Murder on Easter Island (4 page)

He glanced nervously at his watch. He had at least one more hour before he landed in Santiago; he was on his way to Easter Island.

After his meeting with the chief six days ago, Daniel had finally come around to dealing with his problem — the plane ride. If he could just buck it up and hang in there, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to get away from the hubbub of the city for a while. Easter Island had a population of around 5,000, a microcosm by comparison.

As he thought about the upcoming case, Daniel couldn’t believe that twenty-four murders had been swept under the rug. But it didn’t matter now. With any kind of luck, he’d sniff out these killings and be back in a week or so, which would give him plenty of time to figure out how to tell the chief he was quitting.

The State Department had arranged everything. They’d sent a guy from D.C. carrying a first class plane ticket, his passport and a properly filled prescription for Xanax. He wasn’t accustomed to taking medicines, but this was more than a convenience, it was a necessity.

He had seen the shrink — he had to for the prescription. But he wasn’t about to open his mind to anyone; just like he would never open his heart. It was just too risky. Look what happened when he loved his grandpa. He didn’t dare take the chance.

At the moment, though, he was in the plane watching the sun rise through the window beside his seat.

Why couldn’t the Xanax have lasted till I landed?

He would have felt a heck of a lot better if it had. Now he held a puke bag to his face and felt like the plane was spinning around like a top out of control.

He thought about taking another pill but decided against it. He couldn’t see how he could navigate the airport without being fully alert, especially since he spoke not a word of Spanish.

He would be in Santiago for a few days, just enough time to get his bearings, and then he would take the nearly five hour flight to Easter Island, located in the southeast corner of Polynesia.

How did Chile get possession of a place so far away? Daniel wondered. He hoped to eventually learn and understand. But for now, it was all he could do not to scream at the top of his lungs and run up and down the aisle like a wild man. He hated that he was this way, though given the circumstances, it was understandable. He remembered all too clearly the day it began — after all, he did have an eidetic memory — a happy Saturday gone bad.

Daniel was in the sixth grade when he made the decision to climb the tallest tree he could find along the Illinois River, a giant cottonwood well over a hundred feet tall. He snaked his way to the top where the thinness of the branch barely supported his weight. He was on cloud nine as the tree limb gently rocked back and forth in the light breeze.

Daniel was about to climb down when an unexpected thunderstorm hit. Lightning struck all around, and high winds whipped the tree from side to side. It was then that the hail came down, golf ball sized spheres of ice that rocketed from the sky, pummeling the little boy that he was. After many minutes of sheer terror, he was hit square between the eyes with a large hailstone.

In spite of being knocked completely unconscious, he was still clinging to the tree when his grandpa found him. Even now, he could hear his grandpa’s voice:

“A-da-do-li-gi — A-da-do-li-gi — can you hear me?”

“Grandpa,” he cried as he shook his head and tried to remember where he was, “is it you?”

“Yes, little one. Everything is going to be okay. I need you to shimmy down to the limb I am standing on. The branch you are on is too small for me to climb.”

“I’m scared . . .”

“I know you are — I am too. But together we are strong. Come down to me, and I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

Daniel sobbed, “Grandpa, I can’t move — I can’t . . .” He looked down and saw his grandpa smile at him.

“Daniel, just come down an inch at a time, and before you know it, you will be in my arms. I love you, Daniel. Let the strength of my love draw you down safely.”

“I love you too, Grandpa.”

Daniel slowly worked his way down the tree. He felt a surge of strength when his foot at last touched his grandpa’s outstretched hand, and when his grandpa finally held him tight, he knew he could make it back down. When he did, he swore he’d never lose touch of Earth again, and he would never forget his grandpa’s words. “Daniel, always remember that when you find yourself in trouble, just like today, I’ll be there for you — always.”

Now as a man, whether he was in a plane, or looking out a window of a skyscraper, walking over a bridge or even on an escalator, he once again became a helpless little boy.

Like now . . .

Will I ever get over this? he asked himself.

Something inside said he’d better, sooner than later.

