The killing jar, p.8
The Killing Jar, page 8
“Burners?”
“It’s what attendees call themselves. Okay, I’m going to try to distill this down to a short and reasonably rational description, but bear with me, all right? Constant interjections of “Yeah, right,” and looks of disbelief won’t make this go any faster.” Greg stopped. His brow furrowed. He rubbed his chin.
“Greg?”
He held up one finger. “Hang on. I’m trying to find the right approach… okay. Burning Man is about a lot of things, but first and foremost it’s about art. It was started by an artist, it’s run by artists, and it actively encourages every single attendee to create art.”
“All fifty thousand?”
“Yes. Some people spend a year creating huge pieces and haul them out to the site. Some people create things on-site or drive around in bizarre vehicles they’ve built themselves-like fire-breathing giraffes. People wear costumes, or body paint, or nothing at all. And a lot of the art is based around fire.”
“Is there an actual burning man, or is that just artistic license?”
“There is. The city is built in a semicircle, with a gigantic plaza in the middle. The plaza is where the large-scale art is, and at the very center they build a wooden figure on a base, outlined in neon. That’s the man. He gets a little bigger every year-I think they actually hit a hundred feet last time.”
“That’s a pretty big structure to put up and take down in a week.”
Greg chuckled. “Oh, it comes down pretty quick. They burn it on Saturday night.”
“Must make one hell of a mess.”
“It does-and it’s all gone within a week or two. Burning Man’s environmental record with the Bureau of Land Management is one of the best-volunteers stay on-site and go over every square inch afterward.”
“I’m sensing a less-than-objective perspective, here.”
Greg looked a little sheepish. “Sorry. I’ve never been, but I have a friend who goes every year and she’s pretty evangelical about the place-especially when people seem to focus on nothing but the nudity and the drugs.”
“My mistake. Now, let’s focus on our vic-our dead, drug-using vic.”
“Right. Well, I think it’s pretty obvious he was a Burner. He probably took those pictures himself, though they might have been gifted to him.”
“Gifted. You mean given?”
“Sorry. That’s Burner-speak. There’s no commerce allowed at the festival beyond a centr al café that sells coffee and a place to get ice. Everything works on a gift economy-people compete to see who can give away better stuff. Booze, art, food, services-whatever.”
“Like a potlatch,” said Catherine. “Native American tribes in the Northwest practice it. Whoever gives the most impressive gift attains the highest status.”
“Pretty much. Done on a city-wide scale for a week, it’s pretty amazing. You’d think there would be more people taking out than putting in, trying to take advantage of the system, but that’s generally not what happens.” Greg paused. “A good way to think of it is a bunch of people playing ‘city’ for a week. All the bars, the restaurants, the hair salons-don’t ask-everybody’s trying to have fun instead of turn a buck. After Vegas, it’s… refreshing.”
“Maybe so, but our vic still had to live in the real world the rest of the year. And he’d recently come into a lot of money.”
Greg nodded. “And was spending some of it, at least, on drugs. There is a definite party element to the festival-drugs are pretty common, though it’s mostly softer stuff. Could be that one of his Burner friends is also his dealer.”
“So how do we investigate people from a city that only exists for a week a year?”
“Vegas has its own Burner community. I’ll show Kana mu’s picture around, see what I can find out.”
“All right. Kanamu doesn’t have a record in Nevada, but he may have one in Hawaii. I’m going to follow that up.”
In the computer lab, Archie Johnson looked up from his workstation as Catherine walked in. “Catherine, great timing. I just cracked that laptop you gave me.”
“Yeah? Find anything interesting?”
“Not as much as you might think. The usual gack-some games, music, downloaded movies. The oddest thing was probably all the files on vul-canology.”
“You’re talking about the study of volcanoes and not Mr. Spock, right?”
Archie grinned. “This guy had a serious jones for the subject. Not just the geological stuff, but the mythological, too. All kinds of Hawaiian folklore, especially about Pele-and no, I don’t mean the soccer player. She’s the Hawaiian volcano goddess.”
