WILD GIRL: a mystery set in Hawaii, Chapter 1 :

NOW, Kent Higa

NOW

Detective Kent Higa approached an ambulance parked on the side of the road as sunlight pierced the canopy of interlaced branches overhead. The air was warming and humidity was a hundred percent already in this lush area of the Big Island of Hawaii. Mynahs squabbled over a fallen guava in the grass and rose, cursing, as he disturbed them.

The victim sat on the edge of the open back of the ambulance, his shoulders hunched under a silver emergency blanket that covered most of his naked body. His head was lowered, but not in embarrassment; the man was a bull preparing to charge. Small, dark brown eyes tracked Kent’s approach as if drawing a bead on his chest. The emergency personnel busied themselves nearby; it was clear they’d been turned away from treating him.

Best to let the guy cool off before taking his statement. Too early in the morning for the kind of belligerence Kent could feel rolling off the man in waves. He stopped his approach and scanned the area. 

Kent spotted the steel sign pole where the vic had been found bound, gagged, and marked. He changed direction to approach the site.

Situated about fifteen feet in from the highway, the pole marked an old unpaved turnoff that merged with the single entry road into Waimalia Valley. Traffic was light on the highway in the early hours and nonexistent on that old access road itself; this was likely why the victim hadn’t been seen until morning. 

Kent slid a phone out of the back pocket of his black jeans. He shot some reference photos, noting that the name of the street the pole had once marked was missing. The dirt and gravel side road was overgrown with guava trees and pili grass towering above head height. A heavy rusted chain denied access except by foot.

Kent poked around the pole, noting disruptions in the soil where the victim had dug into the damp earth in struggles to free himself. The bandanna the man had been gagged with and the heavy twine that had bound his arms and ankles and been cut, the cords left where they fell. 

Kent removed an evidence bag from the small backpack he wore. He pulled on gloves and neatly stowed the stained and battered items inside. He labeled the bag with the date, time, and location discovered. He wouldn’t complete the label until he got the victim’s name and opened a case number.

When he’d taken the radio call from first responders, two uniformed officers now “talking story” with the ambulance staff, he’d been informed that the vic was refusing medical care and wouldn’t even give his name. “He one angry buggah,” the officer had said. “And he’s going to have a mean scar on his chest so he going stay angry.” Kent had asked that they refrain from questioning the victim but that they hold him there. 

Now, he slanted a glance at the man seated on the back of the ambulance. One of the vic’s wrists was handcuffed to a handgrip inside the vehicle, testifying to his reluctance to cooperate. 

Kent caught the eye of one of the officers and gave a brief head jerk, indicating for him to come. The kid hurried over. “Hey, Detective.”

Rookie Brent Mahuiki showed promise. He was the nephew of one of Kent’s mentors, a lieutenant on the force. “Brent. What’s up with this?”

“This guy…” Mahuiki shook his buzzed head. Light winked from shiny brass on a uniform unfaded by time. “He tried to run off. We had to cuff him to the wagon. Wouldn’t even tell his name.”

Kent cocked his head. “Why you think?”

“Shame. He knows who did it. I’m guessing he plans to go back down in the Valley and bumbye make the one went did ‘em.”

The vic planned to avenge himself and kill his attacker. Kent let that sit a minute; it played with the man’s demeanor and humiliation. “You said he was cut. What’s on his chest?”

“Written upside down for him to read. Rapist. Abuser. Salt and dirt rubbed in to make it scar. Must hurt like a mofo. It’s going to stay.”

Small hairs rose on the back of Kent’s neck. He gave no sign, though, merely holding Brent’s troubled gaze with his own. “We can’t let this guy go.”

“But what if he won’t press charges?”

Kent didn’t answer that. “I’ll speak to him now. You can listen but stay out of sight.” 

“You got it,” Brent said. He trailed like a puppy until Kent lifted his chin to direct him away. Brent veered off and took up a position leaning against the ambulance. Nearby, but out of the vic’s line of sight. Brent wanted to make detective someday; he could be useful. 

The kid’s partner, though, a grizzled lifer on the force named Tony, was riding his ticket to retirement. The potbellied cop had already gone back to their squad car where he sat with the window down, smoking. 

Kent reached the vic. “Hey. My name’s Detective Higa.” He extended a hand. “Looks like you had a rough night.”

The man ignored Kent’s overture, glaring. “Let me go. You can’t hold me here. I’m not pressing charges.”

Kent smiled, a practiced expression that softened the sharp angles of his cheekbones and jaw. He’d been told he was handsome when he smiled, but he only cared that the expression helped get witnesses talking. “You’re the victim of a crime, sir. We’re here to help. What’s your name?”

“I didn’t tell those cops and I’m not telling you.”

“That’s all right for now.” Kent perched a lean buttock on the edge of the open back door of the ambulance. He gestured to one of the emergency medical techs. “This man is in need of medical attention. There’s blood all over him.”

“He won’t let us treat him,” the EMT said. A burly young man packed into a white uniform, his brow was pearled with sweat and annoyance. “He became combative as soon as we tried.”

“Perhaps he’s having a psychological emergency as well as a physical one.” Kent lifted a brow as he addressed the tech. “Maybe he needs a shot of something to calm him down. You can put him in a straitjacket and take him to the psych ward after that.”

“Sure,” the tech said, playing along, and reached toward his discarded red treatment bag.

“Hey!” The victim bellowed. “I’m fine in the head. I just don’t want to get a big hospital bill and have to deal with you cops!” He spat the last word, an epithet.

“You live down in Waimalia Valley, don’t you?” Kent kept his eyes on the tech; no direct eye contact helped minimize aggression with Hawaii locals. “You folks don’t like anyone messing in your business. I get that.” 

“Hell no, we don’t,” the vic agreed. The few residents of Waimalia, mostly native Hawaiians, were notoriously clannish and private. The man tightened the silver blanket he was wrapped in, and the material brushed against the wounds on his chest and belly. He moaned involuntarily.

“But someone made you our business when they cut you, dragged you up here, and tied you to that pole. They left you on the side of the road like rubbish for us to deal with.”

Silence. 

The tech opened his bag and rustled around as if looking for a hypodermic to put the vic out of his misery.

“It was that witch. That wild girl,” the vic hissed. “I’m going to hunt her down and make her pay.”

Once again hairs rose on Kent’s neck; his nostrils flared. 

The vic was likely a rapist and abuser as he’d been marked to be. Someone was punishing him, and by his behavior so far, he deserved it. 

But Kent softened his voice, trying for sympathetic, still not making any eye contact. “Tell me about this witch, this wild girl.” He gestured to the vic’s chest area. “That’s pretty hard core. What she did.”

“Caught me unawares, that’s all,” the man said. “Hit me on the head.” He reached up with his free hand and touched his scalp, winced. 

“Sure you won’t let me check that out?” The tech asked. “Don’t worry about paying. The state will cover it. They have programs.”

“Don’t like paperwork,” the vic grumbled, but he was caving.

“We’ll help with that,” Kent said. “Just tell us who did this to you.”

The vic’s shoulders slumped. “Her name is Koa. That’s all I know. That’s all anybody knows.”

P.S. Ongoing chapters of this novel will be posted on WEDNESDAYS. PASSAGES memoir drops on TUESDAYS and FRIDAYS.

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