This one’s got a reputation.
After several rounds of circling the room, another door opened, and a middle-aged white man in white doctor’s garb came through, wiping his hands on a blood-stained white towel. His apron was covered in blood. He didn’t look surprised to see Doug standing in his morgue, and after eyeing his uniform for a second he met Doug’s gaze.
“I’m Dr. Phillips,” he said with an American accent, and pushed his glasses back up his nose with the back of his wrist. “You must be here to ask about that Navy boy they brought in.”
“Yes, Seaman Bonadio. You performed the autopsy, doctor?”
“I assisted.” The way Dr. Phillips emphasized that word spoke volumes; he wasn’t pleased at playing second fiddle in his own morgue. “Dr. Hammond from the Navy took the lead. He’s still with the body.” Phillips nodded back at the solid door through which he had come.
“Can I speak with him?” Doug asked, glancing behind Phillips at the closed door.
Phillips chuckled and shook his head. “You don’t want to go back there, trust me. I’ve had police detectives turn green and vomit when we take them back there, and they’ve seen all kinds of grisly murder scenes. You’ll probably pass out and hit your head on the floor, and then I’ll have to treat you for concussion.”
Doug appreciated the doctor’s words, in spite of the sentiment behind them. His condescension was warranted, and Doug wasn’t ashamed to admit it. “Do you know how much longer he’ll be?”
“Not long.” Phillips walked over to the orderly. “Get that Chinese gal ready to go next, the young one they brought in a couple of hours ago.” Turning back to Doug, he added, “We’re all finished in there, so he should be out soon. He’s writing the report. I think he’s also got some forms to fill out for the Navy, that might take a few extra minutes. Just wait here.”
Doug thanked the pathologist and stood in the center of the room.
The sullen orderly walked past without looking at him, and opened one of the drawers. Doug watched in morbid fascination while he pulled up the corner of the sheet and checked the tag on the toe, then scanned the clipboard in his hand and checked off an item there. He rolled over a metal cart, took the feet and used them to drag the body onto the cart. He pulled back the sheet to reveal the face of a young Chinese girl, probably no more than fifteen, wheeled the cart toward the closed door, and disappeared with it into the other room.
A few minutes later, another middle-aged white man emerged from the back room, this one removing the bloodied apron and tossing it into a laundry bin near the orderly’s station. He looked at Doug’s uniform and approached him.
“I’m Commander Hammond, doctor, United States Navy,” he said. He didn’t extend his hand to shake, of which Doug was grateful, under the circumstances. Since they were the same rank, they didn’t have to salute one another outside of a naval facility.
“I’m Commander Bainbridge, from the USS Valparaiso,” Doug said, omitting his role as Intelligence Officer. “You performed the autopsy on Seaman Second Class Bonadio?”
“Yes,” Hammond said, grave. “Are you running the homicide investigation, Commander? Bainbridge, was it?”
Afraid so, Doug thought before he could help himself. “Yes, I’m the lead on this. What can you tell me, doctor?”
“He was shot twice—once in the chest, and once in the shoulder. The shoulder wound was superficial, and wasn’t fatal. The chest wound punctured the diaphragm, nicked the liver and the lower lobe of his left lung, and blew a pretty sizeable hole out his back. I’m sure you noticed the hole when you inspected the body; it was unmissable, wasn’t it?”
His attempt at gallows humor didn’t land with Doug, who nodded grimly. “Yes, I saw the exit wound. It was unmistakable, as you say.”
“That alone might have caused him to bleed out and die, even if the bullet had somehow managed to miss any organs,” Dr. Hammond said, matter-of-fact. “With the damage to the diaphragm, he would have been unable to get much breath, which was compounded by the damage to the bottom of the lower lobe of his left lung. He probably died within a minute of the fatal shot; two minutes at most. And he would have lost consciousness within ten or fifteen seconds.”
The quickness of it startled Doug. He had been trained on all manner of gunshot wounds when he first joined the Navy in the summer of ’32, and knew academically that certain wounds couldn’t be treated by medics on the scene; but the fact that someone he knew wouldn’t have been savable was still jarring.
