nodded in agreement,
