“That typical of a broken nose?”
“Not really,” the doctor explained. “The cartilage is like celery, it will bend quite a bit, but if it is bent with tremendous force, it will snap and break. Both his upper and lower lateral cartilages were snapped.”
“Which tells you?” Johnstone asked.
“He didn’t win the fight,” Mortenson replied. Johnstone knew the medical examiner wasn’t trying to be funny. Just honest. Mortenson continued, saying, “Tried to fight off his attacker, but no luck. Also, this is just a guess, but I’d say the attacker was standing over him. Either this guy was on the ground, or the attacker was on some elevated platform.”
“Why do you say that?”
“As I said, it’s a guess. But the way the lateral cartilage was broken, it looks like the angle had to be from above. He could’ve been on the ground, just got pummeled. As for the eye, I doubt he even could see much out of it. Had partial retinal detachment.”
“But then the attacker decides to shoot him,” Johnstone pointed out.
“Not at the same time, of that I’m sure.” He went to a nearby side table and picked up a tiny fragment with tweezers, showing it to Johnstone. “When I looked into the eye injury, I found this.”
Johnstone looked at the minuscule particle. “What is it?”
“Wood. Probably cedar.”
This got Johnstone’s attention. “He was found on Bainbridge Island.”
“Where they have cedar trees, I know. But here’s what’s interesting. In the chest wound, I found some other fragments.” Moving to another table, he picked up a small, thin stalk with the tweezers. “Hay.”
Johnstone didn’t follow the doctor’s line of thinking. “Okay.”
“I think he was in a wooded area when he was beaten up. That’s why the cedar chip was in the eye cut. The hay was also on the backside of his clothes, as if he lay down in it.”
“He could’ve been in the hay before being beaten up,” Johnstone reasoned.
“True. But the head injury had time to set up. There was swelling. You can still see it. Injury like this, the eye and nose will swell for about three days before leveling off. He was already quite swollen.”
“So he couldn’t have been shot right after the beating?” Johnstone inquired.
“No. He bled out within minutes; the shot severed the aorta near the heart. There wouldn’t have been time for his eye and nose to swell like we see here.”
“And you think he was beaten in the woods,” Johnstone said.
“Right. Then he was somewhere where there was hay. Maybe physically restrained at that time. Hands and feet bound together.”
“So a farm,” Johnstone surmised.
“Lots of strawberry farms over there. Maybe someone who has cattle. He was there for a while. That’s when the eye and nose set up. Then he was shot.”
Johnstone nodded thoughtfully. “With a shotgun.”
“Yes, and the shooter was standing pretty close. A yard or two away. This guy didn’t stand a chance.”
Johnstone turned and nodded to the body of Sean Kanagawa on a nearby table. Like Tom Bollgen, Kanagawa lay face up on a metal table. “But this was a single bullet, not a shotgun.”
Mortenson seemed surprised by the question. “You think there’s a connection?”
“Without going into details, yes, I do. Anything else you can tell me?”
“No. Pretty cut and dried. No defensive wounds. He was also shot from close range. Probably surprised. Talking to someone who pulled out a gun and shot him.” Mortenson stared at Kanagawa for a few moments before saying, “I’m having a little trouble calling time of death. He was nearly frozen.”
“Couldn’t that tell you something? If we know how long he was in the freezer, we might know time of death.”
“That’s surmising that he was put in the freezer as soon as he was killed. There’s no way of knowing that. And to answer your question, you cannot calculate the exact time it takes to freeze a body. Depends upon the freezer itself and the body’s size and weight.” Then studying Kanagawa for a moment, he said, “His weight isn’t much. He’s pretty thin. A good eight hours could freeze him. But that’s under ideal circumstances.”
“He was last seen alive about nine o’clock on the night of the 30th.”
“Found when?”
“About eleven yesterday morning,” Johnstone replied.
Mortenson nodded, pondering this. Then he said, “Probably killed early morning yesterday then.” The doctor was lost in his own thoughts for a minute. Then looked to Johnstone. “You said you think the young man killed on the island and Kanagawa are connected, but it appears it’s this other one who’s tied to Kanagawa.”