“Can you determine if it was a Chinese or Japanese gun that killed him?” Doug asked, keeping his composure with effort.
“It was neither, actually.”
Doug couldn’t hide the shock from his face. “So it wasn’t one of the combatants? That surprises me, doctor, since he was found in a street that had only just been the scene of battle between Chinese and Japanese troops.”
Dr. Hammond shook his head. “We’re certain. Dr. Phillips and I agree one hundred percent on this. Seaman Bonadio was killed by a .45 caliber bullet, almost certainly fired by a Colt M1911 pistol.”
The standard issue sidearm of all United States Armed Forces personnel. Doug’s stomach turned sour. Captain Jansen’s words this morning—which Doug had dismissed out of hand—now sounded prescient. “So the killer was probably one of our own?”
“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion,” Dr. Hammond said. “The Colt M1911 is one of the most popular pistols in the world with criminal gangs.”
Like the Green Gang. Doug almost shuddered. It was common knowledge they used Colt .45s.
“There were multiple abrasions on his hands, scratches on his neck, and a sizeable hematoma about three inches above the inion.”
“Pardon?”
“A nasty bump on the crown of his head,” Hammond said. “Meaning he fought with his attacker. This was no accidental death from stray bullets.”
Maybe something like the brawl at the Majestic last month. “There was no spent cartridge found at the scene,” Doug said, more thinking out-loud than communicating with the navy doctor. “The assumption was that the fatal bullet probably lodged into a wall, and the casing would have fallen somewhere with a thousand others on that street.” He looked up from his verbal musings and looked the doctor in the eye. “How can you be so certain that it was a Colt .45?”
Dr. Hammond launched into a highly detailed explanation of the various medical findings, and how they related to this or that forensic fact—all of which served more to confuse Doug than enlighten him. He’d have to trust the Doctor’s knowledge.
“Is all of that detailed in your report?”
“It depends on which report you mean,” Dr. Hammond replied, and he began describing the myriad different reports he had to file for this and that officer up the various chains of command, and how the relevant details varied depending upon the role of the individual it was being delivered to.
It was head-spinning.
“But any and all of these reports are admissible in a court-martial,” the doctor concluded. “The prosecutor will know what to do; you won’t have to worry about any of that as the lead investigator, Commander.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Doug said, nodding. “What happens to the body now?”
“The staff here will prepare it for burial. I’ll remain on-hand to supervise, but otherwise my job here is finished. I’ll call for a color guard shortly, and I’ll notify the ship’s captain. I don’t remember the name off-hand, but whoever he is will oversee the funeral arrangements.”
“Commander Rose,” Doug said.
“That’s right. Rose—I’ll speak with him right after I call for the color guard.”
“I will leave that to you, doctor. Thank you.”
The ground floor corridor was still a flurry of activity when Doug returned upstairs and made his way through the scurrying nurses and orderlies toward the front door. As he passed the reception desk, the red-haired nurse there called out to him.
“
Excuse me, sir! Commander Bainbridge, wasn’t it?”
Doug turned around, surprised, and walked back to the desk. “Yes, I’m Commander Bainbridge.”
“Dr. Howerton would like to see you before you leave,” she said, breathless from the busyness of the day. “He’s very busy, but he can spare a minute or two to speak with you. He’s on the second floor, in the main ward. You can ask one of the nurses up there to take you to him.”
Doug thanked her and hurried up the wide stair case. He followed signs to the main ward, a big open room running the length of the building, with beds lining both walls. Tall windows allowed in full daylight, and plenty of breeze. It was turning into quite a windy day, and nurses scurried to put paper weights on anything that wasn’t bolted down.
Several doctors moved about with clip boards, and Doug took a moment to scan the room until he found George about two thirds of the way down, leaning over a patient. When Doug got there, George was examining a young Chinese man, probably about twenty-one or twenty-two, who had abrasions all over one arm, shoulder, and side.
“Ah, Doug, thanks for stopping by. Be with you in a minute.”
