Murder on Easter Island Read online

  Praise for Murder on Easter Island—

  “This engaging novel held my complete attention from start to finish. Daniel Fishinghawk is a terrific detective—rich, complex and real. I particularly enjoyed the historical information woven into the mystery and the exotic location. Highly recommended.”

  —William Bernhardt, author of Primary Justice

  “In Murder on Easter Island, Gary Conrad creates a mystery of the rarest order when Detective Daniel “Hawk” Fishinghawk is sent to Easter Island to investigate a series of cannibalistic killings. Conrad’s writing is never more powerful or his imagination more sweeping than when he delves into the dark mysteries of the universe in this way, and it is the readers’ delight to be invited along for the journey.”

  —Sheldon Russell, author of The Hanging of Samuel Ash

  “In Murder on Easter Island, Gary Conrad blends suspense, a love story, history and a keen understanding of the human soul in a masterfully told story that grabbed me from page one.”

  —Joan Korenblit, Executive Director, Respect Diversity Foundation

  “This Who-Done-It takes some unusual, daring and even glorious twists across time, cultures and ethnicities. Conrad’s story evokes feeling as well as inspiring you to figure it out.”

  —Ken Hada, author of Spare Parts and Margaritas and Redfish

  “Gary Conrad has done it again. Much like The Lhasa Trilogy, he takes us on another quirky adventure through a wonderfully exotic landscape. Murder on Easter Island is a gruesomely delightful journey through the culture and history of Easter Island. His research, visits and descriptions of the scenes in his book are like a travelogue to a time and a place to which few of us ever get access. Well worth the read!”

  —D. Franklin Schultz, author of A Language of the Heart

  “Of the numerous novels set on Easter Island, Gary D. Conrad’s book is the first to effectively weave both history and fact into fiction. A highly engaging murder mystery that aims to educate.”

  —Associate Professor Ian Conrich, University of South Australia,

  curator of the exhibition “Easter Island, Myths and Popular Culture”

  “This book is an engrossing combination of the history of Easter Island/Rapa Nui and a contemporary murder mystery. The author’s use of an engaging literary device . . . allows the reader to enter the world of ancient Rapa Nui and explore this society’s culture, myths and spirituality. As such it works well as both an introduction to the world of the Rapanui, both past and present, and yet is also a gripping page-turner as we follow ‘Hawk’ in his pursuit of a gruesome and prolific serial killer.”

  —Roy Smith, Ph.D., Programme Leader,

  MA in International Development,

  Nottingham Trent University, UK

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Conrad, Gary D., 1952-

  Murder on Easter Island / Gary D. Conrad.

  1 online resource.

  Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  ISBN 978-1-56825-181-3 (epub) -- ISBN 978-1-56825-179-0 (hardcover with jacket : alk. paper)

  1. Easter Island--Fiction. 2. Mystery fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.O5555

  813’.6--dc23

  2014021691

  Murder on Easter Island: A Daniel “Hawk” Fishinghawk Mystery © 2015 by Gary D. Conrad

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-56825-179-0

  Softcover ISBN: 978-1-56825-180-6

  EPUB ISBN: 978-1-56825-181-3

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to individuals living or dead is coincidental.

  Cover image of the Ahu Ature Huki by Murray Foote (MurrayFoote.com).

  Author photo taken in a grotto, high in the Wichita Mountains, by Chris Corbett.

  Book divider page images by the author:

  Book One: Moai on Rano Raraku, a dormant volcano and the site of the quarry from where the moai were carved.

  Book Two: Cave en route to Mount Terevaka.

  Book Three: Rano Kau.

  Published by:

  Rainbow Books, Inc.

  P. O. Box 430, Highland City, FL, 33846-0430

  Telephone: (863) 648-4420 • [email protected] • RainbowBooksInc.com

  Author’s Website:

  GaryDConrad.com

  Individuals’ Orders:

  Amazon.com • AllBookStores.com • BN.com

  Permissions:

  Metraux, Alfred. “The Woman with the Long Arm” & “The Child Changed into Nanue.” In Ethnology of Easter Island. Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press, 1940.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical (except as follows for photocopying for review purposes). Permission for photocopying can be obtained for internal or personal use, the internal or personal use of specific clients, and for educational use, by paying the appropriate fee to: Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Dr., Danvers, MA, 01923, USA

  Produced and printed in the United States of America.

  To Betty Wright

  1924–2013

  My editor, mentor and friend

  Contents

  Prelude

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Book Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Book Three

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Murder on

  EASTER

  ISLAND

  Prelude

  Circa 700 CE, Mangareva, Polynesia

  Piercing screams echoed through the village.

