Chapter Eleven
Seattle, Washington. April 2, 1942
Typical of the area, the living quarters were directly above the restaurant, which was now boarded up. No surprise there. The owners were being relocated in two days. Johnstone stepped back into the empty street and thought he saw someone pass by the large window in the apartment above. But how to get up there? There were no outdoor stairs.
Walking through the back alley, he noticed that it was unbelievably clean. He guessed that the Japanese took pride in their living area, including narrow alleys that usually became dumping grounds for rubbish. Here he found the backdoor to the restaurant and a metal staircase leading to the upstairs apartment.
The door was opened before he could even knock. Tsuneko Kanagawa stood facing him. Johnstone nodded, saying, “Good morning.”
“Yes, good morning,” Tsuneko said with a half-bow. “Please.” She opened the door fully and motioned for the detective to enter.
Johnstone entered the small apartment and saw the same older woman he had seen at the restaurant three days ago. Their aunt, Akiko Genji. She was busy packing a large suitcase that lay in the middle of the floor and immediately stood when she saw him. “Morning,” the detective said, taking off his fedora.
The woman smiled and gave him a polite half-bow.
George came up behind Johnstone and asked, “You find the person who killed my brother?”
Johnstone turned, surprised. He realized George must have been in the kitchen. He just hadn’t seen him. “No, not yet.” He removed a folded paper from his inside breast pocket. He carefully unfolded it and handed it to George. “Do you recognize this?”
He barely glanced at the paper, saying, “No.”
Johnstone then gave it to George’s sister, Tsuneko. The young woman studied it, then showed it to her aunt. The two women conferred in rapid-fire Japanese.
George nodded to the paper, saying, “What is it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” the detective answered.
“As I said, I don’t know.” He nodded to the women and added, “They don’t know either.”
“I was told it is two overlapping symbols or words in Japanese,” Johnstone explained. What he didn’t explain was that Mortenson’s wife had come up with that theory. Tsuneko quickly translated this for her aunt.
George Kanagawa shook his head. “You were misinformed, Detective.”
Johnstone removed a small photo of Cody Carsteen that the Navy had reluctantly given him. Carsteen was wearing his service dress uniform, unsmiling at the camera. He handed it to Kanagawa. “Know him?”
Again George shook his head. He handed it to the women, and they closely inspected it with more Japanese zinging back and forth. Finally, Tsuneko said, “My aunt say he come sometimes. Eat much food.” After further Japanese words, she continued, “He not in Navy.”
“Why do you say that?” Johnstone asked.
Additional talking in their native tongue. Then Tsuneko explained, “He never in uniform.”
Johnstone figured Carsteen came to the restaurant on his off days. He asked, “Do you get any Navy people in here?”
“No, no.” the woman replied without consulting her aunt. “Our food very, very agreeable. But most others…” she seemed at a loss for words.
“White people. Like me,” Johnstone prompted with a knowing grin.
She smiled. “Yes. Most don’t try. A few yes, but not too many.”
“Did you see him too?”
Tsuneko shook her head. “I cook, yes? Don’t always see customers.” She nodded toward her aunt. “She seat people when come in and bring them food. She see our customers. Me, not too much.”
Johnstone looked at the older lady and asked, “Did he come in with other sailors? Other men in uniform?”
There was some discussion in Japanese. “No,” Tsuneko said. “Always by himself.”
There was another smattering of Japanese, this time George joining the fray. Finally, Johnstone instructed, “English, please.”
Tsuneko gave a slight bow of her head, maybe an apology, then said, “My aunt, she say Sean know this man. Talk to him. She says more than once.”
Johnstone nodded. So they knew each other. Hardly surprising that they knew each other considering they had matching tattoos. “Do you know what they talked about?”
More Japanese. Then, Tsuneko replied, “It is not polite to listen to a conversation not directed at you.” Another few words flying back and forth. “She say she doesn’t think Sean like him. He angry when man come in.”
“Detective, I doubt very much my brother knew some Navy man. She’s probably confused,” George stated.
“I beg to differ,” Johnstone said calmly. He showed them the drawing of the tattoo again. “The white man, he had this tattoo. On his left ankle.” Everyone just stared at him, so he added, “So did Sean.”
“No,” George insisted, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. This agitation was not lost on Johnstone.
The women quickly conferred and then Tsuneko said, “Sean wouldn’t have tattoo.”
“He did,” Johnstone replied. “As did this Navy sailor. His name was Cody Carsteen. He was found on Bainbridge Island. He had been murdered too.” He let that sink in then said, “Both men had the tattoo on their left ankles.”
“I’d know if my brother had a tattoo.” George Kanagawa immediately told him.
“Maybe not,” Johnstone said gently. “His socks would easily hide it.”
“He was my brother.”
“We don’t always know everything about those we love,” Johnstone said. Then he added, “There was something else Sean and Petty Officer Carsteen had in common. They both had their fingertips cut. On their left hands.”
Tsuneko, the woman who understood English, just stared at him, completely astonished. Johnstone motioned to the other woman, so she quickly translated. Now both women looked surprised. But it was George Kanagawa who spoke, saying, “You noticed it the other day. You asked about it.”
