= Gone Missing
  by John A. Broussard


There were few calls Sergeant Corky Medeiros liked less than "My daughter's gone missing." Most of the time, the girl and perhaps a friend had taken off for Honolulu to find adventure in the big city. But sometimes the results were far more grim--a badly beaten body left in a cane field or, perhaps worse, just a total and permanent disappearance. As she listened to the distraught father, Corky was thankful she was part of the Elima Island PD and not over on Oahu. A rural police force didn't have the problems on the scale their counterpart over there faced.

Today's runaway's mother was Portuguese, the father half-Hawaiian, half-haole. The story wasn't much different from the usual. Leilani Johnson had driven off with her boyfriend the morning before, and there had been no word from either of them for over twenty-four hours.

Corky was, in theory, supposed to wait forty-eight hours before following up on a runaway teenager. But she rifled through her in-basket and decided she could cut some corners; there wasn't anything more pressing. Besides, there was a lot to go on. Leilani had last been seen driving off with Stanley Nobriga in his pickup the previous morning. It wouldn't be difficult to run down the plate number, and it shouldn't be much more difficult to locate the truck. While Elima was one of the larger Hawaiian islands, there really weren't many places for a vehicle to go where the police wouldn't spot it sooner or later.

From what Corky could make out, the Johnsons weren't exactly bosom friends with the Nobrigas, and they hadn't checked with them about either Leilani's or Stan's whereabouts. Corky made the call. No, Stan hadn't been home since the previous morning. No, they weren't much concerned. Stan sometimes left for days at a time. "He's three times seven, you know," Mr. Nobriga commented without being prompted.

Still wondering if the missing pair weren't just holed up on some deserted beach, recovering from a night of passion, Corky decided it might be best to check with her Lieutenant, Hank DeMello, before going off on what might be the wildest of goose chases.

Hank showed as little concern as Mr. Nobriga, though he raised his eyebrows when he heard that a fifteen year old girl had disappeared with a twenty-two year old male. "Get the word out on the plates. If they're spotted, we'll have them pulled over, and then let the Johnsons know she's O.K." He paused. "It won't hurt if you go out to see them. Better to be over-concerned about a runaway than to ignore their call and then find out something worse happened."

The Johnson house was a look-alike in the middle of an affordable housing subdivision. The lots were of minimal size, and the houses stood next to each other, cheek by jowl. The small lawns were covered with various assortments of plants, toys, and--in one case--a discarded vehicle. The Johnson home stood out because of its tidiness, with two large papaya trees and a small coconut palm providing shade, a closely cropped hedge, and a wooden-seated swing currently occupied by a pre-school child. Though she ignored Corky's greeting, the little girl fixed dark brown eyes on the visitor as she knocked at the door.

Mrs. Johnson was obviously distraught. Mr. Johnson was more angry than anything else. His pidgin accentuated the anger in his voice and expression.

"She nevah say where she go. It was befoh daylight. Stan stay outside in his pickup. No muffluh. He wake up da whole damn neighborhood. I wen' look out da bedroom window and see Leilani gettin' in da pickup."

Corky went through the usual routine with her notebook. The Johnsons had four children. The two boys and the other girl were all considerably older than Leilani. They had left home long ago, and the child on the swing was the elder daughter's parting gift to her parents. Corky thought that the pattern might very well repeat itself. She asked to see Leilani's room; as she'd expected, she didn't learn much from it. It was remarkably clean, undoubtedly thanks to Mrs. Johnson. The granddaughter shared the room, and there was nothing to indicate Leilani had planned a prolonged absence. A half-dozen photos revealed a rather plain girl, tall (her mother said she was inches taller than her own five-foot six), carrying at least twenty pounds more than she should have.

Giving what reassurance she could, Corky left the house with the conviction that Stan was going to have to explain a thing or two to his girlfriend's grim-faced father when they showed back up in a few days. She figured Leilani would catch her share of hell too--in fact, remembering her own wild adolescence, Corky bet she could predict, word for word, what both sides would have to say to each other.

The child, still rocking back and forth on her homemade swing, changed Corky's mind. "Auntie Lele go opihi picking with Stan," the girl announced, apropos of nothing. Corky immediately had visions of the young people groping around slippery algae-covered rocks hunting for the elusive and precious mollusks. Every year one or more opihi pickers fell victim to the Pacific's hungry maw. And if that could happen to the old timers who were well aware of the danger from a sudden large wave, what chance would someone like Leilani and Stan have?

