‘I didn’t kill him,’ repeated Kabuo Miyamoto. ‘And I can’t afford not to fish. I can’t let the boat sit idle on a night like this and – ’
‘Then you’re under arrest,’ cut in Art Moran. ‘Because there’s no way I’m letting you go out there. In a half hour you might be in Canada.’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ replied Kabuo. ‘I’d fish and then I’d come home. And by the time I did, you’d know that gaff of mine has fish blood on it, not Heine’s. I could go out and get my salmon, check with you in the morning.’
The sheriff shook his head and slipped his hands to his belt, where he hooked his thumbs over the buckle. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re under arrest. Sorry, but we’re going to have to hold you.’
The investigation, it occurred to the sheriff, had thus far taken five hours. Sherlock Holmes, he remembered. Horace Whaley had laughed at his queasiness about the corpse, the peeled-back head, the bone splinters in Carl’s brain. There was that diaper spread over Susan Marie’s shoulder, and her gloved index finger pointing out the church cake, that white finger inviting him to slide a mint between his lips. She’d collapsed on the stairs with her feet splayed out, the baby bottle beside her toes. All right, in the end he had played Sherlock Holmes, yes: it had been a sort of game. He had not really expected to find anything other than that Carl Heine had drowned. Fallen into the sea like other men before him and died because that was the nature of things. Art Moran was a believer in circumstances. To him the occasional misfortunes of life were simply part of things. The misfortunes he’d seen in the course of his work remained painful and vivid in his memory, and because he had seen them for so many years he knew that more would come his way; that was how things went. Island life was like life anywhere in this regard: bad things now and then happened.
Now he began to believe, for the first time, that he had a murder on his hands. He should have expected that sooner or later the course of things would bring him to this pass. He was satisfied to have conducted himself, in the face of it, professionally; he had pursued his investigation as well as anyone could have. Horace Whaley would not ridicule him now about playing Sherlock Holmes.
It occurred to him, too, that for all his arrogance Horace Whaley had been right. For here was the Jap with the bloody gun butt Horace had suggested he look for. Here was the Jap he’d been led to inexorably by every islander he’d spoken with.
Art Moran looked into the Jap’s still eyes to see if he could discern the truth there. But they were hard eyes set in a proud, still face, and there was nothing to be read in them either way. They were the eyes of a man with concealed emotions, the eyes of a man hiding something. ‘You’re under arrest,’ repeated Art Moran, ‘in connection with the death of Carl Heine.’
19
By eight-thirty on the morning of December 7, Judge Fielding’s courtroom was filled with citizens who were thankful for the heat from the boilers. They’d left damp overcoats hanging in the cloakroom but still carried the smell of snow in their hair and on their pants, boots, and sweaters. Ed Soames had again turned the heat up; he did so because the foreman of the jury had reported that certain of the jurors had passed a cold night in the Amity Harbor Hotel. Groans from the hapless radiators, coupled with the slamming of the wind against their windows, had kept them awake through the dark hours. They had been sequestered on the second floor and had speculated before going to bed, said the foreman, that the snowstorm would interrupt the trial. They’d been sleepless, most of them, and had shivered in their beds while the storm rattled the hotel.
Ed Soames apologized to the members of the jury for the inferior nature of their accommodations and pointed out to them the urn of coffee in the anteroom, which they were welcome to serve themselves from – the coffee was hot – at any time during the day’s recesses. He showed them, as he had the day before, a cabinet inside which fourteen coffee cups hung on angles from brass hooks. He pointed out the sugar dispenser and apologized to them for the fact that there was no way to make cream available: Petersen’s had run out. He hoped they could make do despite this.
The foreman indicated that the jurors were ready, so Ed Soames led them to the courtroom. The reporters found their places, the defendant was brought in, Eleanor Dokes took her seat at the stenograph. Ed Soames asked all of them to rise, and as they did so Lew Fielding emerged from his chambers and strode to the bench as if no one were present. As always he looked disinterested. He propped the weight of his head against his left fist and nodded at Alvin Hooks. ‘A new day,’ he told him, ‘but still your day in court, Mr. Prosecutor. Have at it. Call your witness.’
