Molten Mud Murder Page 14

  Te Arawa Gallery was also empty. At the threshold, she looked up to admire a carved wooden lintel. Three tiki figures with abalone eyes and protruding tongues were surrounded by complex spirals. Soft sidelights made the iridescent eyes sparkle knowingly.

  “You like?” a quiet voice asked. Alexa turned to find a man, her height, sixty-ish, a ring of keys hanging from his belt loop. “Rawiri Wright. Kia ora.” He leaned forward to press his nose and forehead against Alexa’s. His kind eyes, behind wire rim glasses, searched hers. “We are part of the oneness of all that exists. I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Hello,” Alexa said, confused by the intimate sharing of breath greeting. Terrance had greeted her the same way, but he was Mary’s brother. “I’m Alexa Glock.” She held up her new Rotorua Police Department ID badge with photo that Ms. Welles had handed her when she arrived at the station earlier. “I need to ask some questions that we hope will help us with our investigation.”

  Mr. Wright, ignoring her badge, turned his attention upward. His graying hair was combed straight back, exposing a broad expanse of forehead. “We are so fortunate to have this taonga back.”

  “What do you mean?” She could be patient.

  “The lintel was a gift to Queen Victoria in 1886 and has lived in London in various museums until 2002 when, for reasons I can’t fathom, it was sold to an antiques dealer. It could have been lost forever. Luckily, a private collector, a Kiwi, purchased it and returned it to Aotearoa last year.”

  “That is lucky.” Alexa loved the Maori name for New Zealand: Aotearoa, meaning Land of the Long White Cloud. “Do you know who carved it?”

  “Wero Taroi, a master carver, from the Ngāti Tarawhai tribe. He did most of his carving in the late 1800s. A piece like this belonged over the entrance to a meeting house. It is a spiritual guardian. Or, as Pākehā might say, a guardian angel. It wards off danger.”

  “I could use one at my cottage,” Alexa blurted.

  Mr. Wright studied her. “A lot of us need its protection.”

  “I know you’re busy and the museum is opening soon. I have some questions about Maori war clubs.”

  Mr. Wright’s eyes lit up like Christmas lights. “Patu! The thrusting weapon. Used to attack an enemy’s neck, temple, or ribs. Executed correctly, a strike would crack a skull; a twist would disembowel a belly.” He walked into the gallery.

  Alexa imagined scrambled Jenny brain and paused under the lintel to allow good juju to penetrate before joining Mr. Wright, who had flipped on overhead lights and was standing between two glass cases full of such clubs.

  “Perhaps this is the best collection of mere in the world.” Mr. Wright beamed.

  “Mere?” asked Alexa.

  “Weaponry.”

  Teardrop-shaped paddles of various size and substance were displayed against cream velvet. Some were wooden, and others were made of bone or stone. Alexa’s eyes stopped roving when she came to a club made of dark speckled greenstone.

  “Can you tell me about this one?” Alexa asked, pointing. It looked to be about twelve to thirteen inches end to end and three inches wide. Grooves were carved into the handle, and the blade tapered to a sharp glistening edge.

  “Mere pounamu. The most highly prized of all. Much harder than wood or bone, less likely to fracture on contact. Most greenstone patu belonged to chiefs. This one is very rare and has gained much mana.”

  “Mana?”

  “Respect and power. From winning battles and executing enemies.”

  Executions? “Where is it from?”

  “It is believed to be from Te Rauparaha, a celebrated South Island warrior chief. He was buried with it in a cave upon a bier made of sticks and rocks.”

  “What’s a bier?” Alexa asked.

  “A platform above ground. The defleshed body was laid upon the bier and covered with rocks, sticks, and mud in a pyramid shape. Two hundred years later when Pākehā disturbed the body and removed the club, it changed color before their eyes, darkened to the shade it is now.”

  “Really? It changed color?” She thought of the forest-green clubs hanging from the men’s waists on the forbidden island. Had they been stolen from a burial place?

  “Yes.”

  “Is it very valuable?” She spoke louder than necessary.

  “Priceless.”