As she pulled away from the curb, the thought occurred to her that that bit of information could help narrow the search. The accessible beaches where the opihi lurked were few. A patrol of the more popular hunting grounds could easily locate an abandoned pickup. As she reached for the phone, the familiar voice of the station operator calling Corky's number interrupted.

Following her acknowledgement, there was reassuring news. "Hi, Sarge. That pickup you're looking for is out at the airport, in the parking lot. Patrol Seven just called it in."

"Thanks. Tell him to wait, unless he's got something more pressing to do. I'll swing by there on my way back to the station."

Jerry Lance, the patrol car driver, waved her over to the end of the parking lot. "I don't think it's locked," he said. "I didn't try it."

Corky smiled. Jerry was always careful to follow regulations, even though this was one time when it hardly seemed necessary to do so.

The pickup was a dilapidated Chevy of indeterminate age, heavily pockmarked with what the high school car crowd referred to as Hawaii Rot--the inevitable result of metal exposed to the island's salt air. Though she didn't check, Corky was quite willing to accept Mr. Johnson's word that it lacked a muffler.

To show Jerry she was as concerned about regulations as he was, she used a handkerchief-covered hand to try the door. Jerry had been right, it was unlocked. And, as it turned out, he had been right to follow regulations. The dirty grey seatback and cushion had a large, fresh stain. To Corky's practiced eye, it was clearly blood. The disappearance of Leilani Johnson had now moved up to something potentially much more serious.

The scene of crime people moved in quickly. Once they'd finished, Corky supervised the towing of the vehicle to the police warehouse and then went off to report to Hank.

The Lieutenant was waiting. He pushed two folders across to Corky as she settled back into the garage-sale armchair serving as office furniture.

"Fast work," she commented, leafing through the file on Stanley Nobriga. "Assault, narcotics, illegal possession of firearms, contempt of court, abuse of a family member. . .he's covered a lot of ground in twenty-two years. No prison time, though. How come?"

"Plea bargain. He was in with two others on the assault charge. He copped first." Hank picked up a couple of other files. "When you're through with those two, take a look at the two who got time. Kelvin Amaral and Shelby Andrade. Amaral got out about a month ago. Andrade was just released from Kalani last week. I think this is serious enough for us to send someone out to find out what they've been up to."

Corky nodded absentmindedly, engrossed in Leilani's file. "Hell, Hank, she hasn't exactly been sitting still during her fifteen years, either. Two runaways when she was thirteen. Fights at school. Truancy."

Hank nodded agreement. "She was in trouble and headed for a lot more."

"Here's something from her school health record. Blood group AB plus. That's not all that common. Any bets about the type from the pickup?"

Hank checked his watch. "I've got the lab on it. They should be back with blood type any minute now. DNA will take a lot longer, of course, so...."

Corky held up her hand as she reached for the other two folders. "I know. Back to her room. There should be hair samples around that can give us a match. We already have her fingerprints--but fingerprints won't help much. The pickup's bound to have hers and Stan's all over it. And maybe others," Corky added, mostly to herself.

"I'm moving this from missing to possible homicide," Hank said. "We'll get all the ID together. Both Leilani and Stan have tatoos. His should be a great identifier. . .a snake around his neck. Have someone check the airport personnel to see if either of them were seen boarding. Make sure they check both shifts. And ask around about Amaral and Andrade."

As Corky was leaving, he added, "Most of the lab info should be here by four."

"Fine. I'll be back from the Johnsons' by then."

"No need for them to know about the bloodstain. Not yet, at least."

Corky kept herself from rolling her eyes at the obvious advice.

The four o'clock meeting produced few surprises. The blood was AB positive, The pickup, inside and out, was covered with fingerprints, the clearly-recent ones belonging to Leilani and Stan.

Corky was especially intrigued by the diagram of the truck's interior with the x's marking Stan's prints, checkmarks indicating Leilani's, and question marks in the few places where older, unidentified prints had been raised.

"Look, Hank. There aren't any prints on the steering wheel."

Hank reached for the phone. When he hung up, he grinned. "Scotty was pee-oed. He says if the diagram doesn't show any prints on the wheel, then there aren't any there."

"So it was wiped. But why? Anyone who handled the wheel would have touched other parts of the cab. What would be the point to just cleaning off the wheel?"

Corky left the folders at work that evening, but the fingerprints still bothered her--in fact, they nagged at her for the better part of two weeks. Even assuming Amaral and Andrade were at the bottom of this, there was nothing connecting them to the disappearances. And really, no one could be expected to come up with an alibi covering at least a twenty-four hour period.

