by Harker Moore
The cutting room was silent except for the shuffling of the attendant and Linsky’s monotonous droning as he talked through his external examination for the overhead mike. Some medical examiners played taped background music on the theory that sound helped to dampen the brain’s response to odor. Linsky took no such mercy. A detective was present to preserve the evidential chain. The smell was part of the job. For the moment Milne’s body remained unopened. It lay facedown on the stainless table, the two shoulder wounds like butcher cuts in tallow.
“… A pair of wounds are present on the posterior chest wall, parallel to the spine and deeply incised into the underlying skeletal muscle.” Linsky continued to speak for the microphone. “The incisions are approximately five to six centimeters in length. Margins are sharp and even, suggestive of a small knife or a scalpel-like instrument. Lack of bleeding into adjacent tissue indicates the injuries were made postmortem. Bruising about the mouth and around the ankles and wrists is consistent with the use of duct tape.
“You seem to have a question, Lieutenant Sakura?” The M.E. had cut the mike and was looking at him through the plastic visor shield.
“I was wondering about the fingernails,” Sakura said.
“The lab work isn’t in yet for Carrera. But I saw no obvious skin fragments beneath his nails or Mr. Milne’s here … if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You said that the bruising was consistent with the victims struggling after they were bound?”
“Yes … after.” Linsky’s voice betrayed a bit of impatience. “Otherwise, we’d expect to see more bruising or abrasions. On the hands for instance.”
“That’s what puzzles me,” Sakura said. “Why didn’t they struggle before he taped them? Why just let him do it?”
The medical examiner was notoriously reluctant to speculate. A moment passed while he appeared to weigh the worth of the question. “Perhaps these were bondage situations that turned into something else,” he said finally. “Or given that these victims were both relatively small men, it’s possible they felt sufficiently threatened physically that they just didn’t fight…. I don’t know, Lieutenant.”
“Neither do I,” Sakura admitted.
He watched as the attendant helped Linsky turn the body. Faceup again on the table, David Milne was suddenly real, the body somehow more human than it had appeared last night in the bedroom. Sakura felt an odd pang of impersonal guilt, as if the indecency of the forensic procedure and his own silent witness could take as much from the dead man as the killer.
Milne was small, with that adolescent boniness that Sakura associated with some gay men. His chest was pale and hairless. The killer’s charcoal drawing stood out below the nipples, more smudged and faded since last night. Linsky obliterated it further. Pressing with one hand against the sternum, he began the thoraco-abdominal incision. First the long shallow curve through the pectorals from one shoulder blade to the other. Then the straight deep line from breastbone to pubis. With the Y-shaped cut gaping open, Linsky peeled back flesh and cartilage from the rib cage, then crunched with the cutters through the breastbone to the pale milky sac veiling the organs. Standing behind the medical examiner, Sakura could identify the lungs and liver above the snaky loops of intestine. With the layers coming away, it was easier again to think of Milne as just a body. The smell resisted abstraction.
The process continued. Linsky removed the organ tree, transferring it to a metal sink. He proceeded to extract his samples, inspecting and weighing the organs. Sakura thought the medical examiner looked no more satisfied than he had at Carrera’s autopsy. He waited for a moment when the M.E. ceased speaking for the mike.
“You still don’t know how they died, do you?” he said.
Linsky turned to him. “No, Lieutenant Sakura, I do not. The needle marks on the arms are suggestive, but on Saturday, when I opened Carrera, I found no damage to the organs. And the basic toxicological screens turned up nothing beyond a common pain medication, an anti-inflammatory, and an antidepressant.”
“And Milne …?”
“The organs, as you’ve heard me say, appear normal.”
“You said the needle marks were suggestive—”
Linsky cut off the implied question with a look. “It is my intention,” he said, “to push through a much wider range of tests on blood and tissue samples from both victims.”
“When?” Sakura asked.
“As soon as possible, Lieutenant. I don’t like mysteries any better than you do.”
