The marine sergeant who had led his guard detail—had that really only been six hours ago?—stood at his door, dressed in combat boots and fatigues.
“Commander Bainbridge, I’m sorry to wake you, sir. I have to ask you to come with me, please—the body of an American seaman has been found in the combat zone in Chapei. Captain Jansen has assigned you to investigate, sir, and he ordered Colonel Beaumont to provide you an escort. I’m here to retrieve you.”
Doug’s sleep-addled brain took a few seconds to grasp the full implication of the sergeant’s words. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” he said, and hurried back to his bedroom.
It only took a couple of minutes to dress in his shore uniform—weeks of practice had brought needed speed to the process—but his mind swirled with unanswered questions.
What was an American seaman doing in Chapei at night? Even during normal times, Navy and USMC personnel were advised to keep to the International Settlement or French Concession after dark, and to only venture into Chinese territory during daylight. A seaman would have to be half out of his mind with drink—or drug—to venture into the Chinese municipality after dark when there was a battle being fought there.
“We should hurry, sir,” the sergeant said when they exited Doug’s building. Low cloud cover glowed yellow from the light of the city, and the occasional flash of light within the dense clouds told them that lightning, and not just artillery, was the cause of some of the rumbles echoing from multiple directions.
“I jogged here from base. If you don’t mind a jog, sir, it will cut our travel time in half.”
Doug nodded. “Lead the way, sergeant.”
It was a little less than a mile to the old gates across Honan Road that marked the northern boundary of the International Settlement, and the beginning of the Chapei district in the Chinese municipality. A fine mist began to fall half-way there, and Doug had to wipe the moisture from his face when they neared the gates.
Several Chinese police officers in dark blue uniforms stood just over the line.
Doug and the sergeant stopped inside the gates, their toes inches from the invisible line that everyone in Shanghai was hyper aware of. Doug bowed from the waist. “I’m Commander Bainbridge, United States Navy,” he said, in English for the sergeant’s benefit. “May we have permission to enter your jurisdiction?”
“Please,” one of the police officers said, motioning them forward. “I am Detective Inspector Tung, Shanghai Police.”
Doug and the sergeant took a step into Chinese territory. “I was told you found one of our servicemen,” Doug said.
Tung bowed in acknowledgement. “Yes, come, I will take you to him.”
Doug followed Tung along the southern edge of the street, hugging the boundary line. The change in scenery across the line was stark in a way it normally wasn’t. There were no lights, only what spilled across from the International Settlement. Once his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Doug noticed all of the buildings around them were pocked with bullet holes, and some had gaping openings in their walls.
The steady rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire sounded less than a quarter mile away, explaining why the police detective was keeping so close to the boundary that he was not legally allowed to cross while on duty.
Tung carried an electric torch that he aimed in front of his feet, but it was covered in oiled paper to dull its beam. The shape of a body emerged from the shadows, face-down, wearing the white shore uniform of an American seaman. The back was drenched in blood, and a giant tattered tear in the stained fabric showed exposed flesh and a few pieces of bone.
A large exit wound. Sourness rose in Doug’s throat, but he clamped it shut and swallowed it back down. He knelt beside the body, and tilted his head to read the insignia on the shoulder. Seaman Second Class.
“You need glove, Commander?” Tung asked, kneeling beside him and handing him a pair of rubber gloves.
“Yes, thank you.” Doug tugged on the gloves, ashamed that he hadn’t thought to bring any from home. But this wasn’t exactly his usual day-at-work activities. “Have you already taken photographs of the body?”
Tung shook his head. “It is not safe to use flash bulb. Japanese troops are only few blocks from here.”
That was understandable. It would hinder the investigation, but under the circumstances it was unavoidable. Doug made a mental note of the way the body was laid out, and then rolled it onto its side.
Tung assisted by turning his shaded electric torch beam onto the body.
The head was bare—and no cap in sight—with black hair. Doug tilted the chin up to get a look at the face...
