Forever Poi

Chapter Four

Chapter FourIn his late 50s, tall and handsome, Dr. Franklin Smithers possessed a smile as easy as his temperament. Smooth, barely lined skin was a luscious Milky-Way brown. His shamrock-green eyes were as striking as Rey's grass-green ones, but I suspected his were real; hers had been pigeon-gray the first two decades of her life.

A small sky-blue office was sparsely furnished, with beech the wood of choice. Lithographs of water plants and blossoming trees lined the south wall while degrees, diplomas and certificates lined the north. On a small storage coffee table sat a fine white porcelain coffeepot, creamer and sugar bowl, five lovely hand-glazed cups and saucers, and a platter of cheese-flecked buns and fruit-nut scones. The inviting fragrance of freshly brewed dark roast coffee lingered in the air … as did the smells of antiseptic and cleaning products.

The pathologist gestured the table and Xavier made introductions as he saw to Smithers' bidding.

Small talk ensued and revolved primarily around weekend plans and upcoming festivals as we picked clean the platter.

Finally, Smithers rose. “Ready?”

Rey, Linda, and I glanced at one another and nodded solemnly. We'd viewed enough dead bodies in the last two years, but never at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.

As we sauntered down a dimly-lit corridor painted light army-green, Xavier asked about the times of death.

“It's not an exact science—yet.”

“Humor us,” Xavier requested flatly.

“I'll humor you with fire details.” The forensic pathologist opened a thick metal door and motioned us inside. “It started around 8:15-8:20 in the rear of James-Henri Ossature's gallery and spread to Carlos Kawena's gallery. Two calls came in, both around 8:30, stating that flames could be seen.”

“So Victim #2 was killed first and the fire set to obliterate clues.”

“And identity,” Smithers declared.

“Do we know who called it in?” As I stepped into the cool long room, my gaze fell on a lab assistant of short height and slim build. Gauging from the length of the torso beneath a white cadaver cover on a pedestal autopsy table, the young man was wrapping up work on a child. I swallowed heavily.

“They found John Doe's upper half early this morning,” he told Smithers grimly. “But we know who he is now, because his wallet was nearby.”

One of Smithers' dramatic thick eyebrows arched questioningly.

“Dom Luk's upper torso was in a pineapple field, two miles from where the bottom half had been found. He must have really ticked someone off to end up like this.” With a nod to his boss and a quick “nice to meet you”, he wheeled the unfortunate Mr. Luk into an adjoining room.

Smithers slipped on a lab coat and pulled out a plastic bag filled with assorted Big Island Candies. “The dark-chocolate manju are a vice, but the mac-nut toffees are damn good, too.”

Removing one, he offered Xavier the bag, who took a milk-chocolate square, and passed it on. We opted to try the manju and found the Japanese dessert, as Rey might say, nummy.

“Two people called in the fire. Jack Fong, who owns a floral shop three doors down from the galleries and Doris, a local bag lady. He called from a cell phone as he was driving past in a cab and casually eyeing the street. Anxious, he hopped out to see what was happening. Doris ran into Kurt's All-Night Diner. You must know it, A.” Finally, he bit into the crispy treat.

Lips wrapped around a sweet, Xavier grunted while Rey and I acknowledged we'd been to the small, popular eatery a couple of times. Adolphus, who'd inherited the place from an uncle (not necessarily his), made great crispy-crunchy fries and juicy herb-infused burgers. He was actually known for deep-fried pig ears accompanied with a dynamite spicy sausage-speckled aïoli, but Rey, Linda and I had never been inclined to try them.

“Doris is a sweet old gal who ended up here once by accident. I don't know who was more surprised: Doris, me, or Stark the intern, who quickly moved into a new career as cupcake maker.” He chuckled.

“Did you check for soot?” Xavier asked as Smithers opened a morgue refrigerator and moved Victim #1 onto a gurney.

He peered down a long, aristocratic nose, feigning affront. “No. I checked his fingernails to see if he'd had a recent manicure.”

Appearing humbled, Xavier said, “Sorry, it's just … he's a friend. Was.”

“So we now know it's Carlos?” Rey asked somberly.

“We do … though you'd never know by looking at the poor guy.” His expression grave, Smithers wheeled the body over and pulled aside the covering. “Carlos Kawena was a friend of mine too, you know.”

Seared flesh that had once been a living, breathing human being lay before us. You'd never have known there'd once been a long, aquiline nose, high ruddy cheeks, wide lips, or close-set charcoal-gray eyes.

The color drained from Linda's face while Rey stared with the barest of flinches. My stomach flip-flopped. “Uh, why check for soot?”

“If soot had been there, it would have meant Carlos was asphyxiated and died due to lack of oxygen,” Smithers explained. “I took blood samples and Myriam analyzed them faster than my brother-in-law can scarf down a heaping plate of shoyu chicken. She checked for the presence of carbon monoxide, cyanide, and other poisons in the bloodstream, which would have indicated death caused by cyanide poisoning … generally, a result of burning synthetic materials.”

“Like furniture?” Linda asked.

Smithers nodded. “Burns on the corpse with inflamed edges—caused by red blood cells attempting to repair burned skin—would suggest a victim died from burns, but that's not the case here.”

Linda stepped beside the man and peered closely, like a scientist studying the contents of a graduated cylinder. “What about wounds and lacerations? I believe I see some indentations and cuts.”

“Wounds and lacerations would, in many cases, appear to have been a result of the fire, such as those incurred when trying to escape flames, or jumping through a window or from a balcony, and so forth. In this case, they came before. And signs of underlying bleeding indicate our unfortunate friend was dead before the fire began.”

