Her face changed. He had seen it. But she quickly recovered. “No, sorry.”
“You know him? Sean Kanagawa? You know him?” Johnstone insisted.
“No, sorry.”
“He’s dead. He was shot.” Holding up the drawing in front of her, he said, “And I know it has to do with this. You did this. I need to know who else has this on their ankle and what it means.”
“No, sorry,” she repeated politely, bowing her head slightly.
“Matthew Kobata,” Johnstone pressed. “You did his tattoo. You remember him? He’s a fisherman from Bainbridge Island.”
“So, sorry. I go—” She started to close the door.
But Johnstone stopped it with his hand. “This is a murder investigation. A triple homicide—”
“Triple? Three?” she asked, surprised.
“Three, yes.”
“You say two.”
Johnstone didn’t want to argue with her. He needed her. “The third man is also from Bainbridge Island. Another white man. But he didn’t have the tattoo. But he was found with the white man who did.” Not quite the truth, but close enough.
She just nodded thoughtfully. Johnstone waited. “Please,” he said. “I need your help.”
With that she quickly said, “So sorry.”
Once again she started to shut the door, but Johnstone firmly pushed it back. “Look lady, I don’t know what’s going on, but people are dead. And you know something that can help me.” She wouldn’t look at him, so he added, “Sean Kanagawa is dead. His finger was cut off first—”
Again, he saw the flicker of reaction.
“They cut it off. Branding him? Or warning him? I don’t know. But then they shot him.” He pointed to the center of his own forehead. “Right here. Dead.”
The woman hesitated. Then so softly that he could barely hear, “Dragon’s Breath.”
“Dragon’s Breath? Dragon’s Breath. What does that mean?”
She suddenly looked fearful. He felt pressure on the door as she tried to shut it, but he resisted her efforts. “Please? Is it a group of some kind? From where? Here? What do they do?”
“So sorry. I go—”
Johnstone held the door open. “You said it. Dragon’s Breath? What does it mean?”
She was softly crying as she said, “So sorry. Please go.”
Johnstone quickly removed a business card from his wallet and handed it to her. “If you remember anything, okay?” She took the card with a nod. He released the door, and she quickly shut it in his face.
Chapter Thirteen
Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 2, 1942
Major Dorrell wasn’t in a good mood. He now knew that juggling the logistics of housing, feeding, and providing enough latrines and shower facilities – not to mention sufficient amounts of hot water – for over 7,000 internees was an overwhelming task. Thousands more were expected within the week. On top of that, he had just gotten a letter from Washington informing him that, because the war would be going on for the foreseeable future, schooling should continue for the child detainees. He didn’t know a thing about getting a school up and running. At least Washington didn’t expect him to bring in Caucasian teachers. The Japanese adults in the camp would have to volunteer.
His mood hadn’t been brightened after reading Lieutenant Bollgen’s report. Nor was he pleased that a Colonel Matheson had called him that morning with his own specific request, which he had no choice but to obey. Still, he had a few days left before he would have to adhere to that order. And he would use them as he saw best.
Major Dorrell’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Enter,” he said in a firm, crisp voice. Dorrell looked up to see Lieutenant Bollgen enter, quickly saluting his superior officer. “Come in, come in.”
Bollgen stepped forward.
“Have a seat, Lieutenant.”
Donald sat in the chair. Dorrell was reading a document, then he waved the paper at him, saying, “I see you authorized a request for white rice. Sixty pounds a week.”
“Yes, sir,” Donald replied. “It’s a staple in the Japanese diet.”
The major gave a brief laugh. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you think these prisoners of war, that’s what they are, you know? You think they shouldn’t be grateful for three meals a day? Instead, they should dictate to us what type of food they want. Is that it?”
“No, sir. They did not dictate anything, sir.” Donald took a deep breath. He knew he was on thin ice. He had no idea that all food requests went past Dorrell, or he never would have told Corporal Fryer to submit the request. What rotten luck. He decided to go out on a limb. “It is in our best interest, sir, that they have rice.”
The major frowned at him. “Explain, Lieutenant.”
“We need to stave off any signs of dysentery, sir.”
“Dysentery?”
Donald nodded. He had heard that prisoners were struck with diarrhea. “Quite a few prisoners have had diarrhea. Could be the first signs of dysentery.”
“I’m not sure that should concern us. They have latrines with running water to wash their hands. They have toilets.”
“Yes, sir. But I was thinking on your behalf.”
This got the major’s attention. He raised an eyebrow and Donald went on, saying, “Sir, I do know how the Army works. If there is an outbreak of dysentery, if lots of prisoners take ill and it results in deaths, some will look to who was in charge. What was done to prevent this? That’s what Washington will ask.”
“And it will have occurred on my watch,” the major conceded.
“Exactly, sir. And Corporal Fryer looked into it, sir, and a farming group in Arkansas that we have under contract produces rice. We just haven’t ordered it. Plus, it’s cheaper than the potatoes.”
