Thorne gave Dr. Charlie a helping hand, and the old man made his way to the end of the cargo bed. He squinted at the dark spot, took out his reading glasses and put them on. After a full minute of examining it, he gingerly touched it with a fingertip.
“Think it’s his?” Johnstone asked in a quiet voice. “He was placed back here, but rolled forward?”
“Possible, not probable,” the doctor replied.
Johnstone tried to hide his irritation. “I don’t understand.”
“This is congealed. What’s on the body is not.”
“But the body could’ve kept it warm.”
“No,” he said with the utmost conviction. He turned to Officer Stanton. “My black bag. On the rear seat.”
Officer Stanton quickly went off to his car.
Dr. Charlie turned back to Johnstone and quietly asked, “Don’t you think if the body rolled forward, there would be ample amounts of blood all the way to the doors? But there isn’t, see?”
Johnstone nodded in agreement. Then something in the far corner of the truck bed caught his eye. He rose and took a step toward it. Wedged between the wall and floor of the truck was a man’s wallet. Johnstone opened it.
“What is it?” the doctor asked.
“We know both victims, at least.”
He handed the wallet to the doctor. Flipping the wallet open, Dr. Charlie saw that the Washington State driver’s license picture matched the dead man in his exam room. The name was Cody Carsteen, and he lived in an apartment on 4th Street in Seattle. “Very good.”
Johnstone took the wallet from him and walked back toward the body. Looking out the back of the truck, he stopped short. Stunned. “Oh, shit! No!”
All the men turned to the detective, then followed his look toward the ocean and the small rolling waves lapping against the empty dock. Stanton came forward, holding the doctor’s small black bag. Puzzled by everyone staring at the sea, he asked, “What?”
“The bloody boat! Kobata’s fishing boat! He got away!” Johnstone thundered.
Stanton turned to Thorne. “When did Kobata leave in the boat?”
Thorne looked baffled. He finally shrugged, saying, “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying any attention.”
Johnstone then looked to Russell Porter. “Was it here when you came for the truck? Kobata’s boat?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t look,” Porter admitted. “I just wanted to make sure my truck was in good working order.”
“You knew Matthew was missing. You’re told that your truck’s been found, but you don’t look for Matthew? To question him, at least? You didn’t think he might be on his boat and you were owed an explanation?” Johnstone asked.
Porter looked out toward the sea, shaking his head. “I don’t think it was here when I got over here. I would have noticed, I’m sure.”
“But you don’t know for sure?” Johnstone challenged. Porter just shook his head, which angered Johnstone even more. “He could’ve been hiding. Right there!” he thundered, pointing to the house. “Inside the house. Neither of you thought to look?”
“He’s a good kid,” Porter explained defensively. “I figured he dropped the truck, then high-tailed it to the ferry. I had no reason to go looking for him.”
“Great!” Johnstone mumbled to himself, turning away. He looked at Stanton. “We need to notify the Coast Guard. What’s the name of the boat?”
Thorne answered. “Niji. Means rainbow.”
“Right,” Johnstone said, recalling the name painted on the stern. “The Niji. And tell the Seattle police that he’s probably on their side now.”
Stanton then looked to Thorne. “We’ll need to use your phone, sir.”
Thorne was rattled. “Young Matthew Kobata? You think he did this? Tom’s his friend.”
“Was his friend,” Johnstone matter-of-factly corrected him. Then the detective looked at Stanton. “After you do that, go get this man’s next of kin. A father, I think you mentioned? Have him at Dr. Charlie’s in about thirty minutes. No earlier. We’ll need a positive identification.”
The young officer gave a quick nod, handed the medical bag to Dr. Charlie, and went in the Thorne’s house to make the call.
With his bag in hand, Dr. Charlie went to the back of the truck. He knelt down, opened the bag, and extracted a long cotton swab and a small vial. Still angry, Johnstone went to the back of the truck and crouched beside the doctor. “Hopefully they’re different blood types,” the doctor quietly explained. “Then we’ll know for sure.”
