Johnstone thought for a moment then said, “Let me ask you this. Petty Officer Carsteen was, well, he was overweight. He probably could’ve taken off a good fifteen pounds.”
Leseman smiled. “He liked to eat.”
“I thought you’d only met him ‘a few times’?” Johnstone said, surprised.
A bit startled, Leseman quickly explained, “I played poker with him. We played for money. Not much, mind you, Navy people aren’t exactly rich. But he always brought in food. The joke was he never shared. And believe me, he brought in enough he could’ve. Know what I mean?”
Johnstone nodded. “I thought Navy personnel had to be in shape.”
“We do.”
“That wasn’t true for Carsteen, though.”
The commander shrugged. “He was, well, he was given a little leeway.”
“Why is that?”
Leseman looked alarmed again. “That’s off limits, I’m afraid.”
“This is ridiculous. All I want to know is why Carsteen was allowed to be overweight. Substantially overweight. Walking over here, I was looking around. I didn’t see one man, enlisted or an officer, carrying around the weight Carsteen did.”
Commander Leseman shrugged. “As I said, you’re welcome to petition Rear Admiral Mitchell.”
“He wasn’t really here, was he?” Johnstone guessed. “He was assigned here, spent some time on the base, but he was also allowed quite a bit of ‘leeway,’ as you say.”
“No,” Leseman angrily refuted. “As I told you, he worked at our anti-aircraft training center.”
“I’d like to see that. The training center. Maybe talk to some people who knew him.”
“No can do,” Commander Leseman said again. “Sorry.”
“So much for cooperation, huh?” Johnstone said.
“Look, Detective. I didn’t know Carsteen well. Like I said, the only time I met him was in a few poker games. I don’t like the fact that he was murdered. I want the killer found too. But we are at war. I can’t tell you exactly what his duties were, why he was given allowances with his weight, or anything else for that matter.”
“Fair enough,” Johnstone said in a conciliatory tone. “He was recently in a scuff off base. Outside a bar on Third Street.”
Leseman actually looked surprised by this. Then smiled, “Never came across as a fisticuffs type to me.”
“Police were called. But the guy he was fighting took off before the police got there. Carsteen probably would’ve taken off, too, but he was knocked unconscious. He came to when the police were there.”
“Don’t know anything about it,” Leseman shrugged.
“Just seems odd, that’s all. He’s off base, gets in a fight. Bad enough that he’s knocked out, yet you guys don’t have information on that.”
“What’s your point, Detective?”
“He didn’t have to worry about any reprisals here, did he? He could come and go. Keep an off-base apartment. Put on weight. Get into a pretty good fight. But no one here seems to care about that.”
“You know what you’re doing wrong? You’re thinking too hard about this.”
Johnstone shot him an angry look. Then asked, “Do you know why he was over on Bainbridge Island?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Who here would?”
“No one, I imagine.”
“His superior officer?” Johnstone inquired.
“That would be me.”
“And you don’t know what he was doing over there?”
Leseman seemed to size up Johnstone, then smiled. “He was on two days of leave when he was killed. We don’t monitor where our men go on their down time. That’s their business. As long as they’re back when they’re supposed to be.”
Johnstone felt the man was lying. But instead of calling him on it, he asked, “Which would’ve been yesterday?”
“That’s right.”
Johnstone waited for something more, but Leseman was apparently finished. “Family?” he then asked.
The commander looked at the file. “None. Only his mother, and she died last year. Never married.” Leseman then added, “Where’s the body?”
“Coroner is doing an autopsy.”
“He was a naval officer. We would have liked to have the autopsy done by our own people.”
“It’s already in progress,” Johnstone replied. “And he didn’t have any identification on him that he was in the Navy. I only learned that by going to his apartment and talking to a friend of his.”
“A woman?” Leseman asked.
“Yes.” They stared at each other, as if each was trying to read the mind of the other. Finally, Johnstone asked, “Isn’t that odd? That he wouldn’t have his military identification on him? I mean don’t servicemen carry their ID at all times?”
“They do,” Leseman allowed. “Although, maybe his was lost. Or stolen.”
Johnstone just looked at the commander. “Perhaps,” he said, nodding in agreement. Then looking the commander in the eye, he asked, “His injury? That happen when he was in the Navy?”
“Injury?” Leseman asked, puzzled.
“His left hand. All his fingertips were cut off.”
Leseman studied him for a moment, then said, “It occurred after he had joined, yes. Some sort of accident, as I recall.”
“Which then took him off active duty status, I imagine.”
“No.”
“Really, why is that?”
Leseman paused, then said, “Again, that information is off limits.”
Johnstone stared at the commander for a moment. “Pretty strange, isn’t it? He’s allowed weight compensation, the reason for which you say is off limits. He’s allowed active duty status even though his hand injury is quite substantial, I would think. Why the waiver? Again, you say off limits. He gets in a brawl and you don’t know anything about it. He’s found dead, but he had no military ID on him. All very strange.”
Commander Leseman simply stared at him. “I’d say we’re done now.”