And stared into the lifeless eyes of Nick Bonadio.
“Who found him?”
Tung motioned toward one of the policemen. “Constable Liu found. He answer call to rescue civilians trapped in apartment building while Japanese attack.” He pointed at a dark building facing them at the corner a few yards to their right. “Japanese soldiers very close then, next block.”
Doug nodded. It was the most foolhardy thing imaginable to come take a gander at an active battle, but that must have been what Nick was up to. It took his sleepy brain a moment to wonder why Nick had been alone. His buddies must have told him it was a stupid idea. He could imagine the drunken back and forth, ending with them laughing as he went off on his own.
“You take body across line,” Tung said while Doug was still staring at the dead seaman’s face. “We cannot.”
Doug nodded. “If there’s nothing else you need to do with it, the sergeant and I can carry it back to the Settlement.”
“No, you investigate. Not our jurisdiction.” Tung switched off his electric torch and took a step back.
They’re eager to be rid of the problem. And while he wasn’t sure about the jurisdictional arguments, he had no doubt that the moment they realized the victim was an American seaman, they decided right then and there to pass the whole thing off to the American Navy.
Doug had no idea who would investigate the murder for the Navy, but moving the body was bound to damage evidence. There was no alternative, but he would need witnesses to corroborate his version of the events.
“Do you have a card, Detective Inspector Tung? In case we have questions about how the body was found.” The staccato of machine gun fire echoing off the surrounding buildings made Doug’s heart race.
Tung hesitated a second, then reluctantly removed his business card from a pocket of his tunic.
“Sergeant, would you take the seaman’s legs?” Doug said, taking hold of Bonadio’s arms.
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant sounded less than thrilled, but he bent down to take the legs, and then he and Doug hauled the body the short distance to the gates across Honan Road, and laid it back down on the street inside the International Settlement.
Doug turned to face the watching Chinese police officers, and bowed from the waist. Tung and the others returned his bow, and disappeared into the night.
“We need to call a coroner,” Doug said to the sergeant. “Wait here with the body, and I’ll find a phone booth.”
There was a telephone booth at the next corner, and Doug deposited a nickel and dialed the operator. The female voice answered first in Shanghainese, then English, “Operator.”
“I need a coroner to collect a body, on Honan Road just inside the gate,” Doug said in Shanghainese.
“I will call the police for you, sir.” The line started ringing before Doug could reply that it wasn’t necessary.
“Shanghai Municipal Police, North District. Corporal Gallagher speaking,” a gruff male voice answered, in English with an Irish accent. Then he followed that up with a single word in Shanghainese: “Police.”
“Good morning. This is Commander Douglas Bainbridge, United States Navy. I need a coroner to come to Honan Road and pick up the body of an American seaman.”
“Where on Honan Road, sir?” the Irish corporal asked, not reacting at all to Doug’s assertion of his naval r
ank.
“Just inside the gate, on the east side of the road.”
“We’ll have a medical examiner out there sometime in the next hour,” the corporal said. “I’ll dispatch a detective to the scene as soon as possible.”
“That won’t be necessary, Corporal,” Doug hurried to say before the police officer could hang up. He realized how suspicious that sounded, and explained, “The American seaman was killed in Chinese territory. The police in the Chinese municipality called the U.S. Navy to move the body back to the International Settlement, which is what we’ve done. I only need a coroner.”
There was several seconds of silence on the line, and then the corporal replied, “You can explain that to the Detective Sergeant when he arrives.” The line clicked off.
Doug sighed as he hung up the receiver, and hoped this wouldn’t turn into another ordeal.
**
Doug felt like he’d only been back to sleep a short time when his phone woke him up a few minutes after eight o’clock. Well, he supposed, it had only been a little more than three hours since he’d crawled back into bed.
Daylight streamed through the white lace curtains at his window, but it was overcast instead of bright, so it hardly helped wake him up. He didn’t even bother taking the time to get dressed, since it was the phone and not the door, and walked naked to his living room, yawning and stretching.