Mortenson walked over to a third table where Cory Carsteen was laid out just like the others. Mortenson picked up the man’s left wrist, but Johnstone told him, “I already noticed. The fingertips. Same with Kanagawa, but he’s only got one fingertip missing.”
Mortenson smiled. “Very good, Detective. But they have something else in common.” He went down to the foot of the table and rolled Carsteen’s left ankle. Johnstone could see what he thought was a bruise and stepped close to examine it. “Tattoo. But this is what got me.”
Mortenson left Carsteen and moved back to Kanagawa. He lifted the man’s left ankle. “Same.”
Johnstone hurried over and studied it. It was an identical design of something, but he couldn’t be sure what. “What is it?”
“Don’t know. Never seen anything like it. I’ve already called my wife. She hates coming in here, but I told her it’s important.” Johnstone shot him a baffled look, and Mortenson smiled, saying, “She’s a terrific artist. I want her to duplicate these tattoos. It might help you find out what it means.”
Johnstone was surprised. And pleased. “Thank you.”
Mortenson just looked at the three bodies and shook his head. “So you got three murdered men. Two found on the island, one here. Two with fingertips severed and matching tattoos. One that had been beaten and probably tied up.” He was silent for a minute, then asked, “Any ideas?”
“I’ve got a good suspect.”
“Better find him.”
Johnstone nodded in agreement. “I’m working on it.”
His mind wrestled with the new information. If Carsteen, a naval petty officer and Kanagawa, a Japanese-American, both had sliced fingers and identical tattoos, what did that mean? And if Matthew Kobata killed Carsteen, which was logical since he had found a knife identical to the murder weapon on Kobata’s trawler, did Kobata kill Kanagawa? Did he come over in his own boat, maybe in the middle of the night, hook up with Kanagawa and kill him? And why kill his friend, Tom Bollgen? Or was Sally Grazer telling the truth – when Kobata left the island, Porter’s truck was still missing? Which would mean Kobata probably didn’t kill his friend.
Johnstone nodded to Carsteen’s body. “Any idea when his fingers were cut?”
Mortenson just shook his head. “Impossible to know for sure. ”
“Give me a guess.”
“A few months maybe. But that is a guess.”
Johnstone nodded. Both Kanagawa and Carsteen had the fingertips of their left hands cut off. Why? Some weird ritual? A religious group? Usually his meetings with Mortenson helped clear up questions. This time it just created dozens more.
Pacific Ocean 14 Miles Southwest of Rockaway Beach, Oregon. April 1, 1942
Matthew’s head was pounding, and he remembered that when he had finally found the dinghy, he had hauled himself halfway into it before a wave caught it and capsized it on top of him. The wood plank seat had hit him on the head, and he was now certain it was the same exact spot where the man had clobbered him with the gun. For what seemed like an eternity he had struggled to right the small craft. Every time he got close, the waves would slap him, and he would either lose his grip or simply be pulled away.
Finally, he had thought to use the waves in his favor. With the dinghy positioned parallel
to the oncoming waves, with the port side facing into the swells, he climbed on top of the overturned boat. He lay outstretched on his stomach across the width of the hull, with his feet on the starboard side and his hands gripping the port rail. Positioning himself this way, he waited in the driving rain for a promising large swell. When one finally came from the direction he was facing, he held his position until the dinghy’s port side was near the top of the crest. Then using all his strength, he lifted the port rail toward himself, and the dinghy began to lift out of the water as the starboard side sank under his weight.
He had seen the dinghy start to tip over as he lost his balance and fell backward. When he had surfaced, he had quickly swum to the dinghy. It had been hard to drag himself over the rail, but after the third attempt, near exhaustion, he had been successful. The first thing he had checked for was the gallon of drinking water, but it was gone. Then to his dismay, he had found that the paddles were missing too.