Alvin Hooks rose and thanked Judge Fielding. He was fresh looking and clean shaven, neat in his serge suit with its exaggerated shoulders. ‘The state calls Dr. Sterling Whitman,’ he announced, and then a man stood up in the gallery whom nobody had seen before, passed through the low gate, and approached the witness box, where he was sworn in by Ed Soames. He was tall, six foot five at least, and seemed too large for the suit he wore; a large portion of each shirt cuff showed; the coat bunched at the armpits.
‘Dr. Whitman,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘We thank you for battling the elements this morning in order to give your testimony. I understand that only a handful of mainlanders were brave enough to travel the waters to San Piedro on the 6:25 ferry run – is that correct, sir?’
‘That’s right,’ said Dr. Whitman. ‘There were six of us.’
‘A thrilling ride through a blinding snowstorm,’ added Alvin Hooks.
‘That’s right,’ repeated Dr. Whitman.
He was entirely too large for the witness box and had the appearance of a stork or crane packed into a crate.
‘Dr. Whitman,’ said the prosecutor. ‘You are a specialist in hematology employed by the Anacortes General Hospital – is that correct? Do I have that right?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And you have been employed there for how long?’
‘Seven years.’
‘And during this time, doctor, what precisely has been the nature and content of your work?’
‘I’ve been a hematologist for the past six and a half years. Strictly a hematologist.’
‘A hematologist,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘A hematologist does what exactly?’
Dr. Whitman scratched the back of his head, then above and below the left stem of his glasses. ‘I specialize in the pathology and therapeutics of the blood,’ he said. ‘Mostly blood testing and analysis. I consult with attending physicians.’
‘I see,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘So for six and a half years it has been your profession – let me find a way to put this simply – to perform blood tests? And to analyze the results of those tests, doctor? Is that correct?’
‘In a nutshell,’ said Sterling Whitman.
‘Very good then,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘Now, Dr. Whitman, could we accurately characterize you as an expert in the matter of blood testing? Given your six and a half years of experience? Would you say you have gained a degree of expertise in, for example, determining human blood type?’
‘By all means,’ said Sterling Whitman. ‘Blood type is a … standard matter. A standard procedure for any hematologist – typing blood.’
‘All right,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘On the evening – the late evening – of September 16 of this year, the sheriff of this county brought you a fishing gaff, did he not, and asked you to test a bloodstain he found on it. Is that correct, Dr. Whitman?’
‘It is.’
Alvin Hooks swiveled and looked at Ed Soames; Ed handed him the fishing gaff.
‘Now, Dr. Whitman,’ said the prosecutor. ‘I’m showing you what has already been admitted into evidence as state’s exhibit 4-B. I’m going to hand it to you and ask you to look it over.’
‘All right,’ said Sterling Whitman.
He took the gaff and examined it – a long-handled gaff with a barbed hook at one end, tagged as admitted around the butt.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve looked at
it.’
‘Very good,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘Do you recognize this fishing gaff, Dr. Whitman?’
‘I do. It’s the one Sheriff Moran brought in on the evening of September 16. It was bloodstained, and he asked me to do some tests on it.’
Alvin Hooks took the gaff and placed it on the evidence table in full view of the jurors. Then he selected a folder from among his papers and returned to the witness stand.
‘Dr. Whitman,’ he said. ‘I’m now handing you what has been marked as state proposed exhibit 5-A. Would you please tell me whether you recognize it, whether you can identify it for the court?’
‘I can,’ said Sterling Whitman. ‘It’s my investigative report. The one I wrote after Sheriff Moran brought me the fishing gaff.’
‘Examine it for a moment,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘Is it in the same condition as it was when you prepared it?’
Sterling Whitman went through the motions of turning pages ‘It is,’ he said after a moment. ‘It seems to be. Yes.’
‘And do you recognize your signature thereon?’
‘I do.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ Alvin Hooks said, and took the folder in his hand again. ‘The state moves the introduction of exhibit 5-A, Your Honor.’
Nels Gudmundsson cleared his throat. ‘No objection,’ he said.