Airport personnel were no help either. A recheck with all of them found no one who recalled seeing the missing couple or the two suspects. No one had seen the pickup entering the airport. With no parking slip in the pickup, there was no way of knowing the exact time it had entered the lot.

A return visit to the Nobrigas' produced little more than shrugs from the parents. Fortunately, Stan's younger brother happened to be there and produced some information which Corky circled in her notes for further investigation, or at least for further thought.

The brother said Stan's departure might have been long planned. "He told me he was gonna take off to California one these days. He had a good job waiting for him--if he wanted it."

Knowing Stan was unemployed, and that the fare to the Mainland was expensive, Corky asked, "Where was he getting the money for the trip?"

The brother grinned. "He had fifteen hundred dollars, last I talk to him." He made a gesture around his waist. "Safe in a money-belt."

There was no point in asking where an unemployed twenty-two year old would come up with so much money. The real answer would have been ice--crystal metamphetamine--the latest drug being handled by local small-time dealers, and Stan's brother certainly wasn't about to tell that to a police officer.

"Was he going to take Leilani along?"

The grin widened. "The Johnson wahine? No way. A goodbye wave, maybe."

Corky also spoke with Leilani's school counselor, Melissa Fujii, who produced further food for thought, but certainly no solution.

"Leilani was really a very bright girl. I taught her in seventh grade, before I switched over to counseling. She was really interested in school, was a good reader, and was doing well in just about all of her subjects. I don't know what her IQ was, but I'm sure she was well above average." She paused, then went on, "After she turned thirteen, I guess her hormones cut in."

The counselor's expression was impenetrable as she continued. "She wasn't very attractive, so she did what a lot of plain girls do at that age. She chased the boys, and was only too ready to offer them the only thing she could."

Corky had the feeling the counselor, who could at best be called plain, might well have been looking back at what adolescence had held for her. But surely that was fairly typical for a girl of that age. Certainly Corky, who was far from plain and had never needed to chase anyone, had cut a wide swath during those trying years.

"By the time I was counseling her here in high school, it all seemed pretty hopeless. She'd completely lost interest in school. She was using drugs, of course, but then I'd be hard pressed to find any of the students who haven't at least smoked pakalolo. She skipped classes more than she attended, disappeared a couple times, and when she was here, she got into several fights. She was a big girl, and strong, so most of the damage was to others. That didn't set too well with the parents of the girls she fought with.

"She had problems at home, too. Her father is a minister in some small Christian church. He apparently was very strict with her, and she took out a lot of her hostility toward him right here at school. I got the impression she was really terrified of her father, yet kept right on crossing him. You know how it is. I wasn't looking forward to it, but we were about to have a final conference with her parents when she disappeared."

"Incorrigible?" Corky phrased the word as a question.

The counselor nodded. "We call it 'attention deficit disorder' these days. Not that that makes much difference, since she was headed for a special school on Oahu." She smiled, and added, "We also have to be politically correct these days, but you know as well as I do, a reform school by any other name is still a reform school."

No, the interview didn't help much, and the first real break in the case came almost two weeks to the day after Leilani's disappearance. A relieved Mrs. Johnson called to say she'd received a letter from her missing daughter. Corky's reaction was immediate. "Please don't handle it any more than you have already. I'll be over in just a few minutes."

The letter was brief.

Mom. Dad. I know you been worried but Stan and me decided to go to Oahu. He always arguing with his parents and beside he got good job here. I am fine if you want to write me just send letters to Honolulu general delivery. I write more when I got the time. I got a job too. Lele

There was no date on the letter. The envelope was postmarked Honolulu, the previous day. Leilani's fingerprints were on the letter and envelope. Her mother was adamant. There was no question but that the writing was Leilani's. A comparison with some of her schoolwork convinced Corky the mother was right.

And later, at the station, Hank agreed, then asked, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking."

"That Stan made her write the letter two weeks ago and saved it until now?"

Hank nodded.

"It's possible, but doesn't seem too likely. Her counselor said Leilani was no dummy. He wouldn't have been able to get her to just write a letter like that. And from what little I can make out about Stan, he wouldn't have had that kind of smarts." She shook her head and kept puzzling over the letter.

The break came almost a week later. The Honolulu PD reported they had Leilani Johnson in custody. Fingerprint identification was positive. She had been picked up for soliciting, had resisted arrest, and had two joints and three amphetamine pills in her purse, along with three hundred dollars in large bills. The weary-sounding sergeant Corky spoke to seemed eager to turn her over to the Elima PD on any pretext.

Hank had been listening to the conversation over the speakerphone. Knowing Corky's aversion to flying, he grinned and said, "Here's your chance to fly to Honolulu. And all at the County's expense."