That had been the day before. Today there wasn’t any rain, but a dense fog surrounded him, so he had no idea if he was close to shore or miles out. His head hammered, and he alternated between taking off the rain slicker when he felt like he was burning up, and wrapping himself up tight in it when he got so cold that he shivered uncontrollably.
He couldn’t understand why he was either extremely hot or exceedingly cold. Nor did he understand why his throat was so raw. At first he thought it was because he needed to drink, but he knew instinctively that something else was wrong – every time he swallowed it felt like he was gulping down razor blades.
Lying back as best he could, he pulled the slicker firmly around him, shivering again. As he watched the clouds float by, he was surprised to suddenly see Tom walking toward him. A huge smile on his face. Matthew blinked, trying to make sure what he was seeing was real. But it was Tom. And he was fine. Even smiling. That lopsided grin he always wore that had captured Sally’s heart. There was no bruising on his face. In fact, he needed to shave. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a pair of khaki pants. Matthew was amazed to see that his chest was perfectly fine.
“I can’t wait until you get here, buddy,” Tom told him, still grinning from ear to ear. “Just wait ’til you see it.”
Matthew’s mouth was too dry to reply. But he nodded. It sounded good. He was ready. He closed his eyes, a small smile on his lips.
Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 1, 1942
Waiting near the door of Barracks #5, Lieutenant Donald Bollgen felt the stares of several Japanese-Americans gathered just outside the door. Much like a family might gather on their porch after dinner. Except there was no porch. No deck. No chairs. Just three wooden steps leading up to the barracks door. So, the group, three men and two women, squatted near the steps, talking quietly among themselves. Of course, they spoke in Japanese, so he didn’t know what they were saying. He was sure they were talking about him. Why was an Army lieutenant here to see Mrs. Kobata? He imagined there must be great speculation about that.
Little did he know that these people, housed with the Kobata family, knew only too well what was going on. And they didn’t like the attention brought on their barracks by the missing son’s presumed misdeeds. They felt it painted them all with a tainted brush. It was due to people like her son that they were all rounded up like criminals and placed in this desolate camp. There was some discussion of asking the Army to place the Kobata family somewhere else. Not in their barracks.
But of course, Donald did not know this. He glanced at his watch again. Nearly eight o’clock. He knew dinner in mess hall #14 had finished some time ago. But he imagined that there had to be a lot to clean up if you were feeding 300 people. He told himself to be patient, although that was hard. He accomplished nothing the day before. Twice he had thought he had found Mrs. Kobata, only to be told she had just left. First the mess hall, then her own barracks.
Then today, at oh-700, Major Dorrell summoned him to his office to see what Donald had learned. He wanted to say, I’ve learned this is a huge camp, with over 1,000 new Japanese-Americans being brought in daily. I’ve learned that by July, the Army expects to have nearly 10,000 people housed here. Most from Southern California. A much smaller percentage from Stockton, California, and all those who had been living on Bainbridge Island. That’s what I’ve learned. Oh, and I’ve learned that as soon as I’m told where to find Mrs. Kobata, by the time I walk across this huge complex to get there, she is gone.
But he knew he wouldn’t miss her this time. A lamp, attached to a nearby telephone pole twenty yards away, provided enough light for him to see. He would easily be able to identify her. And she would be coming. If nothing else, she would come back here to sleep. Then he would learn the truth about Matthew Kobata. He would put it all in a report for Major Dorrell, and then he would make sure he was back to his unit in time to deploy to the Pacific.
The Japanese squatting by the door suddenly hushed. He saw what they saw – Mrs. Kobata making her way to the barracks. Donald quickly stepped forward.
Kumiko hesitated seeing people huddled by the door. The group rose to their feet, all at once, every face turned her way. She gave a slight bow to the group, saying, “Excuse me.”
“You bring us shame,” one of the women hissed.
Kumiko stopped short. Surprised. Although, she shouldn’t be surprised, she thought. Word had gotten out in her barracks and nearby. Almost everyone thought the worst of Matthew, no doubt. But she didn’t try to defend the actions of her son. She just tried to ignore the glares from others and do her job at the mess hall. At least there, no one knew about Matthew. Of course, give it a few more days and they would probably know too. But for now, the mess hall was her salvation. Her sanctuary.
