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didn’t know what I thought I would find. The crime was more than three months old. Forensic experts had gone over the site for any evidence that might have been there. I didn’t expect to find clues. I just wanted to see the layout for myself, and to imagine what it would have been like when the body was dumped.
    I pulled the Jeep onto the dirt strip near the Shark Cave. There weren’t any other cars parked in the immediate area. Across the road an old man was fishing, the line from his pole
lying atop calm turquoise water. We were the only people in sight.
    I climbed down from the Jeep and entered the cave. The entrance was forty to fifty feet across and more than twenty feet high, soaring overhead like a cathedral, then dropping to meet an insignificant hole in the ground reminiscent of where the rabbit went in Alice in Wonderland. I recalled what the place was like inside from a visit I had made out of curiosity one bright afternoon a few years back. The ground was littered with aluminum cans and the assorted detritus of modern civilization, including an occasional condom. Graffiti adorned the rock walls.
    I took the photographs of the body from the file and tried to orient myself to the glossy black-and-white background. I got lucky and found the spot almost immediately. Mary MacGruder’s corpse had not been left inside the cave, but just at its mouth. From the way her legs and arms were splayed I could tell she’d been casually tossed to the ground like a discarded cigarette.
    I imagined it as it had to have happened. The car pulled off the paved road, the driver getting as close as he could to the cave. He couldn’t get to the entrance because it was blocked by big lava boulders. Those same boulders also obstructed the view from the road. Mary’s corpse had been hoisted up and over the rocks and left on the sheltered side. The car turned around and went back toward Makaha. The road to the north dead-ended near Kaena Point, so there was nowhere else they could have gone.
    The whole operation would have taken less then fifteen seconds to accomplish. There were at least two men, one to drive and one to wrestle the body from the vehicle and over the boulder. Taking a dead woman from a car would not be easy. Even an open vehicle such as a pickup or a Jeep would have presented problems. So what did they use?
    There was only one answer that came to mind: the serial
killer’s best friend, the van. With cargo doors on the passenger side and at the rear, vans have been the choice of terrorists, serial and professional killers for over three decades.
    It wasn’t much. It was merely an insupportable supposition. Yet my instinct told me I was right. It wasn’t anything, but it was a start.
    I left the cave, the file under my arm.
    And froze in place.
    Two young men were sitting in my Jeep. One had broken open the glove compartment and was rummaging through its contents. The other was busy with both hands buried beneath the dashboard. They were big, they were young, and they were trying to steal my Jeep.
    I set the file down behind a rock, stepped out of my sandals and approached from the driver side.
    I wasn’t worried about the Jeep. No matter what they tried they couldn’t start it. I’d installed a disabler on the starter. There’s no alarm, because I think they’re useless and needlessly irritate, but a little infrared transmitter on my key chain disables the engine when I push the button. A would-be thief couldn’t start it even if he had a key. I only kept insurance and inspection records in the glove box, but I didn’t appreciate the attempt.
    â€œAny luck?” I asked.
    The youth looked at me, startled. He hadn’t heard my approach. “Who’re you?” he asked. The other thief sneered, trying his best to intimidate.
    â€œHaole fuck,” he answered for me.
    â€œThat’s my Jeep,” I said. “Who’re