KOA RETURNED TO Aikue ‘Ōpua’s farm with Sergeant Basa and Mickie Durban, one of the crime scene techs. Once again ‘Ōpua, apparently alerted by some signal from the gate, greeted them on the lānai. “Ahh, Detective Kāne, what brings the māka‘ikui to my door?”
Why, Koa wondered, did this case involve slurs from both sides? The word meant detective, but literally translated as spying police. “Only the lawless fear the māka‘ikui.”
“I do not fear you,” ‘Ōpua responded coldly.
“That’s good.” Koa turned to the business at hand. “We have a search warrant for your collection of knives.” With some satisfaction, he detected a fleeting look of apprehension in the activist’s eyes.
“So big māka‘ikui man, the haole cops have nothing better to do than harass us few true Hawaiians,” ‘Ōpua said bitterly, while making no effort to block their access to the house.
Koa ignored the challenge and walked directly to the far wall to examine the knives displayed in carved wooden holders. “That’s quite a collection you’ve amassed,” he said.
“I like old knives. There’s nothing wrong with that,” ‘Ōpua shot back. “The haoles haven’t yet outlawed knives, have they?”
Koa ignored the hostility and turned to the crime scene tech. “Mickie, start with the four whalebone knives, but check all of them.”
Wearing plastic gloves, Mickie removed a long bone knife from the wall, placed it on a cloth, and illuminated a powerful ultraviolet light. No dark spots appeared, nor did they show up on the reverse side of the blade. He repeated the exercise with a second knife and got the same results. Only when he placed a whalebone pāhoa, or dagger, under the light did they see a black spot and streaks of black where the blade met the handle. The test had revealed probable bloodstains.
“Want to tell us where you got the pāhoa?” Koa asked.
“From my makua kāne, my father.”
“Is that so?” Koa had seen many people dig themselves into a hole when they began to make up stories. If, as he suspected, the traces of blood on the dagger came from Keneke Nakano, ‘Ōpua had just admitted to owning the knife before the murder. He wondered how deep a grave the man would dig for himself.
“How long has that pāhoa been in this display?” Koa asked.
“Many years.”
“Ever butchered anything with it?”
“No. It’s a family heirloom.”
‘Ōpua was digging himself in deeper. He’s not half as clever, Koa thought, as he pretends. If the knife hadn’t been used for butchering, how had it come to have blood on it?
Basa was now eyeing the activist with open disbelief, bordering on hostility. Koa wasn’t surprised—Basa had good reason—but Koa wished his colleague weren’t so obvious. The disapproval of a haole would only get ‘Ōpua’s back up.
The more he thought about it, the more confidently Koa believed the blood on the dagger was Keneke’s. The young astronomer’s murder appeared to be a perfect copycat inspired by the old Valentine’s Day murder. There was just one glaring exception—the absence of a whalebone dagger. A killer attentive enough to copy the earlier killing wouldn’t have forgotten the dagger. Maybe ‘Ōpua had done the killing and kept the dagger, but Koa doubted that ‘Ōpua would kill a member of his own ‘ohana huna—his own secret family. The sovereignty activists typically couldn’t agree among themselves on the time of day, but it would be extraordinary for one of them to kill a member of their own club. That left the possibility that ‘Ōpua—a collector of old Hawaiiana with an obvious fascination with knives—had filched the dagger from the murder scene before dialing 911.
“It’s been in this display case for years. Is that what you’re telling me?” Koa asked, deliberately letting the skepticism show in his voice.
‘Ōpua glared defiantly at Koa as he taunted, “So the māka‘ikui has become so corrupted by the haoles that he doesn’t accept the word of his Hawaiian brother.”
Koa had had enough of the slurs. He stepped forward, invading ‘Ōpua’s personal space, getting almost eye to eye with the activist. “The lab will tell us whether that’s Keneke Nakano’s blood on your dagger. You’d be well served to tell us now if the dagger came from the lava tube out at Pōhakuloa.”
They stood inches apart, eyes locked in a staring contest for a long moment. Koa wondered if ‘Ōpua understood that Koa was trying to help him, to give him a way out of the box he’d created for himself. Then ‘Ōpua broke eye contact and turned away.
Still he hesitated. “No, māka‘ikui. It’s been in my family since before the haoles stole these islands.”
Some people were their own worst enemies. ‘Ōpua could cast all the slurs he liked, because they amounted, like his sovereignty rants, to so much hot air. Koa lived in a world where hard facts had hard consequences. Even in the Hawai‘i of old, a man was punished for murder.