Murder on Easter Island Page 5

  Daniel tried to focus on the pristine landscape and smother thoughts of his dream. He was looking forward to the feel of the warm ocean water, the sand between his toes.

  As he topped a small hill, he was taken aback as he found José Tepano waiting for him, standing by his police car on the road just before the entry to the beach.

  Daniel called out, “José! It’s good to see you, but I was expecting Jack.”

  “I know you were. I phoned him and, when I found out your plans, I came here instead. Hawk, do you have your cell phone with you?”

  Daniel came up to him and said, “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “Sometimes the cell service on this island is pretty spotty. I have been trying to reach you all day.”

  Daniel sensed something was afoot. “Why?” he demanded.

  “It’s Gomez — he’s dead.”

  Chapter 8

  September 3, 2014

  “What happened?” Daniel asked as Tepano’s police car sped down the road toward Hanga Roa.

  “Hawk, like you, Gomez wasn’t expected to be here all that long, so the Chilean police put him up in the Moana Nui Hotel, just across the street from where you are staying.”

  Daniel still couldn’t believe it. Gomez dead?

  “He was last seen alive at the hotel restaurant last night around nine,” José continued. “When he didn’t show up for work this morning at his usual eight o’clock, his secretary thought Gomez had decided, like he does sometimes, to have a morning phone call with his wife and children. Around nine or so, she started to worry and phoned the hotel. When she learned his car was still there, she called me and I went to investigate. After I arrived, I knocked on his door — no answer. I checked the door and found it was unlocked. Inside — well, you’ll soon see for yourself.”

  “But,” said Daniel, “doesn’t this make the first non-tourist to be killed?”

  “Right. I have no idea why the murderer is killing all those tourists, but the motive for Gomez’s killing seems clear. He knew Gomez was on his trail and decided to take him out. And who can tell, maybe Gomez was onto something.”

  “Well, if he was, we’ll never know now,” said Daniel.

  “One more thing,” José added, “I knew the Chilean police would dispatch someone else from Santiago to head the investigation once they got wind of Gomez’s death, so, before he got here and ordered me otherwise, I held a press conference at noon and told the public about the killings.”

  “You did what?”

  “You heard right,” José said, “I spilled the whole ugly mess out to the press. That is, except for the details about the crime scenes. We need to keep that close to our vests — for obvious reasons. Besides, we don’t need any more hysteria than we already have.”

  “Agreed.”

  “This story has been broadcast all over the world and nearly every inbound plane flight and boat excursion to the island has been cancelled — that is, except for the charters from Santiago packed with reporters, who have already started to arrive. The tourists still here will be leaving as soon as they can find a plane. Hawk, you and I both know this was the right thing to do, but the backlash — well — I’ll be lucky if I’m not fired.”

  Daniel nodded in concurrence.

  The two rode in silence for the rest of the way until they turned onto the street in front of the Moana Nui Hotel. Seeing no place to park, José drove on a bit farther and pulled into a space.

  Daniel asked, “Where did all these cars come from?”

  “Looks like the press is now here,” José said.

  When they walked up to the hotel, they discovered a large crowd, not visible from the street. Someone recognized them and exclaimed, “Look, there they are!”

  Daniel tried to ignore the questions as they pressed their way through the crush of reporters. Several microphones were shoved in his face.

  “Is it true you’re here from New York City to investigate these murders?”

  “What’s this we hear about the victims being cannibalized?”

  “Have all those killed been tourists?”

  Daniel and José were finally able to break through the melee and step over the police tape to the front of the Moana Nui Hotel, an inviting, one story, red-roofed hotel surrounded by lush foliage.

  “So much for keeping a lid on things,” José whispered to Daniel as they walked around the corner to Gomez’s room, not far from the main entrance. When they cracked open the door, they discovered a handful of detectives were still inside, dusting for fingerprints and gathering evidence.

  Before they entered, José said, “Look, Hawk, I’m going out front to deal with the press. See what you can come up with. I’ll check back with you when I’m through, and then we’ll go pick up your SUV.” With that, José turned away.

  As Daniel started to walk inside, a policeman at the door thrust a handful of objects in his direction and spoke in English, “Wear these paper shoe covers and gloves — we can’t have you messing up the evidence. And here’s a flashlight for when you want to take a closer look.”

  After pocketing the small flashlight, Daniel donned the shoe covers and gloves, then took a few steps inside.

  Immediately he noticed the body of Gomez, tied to a heavy wooden hotel chair in the middle of the room. Something about everyone working around a naked body — especially the man who had once been their boss — just didn’t seem right.

  Daniel tried to put his emotions to the side. What about Gomez’s wife and kids? How were they taking the news? While he wasn’t close to Gomez, the last time he saw him, he was walking and talking.

  Not now.

  Daniel refocused his thoughts . . . time to piece together what happened. He scanned the room, putting all the images into his mind, remembering every detail. The room was completely trashed; Gomez did not go down without a fight.

  Daniel took a few long breaths through his nose. Just as he suspected, the distinctive odor was once again present.

  About five feet past the front door sat a large pool of congealed blood . . .

