I got my digital camera from the truck and took a few pictures of the crime scene before Doc Takayama’s techs loaded Hiroshi Mura’s body onto the gurney. I tried to get Doc to take the rooster, too, but he wasn’t having any of it. Parts of the dead chicken were in six different evidence bags, and Doc insisted they could go direct to ballistics without passing through his office. “People yes, chickens no,” he said. “I gotta have some standards, Kimo.”
Lidia thought this was all very funny, and I was having trouble keeping from laughing myself. “And I get to tell Lieutenant Sampson about this,” I said. “Lieutenant, we’ve got a serious situation out there in Makiki. Double homicide. Man and moa.” I used the Hawaiian word for chicken-just because it sounded right.
“Isn’t that chickencide?” Lidia asked.
“Poultrycide,” Doc said.
I groaned. “Get a new lifecide.”
Once the body had been removed and Doc and his team had left, Lidia and I scoured every inch of the area looking for evidence. There wasn’t any.
“Can you run the chicken downtown for me?” I asked her. “I want to do a quick canvass of the neighborhood and I don’t want to leave it in my truck.”
Just then her radio crackled to life. There was a traffic altercation on McCully Street, a few blocks away. All available units were called to the area. “Sorry, Kimo, got to go.” She jumped into her black-and-white and burned rubber.
I put the dead chicken in the bed of the truck and hoped it’d be safe from marauding cats, then I started knocking on doors.
It was a working class neighborhood, and by ten o’clock in the morning most people were doing just that, working somewhere else. I went down the block, ringing doorbells at small, often run-down houses from the 1950s, and leaving my card in the jamb with a note at each place. There was little attempt at landscaping there; the occasional hibiscus blooming forlornly in a corner of the yard, a couple of stunted wiliwili trees, a few cabbage palms. One house had a shrine in the center of the yard, a chipped statue of St. Joseph with slanted eyes, surrounded by a burst of morning glories. The grass grew around the base of the statue in long spikes, and hadn’t been trimmed in a long time.
Then I came to a small green bungalow with white shutters, much better kept than the neighboring houses. You could tell a lot of loving care had gone into the placement of the rocks, the neatly weeded beds, the precise arrangement of the miniature trees.
There was also a rainbow flag hanging above the garage, and an open Suzuki Samurai in the driveway. That was a good sign. The man who came to the door was haole, in his late forties, in cut off jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt. I showed my badge and introduced myself.
“Come on in, detective,” he said, stepping back. He said his name was Jerry Bosk, and he showed me into the living room. When I was sitting on the chintz sofa, falling backward into a mass of plush cushions, he took a good look at me. “You’re the gay cop, aren’t you?”
My stomach felt queasy. “I don’t like to think of myself that way, but, yes, I’m gay.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it as an accusation.” He sat forward in a gnarled wooden rocking chair, one hand on his thigh. “You’ve been an inspiration to us, you know. I mean, to me and the people I know. You’ve been showing the world that all gay men don’t have to be nelly queers who like to dress up in women’s clothes and wear makeup. I admire you.”
“Thanks. I’m here about a murder that happened down the street. Did you see or hear anything unusual this morning?”
Bosk sat back and rocked a little in his chair, thinking. He was a handsome guy, sandy hair and a strong face, with a smudge of sawdust on his cheek. “I can’t say I did. I wish I could help you. I’m a carpenter, a cabinet maker, and I’ve often got equipment going. When I’m not working, we’ve always got music in the house-it helps to drown out the neighborhood racket.” Indeed, I could hear some kind of baroque concerto coming out of the stereo speakers, very low, just enough to wash out background noise.
“You didn’t see anyone unusual, hear any strange sounds?”
He shook his head.
“You said we, Mr. Bosk. Someone else lives here with you?”
“My lover, Victor Ramos,” he said. “He’s at work now.”
I stood up and handed him a card. “Well, thank you. If you or Mr. Ramos think of anything, will you give me a call?”
“Have you talked to our neighbors?” he asked, as he walked me toward the door. He nodded with his head to indicate the house to the left, the one with the statue of St. Joseph. “She jogs early in the morning. She might have seen something.”
“No one was home. I’ll be sure to check back with them, though. Thanks.”
“They’re a funny couple,” he said, as we stood at the front door. “They don’t fit in with the rest of the neighborhood.” He laughed. “I mean, not that Vic and I really fit in either, but we try. We talk to people, we have a mango tree in the back yard and we always give people fruit.” He laughed again. “Funny, fruits from the fruits. But them, well, there’s just something strange about them. I can’t say any more than that.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
As I walked down the path to the street, he called out behind me, “Keep up the good fight, Detective.”
I wasn’t sure which kind of fight he meant.
I made it back to headquarters just before noon, and took the dead rooster down to ballistics on the first basement level of the building. A couple of hours in the hot Hawaiian sun hadn’t done much for the carcass, and as I walked down the hall carrying the evidence bags people stopped, stared and sniffed.
“Homicide’s a dirty business, isn’t it, detective?” said a secretary from the photo lab.