Johnstone nodded. “You’re thinking this is Carsteen’s, aren’t you?”
Dr. Charlie nodded. “Timing is right for the congealing.” And with that, he carefully placed the vial in his bag, snapped it shut, and stood to his full height. “Also, my guess, there were at least two of them.” He could see Johnstone’s puzzled expression and said, “To carry the body. There is no other congealed blood. One man, he’d have to drag the body out. We’d see traces of blood. I think there were two, one on either side, and they carried the body to the end of the truck, then tossed it.”
Johnstone nodded. It made sense.
Chapter Five
Pacific Ocean, 6 Miles Northwest of Port Townsend, Washington. March 30, 1942
“Trawler one-five-nine, can you come along side?” the voice asked over the radio.
Matthew’s heart pounded. They were talking to him. There was no misunderstanding. The numbers 1-5-9 were painted on his bow. The one stood for January, the month he had been born, then five for May, Daniel’s birth month, and nine for September, the month Julia was born. Silly, but it had been his Dad’s way of celebrating his children’s births.
“Trawler, one-five-nine?” the voice asked, louder now. Matthew felt his mouth go dry. This was the second request. The large fishing vessel was about 200 yards off to his starboard side. Was it foundering? It certainly wasn’t under power.
“Trawler, one-five-nine, do you hear me?” the voice asked.
Matthew debated with himself. If the boat was not in distress, he could easily ignore their requests and be far away in no time. But if it was truly in trouble, possibly taking on water, it was his duty to respond. His father had stressed this to him so many times, saying, “It is the rule of the sea.”
“Trawler, one-five-nine, need assistance.”
Matthew finally picked up his own radio. “I read you. Coming along side.” Matthew turned the wheel and opened the throttle a little more. A moment later he saw a man appear on deck and toss a rubber bumper over the side. Then the man tossed another bumper a few feet astern of the first. This was the last thing he needed, Matthew thought, as he maneuvered the trawler closer, throttling back to slow his approach. He was still way too close to the island for comfort.
Suddenly there were three loud beeps over the radio. An all-alert bulletin. “All vessels within the sound of my voice...This is U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Nine-Eight...Please be advised we are looking for 46-foot trawler from Bainbridge Island...Trawler one-five-nine, The Niji...Please do not approach...Be advised to report the location of vessel only. Repeat, looking for 46-foot trawler one-five-nine out of Bainbridge Island. Do not approach, but report position.”
Matthew’s heart thundered. He stared at the radio in disbelief. The Coast Guard was looking for him? Had they found Tom? Or maybe the man he had killed? He tried to tell himself that it was probably just a standard search because he had missed the mandatory evacuation. But his gut told him otherwise.
He looked at the fishing boat next to him. It was at least sixty feet. The man still stood on the deck, waving him to pull up close. That was good. There was no way the man had just heard the Coast Guard report. But was there someone else on board? Someone near the radio? It was too big a boat for a single fisherman. No fisherman he knew with a boat that size went out alone. That meant the odds were good that someone else was on board. Someone who now knew the Coast Guard was searching for him.
His heart hammered in his chest.
Should he just cut and run while he still had the chance? But he suddenly felt the man land on his deck. He carried a couple of mooring lines and quickly tied them off. The man looked to the wheelhouse and gave Matthew a friendly wave.
The boats were now tethered together. It was too late.
Bainbridge Island, Washington. March 30, 1942
Donald didn’t know what to think as he sat in the small waiting area. His uncle, Rex Bollgen, sat next to him staring at the floor. Once the evacuation ferry had gotten underway, he and his men had been given a two-hour break. Donald was hungry and took several of his men to The Crow’s Nest. It was with great anticipation that he walked into the restaurant. He hadn’t seen his cousin Tom for over a year, and he wanted to see his cousin’s reaction to his lieutenant insignia.
The place had been hopping with people, the usual locals, as well as Army personnel, like himself. The evacuation was a big deal. It had to be done, and it had to be done right. That’s why the Army had brought so many men over from Seattle.