  The killer must have attacked Gomez just after he entered, Daniel reasoned.

  Daniel glanced over at Gomez. His throat had two separate cuts, one on each side . . .

  Must have slashed one side of Gomez’s neck when he came in.

  To the far left of the room was Gomez’s bloodied gun . . .

  Gomez went for his gun, but the killer wrested it from him and threw it aside.

  Daniel walked to his right to examine the bathroom, its door demolished. Another large pool of blood . . .

  Gomez was bleeding like a stuck pig, but he somehow managed to wrestle himself away and barricade himself in the bathroom. He only had a few moments before the door was broken down and he was cut on the other side of his neck.

  Daniel then noticed streaks of blood on the tile floor leading from the bathroom to the chair where Gomez was tied . . .

  Gomez was near dead by the time he was dragged to the chair, stripped and tied up. Then he was cannibalized. He couldn’t have been alive at that point.

  Thank God.

  With the fight Gomez put up, it would have created racket galore. He asked the nearest detective, “I’m Daniel Fishinghawk — investigator from the United States. Do you know why no one heard anything?”

  He answered, “Our killer is no dummy. There was a rock and roll party going on next door, and it would have taken a nuclear blast to have heard anything. He had kept his eye on the situation and waited for his chance.”

  Daniel nodded and took a closer look at Gomez. Just like the murders yesterday, Gomez had large patches of flesh missing. Bite marks were all over his body. No gag this time — the killer knew it wasn’t necessary.

  Now Daniel had a thought . . .

  Gomez was an experienced investigator, and if he had a second to spare, he would have found a way to leave a clue about the killer. But when would he have had the time?

  The bathroom?

  Danie
l made his way into the blood-splashed bathroom, careful not to step in any blood. He took his time and meticulously screened the room.

  Where would Gomez hide a clue while he was dying?

  Where would he put it so his assailant wouldn’t find it?

  Daniel inspected the shower and tub with its plastic, draw-back curtain. He looked at the bathroom sink and checked every square inch of the room.

  Nothing.

  He turned to walk out the door and had a final, desperate thought: the shower drain?

  Daniel pulled back the shower curtains and removed the rubber plug from the drain. He pulled the flashlight from his pocket and examined the inside of the hole carefully.

  Something there . . .

  He then reached inside with his gloved little finger and felt a tiny rolled up piece of paper, bent so that it wedged against the side of the drain.

  As he carefully pulled it out, he discovered a torn-in-half business card, wrapped around a broken toothpick with blood still staining one point.

  Gomez had used this as a blood pen.

  This toothpick was one he likely had in his mouth when he came in from the restaurant. Daniel held his breath as he set the bent toothpick on the side of the tub and slowly unwrapped the crumpled card.

  On it was scrawled in blood —

  HITIRAU

  Chapter 9

  September 4, 2014

  Despite of the gloom of the previous day, it was a beautiful Thursday morning. Daniel had finished his breakfast and walked briskly, headed to the home of Tiare Rapu, the elderly woman who was to instruct him.

  Daniel smiled as he discovered all sorts of cur dogs, and an occasional horse, roaming the streets. As he thought about it, he realized he hadn’t seen billboards — anywhere — since he had arrived. Neither had he seen a stoplight. The main thoroughfares were clean and paved, and a number of colorful shops and restaurants lined them.

  As he moved along, his mind went back to yesterday evening in Gomez’s hotel room, where he had shown José the evidence he had found in the drain.

  “What do you think?” Daniel asked.

  José seemed puzzled. “Hawk, Hitirau is an akuaku.”

  “What’s an akuaku?”

  “Akuaku are the spirits of the dead, and Hitirau happens to be one from our ancient past. When I was a boy my grandparents used to scare the life out of me with stories about akuaku.”

  “Sort of like what we in the United States call a ghost story?”

  “Exactly. The traditional wisdom of Rapa Nui is full of such tales. But such stories are just that — stories. The question is: What made Gomez think he had seen a spirit? Was he getting so giddy from his blood loss that he began to hallucinate? He knew much about Rapanui folklore; that’s one of the reasons he was picked to come here. But he was from Chile, and I’m sure he wouldn’t believe such nonsense. What do you think?”

  Daniel shrugged. “I’ve no earthly idea, but I’m determined to find out. By the way, I’m going to call tonight and make an appointment with an elderly woman who was referred to me by the hotel. Her name is Tiare Rapu. Do you know her?”

  “Who doesn’t know Crazy Tiare? What do you want to see her for?”

  “I was told she knows about island history, and if I’m to have any chance to solve these murders, I need to know plenty more than I do now. Also, I’m told she will be willing to help me learn the Rapanui language.”

  José laughed. “She is truly an ancient relic and will tell you story after story. But I need to warn you to take everything she says — how do you Americans say it? — with a grain of salt.”

  As he hurried along, Daniel kept glancing at his map of Hanga Roa, which eventually led him to Tu‘u Ko Ihu Street. Before long he came upon her home. It was a rather small, rectangular shaped house made of what appeared to be native stone. As he approached the modest residence, he saw wooden carvings of lizards above the door. He knocked and waited.

