Another blow. This time across his nose with an audible thwack. He felt the blood pour out, pain like he had never felt before. Then he heard the chants. “Uragirimono.” Over and over again. “Uragirimono. Uragirimono. Uragirimono.”
Someone else piled on. More vicious hits. “Uragirimono..! Uragirimon...!”
Traitor, Daniel thought. They were calling him a traitor. He briefly wondered why. But he knew why. He tried to speak, but then a brutal hit across his mouth. He tasted his own blood. From his nose? Or his mouth? That was his last thought before he lost consciousness.
Chapter Fourteen
Bainbridge Island, Washington, April 4, 1942
Professor Paulson was not allowed inside, and that was just fine with him. He sat on the front steps enjoying his cigarette and gazing out at the early morning light on the water. He had never been to the island before and he thought it was quite beautiful. He would have to bring his wife over. She loved the ocean. He briefly wondered what a house like this would cost. Right on the water. Its own private dock. Of course, he didn’t have a boat. But the setting was quite tranquil. For a moment, you could even forget there was a war going on. That is, if you could ignore the U.S. Army Jeep parked nearby. Or the four pairs of Army boots clustered near the door. But at least the soldiers had shown respect and taken off their boots before going inside the house.
“Professor?” a voice said from behind him.
Paulson turned to see Lieutenant Donald Bollgen holding a small book in his hand. “Found something.” He handed it over.
Professor Paulson took the small book, noticing the frayed cloth cover. He opened it. All the writing was in Japanese. He read the first page. Then the next. And the next. It didn’t take him long to flip through the pages skimming its contents since the book was quite small. He took a drag on his cigarette, turned back to the first page, and read it again.
“Sir?”
“Well, starting on this page, the first page here, it says ‘2 cans clams, minced, quarter cup butter, half cup vegetable oil, one teaspoon garlic—”
“What? A recipe?” Donald asked with surprise.
Professor Paulson went to the next page. “Here you have an assorted fish stew.” He glanced up at the young man. “Calls for tuna, some fresh tomatoes, basil—”
“Okay, got it.” He held out his hand and the professor gave him the recipe book, smiling to himself as the lieutenant headed back into the house. The door closed again.
Donald went back to the kitchen, slipping the book inside the open drawer where one of the three privates assigned to him found it. He closed the drawer and looked around. The house was extremely neat, the furniture clearly old, but not well worn. No holes or tears in the fabric. The wood floor was immaculately clean. He was glad he had made his men take off their boots before entering. Walking through the small living room area, he noticed quite a few lace doilies on the top of the coffee table, a nearby corner table and covering the top of a heavy, comfortable-looking chair.
“Sir?” a private said, standing on the stairs. He nodded upstairs. “More stuff up here.”
Donald followed the man up the stairs, his weight making one step squeak loudly. He had already looked through the bedrooms when they first arrived, seeing nothing at first glance. But he felt oddly uncomfortable in the Kobata family’s personal bedrooms and had quickly gone back downstairs.
He followed the private into a small bedroom with two twin beds. Both beds neatly made with identical bedspreads. The private went over to a small desk. All the drawers had been pulled out of the desk and laid out on the floor. A spiral notebook lay on the floor and the private picked it up, flipped a few pages and handed it to Donald.
A drawing, done in pencil. It looked like two tires joined by an axle. Written across the axle was ‘4’8”.’ Four feet, eight inches across? So not the front wheels of a car.
“Next page, sir.”
Donald turned to the following page. Another drawing. Some sort of tube. The dimensions read “7’ long, diameter 5 inches.”
“Keep going, sir,” the private instructed.
On the next page was a drawing similar to the first, with the two wheels, a crossbar or axle joining them, then three spokes that went at a 45-degree angle from the axle, if that was what it was, and each wheel. There were dimensions here too. Each spoke clearly marked as a little more than three feet. So, a yard.
Donald flipped to the next page. Nothing. Then the next page.
“That’s it, sir.”
Donald went back to the thin cardboard front cover. Looking for a name. Nothing. He remembered from his school days that most students wrote their name and homeroom class number on the inside cover in case the notebook was lost. He checked the front cover and back cover. Fanned all the pages. Some scribble writing on one page. He went back to that page. It simply said, “Tom 4 p.m. CN.” Crow’s Nest. So the notebook belonged to Matthew. And he was noting a meeting with Tom at the restaurant at 4 p.m. But no date was given. He fanned the remaining pages. Nothing. Just the three drawings and a note to go to the Crow’s Nest. Donald looked to the private. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the private admitted. “First I thought a car.” While Donald still held the notebook, the young private flipped to the first picture. The two tires and axle. “But then a car isn’t that narrow, right, sir?”
“No,” Donald agreed.
“So then I thought, oh, a tractor.” He saw the lieutenant frown and added, “I grew up in Nebraska, sir. We have three tractors. One is about this size. Width wise, if you get my meaning.”
“Okay,” Donald scrambled to remember what he knew of the Kobatas. Matthew took over his father’s fishing business. The grandfather, a blind man, managed to grow strawberries on the plot of land behind the house. Would he need a tractor to do that? He had no idea.
