Florida Key

by Neil Watson

“Well, I thank you for calling, Officer Booth. You’ve been a big help to us,” said a grateful Moores. He could see this crime soon becoming one of the quickest he’d ever solved, having the confirmation from Booth about the young man on his cycle, travelling west from Cincinnati. Just as he was about to hang up, he heard Booth shout down the phone at him.

  “Wait! You’ve made a mistake!” Booth had reached the page he was looking for, and continued. “You’re after the wrong man! Well, maybe he is the right man, I don’t know—he struck me as incapable of harming a fly, let alone killing a human being—but anyway, that’s your business. No, you see Sir, you’ve got the wrong name. It’s not ‘Kamoto’. It’s ‘Yakamoto’!”

  Booth’s call did seem convincingly thorough, and Moores wasted no time, knowing what he had to do. Immediately, he instructed his department to get to work, gathering all information on the wanted man, now that the correct surname had been established. Within minutes, the APB was altered, and in less than an hour, Moores received yet another call, this time from a police officer based in the St. Louis eastern suburbs.

  The officer had been called to an unrelated minor theft at a motel eight miles from downtown, and when he had gone to investigate, he began by looking through the large leather-bound guest-book on the desk, reading all the names, one by one, some of them so poorly written that only a few were legible—including that of Yushi’s. But luckily for this officer, the young manageress was very particular about following the rules of the management.

  She always demanded a form of identification from every patron—like a passport, driving licence, credit card, or anything with their name on—and she always efficiently typed out receipts for every one of them, including their names in full, cross-referred with the formal ID to ensure correct spelling. This practice dramatically reduced the theft-rate from the rooms, once the patrons realised that there was a full record of them held on the motel’s system. From the pile of dockets she handed over, the astute officer noticed the name of ‘Yakamoto’. He immediately radioed in to his HQ, who then got on the phone to Moores.

  It was early afternoon when Moores took that call. He looked at the map. He and Sergeant Staples could be in St. Louis in two hours if they left right away, he calculated. Better to be “hands on” there than stuck behind a desk in Marshall. “Come on, Staples. We’re going for a little ride to catch this S.O.B.,” he called to his colleague.

  With the magnetised blue light on the roof of Moores’s police Buick flashing, they sped west along Interstate Highway 70, taking the exit before they reached downtown. Moores wanted to stop at the motel where the observant officer had called from, in case there was anything showing up on the motel’s CCTV tapes—assuming they had cameras actually working at this establishment, unlike at the De-Lux. If only they could get a picture of Yakamoto and, if possible, the bike, that would be the icing on the cake, he thought. At last, an easy-to-wrap-up homicide. He was already looking forward to receiving a promotion and a higher pay scale.

  When the two officers arrived, they were pleased to see that this motel was efficiently run, and the cameras were all operating as they should be. The motel manageress, savvy as usual, had already been checking the footage before Moores and Staples arrived. She was able to present them with images of not only Yakamoto entering the reception office, but also of the bike being pushed by him to the room in which he’d stayed. Even though Moores wasn’t a cyclist himself, he was able to recognise the machine as a racing model, with its characteristic drop handlebars. And as well as its panniers on the rack, the image of two distinctive flags at the rear could also be made out—one American and the other Japanese. “We’re getting closer!” he said, turning to Staples, who nodded in agreement.

  Surely, it must only be a matter of time before someone spots a guy riding a bike along the road with flags on it. It’s not the sort of thing you see every day, thought Moores. He turned to thank the manageress as they were leaving. “There’s one last thing I can tell you,” said the woman. “Mr. Yakamoto told me he was headed straight for Saint Lou when he handed back the room key to collect his deposit.”

