There were four Army cooks and now six Japanese-Americans, all working to prepare lunch for 300 people who would file through in just a few hours. At that moment, a private entered from the back door, carrying a large box of potatoes. The six Japanese-Americans exchanged disappointed looks. More potatoes. There was some discussion in Japanese concerning their exasperation with the food they were given. While they could abide by the rationing and understood that food rationing was taking place all across the country, the selection of the types of food they were given, in addition to the mediocre quality, was disconcerting to say the least. But no one could agree on what should be done. Kumiko asked if anyone had requested different food. They all looked at her as if she were crazy. And with that she walked out the back door.
Outside, three privates were busy unloading scores of boxes of raw potatoes from the back of a large truck. Supervising them was Corporal Fryer, who dutifully held a clipboard in his hands.
Two of the other cooks, both men, watched from the safety of the doorway as Kumiko approached the man holding the clipboard.
“Excuse, please?” she said meekly to Corporal Fryer.
Corporal Fryer looked startled. Kumiko had no way of knowing it was the first time a Japanese-American had ever spoken to him directly. “Pardon me?” he replied.
“Excuse, please,” she said again, this time with a courteous half-bow. “Excuse, many potato, yes?”
The corporal wasn’t sure why the woman was talking to him. “We’re unloading them now.”
“Excuse, please, potato, yes? Potato, not so good, yes?” As he gazed at her, she steeled herself and asked, “We prefer rice, please?”
“Rice?” he repeated, unsure.
She smiled. “White rice, yes, please.”
“I don’t know—”
“Potato, too many, yes? Rice, please. White rice, better, yes?”
“Look—”
But Kumiko just smiled again. “Yes, thank you. White rice, thank you.” Another half-bow and she turned for the mess hall. The two men had already darted back inside. A moment later she was gone too.
The corporal just stared after her. Rice? Why would anyone want rice? Of course, he had never eaten a single kernel of rice in his life. But he’d tell his sergeant what she said.
Seattle, Washington. March 31, 1942
Johnstone had no problem finding Ueno’s, a Japanese restaurant in an area of Seattle known as Little Tokyo. The rain hadn’t let up, and he was grateful that he could park right in front of the restaurant. Hurrying to get under the entrance awning, he was dripping wet when he pulled on the glass front door. To his surprise, it was locked. He then noticed a closed sign dangling on the other side of the glass.
Cupping his hands against the glass, he could see that all the interior lights were on, and he could see more activity toward the back of the restaurant. He knocked on the glass, but he knew it was almost pointless. If there were people in back, they were too far away to hear over the howling rain. He knocked again, louder. Nothing.
Glancing around, Johnstone now noticed a squad car parked across the street. That surprised him as much as the locked door. Once again, he pounded on the glass door. This time, a young woman in the back heard him. She slowly headed his way, but when she got to the door, she just shook her head and pointed to the closed sign. Undeterred, Johnstone quickly showed her his badge. She looked over her shoulder, said something to someone in the back, then unlocked the door.
Before Johnstone could even introduce himself, the woman pointed to the far end of the restaurant and said, “Yes, please.”
Johnstone was taken aback and noticed that she had been crying. “Excuse me?” he said, puzzled.
The woman turned. “Kitchen,” she said, as if this explained everything.
He nodded and followed her toward the kitchen as a clap of thunder smacked overhead. At first he thought the kitchen was deserted. There were various foods clearly abandoned in mid-preparation. Then he saw a uniformed policeman with an older Japanese woman and a much younger Japanese man. They were all standing in front of a walk-in freezer. As Johnstone approached, he saw why the food had been discarded. A Japanese man was slumped against one wall of the freezer, a bullet hole in his forehead that left just a small red dot in its wake.
“Great,” Johnstone said.
The others turned in surprise. “This is a crime scene,” the uniformed officer said.
Once again Johnstone showed his badge. “Detective Johnstone.”