  The old shaman Haumaka covered his ears with his hands in vain as he sat on the ground outside his thatched hut. Five of his clan’s best warriors lay dead, stretched out on the island beach, punctured many times over by spears and beaten with clubs nearly beyond recognition.

  As the naked corpses awaited being wrapped in barkcloth and placed in a nearby cave, a large group of women and children writhed in agony around them. Between wails they swatted at the flying insects that buzzed around and onto the soon-to-be-rotten flesh.

  Haumaka was saddened because, as an elder, he had known all of the dead since they were little boys, when they played and frolicked in the sand of their small beachside community. He had seen them grow to be strong young men, the best of the best.

  And now they were dead.

  The youth should never die before the elderly, he bitterly thought. But that’s the way life is. There are no guarantees — ever.

  He shook his head. This was the third battle over the past fourteen days with a neighboring tribe, and they had lost each clash in spite of the bravery of their
warriors. The others had simply overwhelmed them with numbers.

  This location was no longer safe.

  So it came as no surprise when only a short while ago the chief of his clan, Hotu Matu‘a, had asked him to dream and find a new island to move to. The thought of moving dampened his spirits even more; he loved his home. He was born and raised here and knew every special place — and there were many.

  Tired of listening to the persistent screams and knowing there was work to be done, he stuffed some taro root and baked chicken in his bag, stood and walked barefoot deep into the island forest. The thick calluses on his feet warded away injury from rocks or thorns.

  When Haumaka chose to dream, he often went to the base of a hidden waterfall, deep in the jungle — and he headed there now. Only a few knew of its location, as its secret was well kept by the shamans who preceded him. Only when he had advanced far enough in his learning was he taken there.

  And there was a reason for that.

  It was a place of visions and only for ones whose minds were prepared. He knew of those who had stumbled onto this location, meandered for a while and, upon returning, were stark raving mad, wild-eyed, screaming and seeing things no one else could. The only choice the villagers had was to tie them to a palm tree. After a day or two of wallowing in their excrement, they invariably came to their senses.

  Following a half day of hard walking, Haumaka smiled as he heard the roar of the waterfall. He parted the foliage that stood in his way and knelt by the edge of a small lagoon at the cascade’s base, inhaling deeply of the mist that gathered around his face.

  He bent over, scooped crystal-clear water into his mouth and looked up to see his favorite place for dreaming: a large, flat, moss-covered rock. He sat down on it, realized he was hungry and pulled the food from his bag.

  While he ate, he began to listen to the sounds around him: the waterfall, the soft breeze blowing through the trees and the chatter of jungle birds.

  The taro root and chicken devoured, he focused on his breath and moved his consciousness inside himself. The noises around him began to fade, and before long the part of him that was spirit left his body and flew into the air and out over the ocean.

  While Haumaka had done this many times in the past, he now directed his mind to focus on finding their next island home. He looked at the sun and measured carefully the direction he took.

  He accelerated over the water and, using his spiritual sight, saw a lush green isle far in the distance. He covered the span within the blink of an eye. As his consciousness hovered over the small island, he liked what he discovered. It was densely forested, thick with palm trees, and streams of fresh water spilled from the high grounds to eventually empty into the ocean below.

  As he looked in all directions, there was no other land to be seen.

  This place is isolated, far from the eyes of anyone else, but it is not inaccessible, he thought, pleased with his find.

  He was not a seaman by any stretch of the imagination, but guessed the distance between his home island and this one could be sailed in under a month.

  And most important of all, it was uninhabited.

  Perfect.

  When he returned to the village, he would report to Chief Hotu Matu‘a, who would send a scouting party to explore the island before he made the decision to move there. While he trusted his shaman, the chief was not one to take chances.

  Haumaka smiled as he floated above his new home, and he wondered what the future held for his clan there. Like any good shaman, he had the ability to see into the future, yet knew he could see only the waves of probability — no future was predestined. He closed his eyes and scenes unfolded before him.

  As he had predicted, the search party sent by the chief indeed found the isle to be suitable for habitation, and two large canoes containing Hotu Matu‘a and a number of his kinsmen set out to sea and successfully landed. Haumaka noted he was not in either of the boats. He grimly nodded to himself.

  Death approaches sooner than I would have guessed . . .

  In spite of this unexpected revelation, Haumaka was pleased to see how his people flourished on the new island and was awed by the beauty of the statues they constructed. But as the window of time quickened, there was deforestation, and the trees vanished.

  He frowned.

  He saw conflict among his people, shortage of food supplies, and the statues toppled over. He witnessed as slave traders and diseases devastated the population to a fraction of its previous size. Then there was a period of relative calm, accompanied by population growth, and the placement of many of the statues back to their upright position.