  ***

  Following his unsuccessful attempt to visit the Gateway Arch the previous day, Yushi had stayed the night at the Huckleberry Hostel only three blocks away. It was very popular with back-packers, and free-spirited travellers like himself. It was the largest hostel he’d stayed at so far, with an eight-bedded dormitory on each of the four floors, and two single-sex shower blocks in the basement. He’d prefer, if one was available, to have a room and shower to himself, but at only $8.75 a night, he couldn’t complain. What he hadn’t counted on was that there was a rota of chores to be carried out by all guests in the morning. The jobs could be anything, maybe mopping floors, cooking breakfasts, doing laundry, or any other tasks necessary for the smooth-running of such a busy hostel. Each floor had its own ‘team leader’, delegating the duty roster.

  With breakfast being served at 9.00a.m. sharp, and Yushi’s designated chore—folding hundreds of bed sheets, a task that would take at least an hour—he was aware that he wouldn’t make it to the Gateway Arch by today’s ten o’clock opening time. He could opt out from doing his chore, but if he did so he would then have to pay $20 for his accommodation—more than many motels even.

  He concluded that as he probably wouldn’t get to the Arch until midday now, that would make it too late in the day to set off on his travels after completing his visit. So he reserved a bed for a second night, got on with his chores, and then made the short ride to the arch, locking his bike to the same rack as he’d done the day before.

  At the ticket booth, the A-board was still in position, but with a change of notice: ‘Due to the over-running of essential maintenance work, the observation area will unfortunately remain closed until three o’clock today’.

  “What the . . .?” Yushi groaned, disappointed and not just a little annoyed too. Well, he wasn’t going to give up, and he bought his ticket for later. “Are you positive the tram will be working this afternoon?” he asked the clerk behind the glass screen. “I came yesterday and stayed over in town especially. I don’t want to be let down a second time,” he said, rather curtly. After being apologised to and assured that the engineering would definitely be completed by three o’clock, Yushi decided to spend his time wisely. He’d ride around downtown, take in the sights, and, ah yes, find a bike shop from which at last he could buy his replacement radio. Then maybe he’d go and sit in the sunshine on the banks of the Mississippi until opening time.

  So, off he went, across the Gateway’s park area and straight into the bustling city. Pulling up at the sidewalk, he asked someone if they knew where a bike store was. They did. It was at the other end of the street he was on, which was over three miles long. “No matter,” he thought. “I’ve got the time,” and he cycled along the busy road, quite sure that in a city this big, the shop was bound to stock handlebar radios.

  When he reached the store, he wasn’t disappointed. And in fact they had the very same model as the one he’d had stolen, and at the same price. “Great!” he thought. He’d never forget to remove it again, even when he was exhausted. Things were looking up.

  “First time in the city, pal?” asked the shop assistant, nodding towards the giveaway rucksack, as Yushi was retrieving $30 from his wallet in one of its pockets. “Where ya headed?” The assistant, with his name badge stating ‘I’m Paul, and I’m pleased to help’, was well-used to seeing backpackers and long-distance cyclists coming into the shop. His boss had trained him to make conversation with the customers—they tended to browse longer and spend more money that way. Yushi explained that he was going to California, and Paul pretended to be super-impressed, but in fact had heard it all before.

  “Wow, man, that’s a mighty long way! Have you been to the Arch while you’re in town? You must go. It’s real cool too! You can go all the way to the top,” he went on, a little too enthusiastically, Yushi thought.

  “I
t was closed earlier, so I’m going there this afternoon,” replied Yushi, on his way out. Disappointed that his sales technique wasn’t successful today, Paul just said the obligatory “You have a nice day now”, as he turned to serve the next customer.

  Outside, in the heat of the afternoon sun, once back at the river near the Arch, Yushi sat and ate a sandwich, and waited patiently until three o’clock. He looked at his watch, and it was nearing that time. Before going to the Arch’s kiosk for a third time, he padlocked his bike yet again to the metal racks outside.

  Inside the foyer, he was glad to find that all the facilities were at last now open, including the much-heralded tram to the top. There were dozens of other people all milling around, buying their tickets, eager to experience the ride up inside the structure.