“But then, look at these struts,” the private continued, flipping to the last page showing the spokes.
“Tractors don’t have those?” Donald asked.
“Well, they can. Ours at home, no, they don’t.”
“But you’ve seen a tractor with struts, like this picture?”
“Yeah, but usually the tractors are a bit bigger.”
“But it’s possible it’s a tractor drawing?”
“Yes, sir, but…” The private frowned, looking at the drawing.
“But, what?” Donald asked when the private didn’t say anything more. “I asked for your opinion, Private.”
“It could be a bomb cart, sir.”
Donald frowned again. “Bomb cart?”
“You know our B-17s?” When Donald nodded, he continued, saying, “Now, I have a cousin that works there. Boeing. He told me the bombs, they are super heavy. I mean really heavy. I asked how many men it takes to load the airplane, you know? He said they have a cart that takes them out to the airplane.” The private reached for the notebook, “Sir?”
Donald gave him the notebook. The private went back to the middle drawing. “I guess the cart has wheels, like this, and the bomb rests here and a couple guys push the cart to the airplane, then load it with bombs.”
Donald nodded. That made sense. What didn’t make sense was why Matthew Kobata had drawings of a bomb cart.
Seattle, Washington. April 4, 1942
He didn’t like the chief sitting in on what he considered his meeting, but he could hardly say so. It was the chief’s prerogative to oversee any ongoing investigation. Johnstone looked at the Coast Guard captain, a man named Kimball, and said, “You’re sure, then?”
“Covered the entire Olympia peninsula. The boat is not in the water anywhere near here. I guarantee you that,” Captain Kimball said.
“You still have a bulletin out?” the chief asked.
“No. There is no point.”
“Why not?” the chief asked curtly.
“Our bulletin covers the peninsula. As I said, the boat isn’t here.” The captain was resolute.
“But
he could be in Canada by now,” the chief argued.
“That’s correct. Which would be out of our jurisdiction,” Kimball replied.
“Can we get a bulletin up and down the coast? In case he made it south?” Johnstone asked.
“You’ll have to go above me for that, but yes. It’s possible.”
“You don’t sound very hopeful,” Johnstone pointed out.
“We had vessels covering a 100-mile radius from the peninsula. Not because of the missing fisherman, but it just so happened when he disappeared we had a training exercise going on. It was a practice run as the second line of defense against incoming Japanese boats.”
“What’s the first line?” Johnstone asked.
“The Navy.” Johnstone nodded and Kimball continued. “We had tracked a storm coming in. We think maybe the Japanese will plan to attack under adverse conditions. It was perfect for our exercise.”
“But the storm reduced your visibility, right?” Johnstone theorized.
“True. But as I mentioned, we had more vessels out there than we ever normally do. For him to get through, well, I won’t say it’s not possible. But I’d say it’s not too likely.”
“Could he have made it close to here? To the Seattle area and then sunk his boat? Knowing you were looking for it?”
“You think he came ashore here?” the captain asked.
“Just a theory.” Which could explain Sean Kanagawa’s murder.
“I kind of doubt that happened, if you want my opinion.”
“Why not?” Johnstone asked.
“It takes a while to sink a trawler that size. The bay is crowded. Someone would’ve seen it go down. It would’ve been reported.” The captain looked at both of them and added, “Just my opinion.”
“I appreciate it,” Johnstone told him. He and the chief exchanged looks. The chief sat silently, so Johnstone stood, saying, “Well, thank you for coming in.”
“My guess, for what’s it worth, is that he foundered,” Kimball said, rising.
“Really?” Johnstone said, surprised.
“Weather service isn’t always accurate. It was a vicious storm out there. We rescued two boats. One was salvaged. The other sank. It was one of the worst I’ve been in.”
“So you think he may have sunk?” Johnstone asked.
“Pretty good chance. Some of those boats the Japanese use are pretty old.” He shrugged. “Best they can afford. But some are pretty ugly. He could’ve very well foundered.”
“Interesting.” Johnstone said. He shook the captain’s hand. “Thank you for your time.”
“Hope you find him. Pretty scary to think how vulnerable we are, tell you the truth.”
“That’s what your exercise showed you?” Johnstone asked, curious.
“Well, that’s confidential, sir. But we got a whole lot of coastline to protect. California, Oregon, here. Big job.”
“I guess it is,” Johnstone said.
Once the Coast Guard captain had left, his chief said, “Write up the report. We know who the killer is. We just don’t know where the hell he is.”
Johnstone still didn’t want to blame all three murders on Matthew Kobata. But he didn’t tell the police chief that. He would write a report, including the fact that a note was left in his car when he was at Seattle’s Naval Air Station that instructed him to see Sean Kanagawa. A man who had just been killed. He didn’t think the anonymous note writer knew that. He thought it was a genuine tip connecting Cody Carsteen to Kanagawa. Their matching tattoos were just another connection. He would also point out that an eyewitness verified that Porter’s truck was not at the Kobata house when Matthew left on his boat.