“Yes, I’d seen it on Carsteen’s body. But he had the fingertips on all his left fingers cut off. Your brother just had the little finger. The pinky finger.”
“We already told you. He cut it. Here. Preparing that day’s food,” George explained, a bit too defiantly.
“But no one was here at the time, right?”
George and the women exchanged looks. Finally, he blurted out, “I threw it away.”
“What?” Johnstone asked, puzzled.
“The finger. I came back from market, and he was sitting on the floor, in a lot of pain. There was blood everywhere. I took him to the doctor.” He appeared genuinely upset as he recalled that day. “When I came back I found– well, I found it on the floor. I threw it out.”
“And your brother said he cut it?” Johnstone asked.
“Cutting fish heads, I told you.” Kanagawa thought for a moment, then said, “His knife was bloody. Blood on two fresh fish. I had to throw them out too.”
More discussion between the three of them in Japanese. This time, Johnstone simply waited. Finally, Tsuneko asked, “May I see drawing, please?”
Johnstone handed it over, and the older woman took it to a table and laid it out flat. She then went to a small bookcase Johnstone hadn’t noticed and removed a tiny, thin book. She flipped through the pages, then brought it to the table and laid it down next to the drawing. She said something to the others, and Tsuneko motioned with her hand to Johnstone, “Please.” Johnstone went over to the table and Tsuneko and George joined him.
The book showed a symbol that looked like the right staff sign found on sheet music. Except it was lying at a 45-degree angle. Looking at the design Mrs. Mortenson had copied, he could see that the symbol was clearly a part of the design. The other part looked like a W on its side. The two women suddenly started communicating again in Japanese. This time though, George jumped in. The bantering, or what seemed like bantering to Johnstone, went on for
some time.
“English, please,” Johnstone said in a loud voice. Pointing at the drawing in the book, he asked, “What is this?”
More Japanese. This time Tsuneko translated. “She says it is an emblem.”
“Of what?” Johnstone asked impatiently.
While George and his aunt talked over one another, very much animated, Tsuneko said, “It is like a badge. Like you have a badge that says you are with Seattle police.”
Johnstone didn’t get it. “A badge of what?”
There was more sharp Japanese between the three. Then George declared, “My brother not a part of this.”
“A part of what?” Johnstone said abruptly.
Tsuneko said, “My aunt say it is emblem of people that believe in the Imperial Japan.”
“My brother was Nisei,” George argued vehemently. He noticed Johnstone’s baffled look and explained, “Born here. In America. We – my sister, me, Sean, we are all Nisei.”
“Okay,” Johnstone replied, thinking about it.
George continued, insisting, “Sean didn’t think about Japan. None of us did.”
Johnstone studied the drawing again. He pointed to the W lying on its side, and asked, “What about this?”
More conferring. Then, Tsuneko spoke again, saying, “She not know. Say maybe it symbol for America.”
“So if you have this tattoo, you’re an American in favor of Imperialist Japan?” Johnstone asked.
Tsuneko translated Johnstone’s question, and he saw the older woman nod enthusiastically. Tsuneko explained, “She think so, but just a guess. Second symbol she don’t know.”
Johnstone nodded. If she was right, that meant Carsteen, a U.S. Navy sailor, was an advocate of Imperialist Japan. How the hell did that make sense?
Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 2, 1942
Daniel had been watching for a while. He saw the interaction between the two boys, the smaller one being told to find a mitt. He was on the team. It was Daniel’s turn, and he tentatively approached the boy, who looked to be a year or two older. The boy wore a baseball cap and was thumping a baseball into his mitt, over and over again. Shy by nature, Daniel mustered his courage and said to the boy, “You need a first baseman?”
The boy looked at him and seemed to do a double take. Finally, he replied, “I don’t know.”
Daniel thought this was a strange answer. He had heard some other boys talking. The Red Bandits, as this team was called, needed a first baseman. And the boy in front of him was the team captain. Why wouldn’t the captain know if he needed a first baseman? Daniel glanced over his shoulder at his sister, Julia. She had insisted on coming with him and was now squatting in the dirt, happily playing with her marbles. Daniel then turned back to the boy and said, “That’s what I played at home.”
The boy squinted at him for a time, then asked, “Can you hit?”
“Yes.”
The team captain didn’t look at him. He was concentrating on throwing the ball into his mitt.
“I also played right field,” Daniel told him. “But last year I played first base.”
“You ever hit a home run?”
Intimidated, Daniel shook his head. “No.” Then he stood a little straighter, saying, “I hit a double. Twice last year.”
“But no home runs?”
“No.” Daniel simply stood there, waiting. The boy kept tossing the ball into his mitt, ignoring him. Then Daniel nodded to the other boy, a few yards away, picking from the stack of old baseball mitts. “You didn’t ask him if he hit home runs.”
The boy seemed surprised that Daniel knew this. But he just glared at Daniel, and said, “He doesn’t have an Imperialist brother.”
The words hit Daniel as if he had been physically punched. Finally, he said evenly, “Neither do I.”
“Word is he’s a traitor, and it’s men like him that have forced our country to do this.” He spread his arms, saying, “Put us all here.”