When he finished his exam, George told the dark-haired nurse next to him to clean the abrasions again with quinine and apply fresh bandages, and then give him morphine.
As he turned away from the bed, George gave Doug a weak smile, put his hand on his shoulder and guided him toward the end of the room.
“I’m glad you’re here,” George said, his deep voice as quiet as he could make it. “This isn’t even the worst of them. I’m a general practitioner, so I don’t get assigned the real emergency cases. But as you can see, we’re overwhelmed even with these. We’ve called in all of the doctors and nurses we have on staff, but it’s not enough. What we need most is extra hands, any hands. I’m too busy to make phone calls, but if you could find a moment to tell Pete, Kenny, Fred, Stuart, or anyone else, to come down for a few hours and lend a hand, it would be a real life saver. Possibly literally.”
Doug nodded. “I’ll do that. I can’t stay myself, unfortunately—work calls.”
George sighed. “I thought so. I heard you were down in the morgue earlier, so I’m sorry that’s how your day is starting.”
“I can call Kenny and Pete from my office in a little while. Pete can pass the word along to Fred and Stuart and the others.”
A strange look came to George’s face. “They all spent Friday night on the top floor of the Park Hotel, having dinner in the restaurant up there, and staying all night to have a ‘war viewing party.’” He pursed his lips. “Men died while they watched the explosions from the twenty-second floor and drank cocktails.”
Doug could picture the scene. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him, and that saddened him. “They have to atone for their sins, is that what you’re saying?”
A wry hint of smile curved up one side of George’s mouth. “We’re Episcopalians, Doug, not Catholics—but I’m sure the big man upstairs is watching, nonetheless, and weighing what they do.” His expression grew somber again, and he added more quietly, “What we all do.”
Doug felt that for some reason. It wasn’t that he had anything to feel guilty about, per se—but he could do more to help. “I’ll call them right away, and I’ll lay it on as thick as I can without overdoing it.”
That brought a thin smile to George’s mouth, and he patted Doug on the back as he turned back toward the ward. “I appreciate that. Thanks a million, buddy.” Then he hurried back the way they had come.
11
Back at the naval office on the Bund, Doug was surprised to see most of the personnel at their desks. Usually on a Saturday there were only a couple of men here, a ‘skeleton crew’ as they said in the Navy. Captain Jansen was not there, however. And from the tone used by the lieutenant at the desk in front of the captain’s office when he offered, Doug knew it probably wasn’t a good idea to call the captain at home.
Instead he asked for all of the information the lieutenant could find on proper procedures for a homicide investigation of active duty personnel. Then he returned to his tiny office, picked up the telephone receiver, and asked the lieutenant at the front desk to connect him with the Kenneth Traywick residence on South Soochow Road.
“Hello?” Kenny’s voice answered after a couple of rings.
“Hey there, Kenny, it’s Doug.”
“I’m glad you called. We heard from Lucy last night that you were on duty somewhere outside of the Settlement boundaries. She didn’t know any details, but she sounded worried. It made me and Abbie worried, too. It’s good to hear your voice this morning, old chum.”
“I’m sorry to worry you,” Doug said. Part of him was touched that his friends had worried about him; but another part was disappointed that they’d treated the battle a few miles to the north as a spectator sport. “Listen, I saw George at St. Luke’s a little while ago, and he said to tell everyone that they could use all the hands they can get. If anyone is able to volunteer at the hospital for a few hours, he said it might save lives.”
“Oh, good gracious, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Kenny said, sounding embarrassed. Doug was glad he was embarrassed. “I’d be happy to. Abbie, too, if they need women helpers as well.”
“I think they need any kind of helpers.”
“Then we’ll head right over there,” Kenny said, sounding determined. “We’ll leave Margaret with the amah, and we can be out the door in ten minutes. Should we ask for George when we get there?”
“I would assume so.” George hadn’t actually specified, but Doug couldn’t imagine he’d be upset by the interruption to find his friends were there to help.
“We’ll do, then. Thanks, Doug.” The line clicked off.