In Kyoto the Japanese instinct for elegance and restraint had been tempered by the realities of day-to-day living in the simple home of Hanae’s parents. The cages of their daughter’s finches had shared space with the family, bedding and clothing stored beneath the raised tatami floor, a large tansu holding most of the family’s smaller treasures. Rooms were created with screens that could easily be moved. And though Hanae’s marriage had taken her from one crowded island to another, James Sakura had made a promise not to deny his wife when she’d asked to bring her birds.
Since he had come home, Sakura had spoken little more than a dozen words to Hanae; they had not touched. The touching would come later when they drew back the tsutsugaki, the quilt cover that was a wedding gift from Hanae’s parents, and lay together for the night. For now, he was taking immense pleasure in sitting on the tatami rug of their living room and watching his wife move from one cage to another. When he was working on a major case, the birds, as well as Taiko her dog, kept as irregular hours as he and Hanae.
She reached and closed the last of the cages that held her beloved finches. He watched her place a seed in her mouth and move her face against the metal cage. Tee-tee-tee. She made a kind of trumpeting sound, and the dominant bird came closer to pluck the seed from between her teeth. Then she walked over to a worktable and removed a cloth shrouding a mass of clay.
At first her fingers moved lightly over the surface of the bulky shape. Then they constricted, working the mass deliberately. The arms that slipped from her kimono sleeves appeared startlingly naked, and Sakura thought that the flat of his wife’s hands seemed too plump and childish for her slim delicate fingers.
“You and Taiko should find other work,” she said without turning.
“We enjoy watching you.” He reached to scratch behind the dog’s ears.
“And what do you see?”
“That your fingers are too long for your hands.”
“And …?” She turned then, fixing him with her sightless eyes.
“That my wife is naked beneath her kimono.”
“Japanese men do not lust after their wives.”
“I’m American.”
At this Hanae laughed. “You are right. Sometimes I think that except for your thin face and lidless eyes, there is little of your Japanese ancestors in you.” She returned to her modeling, the light from the chochin reflecting in the blackness of her hair.
“Did you go to art class this afternoon?”
“Yes, I’m still working on the birds. Ms. Nguyen is a very patient teacher.”
“What is this you’re sculpting?”
“I am not sure. My hands will tell me when they are ready.”
He knew it was a lie. The bust was going to be a surprise for Christmas. He could recognize his features already forming in the crude mass.
She moved her fingers deeper into the moist clay. “Vicky called today.”
“And how do they like Minneapolis?”
“She said it is not Manhattan.”
“Not a very good review,” he said. “You’re going to miss her, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “I’ve never had a friend like Victoria.”
“You’ll find someone else.”
She shrugged. “I have a lot to keep me busy.”
“I can see that.” He stood and walked behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, his thumbs finding the nape of her neck. “It looks like a head.”
“It will be.” She let her hands fall
into her lap. “How is your investigation going?”
Despite his efforts, she had sensed his mood. “This appears to be a serial case,” he answered. “They are always difficult.”
She dipped her hands in the bowl of water, then wiped them with the towel. “Have you spoken to Kenjin?” She turned her face up to him.
The question had surprised him. A moment passed when even his breath was silent. “No,” he said. “I haven’t talked to Michael for a while.”
“I think this time you may need him.”
“He won’t come back, Hanae.”
“But it is not impossible?”
“Michael was cleared of any wrongdoing. It was his decision to resign.”
She pulled him down to her, taking his face in her hands. “Tell me about that night.”
He had no wish to reopen the wounds that had scarred, if not healed, in the time that had passed. But his wife’s instincts were a deep, slow-stirring sea. He did not question the tides that moved her.
“A suspect was killed,” he said to her.
“This much I know, Jimmy.” She waited.
“The suspect didn’t have a weapon,” he said finally.
She sighed, as if the knowledge were a release. “But Kenjin shot him.”
“Michael thought the man was firing at us,” he explained. “He believed he saw a powder flash.”
“What happened?”
