Robert Walker - Primal Instinct

1:05 P.M. July 16, 1995, Panlolo's bar. Honolulu

The raid on Paniolo's bar and grill near the university netted some suspicious blood spatters and other stains lingering after what appeared a hasty cleanup, but no ready evidence of George Oniiwah's having been held hostage there was turned up. Nonetheless, employees and any standing clientele were all arrested on drug charges, as both cocaine and heroin on the premises were sniffed out by dogs trained in the art. A little time in interrogation, a little wheeling and dealing, and someone in Paniolo's employ or sphere of enfluence would give the cretin up, or at least spill something about the missing boy, or so Parry believed.

Somebody heard something. Somebody saw something. Somebody knew something. Meanwhile, Professor Donald G. Claxton was offered protective custody but refused it, leaving Parry to put a couple of men on him, reckoning that if Oniiwah had given up Claxton as the possible killer in the Linda Kahala case, then Claxton would next disappear. And if a white man, however despicable of character, happened to be beaten or killed by kanakas…

All efforts at locating Oniiwah looked bleak until news came over the wire that the body of a young Hawaiian male was found floating in relatively remote Waimanalo Bay just northwest of Makapuu Beach Park and the Sea Peace Museum and whaling village at Waimea Falls.

Parry grabbed Jessica and drove as if possessed through the Pali Tunnel on State Route 63. The tunnel, carved through the dark bowels of the mountain, took them to the other side of the island. There they sped southeast on State 72, Parry praying they wouldn't find the body of the hapa Japa he'd rousted at Paniolo's the night before.

They arrived at a scene already secured by uniformed officers from the district, finding the usual curious onlookers edging closer to have a better look, necks craned, the crowd absurdly held at bay by hundreds of yards of black and yellow plastic ribbon. The streamer tape formed a series of U's and W's where it dangled and flailed in the wind, extended at intervals between coconut trees along the mile-long stretch of beach.

Jessica could tell two things at a distance: Her cane would be useless in the sand, and the body was extremely fresh. She left her cane and heels in Parry's new vehicle-a sporty-looking new Dodge Stealth-pulled a lab coat over her blouse and slacks, grabbed her medical bag and trudged after Parry, who'd not bothered to wait, anxious to know the truth he feared.

She'd sensed his growing anxiety as the day had worn on, and with no sign or word of George Oniiwah until this, Jim was understandably concerned.

If it was Oniiwah's body out on the sand, Jim would bury Hal Ewelo. Jessica had caught a glimpse of the man in lockup, and had found Halole “Paniolo” Ewelo not at all like Joe Kaniola. Joe, despite grief over his son, despite his frustration and the fact that he'd lied to her, had never displayed a fraction of the malevolence found in Ewelo's eyes. Paniolo was a big, burly man whose leathery face-never the same twice-folded with light and shadow as he walked through the dimly lit corridors between holding cell and interrogation room. He looked powerful enough to snap a boy like George Oniiwah in two, and his smile, which could not be wiped away by his predicament, was that of a crocodile.

They'd learned that he had, for most of his life, been a working cowboy on a huge ranch on Maui, of which there were several centered around the town of Makawao, where the famous Makawao Rodeo was held each year on July 4th, where cowboys of every size, shape, color and hue of Hawaiian ancestry or otherwise competed in a day of wild sport. From the look of him, Ewelo rarely lost, but scars on his face, hands and arms were reminders of a rugged life in which he more than once was stepped on by a Brahman bull. It was quite conceivable that the man could easily lose control, go over the top and kill Oniiwah while trying to get the truth-that young George knew something about the disappearance and death of Lina Kahala, at least according to the Ala Ohana, which Ewelo, an illiterate even in his own language, had read to him each moming.

Parry didn't need any further reason to suspect Halole Ewelo after learning of a rumor that the rugged cowboy was carrying out a vigilante search for the sadistic killer of a native girl. Parry had desperately tried to make this clear to Donald Claxton, but the man wouldn't listen to reason.

As Jessica now approached the body on the beach, dredged up by a local man's net, she feared the worst; Parry's instant reaction to the body lying face down in the sand, the head turned to one side, the mouth agape and playing home to a sand crab, told the story.

Jim's eyes spoke clearly of his hurt, and for a moment she searched his gaze deeply, trying to share the pain, to feel with him, and for an instant she snatched at and caught all the emotions that had cauldroned between them since their first meeting. The empathy surged through her heart.

“ I'm sorry, Jim.”

His terse response was cool, even defiant, a pretense. “I want to know exactly how he died, when he died, what he ate a half hour before he died-down to the last ugly detail. I want all the I's dotted and the T's crossed on this, Jess. I want this sonofabitch Paniolo like I've never wanted anybody before. You understand that?”

She understood it was personal, that he felt guilty, that he believed himself as culpable as Hal Ewelo and the likely others who'd killed this boy. “I'll do what I can,” she quietly said, going to her knees, creating an indention in the sand alongside the body. She began her superficial examination of Oniiwah's remains. She was keenly aware of the incongruity here between the beautiful landscape and the ugly death at her fingertips, and that all around her stood the island authorities, equally puzzled and bewildered by death's ability to end life at so young an age.

The men shuffling about and around her were nervous ambulance attendants, uniformed county cops and detectives, some just arriving to have a look, others responding to the alert. Even here, in paradise, men ruled and men squandered and women picked up the pieces, she thought.

The boy'd been deposited in the ocean without clothing, and his bruises were everywhere over the torso, head and limbs, many of the purple bruises and gashes no doubt inflicted by the coral reefs here, but many also bearing the unmistakable mark of human cruelty…

On first glance, with the body face down, she could not say for sure which blow might have killed Oniiwah, although there was great trauma to the head.

“ All right.” She firmly gave the order. “Let's roll him.”

With Jim's help, she turned the body in a controlled, easy manner so as not to add any new injuries, such as a broken neck from wrongful handling of the dead weight. With the turning of the corpse, a collective gasp went around the men standing over her to combine with her own when the real damage came clear: Oniiwah had been literally emasculated, his sex organs gone, the scrotum washed clean of blood and loose matter by the sea. This alone might have been enough to send him into shock and thus eventual death. Multiple contusions about the eyes, nose and mouth were also contributing factors, along with a horrid gash to the left temple by a blunt instrument, most likely a hefty paperweight, brass knuckles, a ball bat or the butt of a revolver.

“ He was severely tortured,” she said uselessly just to break the eerie silence that had materialized all around her.

“ You saying he was butchered before or after he was killed?” Parry asked, his jawbone set and quivering.