The rumble of low-flying planes began to fill the room, and soon they were close enough for Doug’s desk to shake. He hurried to the window, which overlooked the Bund and the Huang Po River.
Military planes zoomed up the river from the south, only about a thousand feet above the surface of the water because of the low cloud cover from the incoming monsoon. They buzzed past the French Concession in seconds, and were now roaring past downtown. Doug recognized the insignia of the Chinese Air Force on the tail fins of the planes, and then they turned their noses up and released a series of bombs from their metal bellies.
The bombs continued northward as they fell, upriver toward the moored Japanese naval vessels. Doug watched, transfixed, as most of them splashed harmlessly into the water. But a pair of booming explosions disrupted the morning, one right after the other, and a giant fire ball rose into the sky from somewhere behind the heavy cruiser Izumo. A second, smaller fire ball rose farther upriver, hidden behind the bend in the Huang Po.
“That’s new,” a voice said behind Doug, and he turned to see the lieutenant from Captain Jansen’s office, standing inside his door and craning his neck to peer out Doug’s window. “The Chinese have avoided the International Settlement since this started, even though Japanese marines are moving through Little Tokyo on their way to the battle.”
“Technically, the river is Chinese territory,” Doug said. “The international concessions all end at the shore. Even the creeks that flow through the Settlement belong to China—so they can attack any boat and stay compliant with international treaties.”
He pulled his pair of binoculars from a desk drawer and looked toward the Izumo, not far from here. “The tricky part for them will be to not accidentally land one on the ground within the Settlement or French Concession. I think that’s why most of their bombs fell so short—they were being cautious.”
“I’m glad I’m not in their shoes, sir,” the lieutenant said, shaking his head.
“Me too.”
Doug sat back at his desk, and placed a call to Pete and Julia’s home. The elderly Chinese man who answered—their butler, Fang Lu—told Doug that Mr. and Mrs. Tolbert were shopping downtown today, and he didn’t expect them back until mid-afternoon, when they would take their n
aps.
Doug thanked the butler in Shanghainese and hung up. Of course Pete and Julia took naps on Saturday afternoons—they had to be well-rested for a late night of reveling at one of Shanghai’s swanky night clubs. He had joined them many a Saturday night, and wore out far sooner than they did. How many times had he wished he’d fortified himself with a nap before going out?
Still, he was irritated. It wasn’t their fault they weren’t home to take his call, and learn that their help was needed; but this fit into the cavalier way they were treating the escalating violence not far away—they were safe, after all, so why should they care? Doug blamed Julia more than Pete, though deep down he knew that wasn’t entirely rational.
He made a mental note to try them again around two o’clock, and maybe he’d catch them before they laid down to rest.
In the meantime, he had work to do. Most of his duties as an Intelligence Officer assigned to the Asiatic Fleet fit nicely into a Monday through Friday schedule when he was on shore; but present circumstances had rendered that untrue. Plus, he had this business with Nick Bonadio to manage...
He tried to imagine why Nick would have crossed into Chinese territory in the dead of night, with an active fire fight happening there, and he couldn’t fathom a believable reason. The only thing he could come up with was curiosity, a desire to see the fighting close-hand; but he didn’t buy it. Nick Bonadio might be many things, but he wasn’t foolish. At least, not that foolish. If there was one thing the little Italian-American from the Bronx had in spades, it was street smarts. No, that would be too out of character for him to venture across the boundary just to get a look at the fighting.
Which meant he was moved there.
This possibility had been nagging at the back of Doug’s brain ever since Dr. Hammond said the bullet had come from a Colt M1911—the standard issue side arm of every man in the Navy, or the Marine Corps. But the Colt M1911 was one of the most popular pistols in the world—any number of people in Shanghai might own one. He could request a list of licenses in the International Settlement from the Shanghai Municipal Government, and have someone cross reference all of the names to find any connection with Nick Bonadio. But it was a long-shot at best, and a time-consuming one. He’d have to do the same thing for the French Concession local authority, plus the Shanghai City Government in the Chinese Municipality. It would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.
No Accidental Death Page 10