“Okay, okay,” the major said, waving the thought away. “I’ll look into it.” He picked up some other papers. “Thorough report here, on the Kobatas, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dorrell flipped to the next page, reading. “Says here that the family does not know where Matthew Kobata went, what he is up to, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“His mother has no knowledge you say.”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.” He was very confident about this. Each time he had seen Mrs. Kobata, her first question was for news of Matthew. She was desperate to know what had happened to her oldest son. He didn’t think she was faking that concern. It was genuine.
“The Jap’s grandfather says he ran off to join up. Navy, you say.”
Donald was tired of simply saying, “Yes, sir” so he kept his mouth shut.
“But the grandfather isn’t concerned that he is dead, yet the mother is very worried he might have been killed. That right?”
This time it was a direct question, so he answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Because a white man was killed, her Jap son gets killed? How does that make sense, Lieutenant?”
“Tom Bollgen and Matthew Kobata were very close friends, sir.”
“So your friend dies, you die? Is that the way life works, Lieutenant?”
“She thinks whoever killed my cousin also killed Matthew,” Donald argued. “It is the only answer she can fathom. Otherwise, he would have been on the ferry, he would be here now.”
Major Dorrell studied Donald for a minute. Finally, he said, “You sound like you agree.”
“I don’t know what happened to Matthew Kobata, sir. You asked me to talk to the family, and I have.” He nodded to the report. “That is what I learned after talking to them.”
Dorrell turned to another page. “You say his younger brother and sister don’t know what happened to the Jap either.”
“No, sir.”
“You question them alone, or with their mother there?”
“Alone, sir. I thought that was the only way I could get an honest answer.” He thought back to finding both kids
playing kick-the-can with other children. Both answered his questions, and he was convinced they didn’t have a clue about what happened to their brother. He was missing. That was all they knew.
Dorrell nodded his head. “That was very smart. Questioning them by themselves.”
He slowly looked through the three pages again. Then turned his attention to Donald, saying, “You also say here that the mother is being shunned. Well, I guess, according to your report, you think the entire family is being shunned for what their Jap son has done.” When Donald didn’t respond, the major glanced at him. “You stand by that, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that’s fine by me. They should be shunned. Should be made to do hard labor until they tell us exactly where Matthew Kobata is and what he is up to. No doubt he is a Japanese sympathizer. Or even a spy.” He shrugged. “But sometimes I think our Army is too soft. Soft armies don’t win wars, Lieutenant. You agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
The major nodded his head, studying Donald again. Finally, he remarked, “You have one more task under my command, then you’ll be returned to your unit.”
Donald felt immense relief. But he tried not to show it. Instead, he asked, “And that task, sir?”
“You get to go back home, Lieutenant. How does that sound? Go back home.”
Seattle, Washington, April 3, 1942
Walking across the quad at the University of Washington, Johnstone couldn’t help but notice the many cherry blossom trees. Soon, they would be in full bloom. He had been to the University a few times and basically knew his way around. A student aide sitting at a desk just outside the professor’s closed office had explained that the professor was having breakfast. When Johnstone glanced at his watch, the aide laughed. “He teaches early. First break is now. He always goes to The 8.”
“I’m sorry, the what?”
“Restaurant at McMahon Hall. Can’t miss it. The 8, you know, number eight?”
Johnstone found the restaurant easily enough. The aide had given him a description of the professor, calling him a rotund man wearing a very bright green tie today. Walking inside, he saw that The 8 was really a group of different eateries all in one place. He immediately spotted the professor, sitting alone in a booth with a nice view of Lake Washington.
“Professor Paulson?”
The large man glanced up at him. Johnstone showed him his badge. “Detective Johnstone, Seattle police.” The man gave him a puzzled look. Johnstone gestured to the other side of the booth. “May I?”
“Of course,” the professor said. “I have one rule. No students bother me when I’m dining. You’re not a student, so please, have a seat.”
Johnstone slid into the booth.
“Hungry?”
“No, sir, thank you, I’m fine.”
“Seattle police. This should be interesting.”
“One of our young officers recommended I talk to you. David Thoms. I guess he’s your neighbor.”
The professor nodded. “Young David. His parents passed. He moved back into the family home. Known the kid all my life. So, how can I help the Seattle police?”
“I understand you know quite a bit about the Japanese culture. Even teach a class or two on it.”
“General Asian Studies.”
“May I ask how you came to specialize in this?”
The professor laughed, took a bite of his sandwich and said with a full mouth, “Grew up in Spokane. Apple farm. Over 29 acres. We had Japanese tenant farmers with us. Couldn’t do it all.”
“So you learned the language?”
“Well, when you’re a kid and your only playmates are Japanese, and they’re all talking in their native tongue, you learn it pretty quick.” He swallowed and gave Johnstone a penetrating look. “So, what’s your question for me?”
“Dragon’s Breath,” Johnstone stated.
The professor started laughing, laughing so hard he started to cough. Finally, he spit out the words, “That’s good. Dragon’s Breath. Very good.” He coughed again, then noticed that the detective wasn’t laughing with him. Sitting up straight, he took a long drink of water. Coughed some more. Drank again.
“You all right?” Johnstone asked.
“Fine, fine. You just caught me there, Good one, that.”