“No s**t?” Rey asked bluntly.

“No shit.” Smithers smiled, then sobered. “The arson was a means to cover up a more sinister crime.”

“Murder,” I said.

“Murder indeed.”

“Damn,” Xavier murmured.

“He was dead before the fire reached him. Sergeant Obermeier is inclined to believe that Carlos killed the woman at the rear of the adjacent gallery, tucked her amid trash cans along the steps, and doused her with accelerant before setting her on fire. Leo, our chemist, is looking at ILRs—”

“ILRs?” I interrupted.

“Ignitable liquid residues. When a fire accelerant is used, they remain at the scene.”

“But just because those ILRs are at a scene, doesn't mean they actually belonged to the accelerant, right?”

“That's right.”

“Carlos would never murder anyone, but saying he did, why would he risk burning both galleries?” Xavier asked crossly. “Why not have taken her body elsewhere, like the ocean or the mountains?”

“Witnesses are a liability—”

“Someone offed him, for heaven's sake.” The adjuster lowered. “What was he? Collateral damage?”

“While it's possible that he was 'offed', it hasn't been officially confirmed. Listen. Carlos had access to accelerants; they were within arm's reach. He had two studios—a professional one for Nestor Ceviche and a small one where he himself dabbled in oils whenever the mood struck … Take a look.” Smithers moved the head carefully and pointed. A praline-sized indentation could be seen. He then pointed to another a little farther back. “If the first one didn't lend itself to epidural hematoma, the second would have. It's quite possible that he struck his head against the desk he was found prone alongside.”

Like an inquisitive med student, Rey studied the wounds carefully. “So, what happened? He hit the desk twice? He thought the pain was so divine the first time, he threw himself against it again?”

“Obermeier told me there was an open bottle of Veuve Clicquot on the floor. There'd been copious amounts of champagne at the 6-tu-8 party. Carlos loved his bubbles and enjoyed bending his arm when he threw dos. You know that, A.” He stared at the body. “It's quite possible he killed that woman, set her aflame, and figuring he had time because the fire was at the rear of the other gallery, hastened back to the office to collect something: evidence, documents, who knows? Maybe in that rushed nervous state—and a need for liquid courage—he gulped back the champagne and it overwhelmed him.”

Xavier chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully as I stepped alongside my cousin and we both surveyed the body. Finally, angrily, he asked, “Does Obermeier explain Carlos' death the same way you do? That Carlos killed the woman and then, knowing the fire would spread quickly, ran back to the office to grab something? And as he's rushing madly around and chugging champagne, he trips … twice?”

“There was a sturdy antique pedestal desk in his office if I remember correctly, not a discount-store special. There was also a marble sculpture. Why not? Yes, he trips. Whomp, desk! He slips sideward. Whomp, sculpture! Lights out. Permanently. It's not an impossible scenario, my friend.”

“No, it's not,” Xavier acknowledged with a deep frown. “But I don't buy it. I don't see Carlos killing someone, and certainly not in such a brutal, cold manner. But, if that were the case, why kill her in the adjacent gallery? Why clumsily hide her body? Carlos was a cool and calculating type, not inept or impulsive. That doesn't sit well, at all.”

“Maybe he wanted to get back at James-Henri by torching his gallery. I was told they'd just broken up again and it was very ugly this time around—as in spread the word, and dirt, to the art community across the globe ugly. Maybe she was a witness to his intended crime. Maybe she caught him in the act and he panicked… One action, or accident, certainly precipitated another.”

“Carlos didn't mention anything about a break-up when we met the evening before so it must have happened later that night or the day of the fire.” Xavier drew a long breath and shook his head with resolve. “I can't believe it was an accident any more than I believe he killed someone or set that fire, no matter how pissed off at James-Henri he might have been.”

“Has anyone considered the possibility someone killed the woman, then went after Carlos?” I put forth.

Smithers and Xavier eyed me for several seconds, and Xavier finally asked, “Why hasn't Obermeier proposed that?”

“Perhaps because Carlos' cell phone was found near the woman's body.”

“No one mentioned that,” Rey frowned.

“The cell could have been planted,” Xavier declared. “Carlos has two heavy-duty debilitating depressions in his head. That's fact. The rest is conjecture.”

Smithers' downward-turned lips drew into a tight line as he returned Carlos to the vault.

When he came back, Xavier started to ask, “You tested for alcohol and did—”

“We tested for a lot of things. In fact, we're still testing. We're fast, but not that fast, particularly when we're short-staffed.”

Dejected, Xavier sighed loudly. “What about the origin of that blast?”

“Everything's being investigated, A.” Smithers squeezed his friend's shoulder. “We'll find answers, I promise.”

“And they'll clear the black marks alongside Carlos' name,” I affirmed.

“We still need to discover the woman's identity,” Linda pointed out. “Any leads? Any recently missing women? Someone who didn't return home that night?”

“Most likely she was at the little soiree. Investigators have the guest list, but I understand a few people still have to be contacted,” Smithers answered with a patient smile. “There's always a possibility she broke into James-Henri's gallery and Carlos caught her.”

“And he meted his own form of vengeance?” Xavier asked heatedly.

Smithers held up a soft hand.

“… Come to think of it, James-Henri and Carlos were both interested in collaborating with a couple of local artists. One is a friend of Cholla's, James-Henri's half or step sister.” He slapped his forehead. “Say, has anyone accounted for her?”

“I spoke with him for a couple of minutes this morning. He didn't mention anything and I'm sure he would have if she were missing, given they're very tight.” Franklin Smithers pulled out his Smartphone and held it forth. “But you might want to confirm.”