  All seemed well again.

  Haumaka sighed in relief.

  He started to bring his consciousness back to the present when a dark, dense, red-tinged cloud formed over the island of his dream, obscuring it from the light of the sun. He felt revulsion at what was easily the most evil manifestation he had ever perceived and was surprised to find himself becoming fearful.

  Suddenly Haumaka knew that the evil force was aware of his presence, and large black, clawed hands reached out from the cloud for him. He screamed and immediately found himself back in his body, sitting upon the mossy rock, sweating profusely.

  He leaped from the rock and washed his face frantically with cold water. He jerked his head from side to side and nervously looked around — no further sign of the apparition.

  Calming himself, he looked to the sky and felt the late afternoon sun on his face. He had to depart soon or he would be at the mercy of the night jungle.

  Haumaka thought deeply. Was he sending his beloved people to a place of doom? Perhaps, but it was the only choice. The immediate future demanded they leave, and leave soon.

  But the evil was the strongest he had ever seen. Was there a good strong enough to oppose it?

  That was a question for the future.

  He picked up his food pack and walked back down the trail, anxiously glancing at any sounds or shadows.

  Would the black hands come back for him?

  While he knew he had not long to live, he would rather not die in the clutches of evil. He quickened his pace and rushed down the jungle pathway as quickly as his aged legs would carry him.

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  August 15, 2014, New York City

  “Oh, God, this one’s even worse.”

  “You can’t mean it.”

  Detective Dockendorf stumbled from the kitchen of the small apartment as pale as a ghost and holding a handkerchief over his mouth. To his partner, he managed, “Have a look for yourself.”

  Dockendorf plopped down on the living room sofa, doing all he could not to vomit. The chili-cheeseburger and onion rings he’d had for lunch made a return visit to the back of his throat. He swallowed hard and choked them back down again.

  Detective Anderson wiped the sweat from his brow and headed toward the kitchen. Why are these crime scene investigations always like working in an oven? he wondered.

  “Dockendorf,” he said with a look of disgust on his face, “you are such a gutless fool. Why couldn’t the chief have given me a partner with more backbone?”

  Anderson entered the small kitchen and the smirk on his face quickly faded into a look of horror. Before he could stop it, a high-pitched scream erupted from his throat, and he fell back through the doorway — ending up next to Dockendorf on the sofa.

  A uniformed NYPD officer, who stood guard outside the door to the apartment, cracked it open and peeked inside. From the hallway loud conversation and camera flashes entered the room.

  Anderson thought: The press — shit — why don’t they just leave us alone?

  The policeman asked, “You guys okay?”

  Dockendorf answered sarcastically, “Yeah, we’re just taking a siesta.”

  “I’m sure,” the officer responded. “When you’re finished with your nap, you might actually do your job and investigate the scene.” He shook his head and snapped the door sh
ut to keep the press at bay.

  Anderson turned to Dockendorf and asked incredulously, “Did you see what I saw in that kitchen?”

  “You mean the guy tied to a chair with his head cut in half by a meat cleaver? The one with the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s at his feet?”

  “No, you idiot, I meant his cute, pink IZOD shirt,” Anderson retorted as he rolled his eyes.

  Dockendorf stared at him blankly, “I thought the last murder we investigated was bad —”

  “You’re not just a kiddin’. His head was nearly taken off with a butcher knife.”

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  “The chief says we better get to the bottom of these killings fast,” Anderson said. “Now the press has gotten hold of this and has started calling them the Culinary Murders, because each one was killed with something from the kitchen. This guy will make the seventh. The press might not want to admit it, but the worse this gets the happier they are. Those scum suckers are selling a shitload of newspapers over this deal.”

  “Fuck the press,” Dockendorf said, “and the chief can screw himself. How do you solve murders when there aren’t enough clues?”

  The ringtone of Anderson’s cell phone started playing “Three Blind Mice,” and he pulled the phone from his coat pocket and answered, “Anderson here — okay, Chief Kelly — right — will do.” The conversation ended and he dropped his cell phone back into his pocket.

  “Hawk’s on his way,” Anderson said. “Kelly wants him to have a look around before the rest of the gang gets here.”

  Dockendorf sighed. “You talkin’ about the new guy, from Oklahoma of all places, Daniel Fishinghawk, the crime scene genius? What do you know about him?”

  Anderson answered, “Rumor has it that his background is Cherokee Indian — though you could never tell by looking at him. I’ve heard he’s smart as hell — could be in Mensa if he wanted — a speed reader who digests over five books a week —”

  “I’m sick of that guy,” Dockendorf interrupted. “He makes the rest of us look bad. So he’s gotten lucky on a few cases. So what?”