“Backup arrived. Barney Edleman saw right away we had a bad shooting. He pulled out a drop piece he had under the seat of the patrol car.”
“A drop piece?”
“A gun that couldn’t be traced. Michael said no. But Edleman said he was crazy, throwing away his career for someone like Robby Hudson.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. I watched Edleman wrap Hudson’s hand around the grip, then wipe his own prints off the barrel before he tossed it in some trash. The report read that the weapon was found in the search, that the suspect must have dropped it as he fell.”
“Kenjin allowed this?”
“I was the officer of record. It was my name on the report.”
The pressure of her fingers softened on his cheeks. “And Kenjin resigned.”
He shook his head. “It was a couple months later that the offer came for me to attend the program at Quantico. That was when Michael resigned.”
“Because you accepted?”
“Because Michael was afraid I wouldn’t. I had lied to keep him on the force. He would never resign as long as I was there. And he knew I understood that.”
Her hands still cupped his face. He reached for them, took them into his. “Michael changed after the shooting, Hanae. He didn’t trust himself. He was trying to regain his balance.”
“He was depending on you.”
“Yes. But I failed him. My lie betrayed him more than the truth.”
“The guilt you feel is foolish, my husband. As is your anger. You chose once for Kenjin. In the end he chose for himself.”
“I didn’t like what I did. I still don’t. But Michael was a good detective. He should have remained on the force.”
“Your faith in him was greater than his own. But time has passed,” she said. “Will you ask him to return?”
His wife’s commands, ever gentle, rested in the guise of questions.
Father Andrew Kellog measured an extra finger of bourbon into his glass and walked to the parlor window that gave a view to the street. He had thought he’d heard Father Graff’s Jeep, but pulling back the curtain, he could see nothing outside but the dark and silent patch of failing neighborhood. The black pane of glass breathed coldness, and he stepped back, pulling the robe tighter around him in the under-heated room. The living quarters at St. Sebastian were as old and unre-modeled as the church itself. And while a lack of change might be deemed a virtue in a building that mimicked twelfth-century Gothic, for the two priests assigned to the outmoded Brooklyn rectory, the neglect meant mostly discomfort.
He took a sip of the drink, then shuffled like the old man he was becoming to the recliner in front of the TV. He should be thankful for the archdiocesan attention, which the younger priest’s assignment to St. Sebastian represented. But charity was in as short supply as faith and hope in his heart—virtues lost not through some brave battle with temptation, but drained away softly in the acid rain of years. Was it the world that had changed, or had he? Was it time or the devil that had curdled his soul?
As always, he regretted the bitterness of his thoughts, and in all his more honest moments, he acknowledged that he was not cut out to be a pastor, and in the old days never would have been one. Now, with the shortage of priests, men more than twenty years younger than he were getting their own parishes, better and richer parishes than St. Sebastian. Thomas Graff, he knew, would be presented just such a plum for his work in parish renewal.
He reached down to the space heater and turned up the dial, welcoming the warm blast of air on his feet. On the television the news had ended, and a cop show, decades old, was playing. The violence seemed stilted, infinitely less real than the daily dramas that played in the nearby streets. He keyed in the time on the remote: 11:52 in glowing blue-green appeared in the corner of the screen. Surely, Father Graff had not forgotten that it was his turn for early Mass tomorrow.
He frowned, sipping again at the drink, allowing a memory of the old days when the church had been full. Perhaps the chronic bad weather had something to do with it, but even with all Graff’s efforts there seemed to be fewer and fewer people scattered in the pews. Though Marian’s husband, of all people, had been there this morning.
Light rose and skittered across the curtains. This time, unmistakably, he heard the sounds of the Jeep. In a few moments Thomas Graff came into the foyer. Despite the cold, he wore no coat over athletic pants and jacket. He looked boyish with his duffel bag and the baseball cap riding his fair hair. With a pang of what he acknowledged as jealousy, Father Kellog thought of how quickly the women, young and old, had taken to Father Graff.
He watched the man take off his cap as he came into the room. The priest greeted him and smiled.