But his cousin was nowhere to be found. He stepped around the long food counter, each seat filled, and went back to the kitchen. His Uncle Rex was busy, barking orders and trying to keep up with the demand. When Donald approached, his uncle gave him a curt nod hello. But little else. “Where’s Tom?” Donald asked.
“You tell me. I need him right now.”
Donald looked around. Several plates of food were ready to be served. He picked them up and asked, “Where to?”
His uncle looked surprised. He quickly found the order ticket. “Table five.”
Donald had bused tables here when he was in junior high, so he knew the table numbers. Ironically, he served a table full of Army privates. But he wasn’t humiliated. He was proud that his uncle had worked hard to make The Crow’s Nest the best restaurant on the island.
Within minutes, he had hung up his uniform jacket and was busy working the various tables. When Officer Stanton had entered and asked to talk to his uncle, Donald told him it was a bad time. With all the Army personnel in town, he knew the restaurant would be jammed for some time. And only when the crowd dissipated would his Uncle Rex take a cigarette break. But the policeman was insistent. So Donald escorted him to the kitchen. And that’s where the man informed them that Tom had been killed.
***
Now they sat in Dr. Charlie’s tiny waiting room. Filling the two chairs near the receptionist’s desk. The policeman had refused to tell them anything more. Donald looked at his uncle. His face was set in stone. There was simply no emotion evident at all.
Dr. Charlie approached. Rex looked up, expectantly. “Is it true? It’s Tom? My Tom?” Rex asked.
Dr. Charlie gave a slight nod and placed a hand on Rex’s shoulder. “By law, we have to have an official identification.” He glanced at Donald, surprised the boy was all grown up, now sporting the uniform of a lieutenant in the Army. “Young Donald can do it.”
Rex shook his head and slowly stood. “How?”
“He was shot.”
Rex Bollgen actually recoiled a bit, his face showing great surprise. But then he regained his composure and followed Dr. Charlie into one of the exam rooms.
Since their small town didn’t have an official coroner’s office, Dr. Charlie had removed the bedding from the exam table, leaving the cold bare metal on which Tom’s body now lay, fully dressed, just as he had been found. However, his eyes were now closed. It almost appeared that the young man was simply taking a nap, except, of course, for his tattered shirt and the extensive bloodstain. Rex slowly moved forward. Donald entered hesitantly behind him.
“No...” Rex mumbled. “No...”
“I’m so sorry, Rex,” Dr. Charlie said.
“Where? Where’d this happen?” he asked, distraught.
“He was found in Russell Porter’s cargo truck,” said Johnstone who had been standing silently in the corner of the room. Neither Rex nor Donald had even noticed him. The man, tall and attractive, with wavy brown hair, moved forward. “I’m detective Elroy Johnstone, Seattle police department.”
Rex just stared.
“You’re investigating this?” Donald asked.
“I am. And who are you, may I ask?”
“Lieutenant Donald Bollgen,” Donald said. He nodded to Tom. “My cousin.”
“Does either of you know Matthew Kobata?”
“Matthew?” Rex asked in surprise.
“You know him?”
“My God,” Rex said. Then he abruptly turned and walked out of the room. Donald was right behind him followed by Johnstone. Rex collapsed in a waiting room chair and put his head in his hands.
Donald turned to Johnstone. “I was at the Kobata house earlier today. Matthew never came home last night. His family refused to evacuate until he showed up. We have our personnel and the police looking for him.”
“No, no, no...” Rex suddenly raged, sobbing, his hands still covering his face.
The room fell into awkward silence. Then the entrance door abruptly opened and Sally Grazer walked in. She stopped short, surprised to see so many people standing around in the small waiting room. A good-natured girl, she was all smiles as Dr. Charlie started toward her.
Rex suddenly looked up and glared at Johnstone. “Why? Why would anyone kill my boy? Why, in God’s name?”
Sally saw Rex for the first time. Slowly, his words began to register. She looked at the others. Donald, whom she knew, but not well. The tall man. And Dr. Charlie who, for some reason, was now holding both her hands.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Dr. Charlie said.