  “Well, yes, but what if someone had one on the market? What would it sell for?”

  “An antiquity like this, from the nineteenth century?” Mr. Wright considered her question at length. “Twenty, thirty thousand dollars, maybe more.”

  “How did the museum acquire this piece?”

  “Why is this particular club of interest to you?”

  “Actually, it’s not. Unless it went missing and then reappeared.”

  “It did not.”

  How much information to share? Mr. Wright had trusting eyes and had greeted her with warmth. “I met two men yesterday with greenstone clubs hanging from their waists.” She wondered if Mr. Wright knew about her visit to Pirongia.

  “Who were they?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. We also have a lab technician who was hit in the head with a club-like instrument at the police station.”

  “I heard about the attack. Are you saying she was attacked with a war club?”

  “Please, this is confidential. The victim will recover. We aren’t sure what she was attacked with, but I’d like to compare photos of her wound with this club.”

  “I could not let it leave the museum. And patu come in many sizes.”

  “I understand. But most of these in the case look roughly the same size. Could you remove it and let me photograph it?”

  “Most patu are similar in size. Anywhere from ten to fifteen inches long. Thirteen inches is average. Any larger and they would have been unwieldy in combat. A larger one like this…” Mr. Wright walked over to the second case and pointed out a club twice as long. “A larger one would be used for show, perhaps in ceremonial dances. This is made of whale bone.”

  “How wide is the average club?”

  “It varies.” He stared at the whale bone one. “This one is five inches wide. Fighting clubs were two to four inches wide.”

  “I’d like to photograph this one,” Alexa said, standing firm at the original case and pointing at the paddle that had supposedly changed color.

  “As you wish. Mr. Horne is a respected officer of the law and fair to the Maori. Excuse me for a moment.”

  Alexa waited by the glass case and then wandered to a display titled Ta Moko: The Art of Tattoo. She read about the carving of skin with sharpened chisels. Both a straight-edged chisel and a smaller-toothed chisel made of bird bone were displayed alongside black-and-white photographs of men and women with facial moko. Alexa’s face muscles twitched. She stepped back to the club case and stared hard at the greenstone patu, considering its size and weight.

  Mr. Wright returned wearing cotton gloves. He unlocked the case and gently removed the club from its plush spot. “We’ll take it to the back room. We have a stand where objects are photographed.” He relocked the case, cradled the patu, and walked away. Alexa followed into a well-lit room where Mr. Wright placed the object on a small table covered with a tight blue cloth, encircled with lights.

  “We have a saying,” Mr. Wright said. “‘Ahakoa iti, he pounamu.’ Although it is small, it is of greenstone.”

  Alexa dug the digital camera out of her tote while deciphering the saying. Good things come in small packages? Mr. Wright handed her cotton gloves that she donned and began photographing the club, surprised at how tapered it was from side view, how blade-like. She borrowed a nearby ruler and photographed the club next to it from several angles.

  Was the heat she felt each time she maneuvered the club imaginary? A feverish sensation penetrated the thin cotton gloves. She asked Mr. Wright to hold the p
atu against a light so she could capture it from beneath. The club became translucent; she saw black speckled tadpoles swimming in a deep green pond. “Gorgeous,” she whispered, wishing the item was hers to keep, surmising that patu triggered greed. “Is it true that greenstone is found only on the South Island?”

  “The Maori name of South Island is Te Wahi Pounamu. It translates ‘place of pounamu.’ All pounamu comes from the South Island along the west coast or in rivers, Arahura River especially. Pounamu came to the North Island as barter or war bounty. The Europeans had their gold, we had pounamu.”

  She was reluctant to part with this club of mystique. She ran her gloved finger along the surface one last time.

  “Mere were designed to kill, you know,” Mr. Wright said softly, reclaiming the club.