  Waiting in line, Yushi eventually boarded one of the eight tram pods, each able to carry five passengers. When he finally reached the observation gallery, he was stunned by the magnificent view of the city far below. His ticket allowed unlimited time up there, and he was intending to take full advantage of that fact, bearing in mind this was his third attempt to be there. He was completely mesmerised by the sights afforded from each window. It was better than he could have hoped for, and he’d be happy to stay there until closing time. And that was exactly what he would have done, had it not been for Moores and Staples.

  Unbeknown to Yushi, down below on firm ground, Moores and Staples had just arrived in the city, and headed straight for the police headquarters on Jefferson Street, only two miles from the Arch. At the precinct, the news of the hunt was already the topic of the day. “He could be anywhere, if he hasn’t already moved on, that is. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack in a city this large,” said Staples to Moores, rather despondently.

  He was overheard. “Don’t worry—with an APB out on him, I bet it won’t take too long till we get a tipoff,” assured one of the officers present. “We’ve got his name, we’ve got his picture, and we’ve even got what his cycle looks like. If he’s in the city, we’ll find him, I can guarantee,” the officer went on. “The whole Metropolitan force is on the lookout, and right now we’re checking all the motels, hotels, hostels and even bike shops. Someone will have seen him,” he said, doing his best to reassure the colleagues who’d just arrived from the neighbouring state.

  As suggested, Moores and Staples sat tight and waited. They didn’t need to wait too long before the switchboard lights began flashing, as officers from around the city called in. Moores listened intently to a call, scribbling down the information he’d just been given, and then turned to Staples.

  “Come on!” shouted Moores to Staples. “This is the news we’ve been waiting for. We’ve had positive IDs from the Huckleberry Hostel, as well as from a downtown cycle store. Yakamoto was there earlier, and said he was heading to the Gateway Arch. Let’s go!”

  Despite the heavy traffic, now in rush hour, it took only a few minutes for their police car to screech to a halt at the base of the enormous structure. Running towards the entrance, they went past the many bikes in the rack, with one in particular standing out with its two flags flapping in the breeze. “He’s here, Chief!” wheezed Staples, already out of breath. As they raced up to the kiosk counter, past the queuing visitors, Moores held up the picture of Yakamoto in front of the teller, along with his police badge.

  “Do you recognise this man’s face?” he demanded, urgently, almost rudely. “Is he still here?”

  “Err, it’s possible, Sir,” the uniformed, rather large, black lady said, flustered. “But I see so many faces, I don’t get paid enough to study them. I just sell the tickets. Let me look closer,” she continued, now more composed. “Yeah, I think I saw him. He was a little off with me because we was shut earlier, but I think he came back if I remember rightly. He may still be up top, I don’t know—I only see them going up, not coming back down, Sir.”

  Moores and Staples pushed past all the people waiting to board the next tram compartment, and as soon as the sliding doors opened, they jumped in. “Wait!” shouted Moores. “We can’t both go up. What if we miss him coming down in another tram car and he gets away?”

  “Good point, Chief,” agreed Staples, who immediately turned to one of the security officials patrolling the foyer. “You, Sir,” he demanded, flashing his police badge. “Close the doors, and don’t let anyone out until we say so. And if you see this man. . .” he continued, while shoving a picture of Yakamoto in front of the official, “. . . arrest him!”

  Then they had to wait impatiently for everyone else to board the train compartments, and for the machinery to jolt into motion, slowly at first. “Jeez. Can’t this thing go any faster?” Moores complained, once they were inside. Staples was still too out of breath to reply. Near the top, the doors slid open, and Staples groaned as he saw there was a final flight of stairs they had to climb. Pushing his way through the throng of sightseers, the fitter Chief Moores leapt up the steps, two at a time. Staples followed behind, more slowly, climbing each step individually. As they reached the 65-foot-long observation room, it was already filled to capacity with over a hundred people moving around between all the windows on both sides.

  The policemen stood still and looked around. There, over in the far right-hand corner, staring out at the St. Louis city landscape, they saw the unmistakeable profile of Yushi Yakamoto. They weaved their way over through the crowd and stood either side of him. As he was grabbed by the arm, Yushi looked up in surprise as Moores said one word to him: “Gotcha!”