Daniel caught his breath as the plane began to descend through the smog-filled skies of Santiago.

It couldn’t touch
terra firma
soon enough.

D
aniel’s three-day stay in Santiago went without a hitch. All of his expenses were covered by the Chilean police, including a cozy hotel in one of the better districts.

On the drive from the Santiago airport to his hotel, though, he had seen the slums from the highway. Since Chile was known to have one of the lowest poverty rates in South America, he would have hated to have seen countries that were worse. Beggars came like clockwork to his sidewalk café every evening, and he couldn’t help but give each one an American dollar or two. After he saw how some of them lived, it was the least he could do.

To Daniel’s chagrin, as he had noticed from the plane, the air quality in Santiago made that of New York City seem as pure as the driven snow. He had done some checking before and had found that the air pollution in Santiago was the third worst in the world, ranking only behind Beijing and New Delhi. He felt like holding his breath the entire time he was here.

When he left Santiago, he was glad of it, even though he was scared to death of getting on another plane. Like before, he took one of his trusty Xanax tablets, and when he roused from sleep, the plane was circling over Easter Island.

Curiosity replaced his fear as he saw the city of Hanga Roa, nestled in the far southwest corner of the island next to a large volcanic crater. He looked at his map
and discovered the crater was called Rano Kau. Water had collected at its bottom, which was covered with greenery. Just looking at the cliffs of the crater — and how they hung over the ocean — made his heart rate skyrocket.

After landing, he picked up his luggage and was greeted by a sandy-haired man holding a sign with
Fishinghawk
on it. The man was dressed in brown shorts and a short-sleeved tan patterned shirt, and he looked to be in his late sixties.

Daniel guessed it was Jack Daldy, a New Zealander who, along with his Rapanui wife Alame Koreta, was a co-owner of the centrally located Te Manutara Hotel. Daniel planned to stay there for the duration of his visit.

“ ‘Iorana!” Jack said in his lively kiwi accent as he shook Daniel’s hand and grabbed his suitcase.

“What?”

“ ‘Iorana,” Jack said again. “In Rapanui, the local language, it means hello.”

“ ‘Iorana,” Daniel repeated as they walked toward the hotel van. “Are you Jack?”

“That’s me,” Jack confirmed with a grin. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

After they had loaded into the van, Jack said, “I thought so. When the Chilean police made your reservation, they told me to hold your room indefinitely.” Jack paused for a second and asked, “Are you here to investigate the murders we have been having?”

Caught by surprise, Daniel blurted out, “I really can’t say anything about why I’m here. I hope you understand.”

Jack replied, “No problem,” as he started the van and pulled out of the airport parking lot.

“Anyway,” Daniel added, “you should know that I’ll likely only be here for a week or so.”

Jack stopped the van at an intersection, turned his head and looked him directly in the eyes. “Mark my words, young man, you’ll be here a helluva lot longer, I guarantee you.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do. And one more thing — the murders all happen during the night. So watch your step after dark; nowhere is safe on this island for outsiders. Not even our hotel.”

Not encouraging, thought Daniel. “I’ll remember that.”

“Oh, one more thing — did you bring a weapon with you?”

It was just too much trouble for Daniel to bring his Smith & Wesson on a plane and into a foreign country. He chuckled softly. “What kind of weapon?”

It’s nobody’s business what I do or do not bring into the country, he thought.

As far as Jack was concerned, Daniel might as well have said nothing. “When you meet with the police, make sure they give you one, okay?”

“The island certainly is beautiful this time of year,” Daniel remarked, trying to change the subject.

“It is always beautiful,” Jack added.

They kept their silence until they arrived at the hotel. As they unloaded from the van and entered the check-in area, Jack again said, “ ‘Iorana.”

“What?”

Jack repeated, “ ‘Iorana. It also means goodbye.”

The following morning Daniel sat in the waiting area at the police department and bided his time. He was informed by the over-perfumed secretary that the Chilean police detective, Alejandro Gomez, with whom he had an appointment at ten, was out investigating yet another of these puzzling murders. She said, in broken English, that it shouldn’t be more than a few minutes, and that was two hours ago. Daniel had already learned, though, that the entire place ran on “island time,” and no one was punctual for appointments anyway.