“Hello?”
“Commander Bainbridge? Please hold for Captain Jansen.”
Doug straightened his posture unconsciously.
A few seconds later, the captain’s voice rang across the line. “Morning, Bainbridge. I assume you got everything taken care of last night with no snags.”
“No, sir, no snags,” Doug said. “I identified the victim as Seaman Second Class Nicholas Bonadio, who was assigned to the USS Valparaiso. They took the body to St. Luke’s Hospital, and said they would contact the Navy doctor to get permission to perform an autopsy. That should reveal if it was Chinese or Japanese bullets that killed Seaman Bonadio, and then the Navy will be able to lodge a complaint with the appropriate side.”
“The Valparaiso? That’s the ship you’re assigned to.”
“It is, sir. I recognized the victim, and was able to identify him personally.”
“Well then, that makes this easier.”
Doug cringed, and got the sinking feeling the captain was about to assign him a role in this.
“Ever since they got rid of the Master at Arms rating after the war, and split up enforcement duties piecemeal across different ratings, it hasn’t been clear who takes the lead on something like this,” the captain said, clearly irritated. “Since you’re in ONI, and the battle zone is your department’s area of interest, I’m assigning you to oversee the investigation into Seaman Bonadio’s death. Your ship’s commanding officer—who is that, Rose?—he can loan you personnel on an as-needed basis, at his discretion. If the killer turns out to be one of our own, well, then you can make use of the marines when it comes time to make an arrest.”
Doug felt his head spin.
“With the way the battle in north Shanghai is heating up, sir, I have a duty to the fleet not to neglect observations, plus my regular duties,” Doug explained, hoping the captain wouldn’t find this insubordinate. “It will be difficult to squeeze in a murder investigation, on top of everything else.”
“I’ve already cleared this with the Admiral,” Captain Jansen said, and Doug’s stomach sank.
He was in a difficult position. He had two chains of command in his position as Intelligence Officer assigned to the Asiatic Fleet—first, he reported directly to a Captain in Washington who was the Assistant Director of Naval Intelligence; secondarily, he reported to Captain Jansen of the Yangtze River Patrol, of which his ship was part, and through him to Admiral Yarnell who was the commander-in-chief of the Asiatic Fleet. There was no way he could argue against the Admiral’s directive without going straight to ONI brass in Washington, and that would put the Admiral’s nose out of joint.
It wasn’t worth that.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, forcing himself not to sound resentful. Sometimes he hated military order. “Do you have any direction on how much time I should devote to this investigation, without neglecting my intelligence role?”
“I think you can use your own judgement on that, Commander,” the captain said, sounding irritated to be asked. “I think you know that our focus remains on our directive to protect American lives and property in the China Seas and surrounding areas. Everything we do is for that purpose.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I can confirm that Commander Shock arrived from Nanking last night as scheduled, so he can take some of the observation duties of Japanese naval and marine maneuvers. That should clear some time in your schedule that you can then devote to this investigation. We can’t have one of our own killed and not seek justice for it, can we?”
“No, sir.”
Commander Thomas Shock, U.S. Naval Attaché to China, didn’t have the dual command structure that Doug had to contend with—being attached to the American Embassy in Nanjing, rather than to a fleet as Doug was, Shock only took orders from ONI brass in Washington.
“That’s all for now, Bainbridge. Keep me informed about the homicide investigation, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The line clicked off. Doug sighed as he hung up the receiver, rubbed his face, and then swore under his breath.
**
After quickly bathing and getting dressed, Doug hurried to St. Luke’s Hospital. It was a little more than a half-mile walk east from home, but the last few blocks passed south of Japantown, in that thin strip of Hongkou that sat between the Huang Po River and the southern edge of the Japanese neighborhoods.