“Let’s skip the fairy tales, Archie. How about an address book?”
He handed her a flash drive. “Figured you’d ask. Dumped everything that looked interesting in there.”
“Thanks.” Catharine hesitated. “So, you read some of those files on the volcano goddess?”
“I skimmed them, yeah. Pretty interesting, actually.”
“Anything in there a bout… virgin sacrifices?”
Archie studied her for a second before answering. “Not that I can recall. Why?”
Catherine shook her head. “Never mind. I should know better than to take everything Greg says seriously…”
Back at her own desk, Catherine checked through the data on the flash drive. Many of the names in the contacts list were just e-mail addys, but a few had brick-and-mortar addresses or phone numbers. She cross-referenced them with the information the Hawaiian PD had sent her, coming up with two names that matched both known associates and Kanamu’s contact list: Lester Akiliano and Jill Leilani. Both had addresses in Vegas, and Akiliano had been arrested for possession of narcotics only two weeks ago, though he’d made bail and was out awaiting trial.
She made the necessary arrangements to see him, then found herself looking over the files on Hawaiian mythology. Archie was right; it was interesting.
The goddess Pele didn’t seem to be interested in virgins. In fact, she seemed to go out of her way to seduce any young chief or god around. Most of her lovers met an unhappy end, though, one eerily reminiscent of Kanamu’s fate; they were sealed inside the pillars of hardened lava that sprouted on a volcano’s slopes. Hawaiian women used to tease their hair until it stood out, redden their eyes, then extort goods or services from fellow villagers by claiming to be Pele’s kahu, or living incarnation. Anyone who didn’t comply was threatened with fiery retribution.
“One hot-tempered mama,” Catherine murmured.
Unlike that of many mythological figures, Pele’s influence had survived to the present day; drivers on the islands told stories of picking up an old woman in Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, all dressed in white and accompanied by a small dog, both of whom vanished from the back seat. Catherine had heard that particular tale before, though she knew it as the Vanishing Hitchhiker-an urban legend almost as old as that of the escaped lunatic with a hook for a hand.
Interesting angle with the little dog, though, she thought. Wonder what his name is-Lava? Rocky? Volcanine?
She powered down her computer, then went out to find Jill Leilani.
5
RILEY EYED PROFESSOR VANDERHOFF, sitting on the other side of the interview table. “Professor Vanderhoff, can you tell me where you were on the day Keenan Harribold was killed?”
Vanderhoff studied her for a moment before answering. “I spent most of it at the conference, though I took a nap in the evening.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. Jet lag.”
“Not a very ex citing way to spend time in Vegas.”
Vanderhoff smiled. “I’m not really a very exciting person. But I did meet with Jake Soames and your boss later for drinks.”
“Did you know Keenan Harribold?”
“No. Unless he posted anonymously on one of the entomology boards I frequent-which I doubt-I’d never heard of h im until he was killed.”
“Have you ever heard of anyone else being killed in this manner?”
“Never. I’m not a criminologist, but I have to admit it’s a fascinating case.”
“So you’ve never consulted on a criminal case before?”
“No. I’m afraid my exposure to this world has been strictly through film and novels. I will say I’m something of a mystery buff, though.”
“Then you probably know why I’m asking you these questions.”
“Of course. Someone with my expertise would naturally be considered a suspect.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong. Unless someone’s trying to frame me, I don’t think I’m in any trouble-and so far, the only inconvenience has been being forced to sit and talk to an attractive woman.”
Riley didn’t sm ile. “I don’t think Keenan Harribold would agree.”
“I’m sorry. Have I offended you? I may be an academic, but I grew up in the slums of Johannesburg; my childhood took place under apartheid. I have seen much brutality in my life, and sometimes I feel somewhat desensitized. But a young man’s death is still a tragedy.”
