No Accidental Death

by Garrett Hutson

  It only took him a few seconds to identify them as Mitsubishi A5Ms, the Japanese navy’s newest carrier fighter planes. And there were hundreds of them—sleek metal monoplanes, with the rising sun emblem painted large on the side. They roared directly overhead, drowning out everything.

  “Damn! Did you see how fast those things were?” a petty officer said to his buddies.

  “They’ve been clocked at four-hundred-and-fifty miles per hour,” Doug told them, and one of the petty officers let out a whistle.

  “Those sons-of-bitches flew right over us!” Commander Rose bellowed from down the deck. Doug couldn’t remember ever hearing him swear. He was always by-the-book. This must have really shaken him. “Load up the anti-aircraft guns, on the double!”

  In addition to the twelve six-inch guns, the Valparaiso had a pair of anti-aircraft guns near the center of the ship, and crews scrambled to load the flak and crank them into position.

  Rose rushed past him, and Doug grabbed his arm, jerking him to a stop. “If they see those flak guns pointed at them, they’ll think they’re under attack, and they’ll target us!” he shouted over the roar of engines overhead.

  “Those guns are a warning to clear the skies over us,” Rose shouted back. “And I’ll warn you to keep to your lane, Bainbridge, and let me run my ship.” He stormed off.

  Just don’t get us all killed. Doug said a little silent prayer that Rose’s bellicosity wouldn’t poke the tiger.

  He turned back to the skies, where the Japanese A5Ms were shooting Chinese Hawk IIIs out of the sky, making hair-pin turns in the sky at dizzying speeds, swooping in and out of Chinese formations. Doug watched, transfixed. He’d read countless reports on the A5M, its amazing maneuverability and speed—but to see them in action was nothing short of awe-inspiring. The Hawk IIIs had better guns, but the A5Ms were so fast and nimble they were hard to shoot. And unlike the Hawk IIIs, they were built to sustain minor damage and still fly home.

  This was troubling. Everyone in the navy’s leadership knew that war against Japan was inevitable; the navy had been preparing for this eventuality for almost twenty years. But watching the A5Ms eviscerate the Curtiss Hawk IIIs in the sky over Wusong did not bode well.

  He snapped pictures until the film ran out, and then scrambled to load another roll and take more shots.

  Some twenty minutes later, a new group of fighter planes flew in from the west, a dozen monoplanes like the A5Ms instead of biplanes like the Hawk IIIs. Doug peered through his binoculars, trying to identify the newcomers, which began firing on the Japanese A5Ms. When a few turned, giving him a view of their silhouettes against the late afternoon sky, he was finally able to recognize them as Boeing P-26s—the U.S. Army Air Corps’ “Peashooters.” The Chinese Air Force had ordered a few of those last year.

  He wasn’t as well-versed in Army planes as he was naval planes, but he knew the P-26 was faster than the Curtiss Hawk III—though nothing was as fast as the Mitsubishi A5M. He watched them position themselves between the A5Ms and the Hawk IIIs, giving the latter time to unload their weapons on the landing marines, and then hightail it back west.

  He snapped a dozen more photos, finishing the roll, and hoped he wasn’t too far away for details to show up on enlargement.

  A P-26 maneuvered itself directly behind an A5M, releasing a steady stream of machine gun fire into the Mitsubishi’s tail. Black smoke erupted from the Japanese plane’s engine, and it took a nose-dive toward the brown waters of the Yangtze.

  “Ha ha!” Doug said, elated, shaking a fist at his side. The aerial dog fight might be fascinating theater, but he still wanted the Chinese to win.

  Hope dies hard.

  **

  Shanghai

  Lucy raised herself from the bed reluctantly at the loud knock from the suite’s door, her throat constricting with nausea. Her stomach had turned sour about a half-hour ago, and the vomit rose so suddenly she’d barely made it to the toilet in time. She’d hoped an afternoon nap would help her feel better; it hadn’t so far.

  The knocking repeated as she walked unsteadily from the bedroom into the living room. Her stomach lurched, but she paused and took a deep breath, managing to calm it down, and then opened the door.