  CHAPTER 14

  (FRIDAY, 24TH APRIL, 1981)

  Yushi’s Conviction

  W ith the whole nation dismayed by increased crime rates, the police were under pressure from the political establishment to show that their crime-solving record was keeping pace with the times. The ‘encouragement’ filtered down to federal, state, county and municipal forces across the land, and none more so than in the areas around Paris, Illinois, where the case of Yushi Yakamoto had become notorious.

  John Moores was all too aware of the need for him to achieve positive arrest and conviction results, especially as he was eager to gain promotion. He wanted to make it easy for his bosses to choose him over other candidates for any positive career move, maybe even a pathway to the world of politics where he had a chance of making much more money than his current pay level allowed.

  The public was understandably appalled by the brutal killing of Sandy Beach, and the press capitalised on the case’s notoriety. Copy-editors looked for a hook that would sell newspapers, and unanimously settled on dubbing the story ‘The Bike Radio Murder’.

  With the four-word strap-line catching on, it wasn’t long before it became the story that everyone wanted to read. As the coverage of the crime grew, Moores had felt under even greater pressure to conclude the case and gain a conviction, sooner rather than later. It was true that Yushi Yakamoto was his main, and only, suspect.

  He had carefully considered all the basic elements of the Sandy Beach case—although not over much time. Certainly, Moores couldn’t help agreeing with Officer Booth’s sentiments that Yakamoto had come across as an okay kind of individual, but despite protesting his innocence throughout all questioning, the facts spoke for themselves, indicating that he was the killer.

  A week after a surprised Yushi had been apprehended, Moores churned the facts over in his biased mind. One: Yakamoto had been present at Ms. Beach’s house—his fingerprints were all over the place. Two: the bike radio used to hit her belonged to him. Detective work uncovered that he’d purchased it from his home town of Allentown the week before he set off on his aborted cross-country journey. And there were a number of fingerprints on the broken pieces of plastic, including his. Three: there was semen on Beach’s bed, and matching traces in her body. They were likely to be Yakamoto’s, according to the autopsy report that forensics expert Copeland had written, again confirming his presence at the house.

  The chief left his office for a moment to get a c
offee from the vending machine in the corridor, then returned to his desk. Opening Katie Copeland’s report, he continued with his summation of the circumstantial evidence. Four: the report also said the woman’s body was badly bruised at the top of her thigh. With Yakamoto’s legs so strong, he was easily capable of causing such an injury. He probably gave Beach a hard kick for good measure after smashing her head with the radio. Five: they found no hard evidence of anyone else being present at the house at the time. Six: Yakamoto’s profile; he was a loner, he had few friends, and no job. He was just a no-good bum, travelling through Paris at the wrong time for Sandy Beach.

  Then Moores’ bias went into overdrive; “And what sort of crazy guy drifts across the country on a pedal bicycle? My guess is that he happened by chance upon the vulnerable woman, he screwed her, they had an argument, she told him to leave, and then he lost the plot and killed her in a fit. Then the bastard casually goes to the motel she’d booked for him after departing the scene and leaves her for dead in a pool of blood.”

  Moores had made his mind up, talking to himself in the sanctity of his glass-screened office. “Yakamoto’s a goddamn, schizophrenic, psychopathic killer, counting on us to believe he’s as sweet as apple pie. He’s a damned Jap as well. Sweet Yushi, indeed! Jeez.” Despite his privately-confessed racist tendencies, Moores had been trying hard to concentrate on only the facts of the case, and to condemn his contemptuous opinion of the Japanese to the back of his mind, but try as he might, he found it impossible.

  ***

  (TUESDAY, 17TH NOVEMBER, 1981)

  Yakamoto was held in custody for seven long months after he’d been arrested, until the day of his trial in mid-November. After the initial flurry of excitement directly following the murder and subsequent manhunt, the newspaper activity had inevitably died down during the period following the crime. But with the trial looming on the horizon, once again the ‘Bike Radio Murder’ became the focus of everyone’s attention.