However, since he hated to write reports, Johnstone sat at his desk, stalling for a bit by looking through his unopened mail. There wasn’t much of interest. As he reached the bottom of the stack, there was a thick padded envelope. He impatiently ripped off the top and reached inside the envelope. But there were no papers inside. Just a couple of small objects. He grabbed one. As he extracted his hand, he was horrified to find that it was a human fingertip. His stomach churned as he quickly dropped it on the desk. He instinctively pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, his heart racing. After a moment, he carefully turned the envelope upside down. One more fingertip tumbled across his desk.
It took him several minutes before he could breathe again. He looked around the office bullpen, but there were only a few other officers scattered about, and no one was paying any attention to him. Using a pencil, he lined up the two bloody fingertips in a row. He knew they weren’t from the same hand.
But what that meant just made him seethe.
Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 4, 1942
“Okay, let me explain what’s going on. You have a very substantial contusion here,” the doctor said, tapping the right side of Daniel’s forehead which had a large bump. He was a young, white man, wearing a white lab coat. Kumiko stepped closer to see exactly what the doctor was pointing at. “Okay, this is all blood. The injury caused blood to leak into the tissue here. Now, in the next few days, this pooling of blood will go down.” The doctor traced his fingers down the right side of Daniel’s face. “Think of it as gravity simply pulling it down. So, you’ll get a black eye, then the cheek bone will be dark, kind of purple and so on. Understand?”
Daniel nodded, watching the doctor with his right eye. The left was already black and blue and sealed shut. A large bandage covered his broken nose. “So I can I have two black eyes at the same time?”
The doctor actually smiled. “Well, you’re not going to win any beauty contests, put it that way. By tomorrow, your left eye should be open, but like I said, the right will get the swelling as it all moves south.”
“Sorry? South?” Kumiko asked, puzzled.
The doctor grinned. “As it moves down, sorry.” He held up one finger in front of Daniel. “Follow my finger.”
With only his right eye, Daniel tracked the doctor’s finger move from left to right and back again.
“Very good,” the doctor announced.
Daniel glanced at his mother, hovering nearby, a worried expression on her face.
“How many fingers do you see, please?” the doctor asked, holding up two fingers.
Daniel studied the hand in front of him for a moment, concentrating with a slight frown. “Three,” he finally said. His mother gasped and he knew he had blown it. He looked at her and said, “Everything is blurry.”
“It’s okay,” the doctor assured him.
“How is it okay he not see?” Kumiko argued. When the doctor turned in her direction, she immediately gave him a polite half-bow. “So, sorry. But you had two finger, he say wrong. He say three.”
“Right, but he’s got a concussion and—”
“Concussion?” Kumiko repeated, completely baffled.
“Daniel was hit in the head. He has a brain injury—”
Kumiko gasped again, this time covering her mouth with both hands.
The doctor gave her a smile. “It sounds worse than it is. But he was knocked unconscious and that usually means a concussion. He’s been having headaches; when a nurse helped him to the bathroom, he didn’t have good balance. That just means a concussion.”
“How you treat?” Kumiko politely asked. “This thing. This concussion.”
“Rest,” the doctor explained. “That’s about it.”
“But aspirin? For headache. He have headache still. He say nose hurt very much.”
“Mama,” Daniel whined, greatly embarrassed.
“I know he’s in pain, but we can’t risk bleeding.” When she gave him another puzzled look, he said, “Aspirin can thin the blood. His nose could start bleeding all over again. It’s just too risky.”
“I see,” Kumiko said with a nod.
“He just needs to rest. No activity of any kind. He’ll get better,” the doctor told her. She looked doubtful and he smiled. “I promise. Daniel will make a full recovery.”
>
“Excuse me,” a man announced nearby. Everyone turned to see an Army major standing a few feet away. He looked at the doctor. “How is your young patient, Doctor?”
The doctor was a bit startled to see an Army major in the camp hospital. And quite puzzled as to why he had an interest in a patient. “Sir, I was just explaining to Daniel and his mother that he has sustained a concussion. Probably fairly mild.” He glanced at his patient. The large bandage across his nose, the left eye swollen shut and an ugly purple color. Bruises marked the rest of his face, even his neck. “Broken nose, the black eye, bruising.”
“How long will he be here?”
The doctor glanced at Daniel again, then said, “For a while. He can’t leave until he shows no more brain injury symptoms.”
“How long, Doctor?” the major repeated firmly.
“A few days to a week, Major.”
“I see, thank you.” He looked to Kumiko. “Mrs. Kobata?”
Her heart clenched in fear. Was it Julia? Had something happened to her? Or Ido? Both had gone to the mess hall for lunch. She wasn’t hungry and wanted to stay with Daniel. The major had stepped away, and it took all her will to follow politely and not blurt out her fears about her family. The major stopped. They were now in a quiet corridor.
“I just have a question for you.”
“Please?” Kumiko asked.
“At your home on Bainbridge Island, some of it is farm land?”
She was baffled by the man’s question, but promptly nodded. “Yes. We grow strawberries.”
“Strawberries,” he repeated thoughtfully.
Kumiko nodded again. “Strawberry.”
“Do you have a tractor?” he asked.
Kumiko was puzzled. “Tractor? No tractor, no.”
Toward Night's End Page 14