  “Hi Lucy,” Jonesy said, then a twinkle came to his eye and he added, “Or should I say, Mrs. Bainbridge?”

  She managed a weak smile. “That’s how we had to register, you know.”

  “I understand completely,” Jonesy said. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course.” Lucy stepped aside, embarrassed that she’d not invited him in right away. But for some reason, her cheeks didn’t warm like they usually did when she got embarrassed by something.

  “Hey, you don’t look so well,” Jonesy said, concern showing in his eyes. “You feeling alright? You look awfully pale.”

  “I think I’ve picked up a little stomach bug,” Lucy said. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  He waited until she’d sat in the loveseat, and then he sat in the chair opposite her. “Kenny and Abbie’s landlady told me you and Doug had left, and asked to forward you mail here. I heard Doug’s ship left this morning—which complicates the rest of what I learned this morning.”

  He explained what he’d been told about Commander Rose’s involvement with shipping underage Chinese girls to the U.S., and peddling their older counterparts to rich Americans in Shanghai. He concluded with the news about Nick Bonadio being at Rose’s house the night of August 13th, with two white women.

  “That’s the same night he was killed,” Lucy said, a strange sort of electricity shooting through her body at the thought. “Doug was called early Saturday morning, about three o’clock, I think.”

  “And the two white women with him?”

  Lucy knew exactly who the two women were. She could feel it in her gut. “I take it Doug didn’t tell you about Lola Cunningham and Tatiana Petrova?”

  “No,” Jonesy said, his lips tightening. “Doug doesn’t tell me much, it seems.”

  Her heart went out to the stocky reporter. He might have a gruff exterior, but inside he was as vulnerable as a kitten. And he was right—Doug had a habit of only revealing the minimum, to anyone.

  “Then let me fill you in.” She told him everything she knew about Lola and Tatiana, finishing with finding their apartment, then learning from Doug that the pistols they owned weren’t a match to the bullets that killed Nick.

  “Even if they didn’t kill him, it’s a good bet they know who did,” Jonesy said when she’d finished.

  “I’ll talk to them. I think I can get them to open up to me. I think they’ll close up as tight as a clam if a man asked.”

  Jonesy looked doubtful. “Are you sure? You look pretty green around the gills.”

  The truth was, her nausea had rebounded the last few minutes. She swallowed every few seconds, her throat tightening as her stomach churned.

  “I think I just need to lie down.” She braced her hand against the arm of the loveseat as she rose, a little unsteady, and hoped Jonesy hadn’t noticed. “I’m sure I’ll feel better tonight, and I’ll go talk to them. Let me show you out.”

  “Keep me informed, will you?” Jonesy said, turning back to her after walking through the door. His voice was softer than usual, and he looked concerned.

  “Cross my heart,” she said, managing another weak smile, and closed the door.

  She ran to the bathroom, and just managed to lift the toilet seat before emptying her stomach into the bowl.

  **

  Doug knocked on the open door of the tiny room that Chet Heiselmann shared with three other seamen. All four were seated around a low table, shirtless, playing cards.

  “Heiselmann, a word please.”

  He laid his cards facedown and followed Doug down the hall.

  “Sorry to interrupt your game,” Doug said.

  Heiselmann shrugged. “I wasn’t winning tonight, anyway.”

  “I want to talk for a few minutes about Lola Cunningham.�
��

  A flash of wariness crossed Heiselmann’s eyes, but he recovered and made a nonchalant shrug. “What about her?”

  “The night Nick died, you saw her at the Majestic—but you said she came late, after four o’clock. Did she say why she hadn’t been there all night?”

  Heiselmann stiffened. “She didn’t do it, Commander. She didn’t kill Nick.”

  Doug narrowed his eyes. “How do you know she didn’t?”

  “Because she’s not like that, see? She wouldn’t hurt nobody.”

  Blinded by love. Or, what young men thought of as love. “Did she say why she hadn’t been there before four o’clock? I know you like her, Chet. I’m sure you asked where she’d been.”

  Heiselmann made another little shrug. “She said she took the night off ‘cuz she had plans that night. She said her other thing ended early, so she decided to come in and make some coin.”

  “Did she say anything about Nick? Had she seen him that night?”

