to face him.
I called Bunchy’s parole officer, a young woman named Kalia Rogers. She said we could come over and talk about him if we wanted, so we walked to her office at the Hawai’i Paroling Authority on Alakea Street.
Kalia means beautiful in Hawaiian, which was an unfortunate name for her, considering she had a lumpy figure and a port-wine stain on her right cheek. “He’s not in trouble again, is he?” She led us into a small conference room. “He swore to me the last time I saw him that he was going to stay clean.”
“What’s his problem?”
44 Neil S. Plakcy
“He’s a sweetheart. And he’s very charismatic, so he gets all these people to follow him.”
“I saw him on YouTube,” I said, as we sat down at a small round table. There wasn’t much in the room besides the table, four chairs and a couple of posters tacked to the walls from the Honolulu Festival, which happens every March and celebrates our connection to the various cultures of Asia. “A demonstration at the Wizard Stones. He didn’t look like a sweetheart there.”
“I admit, when he gets going he says some things he shouldn’t,” she said. “He doesn’t have much impulse control.”
“Jails are full of people like that,” Ray said. “How’s he doing on parole?”
“He comes in like clockwork. Shows me pictures of his grandkids. He cares about the legacy he’s leaving for them.”
All that was sweet, but the Bunchy I’d seen on YouTube could have masterminded the death of an old woman in service to his cause. “You hear about the shooting at the rally on Friday?” I asked.
“You aren’t looking at Bunchy for that, are you?” she asked, her mouth opening in horror. “Because it’s not like him at all.”
“What about the assault charges?” Ray asked. “He sounds like a loose cannon.”
“I’ve worked his case for the last four years.” Kalia pushed a few strands of dark hair over her ear. “I know his record inside out. Every time he got in trouble, it was always impulsive. Pushing a guard away, punching somebody trying to drag protesters, that kind of thing. Bunchy isn’t the kind of guy who’d shoot an old woman.”
“But what about the people who follow him?” I asked, leaning forward. “You said he’s charismatic. What if somebody in his group showed some initiative?”
She sighed. “I guess it’s possible.” She gave us Bunchy’s address, which not surprisingly was back in Papakolea. As we stood up, she said, “In this job, you see a lot of people who still MAhu BLood 45
ought to be in jail. Some of them, you can almost hold your breath until they do something stupid, something that violates their parole or gets them in trouble all over again.”
She opened the door to the conference room, then turned back to us. “Bunchy, he always seemed like one of the good guys, you know? Like you might have a problem with some of the things he did, but his heart was in the right place.” She looked like she might cry. “I saw the news about that woman who was killed.
I hate to think Bunchy could be behind it.”
It was Ray’s turn to drive, so we climbed into his Highlander and drove mauka . In Hawai’i, we don’t use north, south, east and west; our directions are all rooted in our island geography. Makai means toward the ocean, while mauka means the other direction, toward the mountains. Going Diamond Head means toward the extinct volcano which looms over part of the island, while Ewa means in the other direction, toward the city of the same name.
Bunchy lived in a small ranch house off Tantalus Drive, and when we parked in front of it, he appeared in the doorway. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and he was barefoot, wearing a plain white T-shirt, with reading glasses perched on his nose.
“That da kine police car you guys use these days?” he asked.
I didn’t ask how he knew we were police. We’d been at the community center the day before, and I was sure the coconut
I called Bunchy’s parole officer, a young woman named Kalia Rogers. She said we could come over and talk about him if we wanted, so we walked to her office at the Hawai’i Paroling Authority on Alakea Street.
Kalia means beautiful in Hawaiian, which was an unfortunate name for her, considering she had a lumpy figure and a port-wine stain on her right cheek. “He’s not in trouble again, is he?” She led us into a small conference room. “He swore to me the last time I saw him that he was going to stay clean.”
“What’s his problem?”
44 Neil S. Plakcy
“He’s a sweetheart. And he’s very charismatic, so he gets all these people to follow him.”
“I saw him on YouTube,” I said, as we sat down at a small round table. There wasn’t much in the room besides the table, four chairs and a couple of posters tacked to the walls from the Honolulu Festival, which happens every March and celebrates our connection to the various cultures of Asia. “A demonstration at the Wizard Stones. He didn’t look like a sweetheart there.”
“I admit, when he gets going he says some things he shouldn’t,” she said. “He doesn’t have much impulse control.”
“Jails are full of people like that,” Ray said. “How’s he doing on parole?”
“He comes in like clockwork. Shows me pictures of his grandkids. He cares about the legacy he’s leaving for them.”
All that was sweet, but the Bunchy I’d seen on YouTube could have masterminded the death of an old woman in service to his cause. “You hear about the shooting at the rally on Friday?” I asked.
“You aren’t looking at Bunchy for that, are you?” she asked, her mouth opening in horror. “Because it’s not like him at all.”
“What about the assault charges?” Ray asked. “He sounds like a loose cannon.”
“I’ve worked his case for the last four years.” Kalia pushed a few strands of dark hair over her ear. “I know his record inside out. Every time he got in trouble, it was always impulsive. Pushing a guard away, punching somebody trying to drag protesters, that kind of thing. Bunchy isn’t the kind of guy who’d shoot an old woman.”
“But what about the people who follow him?” I asked, leaning forward. “You said he’s charismatic. What if somebody in his group showed some initiative?”
She sighed. “I guess it’s possible.” She gave us Bunchy’s address, which not surprisingly was back in Papakolea. As we stood up, she said, “In this job, you see a lot of people who still MAhu BLood 45
ought to be in jail. Some of them, you can almost hold your breath until they do something stupid, something that violates their parole or gets them in trouble all over again.”
She opened the door to the conference room, then turned back to us. “Bunchy, he always seemed like one of the good guys, you know? Like you might have a problem with some of the things he did, but his heart was in the right place.” She looked like she might cry. “I saw the news about that woman who was killed.
I hate to think Bunchy could be behind it.”
It was Ray’s turn to drive, so we climbed into his Highlander and drove mauka . In Hawai’i, we don’t use north, south, east and west; our directions are all rooted in our island geography. Makai means toward the ocean, while mauka means the other direction, toward the mountains. Going Diamond Head means toward the extinct volcano which looms over part of the island, while Ewa means in the other direction, toward the city of the same name.
Bunchy lived in a small ranch house off Tantalus Drive, and when we parked in front of it, he appeared in the doorway. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, and he was barefoot, wearing a plain white T-shirt, with reading glasses perched on his nose.
“That da kine police car you guys use these days?” he asked.
I didn’t ask how he knew we were police. We’d been at the community center the day before, and I was sure the coconut
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