“I don’t understand...Tom?” Sally sputtered. Then she turned to Rex. Tears silently rolled down the man’s cheeks. In the back of her mind, she noted how old he suddenly looked. “Tom? What are you saying? Has something happened to Tom?”
“He was killed, dear,” Dr. Charlie said.
She stared at him in disbelief, then angrily pulled away and started for the open exam room door. But Donald grabbed her before she had a chance. She just searched Donald’s face, saw his own anguish, and slowly wilted.
Johnstone squatted next to Rex. “Sir, I know this is a bad time, but I need some answers. I need to know where Tom was. The last you knew.”
Rex took a deep breath. Nodded in Sally’s direction. “He went to Sally’s for dinner.”
Johnstone pivoted to look at the girl. “Ma’am, you had dinner with Tom last night?”
She could only nod. Johnstone rose and approached her. “When did he leave, do you remember?”
Her breaths were coming rapidly now, and he worried that she was hyperventilating. He caught Donald’s eye and nodded to the other chair. Without a word, they carefully guided her to the chair. She sat down. Johnstone kneeled next to her and tried again, “I’m a detective from Seattle. I need to know what time he left you.”
“About eight.”
“Eight, okay. Did he say where he was going?”
“No,” she mumbled.
Johnstone felt disappointed. He started to rise, but her hand shot out and pulled him back down.
“He never thought I knew about it. But, I did.”
“It?” Johnstone asked, puzzled.
Sally nodded as she gasped for a big breath and continued, “He would leave my place and go do something with Matthew.”
“Matthew Kobata?”
She nodded. “I mean, everyone knew that they used Mr. Porter's truck. Matthew would take his catch over a couple times a week, and Tom would hitch a ride to get fresh fruit and vegetables and things for the restaurant. I mean, I even went once. Matthew left us at the big wholesale market, he got rid of the fish, and came back to pick us up. But, well, I just know something else was going on.”
“Like what?”
She shrugged, “I don’t know. I wish I did. I just know something had changed. Something they didn’t want to talk about. They had both changed recently. More serious. Something was going on…I just don’t know what.”
“We
need to find Kobata,” Donald declared.
“Matthew’s not a part of this,” Rex suddenly announced. “Known that boy all his life. He’s a good boy. If he’s missing, it’s because he’s dead too.”
Sally looked at Rex in surprise. “No, I just saw him.”
“What? When?” Johnstone demanded. “How long ago?”
“After I took Mrs. Perrgle home.” She said.
The physician clarified for Johnstone. “About eleven, then. When I got called by you to the north end of the island.”
Johnstone quickly nodded. He turned his attention back to Sally. “So you saw Matthew where?”
“He was going over to Seattle,” she told them. “Said the Navy had bought his trawler. He had to take it over himself.”
“He was at his house?”
“At the dock. He was just leaving.” She thought for a minute. “I was surprised, because we had said our good-byes yesterday. He was supposed to be on the evacuation ferry. But when I asked, he said that he had secretly sold his boat to the Navy. And they wanted it in Seattle.”
“And you have no idea what he and Tom were doing last night?”
“They weren’t together.”
“Why do you say that?” Johnstone frowned.
“I asked,” Sally explained. “I mean, I knew that’s where Tom usually snuck off to – somewhere with Matthew – so I asked if he knew where Tom was. I asked if he saw Tom last night. He said no.”
“And you believed him?” Johnstone challenged.
Sally got quiet and simply nodded, not sure if she had made a terrible mistake.
Pacific Ocean, 6 Miles Northwest of Port Townsend, Washington. March 30, 1942
“So, Owens Valley, right?”
Matthew just stared at the man, unsure. Then he nodded. Although he had no idea where Owens Valley was.
“My nephew, he’s been down there. Building barracks and such,” the man explained.
Matthew decided to take a chance. “Where is it?”
“Very close to the Nevada line. Across from Fresno, if you know where that is.”
Toward Night's End Page 5