Pacific Ocean 18Miles West of Rockaway Beach, Oregon. March 31, 1942
The bilge pump was still working, but there was much more water coming in than the pump could handle. The engine, on the other hand, had quit some time ago as the water rose high enough to flood out the gearbox. Matthew stood in the wheelhouse, but ironically, he couldn’t do a thing. Without the engine, he had no power and couldn’t steer the boat. To make matters worse, the conditions had worsened, the pouring rain unabated, the gusts of wind even more powerful.
Matthew briefly wondered where he was. But with no visibility, he couldn’t fix his position if he wanted to. Not that it mattered. He couldn’t change his position anyway. He had a small compass in his jacket pocket, and when the time came, he would lower the wooden dinghy over the side and hope he wasn’t too far from land. But even that was wishful thinking. With the continuing swells and a strong current, he’d have no control over the dinghy.
For some reason, he thought of his home. What his mother must be thinking. And the good people of the island. He wondered if Mr. Porter had reported that his truck was stolen. Or perhaps it had been found. He knew that the body of the dead man had been found on the island’s north end. But what about the truck? And if the truck had been found, did anyone open up the back? And see all the blood? Would they then connect the killing to Porter’s truck, and therefore to him?
His thoughts turned to Tom. Had his body been found? Was he now suspected of killing Tom? He dismissed the thought. After all, everyone on the island knew how close they were. But something else occurred to Matthew and a chill ran through him. He was no longer simply a local fisherman. He was a Japanese-American. In some minds, that alone was enough to prove his guilt.
He turned his mind back to his immediate situation. He could make a May-Day call. Ideally, he would be rescued by fellow fishermen who would understand his desire to enlist in the Navy. They could ride out the storm, and he could be put ashore anywhere. But if he were re
scued by someone who had heard the Coast Guard bulletin, identifying his trawler, and if they remembered her name, The Niji, they would know he was a wanted man.
Complicating matters, sea rescues were almost always reported to the Coast Guard so that the coordinates of the sinking vessel could be plotted on a chart. As soon as it was revealed that a Japanese had been rescued, the manhunt would be over. He had no doubt that the Coast Guard would send out a boat immediately. No matter what the conditions.
So he didn’t pick up the radio. He knew he wouldn’t pick it up, either. No matter what. Even if it meant his own death.
Seattle, Washington. March 31, 1942
He had spent all his adult life in Seattle and was quite accustomed to the rainy weather, but without an umbrella, Johnstone was soaking wet by the time he made it back to his car, and his mood was as foul as the weather. It wasn’t until he put the key in the ignition, that he noticed the white envelope on the passenger seat. He glanced around, but the base parking lot was empty. He ripped open the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper.
“Talk to Sean Kanagawa at Ueno’s,” the note read in large block print. Again, Johnstone looked around, but there was no one watching him. He had no idea who Sean Kanagawa was or what Ueno’s might be. But he was intrigued. Both Kanagawa and Ueno were Japanese names. And only he and Officer Stanton knew that there was a connection between Carsteen’s murder and Matthew Kobata. A Japanese-American.
Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. March 31, 1942
“So, Lieutenant, you grew up on this island? Bainbridge?”
“Yes, sir,” Donald Bollgen replied crisply, standing at attention in Major Dorrell’s office. The quarters were a bit crammed, consisting of a file cabinet, the major’s desk and chair and one visitor’s chair positioned in front of the desk. The major, seated at his desk, didn’t respond for some time, appearing to be busy studying some papers.
Finally, he spoke, saying, “Bainbridge Island” in a wistful tone, as if he longed to go to the island. As he continued to shuffle through the papers, Donald got a good look at him. He pegged the major as at least fifty, a thin man with a deeply receding hairline. As if feeling the lieutenant’s eyes on him, the major finally glanced up at him. “At ease, Lieutenant.”
Donald took the official at-ease stance, clasping his hands behind his back. He wished he could simply ask the major why he was even here. Whatever the reason, he just hoped he could be on his way as quickly as possible. His unit was heading to the Pacific in nine days. He planned on being with them, not stuck at some godforsaken, desolate camp.
The major put the papers down on his desk and looked at him without saying a word for a good two minutes. Donald remained frozen. Waiting. The Army had taught him patience, if nothing else. “So, you grew up on an island where there were many Japanese.”
Donald was taken aback by the question, but replied sharply, “Yes, sir.”
“I understand you know the Kobata family,” the major said.
So this is what it was all about, Donald thought. Fine. He’d tell this man what he knew, get transportation back to Seattle, then head out with his men. “Yes, sir.”
“I said, at ease, Lieutenant. You heard that, right?”
Donald looked at the major. “Yes, sir.” He felt he should say more, so he added, “I am, sir. I am at ease.”
“I mean really at ease, as in a few minutes of simple conversation, Lieutenant. Can you do that?”
“Yes, sir,” Donald replied stiffly.
The major waved a hand toward the empty chair. “Have a seat, Lieutenant. Let’s talk.”
Uncomfortable with this man, Donald did as he was told.
“And how do you know this missing Jap? Matthew Kobata?”