"Why me?"

"It's gotta be at least a sergeant to take over custody, and you've been working on the case. Besides, how many women sergeants do we have on Elima?"

Corky looked grim. "Thanks. The only good thing about the flight is that it lasts less than thirty minutes. With enough tranquilizers beforehand, maybe I won't know I'm flying."

The pills didn't help much on the flight. They helped even less after she got there. Still groggy from their effects, Corky was in no mood to interview Leilani. Talking to the sergeant who had called her didn't help matters.

"Since she's a minor, we had to bring in a juvenile defender before we could do any interrogating, and he's a piss-ant."

"So what did you find out?"

"Just what I told you over the phone. I haven't seen her since. They're both waiting for you." He gestured toward the interrogation room. As Corky started off in that direction, he added, "Good luck."

As it turned out, the interview went surprisingly well. The defender was only too glad to divest himself of his client, and Leilani was obviously seeing in Corky a free return trip to Elima and a way to avoid the existing charges against her. Whatever the reason, Leilani was ready to cooperate, and Corky was pleasantly surprised to find her to be as intelligent as the counselor had described.

The trip back was uneventful. Corky's second round of pills had reduced her usual terror to mild anxiety. She didn't even need to talk to Leilani, who lost herself in the latest issue of the in-flight magazine.

Hank made it a point to sit in on the interview at the station along with Leilani's mother. Mr. Johnson had been unable to get off from work. Corky decided it was just as well. Still feeling the effects of the pills, she struggled to clear up the incidents of the past two weeks.

A clerk knocked and summoned Hank from the room as Leilani was explaining. "Stan said he was going to the Mainland. So we drove to the airport. I decided I didn't want to go back home, because I knew Dad would be mad about my leaving with Stan. I saw him at the window when we left. So I took a plane to Honolulu with Stan. He went on to Los Angeles, and I decided to look up a friend on Oahu."

Corky's head was still fuzzy, but she knew there were a lot of questions she should be asking. Leilani went on without prompting.

"She moved and I couldn't find her, so I stayed at the YWCA."

"Where did you get the three hundred dollars that were in your purse?"

Leilani looked over at her mother, then said, "Stan gave me some money when he left."

Corky thought that unlikely, but didn't press the matter. "There was a blood stain in the pickup. Was that your blood?"

Leilani nodded. "I was filing my nails when Stan had to jam on the brakes." She held out her hand, palm down, to show a healed, three-inch gash in the web between her thumb and index finger.

Corky's respect for Leilani's intelligence was now extended to Leilani's skill at manipulating the truth. She looked across the table at the tall, rather ungainly girl, and asked, "Why did you wait so long to write a letter to your folks?"

And suddenly, while Leilani was hesitating over the answer, the pieces began to fall into place. Streetwalking competition in Oahu was rugged. Leilani had little to offer in looks, and perhaps not much to offer in experience. Money was running out. And Stan was hardly the type who would have given her any large amount, if any, when he left. Nor did Leilani seem like someone who would have taken the news of their breakup lightly. The steering wheel was devoid of fingerprints. Before Leilani could answer the previous question, Corky asked, "Can you drive?"

Leilani's mother broke in, with a broad smile. "Leilani's been able to drive ever since she was a little thing. She used to sit on her father's lap when she was only four and steer just as nice as you please."

Leilani glared at her mother. Corky shook off the last remnants of the pills. Almost every piece was in place. Leilani had driven to the airport. Stan had never been along. The blood was to send the police off in the wrong direction. And the money had about run out.

At that moment, Hank entered the interrogation room. "Sergeant," he said, addressing Corky and ignoring the other occupants, "A badly decomposed body was just found at Noe-noe Point, washed up by the waves and wedged into the rocks. There's enough left to show a snake tattoo around the neck. And there's a fishing knife sticking in his chest."

Corky, Hank and Mrs. Johnson turned to look at Leilani.

A pause. "He tried to rape me," the girl blurted out.

Hank's expression was grim. "His money belt was still on him--empty."

Leilani looked at each of the others, then said, "I want a lawyer."


JOHN A. BROUSSARD was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1924 and received his AB from Harvard and his MA and Ph.D. from the University of Washington. He taught at the college level for twenty years. John has recently sold about a hundred short stories; in addition, his first two books, MANA and DEATH OF THE TIN MAN'S WIFE (featuring series character Kay Yoshinobu), appeared in 2001. He also reviews for Bibliophile and I Love a Mystery; his website may be found at http://www.fictionwritings.com/.

Copyright (c) 2001 John A. Broussard