“You hear? You bring us shame,” the woman repeated.
Kumiko glanced at the woman. She knew the woman and her husband were tenant farmers on a dairy farm in Norwalk, California. She also knew exactly why the woman was saying what she was saying. She had tried to explain about Matthew to several others in their barracks, but her words had fallen on deaf ears.
“Excuse me, please,” she said again.
“The lieutenant is waiting,” one of the men told her, nodding behind her.
Kumiko turned to see the Army officer who had come to her house on the day of the evacuation. Her heart leapt. Matthew. He had news of Matthew. She swiftly walked toward him, giving him a slight bow. “Good evening,” she said politely in English.
“Good evening, Mrs. Kobata.”
“You have news of Matthew? You find Matthew?”
“No, Mrs. Kobata, I’m sorry. No news.” He saw the others watching them, so he asked, “You have a minute to talk to me?”
“Of course, yes. Of course.”
“Let’s walk,” the lieutenant said, leading her away from the others. She wished there was somewhere to sit. But there wasn’t. There was only one barracks after another for as far as the eye could see. After a few minutes of silence, Donald abruptly asked, “My cousin Tom, you remember him, yes?”
Mrs. Kobata’s face lit up. “Tom, yes. Of course. He spend much time at our house.” Then she corrected herself, saying, “When they were in school, yes? After, he always at the restaurant, working. But yes, years ago, I teach him how to use chopsticks.” She talked with her hands, as if illustrating. “I put rubber band on the ends of the chopsticks. Then show him how to hold.” She laughed. “Some days he could do okay, some days, no.”
“He’s dead, Mrs. Kobata.”
Kumiko stopped smiling. Shocked, she quietly said, “Dead?”
Lieutenant Bollgen nodded his head. “He was shot. On the day of the evacuation. The same day Matthew went missing.”
Kumiko placed a hand over her heart. “Tom? Shot? Tom?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No, no, no.”
Donald saw tears in her eyes. He swallowed back his own emotions, saying, “So I need to know, where were they? The night before the evacuation?�
��
“Matthew dead too?” she asked. “If Tom dead, where is Matthew? Is he dead?”
“I don’t know,” Donald said, his tone harsh. “Where did they go? Sally says they were together, so where did they go?”
Kumiko thought for a moment, then looked up at him, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Maybe they take last fish in. Matthew fished the day before. Last time he could fish, yes? He took fish across by truck, not boat.”
“Mr. Porter’s truck,” Donald clarified.
“Yes, yes,” she replied. “I don’t know Tom go. Maybe Tom go too. But shot? Tom shot? By who? Who would kill Tom?”
“I don’t know.”
Suddenly it dawned on her, and she said, “Not Matthew. Matthew no do this. Not Matthew.”
“I agree,” Donald promptly told her. Although at first he hadn’t been too sure, the more he had thought about it, the more he realized it didn’t make sense. “My uncle? Rex? He says the same. Matthew didn’t kill Tom.”
She gave a slight nod of the head in acknowledgement. Then she looked up, sharply, “Police? They know about Tom?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What do they say?”
“I don’t know,” Donald said. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “Look, Matthew’s in trouble. Obviously, or he’d be here. I need to know what happened. How’d he get in trouble? With who? Who are these people? And did they kill Tom? And why? Why would they kill him?”
“I sorry,” Kumiko said. “I sorry. I don’t know. I sorry, I don’t know.”
Donald believed in his heart she was telling the truth. He nodded. “Think about it for me, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
Kumiko nodded. Gave a slight bow. “I sorry. About Tom. I so sorry.”
Donald nodded, and she quickly scurried away. He watched as she passed the group by the barracks steps and ducked inside. Then he turned and slowly walked the other way, back to his own quarters, all the while wondering why he even mentioned Tom. He had planned to push her hard on Matthew. But instead, he blurted out that Tom was dead. What was he thinking?
Toward Night's End Page 10