  In a few moments the door opened wide, and a slender, white-haired Rapanui woman appeared, wearing a white blouse with black pants. Her beaming smile made the wrinkles on her face hardly noticeable. She said in clear English, “You must be Daniel Fishinghawk?”

  “Yes, and you must be Mrs. Rapu?”

  “Yes.” She motioned him inside with a wave of her hand. “Please call me Tiare. Everyone does.”

  “Of course,” Daniel replied as he entered into a concrete-floored living area with carved wooden furniture padded with brown cushions. The coffee table was a salvaged shipping crate, and the furniture sat on a large frayed area rug with pictures of moai on them. As he sat on the couch, he added, “Most of my friends back home call me — Hawk.”

  She smiled at him as she sat on an adjacent chair. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just call you Daniel — it’s such a strong name.”

  As Daniel heard her words, he recalled his previous conversation with Alame Koreta. He figured: I might as well give in to it.

  “While we’re on the topic of names,” she added, “your last name is most interesting — Fishinghawk. Alame tells me it is Native American.”

  “Actually, it is Cherokee.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look like the Indians I’ve seen on television in your American westerns. While your hair and eyes are dark, your skin color is much lighter.”

  “No apology necessary,” Daniel said. “Over the centuries, a good number of my tribe have intermarried with those of European descent. Many who consider themselves Cherokees have the appearance of Caucasians. Even one of the best known Cherokees, John Ross, our principal chief in the early part of the nineteenth century, was one eighth Cherokee and seven eighths Scottish.”

  “How interesting,” she remarked. “Since we began interacting with the Europeans, the same has happened with us.”

  “I noticed the lizard carvings over your front door. Do they have any special meaning?”

  “Well, yes,” she said. “This is one of our ancient traditions. When my ancestors settled on this island, they often placed carvings of either lizards or crayfish over the entrances to their homes. They felt the image protected them from evil spirits.”

  Daniel glanced around the room. “You have a very nice home.”

  “Thank you. In the nineteen eighties the Chilean government built me an asbestos-sheet home on this location. The construction quality was awful, and the material it was built with was even worse. You do know about the association of asbestos and cancer, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Daniel said.

  “In the nineteen nineties I had it torn down, and with the little money that I had, I built this one. The native rock was cheap, but the concrete had to be shipped from Chile and was terribly expensive. So much so, that I couldn’t afford the bags of sand to mix with it. Fortunately, I knew some strong young men who were aware of my predicament. At night, when no one was looking, they took some loads of sand from ‘Anakena, and I was able to complete my home.” Tiare smiled and winked at Daniel.

  Daniel couldn’t help himself — he laughed out loud. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and you seem to have plenty of will.”

  She grinned and said, “Now, I understand you want to know more about Rapa Nui?”

  “Yes,” Daniel responded, “and not only about the island. I want to learn the language as well. I would like to pay you for your time.”

  “No, no — don’t be silly. The only payment I require is for you to tell me some things about your Cherokee history. Does that sound fair?”

  “You bet it does. That’s a great deal — I haven’t heard a better one lately.”

  “Before we go on,” she added, “I’d like to learn from you what your motivations are to learn more about Rapa Nui. I must confess I saw you on television last night. You’re here to investigate the murders?”

  After the broadcast, he saw no further reason for subterfuge. “Yes. I have sought you out because it’s my belief that the more I know about your people, the bette
r chance I’ll have to solve them.”

  “Where would you like to begin?”

  Daniel leaned forward and said, “First, tell me about akuaku.”

  Her eyebrows rose ever so slightly, and she cautiously asked, “What would you like to know about them?”

  “I’ve heard they are spirits of the dead.”

  “That is true,” Tiare confirmed, “but there is much more to say about them. We believe that, sometimes, when a Rapanui dies, their spirit may linger and help protect the territory of their descendants from intruders. If the members of their own clan behaved properly, the spirits — the akuaku — were well-mannered and protective towards them and their land. But toward strangers or invaders they could be hostile or even dangerous. Some have even been described as being demonic in nature.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. So, like almost everything in life, akuaku have a good and a bad side.”

  Daniel said, “In my country, some believe that people can be possessed by demonic spirits. Do akuaku do that?”

  “Not in our tradition. While akuaku can be embodied in animals and natural phenomena, such as landslides and heavy raindrops, they are not known to possess people. They can affect them, though, and cause them to fall down, get bucked off a horse, or even make someone have a heart attack. Even in our modern times, akuaku are still taken quite seriously by many Rapanui.”

  Daniel decided to take a chance. He leaned forward and said in a confidential voice, “I would like to share some information with you and get your thoughts. Can I count on you to keep this to yourself and tell no one else?”

  Tiare grinned, obviously delighted by this turn of events. She brushed her index finger across her closed mouth and promised, “My lips are sealed.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard about the death of Detective Gomez at the Moana Nui Hotel?”

  “I have.”

  “What would you say if I told you the last word he wrote down was Hitirau?”

  Tiare paled. “Oh, dear. Hitirau is an akuaku who stays in the area of our island called Puna Pau. Have you heard of it?”