“Sorry, sir,” replied the officer.
“Your name?”
“Jim Calloway. Third Precinct. I was on my beat when the call came in,” he explained.
“Who’s the dead man?”
The officer referred to a small notepad in his hand, reading, “Sean Kanagawa.”
“Aw, shit,” Johnstone exclaimed, turning his back on them. “Dammit!”
Officer Calloway and the three Japanese exchanged looks as Johnstone paced a few feet away from them, clearly upset. Finally, Johnstone turned back to them, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. He removed a small notepad and pen from his jacket breast pocket.
“When was he found?” the detective asked.
“Just about an hour ago. His brother, George, went into the freezer, found him,” Calloway said. Then he added, “I just got here myself. I’m surprised you made it so fast.”
Johnstone ignored the last comment and said, “When was he last seen alive?”
The Japanese quickly conferred with each other in their native tongue.
“English, please,” Johnstone curtly told them. Having a promising tip in the Carsteen murder case turn up dead had left him in a sour mood.
The three quieted and no one said a word. Finally, the young man said, “Last night, he didn’t come home.”
“And you are?”
“George. George Kanagawa. He’s my brother.”
“You say he didn’t come home last night. You two live together?”
The man hesitated, then finally nodded his head.
“You have any idea who did this?”
George shook his head. Johnstone thought the man was holding back. Of course, he might just be frightened. The body of his murdered brother lay just a few feet away.
A conversation in Japanese erupted and Johnstone hotly said, “English, please. English.”
Again, silence. He turned to the younger of the two women. She looked like she was in her early twenties. He said, “English? You speak English?”
The woman gave a quarter bow of respect, “Yes.”
“Your name, please?”
“Tsuneko Kanagawa.”
“Kanagawa? You’re related how?”
“Please,” George Kanagawa interrupted. “This is not necessary.”
Johnstone shot him a nasty look. “It is if you want me to find your brother’s murderer.” He waited just a moment, then added, “Unless you know who did this.”
George was clearly surprised. “No, I don’t know.”
Johnstone couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortable the man suddenly looked. He turned his attention back to the younger woman. “You are related to Sean Kanagawa how, please?”
“My brother,” she dutifully replied.
“Thank you,” Johnstone said. “When was the last time he was seen by anyone?”
Again a conversation in Japanese. This time he let it go.
“He didn’t come home last night,” the younger woman offered.
George Kanagawa upbraided her in their native tongue. Johnstone interrupted, saying to George, “You disagree? He came home?”
Clearly frustrated, George replied softly, “No, no he didn’t come home.”
More Japanese, this time initiated by the older woman. Then the younger woman said, “He sometimes went out at night.”
“Doing what?” Johnstone asked.
Tsuneko glanced at her brother, then said, “He plays cards.”
“All night?”
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George spoke harshly to his sister. Then said to Johnstone, “It is nothing.”
“It is if it has something to do with his murder.”
“I’m sure it did not. He played cards, yes. Soon we have to leave. In another week. He likes to play cards, we don’t know about the camps, so he went. It isn’t important.”
“He play for money? Gamble?” Johnstone asked.
“It’s not important!” George Kanagawa retorted, obviously agitated now.
A smattering of Japanese. All three talking at once. Johnstone decided to take a different tack. He turned to the older woman, asking, “Your name please?”
“She is our aunt. She doesn’t speak English, sorry,” Tsuneko explained.
“Her name?”
“Akiko Genji,” Tsuneko said, then spelling it for the detective. This got her a bitter scolding by her brother, but everyone ignored the outburst. “She say he plays cards too much. She no like. Thinks it is wrong.”
“I see,” Johnstone said. “Are we talking about gambling? Was he gambling?”
“No,” George hotly retorted. “No.”
Another eruption of Japanese. Finally, Tsuneko said, “My aunt says, yes, sometimes he play for money. He told her because he needed to pay off a debt. She sometimes give him money.”