“Cold out?” Kellog sought conversation.
“Pretty cold.” Graff nodded. “Mrs. Callahan thinks it’ll snow before Christmas.” He was unfailingly pleasant. A subtle condescension.
“You saw Mrs. Callahan?”
“Her daughter asked me to drop by and bring her Communion. I visited a friend after that.” Graff looked at his watch. “Later than I thought,” he said. “Mass tomorrow. I better get some sleep.”
Father Kellog nodded his good-night, watching as the younger man bounded up the stairs. Thomas Graff was not quite as youthful as he appeared, but he kept fit, running most mornings he didn’t say Mass.
The hall clock struck midnight. The deep chimes seemed incomplete and ominous. He looked down into his drink, finished it. He picked up the remote, settling back in his chair. Flipping through the channels, he searched for a movie in black and white, putting off bed and the silence of his cold room.
CHAPTER
2
Sleep fell away like leaden weight. Sakura’s eyes snapped opened. 5:47 in the morning. He reached to switch off the alarm before it sounded, and settled back down under the sheets. Turning toward Hanae, he saw that against the stark white of the pillow, her black hair spread like fine dark silk. He bent and kissed it, inhaling its scent. Rain. Not city rain. But the rainfall of his childhood near the sea.
Slowly he lifted the covers and sat up, swinging his feet to the tatami-covered floor. Standing, he caught his reflection across the room. The watery gray light drained the remaining color from his already too pale skin. He moved his hand down his chest, loosening his pajama bottoms. His naked image always surprised him.
He remembered another day, another reflection. He had been visiting his Kyoto cousins; his uncle Ikenobo, a Shinto priest, had traveled from Nagasaki. It was early spring and his uncle wanted him to make a pilgrimage to F
ushimi Inari with him. Thousands of vermilion-colored stone torii marked the path as they climbed up the steep mountain to the shrine. It was a difficult journey, but he wanted to please his uncle and was anxious to offer prayer at the holy place. However, when they neared the summit, he became both confused and disappointed. Beyond a single large torii, there was nothing at the mountaintop but a pile of stones. He searched his uncle’s face, but it was empty of all expression, as fixed as the stones before him.
He moved closer. A glint of pale sunlight flickered in his eye. Resting at the center of the stones was a mirror, reflecting blue sky, the green edges of trees, clouds moving as in a dream. A single bird soared across the silver glass. Again he looked at his uncle, who had waited below. Their eyes met. Then his uncle raised his hands to his chest, made three quick claps—kashiwade, the highest sign of respect at a Shinto shrine.
With the sharp explosions still ringing in his ear, he understood why Uncle Ikenobo had led him to Fushimi Inari. Shinto was more than worship or ritual. It was experiencing the universe itself. He bent over then, examining his eight-year-old face in the round mirror. And this, too, he had understood.
The day he had earned his gold shield as an NYPD homicide detective, he received a letter from his uncle Ikenobo. His uncle wrote of honne, one’s true intentions, and tatemae, expected behavior. He prayed his nephew would always know the difference, and hoped that the two would not often be at war. As he had shifted the pages, a konusa leaf fell to the floor. The leaf had been used by his uncle to scatter drops of water to dispel tsumi—impurities of wounds, blood, death—an inevitable part of his job as a police officer.
Yet he knew his uncle understood the other reality of his job. The reality that had made him ultimately choose police work—his need to restore order to the universe. To create harmony out of chaos. This principle of renewal was as much a part of Shinto as avoidance of tsumi. Had not this concept of restoration been the driving force that had led his uncle as a young monk to Suwa Jinja? The ancient shrine with its hundred-year-old gates and sanctuaries, with its clear stream and sacred grove of trees, had been for the burned bodies and scorched souls of the people of Nagasaki a place of purification after the horrors of the bomb. His uncle had embraced the impurities of war in order to reconcile human existence with the changing world. He believed this letter had been Uncle Ikenobo’s way of letting him know he understood why he had chosen the life of a cop.