  * * *

  Back at the lab, Alexa’s fantail was waiting for her on the specimen table, tagged with date and location. A wave of anger coursed through her body. Who dared enter her home? Her sanctuary? She opened the cooler locker and placed the bird in, knowing she would have to decide quickly what to do with it before it decomposed, and then worked comparing the photos of Jenny’s wounds, to the uploaded museum photos. The dimensions of the club were similar to the dimensions of Jenny’s wounds and the surface of the paddle matched the abrasion-less wound. There was a strong possibility a Maori war club made of greenstone had been used to attack Jenny. She’d make a 3-D image to confirm. Anxious to tell the DI, Alexa also wanted time to figure out what it meant. Follow up with more research. But clues pointed to an obvious assumption: a Maori killed Koppel. There was the mud pot itself and the symbolic way Koppel had been “boiled.” Terrance had said that the gravest insult a Maori could inflict is “boil your head.” There was the sacred Maori island that Koppel trespassed.

  But wasn’t all the Maori-ness just a bit transparent? Was a Pākehā, or white person, trying to make a Maori look guilty?

  Alexa decided to recommend Horne get the three men from the island into the station as soon as possible. She called him but got his voicemail. Whoever they were dealing with was brazen and willing to take risks. Brazen enough to leave a dead bird in my house. What if Horne got fingerprints from the men and they matched fingerprints on her bird? Could you lift fingerprints from a bird?

  A quick Google search revealed the recent article “Scientists Discover How to Recover Fingerprints from Bird Feathers.” Alexa eagerly read. The forensics scientist from Abertay University in Scotland said the findings would help catch people guilty of wildlife crimes.

  Maybe murderers too.

  She loved this job and its endless surprises. Now she was eager to fetch her fantail. The article was general, written for a newspaper. Later, Alexa would savor the research paper it came from in the journal of Science & Justice. But the article revealed what fingerprint powders worked best on feathers without damaging the evidence: red and green magnetic fluorescent. The scientist had dusted six different birds of prey, but Alexa wagered it would work on insectivores as well.

  She went in search, fingers crossed, to the supply cabinet. Black powder was the most commonly used dusting powder, and every lab had a bucketful, but other colors worked better on certain surfaces. White, for example, worked best on glass. Alexa could see a jar of white, a jar of aluminum, and one of bichromatic. She had used bichromatic, a mixture of black and white, on a multicolored phone protector in Raleigh with clear results. There were even some spray powders. But no fluorescent. She’d need a UV lamp too, or a blue light and goggles. She already had the camera.

  Her bird wasn’t repulsive anymore. Alexa called Ms. Welles from her cell.

  “Kia ora. Rotorua Police Department.”

  “Hello, Ms. Welles. It’s Alexa Glock from the lab.”

  “Yes?”

  “There are some important materials I need to aid in the investigation. How can I get them?”

  “We have a well-stocked lab.”

  “I agree.” Welles’s was touchy. “But I need a certain type of fingerprint powder that is not stocked. And a UV lamp.”

  “I’ll have to run this by District Commander Teal. He’s just left for the day. It’s the weekend, you know.”

  “I need these supplies today. For the murder investigation.” By Monday, her bird would stink. “Do you want me to ask Bruce?” Damn—a mistake.

  “Bruce?” Ms. Welles’ voice went cold. “Are you referring to Detective Inspector Horne?”

  “Yes. I know he’d want me to finish my testing as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll speak to Detective Inspector Horne and let you know. Bring me a list. It will be difficult to get supplies delivered on a weekend.”

  “Thank you so much,” Alexa said all sugary. Welles was speaking the truth. She thought of the Auckland forensics lab just three hours away. It was sure to have what she needed. Her mind was already zooming in a car up to Auckland, dead bird riding shotgun. But first, she had a lunch date.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Alexa was loathe to ask Ms. Welles for the DI’s whereabouts and decided to find him on her own. She almost didn’t recognize District Commander Teal on the stairwell. He was dressed in jeans and polo and looked ten years younger than his Monday through Friday suit-self. Perhaps he was hiding from Ms. Welles. “Ms. Glock. How are you?” he asked, stopping midstep. His premature white hair had to be professionally styled.

  “Fine. Just finishing up some lab work.”

  “What’s this I hear about a threat?

  “Threat?”