“Who held the debt? You know?”
“Of course not,” George scoffed. “Friends, no doubt. He didn’t gamble like you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking?” Johnstone asked, challenging him.
George sighed. “Can we please have someone come for my brother? Please? We need to have this, um, my brother, taken care of before we have to leave.”
“It will be,” Johnstone assured him. He looked at Tsuneko since only the women seemed to be honest with him. “Do you know where your brother played cards?”
Tsuneko asked her aunt while George seemed to seethe, silently watching them. Then Tsuneko asked her brother. George said to Johnstone, “We don’t know, I’m sorry. We don’t know where he was last night, why he didn’t come home, we don’t know anything.”
Johnstone nodded. “Who came in here first today?”
“I did,” George answered.
“How’d you enter?”
“The back door.”
“It was locked?”
George nodded. Then he added, “The front door was too. I had to unlock it for my aunt.
“And there are no other entrances?”
George shook his head. Johnstone thought this over. So either the killer had a key or perhaps used Sean Kanagawa’s to lock the door behind him when he left. Then Johnstone asked, “You know a man named Cody Carsteen?”
“No,” George immediately replied.
Johnstone looked to Tsuneko. “You? Ever hear of Cody Carsteen?”
She shook her head, now holding a handkerchief to her face. “Why? Who’s he?” she asked softly.
“Just a man that liked to play poker. For money.”
“Liked to play? He dead?” George asked.
“Oh, yes. Very dead, I’m afraid.”
George visibly recoiled. Johnstone didn’t miss it. The man was lying. He knew Carsteen. No doubt. Johnstone sidestepped the group, saying, “Excuse me, please.”
Johnstone went into the walk-in freezer. He estimated the size as five-by-five. Not huge, but large enough to store frozen food for a restaurant this size. Sean Kanagawa sat against the wall, his legs extended in front of him as if he had simply decided to sit on the floor. His left hand sat limply in his lap, his right dangled to his side.
Johnstone squatted down and studied the dead man. His eyes were wide open, but not a look of shock like Carsteen had had. The bullet had entered just about an inch above the eyebrow line, dead center between the eyes. Johnstone surmised the shooter was standing very close when he fired.
Nothing else looked remarkable. Sean had been wearing black dress shoes, nice black pants, and a striped blue and black dress shirt. No jacket, so maybe he had planned to meet the killer at the restaurant.
“I’d like the ring,” Tsuneko said, her voice almost a whisper as she looked down at Johnstone. “It belonged to our father.”
Johnstone noted the ring on Sean’s left hand, and picked up the hand to take it off. It was then that he noticed that Sean Kanagawa’s pinky fingertip was missing. Stunned, he turned the hand, carefully inspecting the pinky finger. “How’d this happen?” he asked, looking up at Tsuneko. “When?”
Fighting back the tears, she said, “January. He cut it. He was chopping off fish heads.”
“And you saw it? You were a witness?”
“No,” Tsuneko replied, taken aback. “I was at market that morning.”
“Who was here? Who saw the accident happen?” Johnstone asked anxiously. He looked at George. “You?”
George shrugged. “No one. We weren’t open yet.”
“What happened? When he cut it off? He go to a hospital?”
George didn’t respond, but his sister did, saying, “He went to Dr. Nakashima.”
“A doctor right here?”
“Two blocks over,” Tsuneko said. “It was just an accident.”
Suddenly the older woman spoke up, in rapid Japanese. Not comprehending, Johnstone looked to Tsuneko.
Tsuneko hesitated, then said, “My aunt, she say Sean good chef. Sushi chef. We no understand how he make mistake.”
“Cutting his finger, you mean?”
She nodded. “He so good with knife. How he have such accident? Strange.”
Yes, it is, thought Johnstone. Very strange, indeed.