As he hurried along Broadway, he was able to watch the activity on several Japanese destroyers docked at the wharves, saw the heavy 20 cm guns loaded, and a round fired. It was a full second after the shells whizzed by overhead that he heard the tell-tale whistle of their passage—meaning these shells were travelling faster than ordinary ship’s guns. He added that observation to the flash-boom-whistle of the bombardment yesterday; the Japanese had developed shipboard guns that fired super-sonic shells.
But how? That was only possible with smaller bullets, from a pistol or rifle. Large artillery guns had never been able to achieve that kind of shell speed. If the Japanese military had figured out a way, that was an ominous development.
He hurried up the steps off Seward Street to the front entrance of St. Luke’s.
The halls were a flurry of activity, as a mix of Chinese and white nurses and orderlies rushed about from room to room and up the wide staircase behind the reception stand. St. Luke’s was probably the closest hospital to the fighting taking place just north of the Settlement’s boundaries, and both sides were likely sending their wounded here.
“Can I help you, sir?” the red-haired nurse at the reception desk asked in an American accent, eyeing his uniform.
“I’m Commander Bainbridge, United States Navy. I’m here to inquire about the autopsy for an American seaman who was brought in this morning, Nicholas Bonadio. Can you direct me?”
“Yes, sir. The morgue is in the basement. Take this hall, until you see the door to a staircase on your left. Take that down and go right, and you’ll find the morgue at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you, nurse.” Doug started to turn the way she had indicated, but hesitated. “Would you by any chance be able to tell me if Dr. Howerton is working today?”
“Yes, I believe he is,” the nurse said. “It’s not his usual day, but he was asked to come in and assist.”
He’ll be too busy to talk, Doug realized, glancing around at the commotion in the corridors. “Thank you. If you see him, would you tell him that Doug Bainbridge is in the building? No particular message, though.”
“I will, sir.” The nurse turned her attention to the next person at the desk.
Doug follo
wed the directions downstairs, and found the door to the morgue closed, but not locked. He stood in the middle of a cold room lined with sealed metallic slots, numbered sequentially.
A young Chinese orderly at a desk barely glanced away from the paperwork he was scribbling on to say in accented English, “One moment.”
Doug didn’t wait. “I’m Commander Bainbridge, from the United States Navy, and I’m here to inquire about one of our personnel who was brought in this morning. Can you tell me if an autopsy has been performed on Nicholas Bonadio?”
The orderly looked up from his paperwork with obvious impatience. “Doctor doing autopsy right now. Please wait.”
Doug acknowledged the information with a polite bow, hoping the traditional Chinese show of respect would garner him some points.
But the orderly went back to his paperwork without even acknowledging Doug’s bow. This affront removed all of Doug’s instinct to be polite and cooperative. “Can you tell me how long the doctor has been working on Nick Bonadio’s body?” he asked, taking on his most commanding tone.
The orderly looked back at him, his expression even more impatient than before. Doug squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.
“Half-hour, maybe forty minutes,” the orderly said, and started to look back at his paperwork, but Doug interrupted.
“How long does an autopsy usually take for a gunshot victim?”
The orderly sighed audibly. “No two the same. Please wait for doctor, he’ll say more.”
Doug fumed for a minute, but after a few deep breaths he calmed and decided on a different tactic. He crossed his arms, and slowly paced around the room; his careful, deliberate steps caused the leather soles of his uniform shoes to clack loudly on the polished tile floor in an even cadence.
It had the desired effect, and the orderly stiffened as he strode by. It was petty, perhaps, but Doug didn’t care. You reap what you sow, that’s what Mother always said. He ignored for the moment that he’d always hated it when she had said that to him when he was a child. He was tired, and he was allowed to be cranky, damn it.
Another Chinese orderly came through the door a few minutes later, this one big-built with a square jaw, and he made only a slight bow to the seated orderly. The first one collected several papers into a manila folder, and handed it to the new orderly, who bowed again—barely—and left.
No Accidental Death Page 9