Donald was taken aback by a superior officer using the term ‘Jap.’ Until Pearl Harbor, he never gave much thought to anyone’s race. He just didn’t care. Part of him wanted to say, I don’t allow my men to use that word, sir, since it is disrespectful and not helpful to anyone. Instead, he replied, “Matthew and I were in school together, sir.”
“What kind of student was he?”
Surprised by the question, Donald hesitated for just a minute, then answered, “Very good. Straight A’s.”
The major gave him a surprised look. “That right?”
“Yes, sir.”
The major turned back to his papers, shuffling them again. Not looking at Donald, he asked, “Think they trust you?”
Baffled, Donald said, “Who, sir?”
“This Jap family. The Kobatas.”
“I’m not sure,” Donald responded honestly.
“But they know you went to school with Matthew.”
“We knew each other, sir. That’s about all. He was best friends with my cousin. That’s how I know about Matthew’s grades.”
“Your cousin that Matthew Kobata shot to death?”
Donald was stunned by what he was hearing. It took him a minute, then he replied, “No one knows who shot my cousin, sir. The police are investigating it.”
The major raised an eyebrow, giving him a skeptical look. “I think we know who did it.”
Donald didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a question, so he could simply keep his mouth shut. He did think Tom’s death was somehow linked to Matthew Kobata. On the train ride to the camp, he had thought of little else. But he finally concluded that perhaps his Uncle Rex was correct – Matthew didn’t kill his cousin.
“You agree, Lieutenant?”
“Pardon me?” Donald asked, brought back to the present conversation.
“You agree that Matthew Kobata more than likely is responsible for your cousin’s murder?”
“I have a hard time understanding why he would do that, sir.” When the major didn’t immediately respond, Donald added, “It doesn’t make sense that he would do that, that’s all.”
“Perhaps for the simple reason that we are at war with the Japs,” the major retorted. “Simple as that.” Again, Donald elected to keep quiet. The major studied him for a minute, then said, “Let me tell you how I see it. Your cousin and Matthew Kobata have been friends for years. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So those two were close. But now we’re at war. Against the Japanese. Not some Russians, or some Africans. The Japanese. And just when Kobata is supposed to go to a relocation center, he takes off. And Tom Bollgen is dead. You think that’s just a coincidence?”
“I honestly don’t know, sir.”
The major frowned for a minute, then said, “Would you like to know?”
“Yes, sir. My family, my uncle, yes, we want to know who did it. And why.”
The major seemed to have a triumphant smile, nodding his head. Then he stated, “Good, because I specifically asked to have you sent here so you could assist in this matter.”
“Sir?” Donald asked, perplexed.
“I’ll ask you again. Does the Kobata family trust you, Lieutenant?” Major Dorrell abruptly asked.
Donald was surprised by the question and replied, “I said I don’t know.” He could see the major wasn’t satisfied, so he added, “They don’t really know me. I did know Matthew. But certainly not well. I never met his family until the day of the evacuation.”
“When they refused to cooperate with the U.S. President’s executive order.”
Donald sat stiffly in the chair, not trusting himself to say anything.
“But you have met them, you know Matthew, so you will take a personal interest in the well being of the Kobata family. Find out what you can and report back to me. Understood, Lieutenant?”
“Eh, sir, my unit is scheduled to deploy to the Pacific in just nine days,” Donald nervously told his superior.
“Then I suggest you get on with it,” the major rebutted. “Dismissed.”
Donald slowly came to his feet. But instead of smartly saluting the major and leaving, he simply stood there. Finally, he said, “Sir, if I may. I am needed with my unit, sir
.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
The major leaned back in his chair, intensely contemplating Donald. “I see,” he finally said. “So, what if Matthew Kobata is planning something? Something big that might make a difference in this war? And what if you can help track him down before he does it?” When Donald didn’t respond, Major Dorrell added, “Think of it this way, Lieutenant. If something is planned for the west coast, some attack, and we don’t do everything we can to find Kobata, then what good is this Army? What good is that uniform you’re wearing?”
Chapter Nine
Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. March 31, 1942
She had prided herself on her accomplished cooking skills, but she could hardly show them off with the paltry ingredients she had been given. It was just her first day on the job, but she had already realized that while camp meals were at the mercy of the cooks, such as herself, the cooks were at the mercy of the Army for supplies. And she was appalled by the food they had been given to work with. Bread, pasta, potatoes were aplenty, but vegetables, especially fresh produce, were nowhere to be found.
On just her first day at the camp, she had agreed to work as a cook after the family had gone to their assigned mess hall – one of 36 mess halls scattered across the camp – and found the paltry amount of food they received to be barely edible. When she had found herself politely remarking about this to a young soldier who looked not much older than Daniel, she was told that since there were going to be nearly 10,000 people in the camp and the Army had a limited number of cooks, she could become a cook for which she would be paid 50-cents a week. At first she had been insulted by the offer, but then she realized that life at the camp would be exceedingly boring if she didn’t somehow keep herself busy. She also knew that if she weren’t distracted by something, she’d just worry herself sick about Matthew. So she readily agreed to be a lunch and dinner cook for mess hall #14.
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