“I don’t know much, but I do know it’s not a joke of any kind.”
The professor saw the detective’s rigid expression and shook his head. “God help us, you’re serious, aren’t you?” he said with dismay.
“Sir?” Johnstone asked, completely bewildered.
“Where’d you hear that?”
Johnstone studied him for a minute, not answering.
The professor, now composed, waved it away. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Thank you,” Johnstone said sincerely. “You have an answer for me?”
Now uninterested in the last of his sandwich, he rubbed a hand on his forehead. Finally, he looked at Johnstone and shrugged. “It’s an old, old saying, I guess you could call it.”
“Meaning?”
The professor coughed again, then drank the last of his water. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, sat back, and announced, “If you heard that here in the U.S., I’d say it was a joke. Has to be.”
“Tell me about the saying, and I’ll decide,” the detective told him.
“Now you have to understand, there is no written definition, nothing you could look up in the finest library, at the finest university. But supposedly, well, let me back up. You know what a shogun is?”
Johnstone shook his head. “No.”
“Shogun was, well, a title for a military general. Top guy, top commander of the Imperial Armies of Japan. Now, without getting too complicated, the shogun would answer to the emperor. But in effect, the shogun had all the power of the country. Understand?”
Johnstone nodded.
The professor continued, saying, “From way back, I mean as far back as, oh, say the 800s, A.D., the shogun did as he saw fit. His enemies didn’t stand a chance because he would exterminate them with the dragon’s breath.” He could see the detective was still puzzled, and he added, “Dragons breathe fire, right? The legend says the dragon would breathe fire, killing all those in its way. So, if you were an enemy of a shogun, his dragon’s breath meant you’d be expunged.”
Johnstone mulled this over for a minute, then said, “This isn’t the 800s A.D., Professor.” When the man didn’t respond, Johnstone asked, “What does it mean today?”
“Today?” the professor repeated, glancing around. There was no one close enough to overhear them. “If I may, in what context did you hear this?”
Johnstone debated with himself on what he should reveal. He knew he needed this man’s assistance, so he said, “Some people, both Japanese-Americans and Caucasians were maimed. One was later shot dead. When pressing a possible witness as to who assaulted these people, who killed the one person, I was told ‘Dragon’s Breath.’”
The professor sighed deeply. “By a Japanese, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, of course. A Caucasian wouldn’t know the term.”
“You do,” Johnstone pointed out. Then he added, “Tell me exactly what they were referring to, please.”
Professor Paulson leaned forward and whispered, “This goes against everything I believe. I have written newspaper opinion articles on the forced evacuation. That it’s nonsense. The Japanese-Americans here love their country. This country.”
“Professor, with all due respect, I don’t really care about your beliefs. I care about what Dragon’s Breath means and how it pertains to my investigation.”
The professor shook his head. Then said quietly, “It would mean there is a shogun here, someone with great military power that is going to strike.” When Johnstone blanched, he added, “As I say, God help us all.”
Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 3, 1942
The cheers were
so loud. For both teams. It was the bottom of the ninth, score tied at four a piece. Daniel stood at third, ready. The boy at the plate had two strikes against him. Just hit the ball, Daniel thought. I’ll make it home, and we’ll win, five to four. Just hit the ball. Then the coach of the other team walked to the pitcher’s mound. Time-out.
Daniel relaxed and took his foot off the base. Henry came over. “You okay?”
Daniel nodded. He kneeled down, taking the opportunity to tie his right shoelace again.
“Anything but a pop-up, you go fast, got it?”
“I know,” Daniel told him.
“Fly ball, you wait and see what happens.”
“I know,” he repeated. The shoe tied, he stood up. He immediately saw his mother, a huge, proud smile on her face. Julia was saying something to their grandfather, gesturing with her hands. Probably explaining what was going on.
“New pitcher,” Henry said.
Daniel turned to see another boy run out to the mound. The original pitcher trudged off the field. “He any good?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said. “Doesn’t matter. Anything but a pop-up, run hard for home.”
“I will,” Daniel assured him, returning to third base, his left foot on the bag, his back to his family watching. Henry clapped him on the shoulder and left.
The cheering started up all over again. Daniel watched as the pitcher threw his first pitch and their hitter swung and hit the ball. The crowd erupted. A bouncing drive between first base and the pitcher. He could hear Henry yelling, everyone yelling as he took off for home. Running hard.
From his left, he could see their first baseman gather up the ball and throw it toward home plate. Daniel ran faster, then took off, sliding for the plate, feet first. The throw came in, Daniel ducked below the ball, his feet sliding across home plate. He made it!
The catcher snatched the ball, tagging Daniel on the arm. But it was too late. He knew it.
“Safe..!” the umpire yelled. “Safe..!”
More cheers. Daniel stood up, a grin from ear to ear. Then suddenly, the catcher tackled him. He fell to the ground, momentarily dazed. The catcher straddled across him, pulled his right arm back, then whaled on him, his right fist slamming Daniel’s cheek. The blow stunned Daniel. Then another hit. And another. Then the crowd erupting again. Cheers? Were they cheering?
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