It was after two p.m. when Daniel heard a door slam, and an overweight, sweaty Chilean entered from the outside, cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. He looked like he hadn’t slept in months, with large dark-blue bags under his eyes. He sported a well-trimmed black moustache, wore dark brown slacks with a blue-striped shirt, partially pulled out from the front of his pants. A loosened tie hung from his neck.

He stopped in front of Daniel, sucked on his cigarette, pulled it out and exhaled smoke from his mouth and nose. “You Detective Fishinghawk?” he asked.

Daniel stood and shook his hand, “Yes. Please call me Hawk. You must be Detective Gomez?”

“The one and the same. Hawk, follow me into my office,” he said as he walked back through a hallway to an unmarked door. They entered and Gomez sat down at his desk, motioning Daniel to sit in the chair across from it.

“My first name is Alejandro, but everyone here just calls me Gomez. I normally live and work in Chile, but due to the serious nature of what’s going on here, they’ve flown me in until this case is solved. I’d like to think I was chosen because I was the most qualified for the job. You see, not only do I speak fluent Spanish, Rapanui and English, I have also studied the culture and have over twenty years in the detective branch.”

He stubbed out the last remains of his cigarette in a blue ash tray shaped like a dolphin, folded his arms together, leaned back in his chair and asked, “Do you know how many murders there have been?”

“I hear there have been twenty-four.”

“Brace yourself,” Gomez said. “Victims twenty-five and twenty-six were discovered this morning on the beach near Akahanga, about a half hour drive from here. Forensics thinks the murders occurred around ten last night, though they weren’t discovered until this morning. I just came from there.”

Gomez lit another cigarette, using a silver lighter with the initials
AG
on it, pulled out the contents of a manila envelope sitting on his desk and pored over the pages. “Hawk, looks like you come pretty highly recommended. Trust me, we need all the help we can get.”

Gomez threw the papers back on his desk. “Okay, let’s start from square one. Has your boss told you anything?”

“Not much.”

“Good. I told the State Department I preferred to tell you most of the details myself. Over the past six months there have been twenty-four . . . I mean, twenty-six murders. These killings all have several things in common. First, they have all been tourists. No one who lives on the island has been targeted. Second, all have been killed during the nighttime. There have been no sightings of the murderer —”

Daniel interrupted, “Only one killer?”

“Only one.”

“How do you know that?”

Gomez answered, “Only one set of fingerprints, the same set, have been found at each of the scenes.”

“Are there any matches?”

“None. We have fingerprinted every person who lives on this goddamned island and anyone else who has entered, whether by plane, boat — whatever. As far as we can tell, our killer does not exist. You’d think with this many murders there would be a match of some kind. It’s as if our killer comes from nowhere and disappears to nowhere.”

Daniel found himself staring at Detective Gomez. He knitted his brow in frustration. None of this made any sense.

“Now, Hawk, brace yourself for the most bizarre information of all. Our victims were tied up before they were killed, and all were cannibalized . . .”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me — cannibalized. And here’s the worst part: a number were cannibalized before they were murdered —”

“What?” Daniel interrupted as he leaned forward in his chair. He was rarely shocked, but this was one of the most horrible things he had ever heard.

“All were gagged, so no one could hear them scream. And it seems our killer had two different techniques: Sometimes he used a knife to peel the skin and muscle off, but, more often than not, he ate the flesh right off them. We’ve checked the bite marks and they all match.”

Daniel ventured, “This guy has to be crazy. Have you done a check for mental cases that have a history of cannibalism?”

“Come on, Hawk, we’re not amateurs here. Of course we have. Every known person in the world with such an illness is either dead or put away for life.

“Okay, Hawk,” Gomez said as he stood and tucked in his shirt, “enough talk. Let’s head to the scene. My top man here is Detective Tepano, who is still there looking things over. Let’s go check it out. By the way, are you armed?”