Lew Fielding admitted the exhibit. Ed Soames, with a flourish, stamped it. Then Alvin Hooks returned it to Sterling Whitman.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now, Dr. Whitman. I’m returning to you what is now in evidence as exhibit 5-A: your investigative report concerning this fishing gaff, among other things. Would you please summarize for the court your findings?’
‘Certainly,’ Sterling Whitman said, pulling uncomfortably at a cuff. ‘Number one was that the blood on the fishing gaff I received from Sheriff Moran was human blood, it reacted immediately to human antibodies. Number two was that the blood was of a sort we can describe as B positive, Mr. Hooks. I obtained a clear identification in this regard, without any difficulties, under a microscope.’
‘Anything else significant?’ asked Alvin Hooks.
‘Yes,’ said Sterling Whitman. ‘The sheriff asked me to check our hospital records as to the blood type of a fisherman named Carl Heine, Jr. I did so. We had the records on file. Mr. Heine had been admitted after the war at our hospital for a series of physicals, and we had obtained his medical records. I looked these over and have included them in my investigative report. Mr. Heine’s blood type was B positive.’
‘B positive,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘Do you mean to say that the blood of the deceased matched the blood found on the fishing gaff?’
‘Yes,’ said Sterling Whitman. ‘It did.’
‘But, Dr. Whitman,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘Many people must have this type of B positive blood. Can you say with any certainty that it was Carl Heine’s?’
‘No,’ said Dr. Whitman. ‘I can’t say that. But let me add that B positive is a relatively rare blood type. Statistically rare. Ten percent of Caucasian males, at best.’
‘One out of every ten Caucasian males? No more?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I see,’ said Alvin Hooks. ‘One out of ten.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sterling Whitman.
Alvin Hooks crossed in front of the jurors and approached the defendant’s table. ‘Dr. Whitman,’ he said. ‘The defendant’s name here is Kabuo Miyamoto. I am wondering if his name appears in your report.’
‘It does.’
‘In what regard?’ asked Alvin Hooks.
‘Well, the sheriff asked me to check his records, too. As long as I was checking on Carl Heine, he asked, could I bring out Miyamoto’s records? I did so and examined them at his request. Again, service medical records were available. Kabuo Miyamoto had been typed upon entering the service as O negative: he has an O negative blood type.’
‘O negative?’ said Alvin Hooks.
‘That’s right. Yes.’
‘And the blood on the fishing gaff that Sheriff Moran brought you, the one he found while searching the defendant’s boat – the one you held in your hands a moment ago – was B positive, doctor?’
‘Yes. B positive.’
‘So the blood on the gaff was not the defendant’s?’
‘No.’
‘It was not salmon blood?’
‘No.’
‘It was not fish blood or animal blood of any kind?’
‘No.’
‘It was of the same type as the deceased’s? As Carl Heine, Jr.?’
‘Yes.’
‘A blood type that you would characterize as rare?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, Dr. Whitman. That’s all.’
Nels Gudmundsson now tottered to his feet in order to cross-examine Sterling Whitman. By the morning of this second day he had become an amusement to the newspapermen, who smiled to themselves each time he cleared his throat and at his awkward attempts to stand or sit. He was an old man in suspenders, one useless eye wandering loose in its socket, poorly shaven wattles of skin at his throat – raw, chafed, and pinkish folds with sparse silver bristles poking out of them. Yet, though Nels Gudmundsson was at times vaguely laughable, the reporters fell serious when he passed in front of them and allowed them to see up close how his temples pulsed, the depth of the light in his good eye.
‘All right,’ said Nels. ‘Dr Whitman, sir. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’
Sterling Whitman said he didn’t mind at all; that was what he’d come to San Piedro for.
‘Well, then,’ said Nels. ‘About this fishing gaff. You say you found blood on it?’
‘Yes,’ said Sterling Whitman. ‘I’ve testified to that effect. Yes, I did.’
‘This blood,’ said Nels. ‘Where exactly did you find it?’ He picked up the gaff and brought it to the witness. ‘On what part, Dr. Whitman? The butt end? The hook?’
‘The butt,’ the doctor answered. ‘This end’ – he pointed – ‘opposite the hook.’