Riley glanced down at her notes. “No, it’s fine. You didn’t know him, after all…”
In Interview Room Two, Roberto Quadros was on his feet and pointing an accusing finger at Nick Stokes. “This is an outrage!” Quadros exclaimed. “I am a respected researcher! Dr. Grissom will have your job when I tell him about this!”
Nick put his hands up in a slow-down-and-let’s-talk-about-this gesture. “Dr. Quadros, I’m sorry if you feel singled out. But we’re not targeting you; we’re talking to everyone and gathering data. You’re a man of science; you understand the principle of exclusion-this isn’t an accusation. It’s part of the process to eliminate you as a suspect.”
Quadros simmered for a moment, then took a deep breath and retook his seat. “Very well. But at the very least Dr. Grissom could have talked to me himself.”
I’m beginning to understand why he didn’t, Nick thought. “Grissom’s busy at the moment. Now, Dr. Quadros-you’re not staying at the same hotel the others are, correct?”
“No. They charge absurd rates. I found a much more reasonable establishment a few blocks away.”
You mean a run-down dump with no security cameras. “Right. And you were there all evening.”
“Yes. There were some fascinating presentations at the conference the next day, and I wanted to be fresh.”
“You know, some visitors to Vegas would take the opportunity to enjoy themselves. Go see the sights, take in a show-”
“I didn’t come here for the hedonism, Mr. Stokes. There’s plenty of that in Brazil, believe me. I came for the intellectual stimulation provided by an exchange of ideas between men and women like myself. The last thing I wanted was to be drawn into some sort of sordid affair involving dead bodies in seedy motel rooms!”
Funny. You seemed a lot more eager when you thought you were going to help break a big case. “I understand that. So nobody saw you during the evening-the desk clerk, maybe?”
“No. I had dinner early and retired early. Would you like to know what I had for supper, as well?”
“No, that won’t be necessary-”
“Perhaps you’d like a detailed itinerary of my trips to the bathroom? Or a list of the television channels I watched before turning in? I know-a record of my dreams! Perhaps I can persuade a talking dog or flying pig to provide me with an alibi!”
Nick sighed.
Jill Leilani worked at the Shoremont Hotel as a maid. Her supervisor pointed Catherine at floors nineteen through twenty-two; she found Leilani in the hall on the twentieth, trundling a cart loaded with laundry and cleaning supplies between rooms.
Leilani was a thin, sallow-faced woman with nervous eyes. She wasn’t happy to see Catherine but didn’t seem surprised, either.
“Jill Leilani? I’m Catherine Willows with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. When was the last time you talked to Hal Kanamu?”
Leilani’s eyes roamed everywhere but Catherine’s line of sight. “I don’t know. Couple weeks ago, maybe longer. I don’t remember.”
“You two have a falling out or something?”
“No, I-I just don’t hang with him, is all. He don’t have time for his old friends ever since he hit it rich.”
“You’ve known him a long time, though, right? Back on the Big Island?”
“Yeah, I guess. We used to be tight.” Even when she talked, she barely opened her mouth.
“And high, too. Drug buddies, right? You even got busted together.”
“That was a long time ago. I’m clean.”
“No, you’re not. Your teeth are ro tting out of your head, your skin’s bad, and you’ve got the shakes. Know what I think happened? I think that when your pal Hal got his lucky break he threw one hell of a party, and you were one of the first people he invited. All the ice you could smoke, right? For a while, anyway. And by the time he decided the party was over and maybe he had better things to do than support his friends’ habits, the monkey on your back had turned into a three-hundred-pound gorilla.”
Leilani didn’t even try to deny it; the bitterness in her voice told Catherine she’d been carrying her anger around for a long time: “He didn’t even see what he was doing to me. He came here to get clean, you know? Get away from all his druggy friends in Honolulu. I thought, If he can do it, so can I. But when he got all that money… money’s the worst thing, you know? Should be a law, you can’t buy a lottery ticket if you’re using.”
“But he didn’t win the lottery.”