Pacific Ocean 16 Miles West of Rockaway Beach Oregon. March 31, 1942
The wind and rain were unrelenting as the trawler continued to take on water at a rapid pace. The stern had begun to submerge below the surface during the last hour, and now it was all but gone. Matthew was at the helm holding onto the large steering wheel not to navigate the boat, but simply to keep his footing on the sloped deck. The day had turned dark, almost like night, and all he could see was rising ocean swells in every direction. He tried to estimate how far from land he was, but he knew it was just a guess. What he also knew was that it was time to abandon ship
He left the wheelhouse and went below deck to gather what he could. The angle of the deck seemed even more pitched below deck, than above, but he knew that was probably his imagination. The main cabin had at least 15 inches of water now as he sloshed his way up the incline to the galley. He was able to retrieve a gallon of drinking water. There was only a quarter pound of cured meat available, but he pocketed it, then went topside.
Fighting the blustering wind, he managed to get to the bow where the small dinghy lay on its side, lashed to the starboard side rails. He put down the gallon jug and went about unfastening the dinghy. But as the wind, rain, and seawater slapped over the deck, Matthew found it extremely difficult to untie the lines. He soon gave up and just took out a small knife from his rain slicker pocket and cut the lines free.
He realized that he had never lowered the dinghy before. There had never been a reason to. A gust of wind forced him back a few steps, but he quickly came back. He placed the water jug securely under the wood plank that served as a seat and tied it in place with a cut mooring line. He checked that the old rowing paddles were securely fastened to the side clamps and looped two more mooring lines through the dinghy’s bow and stern cleats so he could lower it over the side.
Taking a last look around, he saw that the two five-gallon diesel drums the fisherman had helped him lash to the starboard rear rail couldn’t even be seen now. He thought about his father and how sad he would be to see his beloved trawler foundering.
Using all his strength, he grabbed the inside rails of the dinghy and lifted it overhead. The old wooden boat was heavy. He staggered under its weight and made it to the rail. Suddenly a blustering gust of wind pulled it from his grasp as if it were no more than a matchstick. He could only watch as the dinghy cartwheeled across the wate
r, end over end, until a rogue wave slapped it down.
Once again, he looked toward the wheelhouse and stern. The trawler would be at the bottom in a matter of minutes. There was no point in staying on board. He tried to spot the dinghy through the driving rain, but the soaring swells obscured his view. He knew he had no choice. He scrambled over the starboard rail and dove into the freezing water.
Chapter Ten
Seattle, Washington. April 1, 1942
Chet Mortenson was a man ahead of his time. Like the chief medical examiners that would come after him, he knew that the dead could still tell you something about how their deaths occurred. It was simply a matter of analyzing the evidence. He and Johnstone now stood on either side of a metal table where Tom Bollgen’s body lay naked, face up. Mortenson held up Tom’s hands, showing them to Johnstone. “Skin is broken on both wrists, both in the same area,” Mortenson said.
“What does it mean?” the detective asked.
“He was bound. Hands tied together.” Mortenson moved down to the end of the table. He raised Tom’s right leg. “Hard to see, but there are signs that he was similarly bound just above the ankles. His socks and pants make it hard to say for sure, but that’s my guess.”
“So he was tied up?”
“He didn’t take it without a fight,” Mortenson explained, moving back to the middle of the table. Holding up the right hand, he said, “He fought someone. Scraped knuckles, bruising.”
He put the hand down and pointed to Tom’s nose with a pencil. “Nasal bones were broken in three different places.”
“Geez,” Johnstone said.
“Yeah, someone probably pretty powerful. Or, it is possible he got into a car accident. I’ve seen this type of injury from a car accident. Hitting the steering wheel with blunt force,” Dr. Mortenson explained.
“But the hand wounds mean he was fighting back, which rules out an accident,” Johnstone said. “Plus, you think he was tied up.”
“Right,” the doctor replied, his face close to Tom’s, inspecting the damage. “This nose would have needed extensive surgery, if possible. Many people would just put ice on it, but in this case the cartilage even broke.”
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