  Heiselmann squared his shoulders. “No, she didn’t. Listen, I told you, she didn’t kill him, okay?”

  “Okay,” Doug said, nodding. He tried a different tack. “Did she know how much you like her?”

  The young seaman’s eyes widened. “I—I don’t know. I never said nothin’. But I didn’t hide it, neither. I danced with her all the time, more’n any of the other girls by far.”

  “Would she have come to you for a favor?”

  Heiselmann’s face screwed up. “I don’t know. Maybe? Why would she need to—hey, wait a minute! You don’t think I helped her bump off Nicky, do you? No way, commander. Nicky was my pal, even if he did like Lola too. I wouldn’t let those I-tais hurt him, and I wouldn’t let no one else hurt him, neither.”

  “I’d say he more than liked Lola,” Doug said, staring at the young seaman. “You might say he was obsessed with her. That didn’t put a strain on your friendship?”

  Heiselmann stiffened. “No, sir.”

  “Would he have tried to hurt Lola if she rebuffed him?”

  Heiselmann glared at Doug in silence.

  “If he hurt Lola because she told him no, would you still want to protect him?”

  “I got nothin’ more to say about that, commander. Can I go now? The fellas are waitin’ for me.”

  Doug nodded backward and watched Chet Heiselmann storm back to his quarters.

  22

  Tuesday August 24

  The commanding officer of the ship’s marine contingent, Major Cartwright, knocked on Doug’s open door that evening while he sat reading a book.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Commander Bainbridge, but Commander Rose has requested your cooperation with a snap inspection of officers’ sidearms,” Cartwright said.

  Cartwright looked a little embarrassed. As a Marine Corps major, he was the equivalent rank of Lt. Commander in the navy—one grade below Doug and Commander Rose—so he couldn’t compel Doug’s cooperation any more than Rose could.

  “I’d be happy to help with the inspection,” Doug said, putting his book down on his desk and rising. “I’ll follow you, Major.”

  “I’m not sure that’s what Commander Rose had in mind, but come with me, sir,” Major Cartwright replied.

  They found Rose a short ways down the corridor, standing outside his quarters. The major saluted, and Rose returned the salute. Doug stood next to the major, at ease, without saluting.

  “Good evening, Bainbridge,” Rose said, crisp. “I’m sure Major Cartwright explained that we’re doing a surprise sidearm inspection of all officers onboard. Since you’re not technically a member of the crew, I can’t compel your compliance, but I would like to request your cooperation, as a sign of good faith to the men.”

  “I’d be happy to assist you,” Doug said, satisfied with the almost imperceptible way that Montgomery Rose’s lips tightened at his response.

  “I’ll be glad to have your participation,” Rose said with a curt nod. “Shall we begin with your sidearm?”

  Doug suppressed his amusement, unholstered his pistol and handed it to Rose. Major Cartwright intercepted it, and in a series of rapid movements that took barely five seconds, he’d checked the chamber, safety, and the clip, and peered down the barrel before handing it back to Doug. “All clear, Commander.”

  Doug didn’t bother trying to hide his amazement at Cartwright’s dexterity. The marines were nothing if not precise, and disciplined to a fault.

  Rose looked at Doug with one of those smiles that didn’t extend to his eyes. “Very good, Bainbridge. Shall we proceed with the others?”

  Major Cartwright rapped his knuckles on Lieutenant Stephenson’s door. After inspecting his sidearm with the same speed and dexterity as Doug’s, they moved next door to Lieutenant Wharton. After Cartwright pronounced his sidearm clean, they continued down the list of officers, both Navy and Marine, with a speed that left Doug almost breathless.

  Scott Farnsworth crossed the corridor from the head while they were inspecting the pistol of a marine lieutenant, wearing a loosely-fastened bathrobe, a wet towel draped around his neck. He cast a curious glance their direction before unlocking his door and slipping inside.

  “We’ll check Ensign Farnsworth next,” Rose said to Cartwright, nodding toward Farnsworth’s door. “Now that he’s seen we’re inspecting firearms, let’s not give any time for a quick clean-up, shall we?”