‘Right here?’ said Nels, and put his hand on it. ‘You found blood on this wooden handle?’
‘Yes.’
‘It hadn’t soaked in?’ Nels Gudmundsson asked. ‘Wouldn’t wood of this sort absorb blood, doctor?’
‘Some soaking had occurred, yes,’ said Sterling Whitman. ‘But I was still able to obtain a blood sample.’
‘How?’ said Nels, still holding the gaff.
‘By scraping. It’s the procedure with dried blood. You have to scrape.’
‘I see,’ said Nels. ‘You used a blade, doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘You scraped it onto a microscope slide? You placed the slide under a microscope?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you saw what? Blood and wood scrapings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing. Only blood and wood scrapings?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Doctor,’ said Nels Gudmundsson. ‘Were there no bits of bone, or strands of hair, or particles of scalp, on this fishing gaff?’
Sterling Whitman shook his head firmly. ‘None,’ he said. ‘It was just as I have said. As I testified. As I wrote in my investigative report. Blood and wood scrapings only.’
‘Doctor,’ said Nels. ‘Does this seem odd to you? If this fishing gaff were in fact used to inflict a head wound, would you not expect to see evidence of that? In the shape of, say, strands of hair? Or bits of skull bone? Or particles of scalp? The sort of things we might normally associate with a head wound, Dr. Whitman? As evidence that the instrument in question had been used to inflict such a wound?’
‘Sheriff Moran asked me to perform two blood tests,’ said the witness. ‘I did so. We determined that – ’
‘Yes, yes,’ Nels Gudmundsson cut in. ‘As you have testified previously. The blood on the gaff was of the type known as B positive: no one is contesting that, doctor. What I want to know is, to th
e best of your knowledge as a man who has for six and a half years made his living looking at blood under a microscope, would you not expect to see hair or bone or scalp particles as well as blood if this gaff were used to inflict a head wound? Would you not, doctor? Would it seem logical?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sterling Whitman.
‘You don’t know?’ asked Nels Gudmundsson. He still carried the gaff in his hand, but now he perched it on the ledge of the witness box between himself and the expert hematologist.
‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘The coroner who examined the deceased in question included mention in his report of, if I remember it correctly, a “secondary and minor laceration of the right hand extending laterally from the fold between the thumb and forefinger to the outside of the wrist.” A cut on the palm, in other words. An ordinary cut on Carl Heine’s right palm. Would it be possible, Dr. Whitman, that a cut like this – if the hand were wrapped around the butt end of this gaff here – that a cut like this might have caused the B positive blood you spoke of to soak into the wood? Would that be possible, doctor? Possible?’
‘Possible, yes,’ said Sterling Whitman. ‘But I don’t know anything about that. My only job was to perform the blood tests that Sheriff Moran asked me to perform. I found B positive blood on this fishing gaff. How it got there, I have no idea.’
‘Well,’ said Nels Gudmundsson. ‘It’s good of you to say so. Because, as you’ve said, one of every ten Caucasian males has blood of the B positive type, don’t they? And on an island like this one that means, probably, two hundred men, doctor? Would that be about right?’
‘Yes. I suppose. Ten percent of the island’s Caucasian male population. It – ’
‘And isn’t the percentage even higher, doctor, for males of Japanese descent? A higher percentage of B positives among the island’s Japanese – Americans?’
“Yes, it is. Somewhere around twenty percent. But – ’
‘Twenty percent – thank you, doctor. That’s quite a large number of island men we’re talking about who have B positive blood. But let’s suppose, for purposes of argument, that the blood on the fishing gaff was in fact Carl Heine’s, even though it might have come from hundreds of other men – let’s just suppose that hypothetically for a moment. It might have gotten there, it seems to me, in at least one of two ways. It might have come from the deceased man’s head, or it might have come from this ordinary cut on his hand – his head or his hand, doctor, either one. Now, given the fact that the blood is on the butt end of this gaff where a person would normally place their hand, and given the fact that you found only blood there and no bone or skin or hair, doctor – the probable evidence of a head wound, I would think – what seems to you to be likely? That the blood on the gaff, if it came from Carl Heine at all, came from his head or his hand?’
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