“Didn’t he? Winning that crazy-ass bet… Everybody thought he must have cheated somehow, but he swore up and down he didn’t. Said he had this dream, told him what to bet on. Even found a casino to take it-they weren’t too happy when he won.”
“And that’s when the party started.”
“Yeah. It was great, at first. Didn’t have to worry abo ut tomorrow, so we could party every day. And how much I was using, it kind of just crept up on me.”
Catherine nodded. She’d seen case studies on drug use that showed that same pattern-that even with addictive drugs like heroin or cocaine, users didn’t generally get into trouble until they had access to a large amount of the drug all at once, either from dealing or a sudden windfall of cash. Their drug intake climbed along with their tolerance, until the money was gone and they abruptly became aware of just how heavy-and expensive-their habit had become.
“So what happened?” asked Catherine. “Did he run out of cash?”
“No. I saw what was happening, knew it was gonna kill both of us sooner or later. Tried to talk him into quitting, but he didn’t want to hear it. He thought-” She stopped, shook her head. “He was getting kind of crazy. Thought that winning the bet was some kind of sign, that he was supposed to do something special with the money.”
“Like spend it all on meth?”
“No, but-the drugs were part of it. He thought they were making his thoughts more… I don’t know, cosmic or something.”
“Cosmic. What was he going to do, build a spaceship?”
“No, he was more interested in old gods and stuff. He was always talking about Pele and Kamahua and Lono-Hawaiian gods, you know? I just used to tune him out. Sounded too much like my grandmother.”
“Anybody else listen?”
“Sure. Lester and him would talk about that stuff for hours.”
“Lester Akiliano?”
“Yeah. They’ve known each other forever, though I don’t think Lester really cared about any of that mystical stuff-he was just there to get high. He woulda talked about senior citizens getting kinky if it meant a free hit.”
“How’d Lester feel about you trying to convince Kanamu to quit?”
“What do you think? Went off on me. Told me to stop being such a buzzkill-I didn’t stick around long after that. Wasn’t healthy, in too many ways.”
Catherine sensed there was more to her words than what she was saying. “Did Lester threaten you?”
“Nah, I’ve known Lester a long time-longer than Hal, even. But the guys he was hanging around with? Bad news.”
“What guys?”
“Oh, no. I don’t wanna talk about them. Go talk to Lester, see for yourself. Just don’t say I pointed you his way, okay? He needs to get to rehab, but he doesn’t need to know I sent him there.”
“You look like you could use some time there yourself.”
Leilani gave her a wan smile. “Nah, kicking meth’s easy. I do it every day, you know? Sometimes more than once…”
Lester Akiliano liked to drink in a bar called the Cross-Eyed Jack, a place that might have been glamorous when mobsters ruled the Strip but was now a dusty mausoleum of peeling chrome, scarred tables, and torn carpet. Lester himself was at the bar, nursing a longneck beer and watching women’s basketball on the TV. The bartender squinted at Catherine warily when she came in, as if he were highly allergic to the natural light that spilled through the doorway behind her and was trying to remember where he put his epinephrine.
“Lester Akiliano?” she asked. “Catherine Willows, Las Vegas Crime Lab. I’d like to talk to you about Hal Kanamu.”
Lester was a bulky Hawaiian with shoulder-length, straight black hair and a scraggly black goatee that looked like it was trying to escape his face. He wore a shirt of bright yellow silk missing the top two buttons, with irregular stains spreading from the armpits. He took a long swallow of his beer before responding. “What you want from me, huh? I don’t know nothing except Hal’s dead.”
She took a seat next to him. “Well, that’s the thing, Lester. Kind of my job to find out how that happened.”
“Don’t look at me. I wasn’t there.”
“And where would that be?”
“Out in the desert. That’s wh ere you found him, right? That’s what I heard.” He took another drink. “No place for a kanaka to die, I’ll tell you that. Too far from the ocean. Too damn far from home.”
Catherine studied him for a second. “You knew him a long time, right?”
“Forever. He was a good friend. Maybe a little crazy, but he always had your back.”