“Jesus, Kimo, get some air freshener,” a detective from narcotics said, waving his hand in front of his face. I smiled at everybody, nodding politely, like I wasn’t carrying something that stank to high heaven in my outstretched hand.
Special investigations, which encompasses ballistics, wasn’t excited to see me. “Ew, what is that?” said Gloria, the secretary at the front desk. There was an incredibly handsome guy standing next to her, tall, dark-haired, and Eurasian, wearing a khaki shirt with a fire department emblem on it.
“The remains of a murder victim. Where do you want it?”
“Don’t remains go to the coroner?”
“Only human remains,” I said.
The handsome fireman looked my way and made a big show of squeezing shut his nostrils for Gloria. “Seems like fowl play,” he said, and she laughed.
I saw Billy Kim, a young tech with an Elvis-like pompadour, in the back area and called out to him. “Hey, Billy, your chicken lunch is here.”
I walked past Gloria’s desk to show him what I had. “What the hell?”
“I got a murder out in Makiki this morning. Neighbor’s rooster got shot at the same time. I need a ballistics match between this bullet,” here I held up the evidence bags, “and the one from my stiff.”
He took the bags from me, his nose crinkled up. “This is above and beyond the call of duty.”
“Many are called, but only the really dumb ones answer,” I said. “I don’t think the owner wants the carcass back when you’re done with it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
When I came out, the handsome fireman was gone. I stopped at the men’s room before getting into the elevator, but no matter how much I washed my hands, there was still a faint aroma of dead chicken around me.
People looked at me funny in the elevator, but I ignored them. I hoped the scent would dissipate during the day, but I wasn’t holding my breath. Only the people around me were.
I stuck my head into Lieutenant Sampson’s office. He’s a big, burly guy, wiry beard going gray, fond of polo shirts. He has them in every color ever made in extra large. He once told me he hated wearing suits because you had to wear a tie with a suit, and his neck was larger than it should have been so he never could get dress shirts that closed properly.
Today his polo shirt was emerald green. He was on the phone, but motioned me to a seat in front of his desk. My eye was caught, as always, by the photos he kept there. One was an old clipping from a newspaper, an AP wire photo of a half-dozen people in their early twenties, a mixture of men and women, dancing naked in the mud at Woodstock. The tall man in the middle, with the wiry hair, was Lieutenant Sampson, at a younger and more foolish time in his life. He said he kept it there as a reminder of who he was. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I kind of liked it, working for a guy who’d once danced naked in the mud at a rock concert, and was comfortable enough about it to keep the picture on his desk.
The other was a photo of his daughter, Kitty. I picked it up to look more closely at it. She was quite a beautiful woman, in her late teens or early twenties. She looked like a young Catherine Deneuve, that same icy blondness, yet with a simmering sensuality underneath. I didn’t envy him being her father.
He put the phone down and I said, “Your daughter’s very pretty.”
“Stepdaughter,” he said. “Kitty’s my second wife’s daughter from her first marriage.”
I took a minute to process that. I knew Sampson had been married and divorced three times. “Kitty’s mother and I got married when Kitty was six,” he said, nodding toward the picture. “We were only married for three years, but Kitty got attached to me. No matter who her mom was married to, she thought of me as her dad.” He smiled. “Her mom moved back to the mainland when Kitty was thirteen. I think that was husband number four, though maybe it was number five.”
“I thought Kitty lived with you?”
“She does. When my ex left she asked if I’d take Kitty, and I said I would, only if I could adopt her. So I did. Kitty goes to visit her mom during the summer, wherever she happens to be living. It’s good for her-gets her off this rock. I see too many of these island kids whose world is bounded by the Pacific Ocean. Kitty’ll never feel that way.” He stopped and sniffed the air. “What do I smell?”
“Chicken.”
“Don’t eat at that place again.”
“I didn’t eat there. You know that homicide in Makiki?”
“Yeah. What do you know about it?”
“Doesn’t look like an easy one. Homeless man, nobody in the neighborhood saw anything or heard anything. No clues at the scene, either.”
He shook his head. “I don’t like these statistics. Unsolved homicides are piling up here like empty dishes at dim sum.”
“I do have one lead, though. Neighbor’s rooster was shot around the same time. I’ve got ballistics doing a match on the bullets.”
“The dead chicken,” he said, nodding. “You think that’s a homicide, too?”
“Don’t even start,” I said, holding up my hand. “I’ve heard the jokes already. I’ll keep you posted.”
“From a distance,” he said, waving me out. He turned on a little fan on the credenza behind him. “I always knew homicide was a dirty business. Try not to make it a stinky one, too.” He paused. “That’s a residential neighborhood out there, isn’t it? Working class?”
I nodded. “Tried to canvass this morning, but most people had already left for work.”
“Why don’t you sign out for a couple of hours. Go home, take a shower. Then hit Makiki after some of the neighbors get home.”
“You just want to keep me from stinking up your squad room, don’t you?”
He laughed. “Close a couple of cases for me, will you, detective?” he asked. “This one would be a good start. I don’t need PETA picketing downstairs over cruelty to chickens.”
“I’ll get right on it, chief,” I said.