  Cartwright rapped his knuckles on Farnsworth’s door. The sound of rapid movement came from inside, and then the ensign answered the door, wearing a pair of white uniform pants, but still barefoot and shirtless.

  Rose spoke, and there was a note of coldness to his crisp military tone. “Ensign Farnsworth, we’re conducting a snap inspection of officer’s sidearms. Please present Major Cartwright with your sidearm.”

  Farnsworth’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but then after a half-second’s hesitation, he nodded. “Of course, Commander.” He walked to his dresser—only two strides of his long legs—and took the holster off the top. Removing the pistol, he handed it to Cartwright.

  The marine major commenced his lightning-fast inspection, but paused a second while looking at the clip. Then he took several seconds to peer down the barrel.

  “There are three rounds missing from the clip,” he said to Rose. “And there’s powder in the barrel.”

  Rose’s expression was one of practiced intimidation. Doug had to admire the commanding officer’s skill, even as his insides wanted to recoil from it. “Ensign Farnsworth, do you have an explanation for the missing ammunition?”

  Scott Farnsworth’s forehead and upper lip broke out in sweat, but Doug watched the ensign’s eyes. They were steady as he looked ahead, toward Rose’s forehead.

  “While on shore leave in Shanghai last week, I had to fire once into the air to scare away a pair of low-lifes who wanted to rob me.”

  Rose’s eyes narrowed. “Did you report this incident upon your return to the ship?”

  Farnsworth’s lips tightened, but his eyes remained steady as he stared straight ahead. “No, sir.”

  “That’s a violation of the code of conduct,” Rose said, his tone harsher than Doug would have considered appropriate for such a minor infraction. “And the other missing bullets?”

  Here, Farnsworth’s eyes faltered, and he swallowed visibly before answering. “I don’t know, sir. I only fired once.”

  Rose turned toward Doug. “How many times was Seaman Bonadio shot, Commander Bainbridge?”

  Doug’s stomach dropped at the implication. “He was shot twice.”

  “And by a gun that matches our officers’ sidearms, I believe?” There was a tiny hint of smile on Rose’s lips that disturbed Doug, one corner of his mouth raised almost imperceptibly, easy to miss.

  “That is correct,” Doug said, his mouth going dry.

  Rose turned toward Cartwright, his expression now suddenly dour. “Major Cartwright, please have your marines escort Ensign Farnsworth to the Brig. He is to be put under arrest immediately,
on suspicion of murdering Seaman Second Class Nicholas Bonadio.” He spun on his heel and marched back toward his quarters, the rest of the inspection forgotten.

  Doug watched him for a second, eyes narrowing. There was a glaring hole in his argument, and Rose was smart enough to know that.

  “Ensign Farnsworth, you may finish dressing, and then you’ll come with me,” Cartwright said.

  Farnsworth opened his mouth, but Doug stepped close to him and interrupted. “Don’t say anything, Scott,” he said, quietly.

  Farnsworth looked at Doug for a second, swallowed hard, and nodded. He dressed in silence, and when he came to the door a moment later, a marine lance corporal met him there. “Put your arms behind your back, please, sir.” Then he tied Farnsworth’s wrists, and led him down the hall, with Major Cartwright following.

  **

  Doug waited a half-hour to be sure Cartwright had finished his report, and then he quietly slipped out of his room and downstairs to the brig.

  The marine lance corporal who had arrested Scott Farnsworth stood at attention beside the windowless door, and he saluted when Doug approached.

  “I’d like to speak with Ensign Farnsworth, Corporal,” Doug said.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the lance corporal replied, still at attention. “No one is to see the prisoner, under Major Cartwright’s orders.”

  Doug took a step closer, standing less than two feet in front of the marine. He was a couple of inches taller, and he glared down at the marine’s face. “I’m acting on the authority of Captain Jansen, who has assigned me to lead the investigation into Seaman Bonadio’s death. Major Cartwright’s orders are superseded.”

  The marine looked uncertain, and Doug added in his sternest voice, “If you don’t let me in to speak with Ensign Farnsworth, I will have you charged with interfering with an official Navy investigation. Is that clear, Corporal?”

  “Clear, sir,” the corporal said, snapping a salute, and then unlocking the door.