“He’s not a traitor,” Daniel said with more courage than he felt.
“Is that so? Then you tell the Army where he is, and he’ll be brought here and he can explain. How’s that?”
Daniel couldn’t help but check on Julia again. He felt the responsibility of shielding her from hearing such talk. Fortunately, she hadn’t moved. She was too far away to hear what they were saying.
“Can’t do that, can you?” the older boy taunted him. “Your brother ran off. To help the Imperialists.”
“He did not,” Daniel retorted.
“I don’t need a first baseman, anyway,” the boy declared.
Daniel simply stood there. Unable to speak. Unable to move. He glanced at Julia again. Another girl had now joined her.
“Hey, you on a team?” a voice said.
Daniel turned. It was an adult. A man about Matthew’s age. Holding a clipboard and standing near the heap of baseball mitts. Daniel just stared at the man.
“I asked if you’re on a team?” When Daniel still didn’t respond, the man looked at the Red Bandits captain standing next to him. “He on your team?”
“No.”
The man looked at Daniel. “I’m coaching a team of 12 to 16 year olds. You play?”
Finally, Daniel nodded. “First base.”
“Really? That’s great. Got a mitt?”
Daniel glanced at the boy near him, waiting for him to squeal about Matthew. But the boy didn’t say a word, so Daniel took a step toward the man, saying, “No.”
“Well, come have a look.” Daniel gave a quick peek at the boy, then hurried over to the man. “You can’t keep it, they all get returned, for other teams. But find yourself a mitt, then we’ll get started on practice, okay?”
Daniel barely nodded his head.
“What’s your name?” the young man asked.
“Daniel.”
“I’m Henry. Old how are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Perfect. Find a glove. We’ll do some drills.”
Daniel picked up a mitt, slipping it on his left hand.
***
Along with the Army cooks, there were six Japanese, two women, four men, in the mess hall kitchen busy preparing lunch for the hundreds of people who would start arriving less than two hours from now. Each worked with quiet efficiency, not a wasted motion, moving around each other with such precision that you would think they had worked together for years. Instead, it was a matter of days, or at the very most, a couple weeks. All of which made Donald think that the Army could probably learn from these people. Of course, now there was such hatred toward the Japanese, the Army wouldn’t bother to learn a thing. A shame, really. Engrossed in watching the seemingly synchronized kitchen staff, Donald was oblivious to anything else until he heard, “Sir. Corporal Fryer, sir. May I be of assistance?”
Donald turned to see a short, young Army corporal standing at attention. He returned the corporal’s salute, then nodded toward the kitchen. “Looks like you got things running pretty smoothly, Corporal.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was looking for Mrs. Kobata. She works here.”
“Yes, sir. This way, sir.”
The corporal led Donald past the orchestrated kitchen frenzy to an open back door. Stepping outside, he saw her squatting over a large tub of potatoes. She dunked a single potato in a bucket of water, then swiftly peeled the potato, the shavings falling into the dirt between her feet. The newly peeled potato was then put in another bucket, this one nearly full. As if she had rung a bell to summon someone, an older Japanese man came outside with an empty bucket. He exchanged his bucket for the one full of peeled potatoes. Then he was gone again.
“She wants rice,” Corporal Fryer told him in a quiet voice.
“Rice?”
The corporal shrugged. “Says it would be better. That’s what she said. White rice would be better.”
“You put in the requisition?”
“Sir?” Corporal Fryer asked, a puzzled look on his face.
“Did you put in an order for white rice?” Donald asked.
“Well, no sir,” the corporal replied, clearly surprised.
“Why not?”
“Sir,” the corporal began, then didn’t add anything more.
“Did you mention the request of rice to anyone?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
The corporal was clearly at a loss for words. Then he said defensively, “We can’t do special requests like that.”
“Why not?”
Flummoxed, Corporal Fryer said, “We have thousands of people to feed. The Army is under contract with farmers, but, well, I’m not even sure we could get it if we wanted to. Rice, I mean.”
“Well, then, I suggest you look into it.”
Corporal Fryer stood there, looking quite bewildered.
“Now, Corporal. They want rice, let’s get them rice. As soon as possible. Understand?”
“Sir, yes, sir.” He saluted again and quickly left.
Donald walked over to Mrs. Kobata, and she immediately noticed his tall frame casting a shadow over the tub of potatoes. She looked up, saw Donald, and quickly rose to her feet, a half-peeled potato in one hand, the peeler in the other hand. “Mrs. Kobata.” He nodded to the tub. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Matthew?” she asked, her voice hopeful.
Donald shook his head. “Nothing new, I’m sorry.”
Her face immediately became crestfallen as she squatted down again and resumed peeling the potato. He squatted down next to her and said, “Did you think of any way we can find him? Any new friends he might have? Anything at all?”
But Kumiko did not answer. Instead, she peeled the potato even faster than before and put it in the now half-filled bucket. She grabbed another potato, dunked it in the water, then began peeling it.
“Please, Mrs. Kobata. If we can find him, sort all this out, then…” He didn’t finish his sentence.
“Tom die, maybe Matthew die too,” she finally announced, holding her emotions in check.
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