  “I heard there was a break-in at your residence and a threat conveyed.”

  How did Teal know? “Someone did enter my cottage and left the carcass of a bird. I’m not sure what to make of it. I guess it could be teenagers.”

  “Yes. That’s true. But make sure you lock up and add more lights to the property. Have you thought of getting a dog?”

  Lock up and lights on, yes, but she wasn’t planning to traipse to Sarah’s house to demand floodlights and borrow Iris. “Thanks for the tips.”

  Past noon, her stomach insisted. She found Horne and the loaners in the conference room. Alexa joined to hear McNamara recount his interview with the owner of Bowen Realty. “Guy Bowen is the owner, took over for his father last year. He’s trying to revamp the agency—make it bigger and better. Has new ideas like virtual tours and online bidding. What a-hole would buy a crib online? But sales have flat-lined. Trimble has the money report.”

  “Koppel earned forty-one thou last year. That’s down from his two previous years,” Trimble said. “He also earns three thousand a year for being on city council. The Koppels have a joint account. All the money that goes in flows right back out again.”

  “Living paycheck to paycheck,” McNamara said.

  “Does his wife work outside the home?” Alexa asked, thinking of the wilted widow in the floral armchair.

  “No.” Trimble’s glasses caught the light and glinted. “But in August, Koppel opened a new account at a different bank. One of those on-call accounts. Two deposits of one thousand dollars each and a five-hundred-dollar withdrawal money order made out to”—he checked his stack of papers—“to Wei Zhong.”

  “Who the hell is that?” McNamara said.

  “Mrs. Koppel is coming in at one thirty,” Horne said. “She may be able to shed some light.”

  “The deposits were made at around the time he supposedly trespassed on Pirongia,” Alexa pointed out. “Were they cash deposits?”

  “Yes, cash deposits, so no trail,” Trimble said. “Paul Koppel did have a small life insurance policy but hardly enough for the wife to off him.” He looked at Alexa. “What’s up about a break-in at your house? Is it related to the case?”

  Bird news was fast-flying. “I don’t know. When I was out, someone entered my house and left the body of a bird.”

  “Probably flew in when you opened
the door,” said McNamara, stuffing a banana wrapped in bread into his mouth.

  “I don’t think so.” Alexa could smell peanut butter and stepped back. She had vowed not to engage with Ponytail man.

  “What’s up in the lab?” the DI asked.

  All three looked at her expectantly. “Nothing fishy from the contents of Koppel’s car. But the dimensions of Liang’s wound are compatible with a Maori war club.”

  “Liang was attacked with a war club?” asked Trimble.

  “Possibly. The dimensions of the wound approximately match the size and weight of the greenstone club I photographed at the museum this morning. No pattern transferred to Liang’s skin, so the weapon was smooth.” She looked directly at Trimble. “Are you familiar with CAD?”

  “Sure, yeah. Computer-aided drafting. It renders crime scene drawings. Looks professional in court. Jurors love it.”

  “It can render a possible weapon, too, given wound dimensions. It created an object similar to a Maori war club. So characteristics of a club match Liang’s wound.”

  “I used CAD last year to reconstruct a bullet path,” McNamara interrupted.

  “But unless we locate the actual object, we can’t be a hundred percent sure. According to Mr. Wright at the museum, none has gone missing from the collection, but greenstone clubs are worth a lot of money. Did you get my message about getting Ngawata and his posse from the island to come in to the station?” she asked Horne.

  “Posse?” He actually smiled. “We’re working on it. They’re hard to locate.”

  “One of them is Officer Cooper’s uncle, Taylor Cooper. She can probably help you find him. We’ll need their fingerprints.”

  “Fat chance,” Ponytail said, smacking his lips, his breath now reeking of Jif.

  “Never hurts to ask,” Horne answered. “Law says they’d have to volunteer unless they’re in custody. If one of these blokes attacked Jenny or killed Koppel, then he won’t be willing. I’ll watch their reactions. Could be revealing. Let’s break for lunch. Trimble—get up with Officer Cooper about her uncle. Meet back at two.”