“There’s an old man, for you,” remarked one of the enlisted men.
“He’s from the cargo ship over there,” said another.
“Probably going to sell us something.”
“We already have his Jap cook,” said the first man with a laugh.
“Maybe he wants him back,” said the other.
“Yeah, let’s give him his mate back.”
The men were laughing as Matthew silently stole away, unseen. But he knew one thing his shipmates did not – while Captain Tollseller had no interest in having Matthew return to the Ancient Mariner, the captain had boarded the Navy ship for a very good reason. And Matthew knew it had everything to do with him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bainbridge Island, Washington. April 11, 1942
A few phone calls from the police station and Johnstone learned that Old Man Pete was Peter Harkin. He got the man’s address, and then he and Merrick took Johnstone’s car over by ferry. Less than an hour after getting the man’s name, Johnstone now turned his car off the main dirt road, bouncing along the narrow, rutted driveway as they approached Harkin’s small farmhouse and large barn.
Parking the car near the house, Johnstone and Merrick got out. Johnstone grabbed his fedora from the backseat and put it on. Merrick buttoned his dress blue jacket, pulling at the sleeves until he was satisfied he looked sharp. They looked around. The farm was quiet. Peaceful and still. “Can I help you boys?” a voice called out.
Johnstone turned to see a man of average height making his way toward them. He wore faded denim trousers with no shirt. He was wiping his hands on a rag. “Looking for Peter Harkin,” the detective said.
“Down on the lower forty,” the man replied, still wiping his hands. He stopped and studied them carefully. He nodded toward the ocean, which could be seen in the distance to the west. “You’ll have to hoof it.”
“No problem,” Johnstone said.
The man openly studied them. “Navy boy, eh?” he said to Merrick.
“What gave me away?” Merrick asked sardonically.
The shirtless man thought for a minute, then gave a slight smile. “What’s the Navy doing out here?”
“That’s between us and Mr. Harkin.”
The man nodded. Finally, he said, “Well, like I said, he’s down on the lower forty today.”
“Who are you?” Johnstone asked.
Another hesitation. “Just a helping hand.” He nodded toward the west again. “You can’t miss him.”
Johnstone tipped his fedora and started off, Merrick right with him. After about fifty yards, Merrick looked over his shoulder. The man stood watching them. Merrick didn’t like the looks of the man, but he didn’t say anything.
“There he is,” Johnstone said, pointing.
Harkin was stooped over, methodically clearing an irrigation ditch with a hoe. Although probably well into his sixties, Johnstone could see the man was in good physical condition, his body well toned from years of physical work.
“Mr. Harkin?” the detective called out. Although the farm was quiet, the old man didn’t seem to hear. Johnstone and Merrick exchanged glances. “Mr. Harkin?” Johnstone said again, this time louder.
Harkin looked up. He stopped his work and leaned his elbow on the top of the hoe. Johnstone noticed that Harkin only glanced at him, but kept his eyes fixed on Merrick.
“Mr. Harkin?” Johnstone said.
“Aye,” the old man replied. He didn’t move. He stood rooted in place, leaning on the hoe under his elbow.
“Detective Johnstone, Seattle P.D.” Johnstone took out his badge and showed it to him. He nodded to Merrick, saying, “Commander Merrick, U.S. Navy.”
Harkin just stared at the men. Johnstone looked around. Rolling hills to his left and right, the ocean in front of him. “Beautiful place.” Nothing from Harkin. “We’re investigating a couple deaths that took place here recently.”
Harkin seemed to stiffen a bit. “Young Tom, you mean?”
“That’s right. Tom Bollgen. You know him?”
“Ah, not really. He put in a few days for me during harvest for a few years. Not recently, though. Worked at his father’s place.”
“The Crow’s Nest.”
Harkin nodded. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why you asking me about him?”
“I wasn’t asking about him,” Johnstone let his reply hang in the air for a moment, and he could see Harkin didn’t like the gap in conversation.
“I didn’t know him well,” the old man said defensively. When neither Johnstone nor Merrick responded, Harkin quickly added, “You can ask anyone. I keep to myself. Didn’t know him too well at all. Don’t see how I can help you.”
“Actually, Mr. Harkin, we wanted to ask you about a Navy sailor,” Merrick explained. “Man named Carsteen.”
Harkin looked at Merrick quizzically. “Navy, you say?”
“That’s right.”
Harkin seemed to mull this over. The men waited. “People talking about some guy found half-naked on the north end. That the guy?”
“That’s right,” Johnstone replied.
“I don’t know no Navy man.”
“He came to see you,” Johnstone interjected. “He got lost. Asked a local kid for directions.”
Harkin seemed to mull this over for a bit. Then he announced, “I don’t recall.”
“We know he was here,” Merrick said. “What can you tell us about Petty Officer Carsteen?”
“I don’t know him.” He stopped leaning on the hoe and began working on the ditch again, his eyes focused on his work. “You got it wrong.”
“He specifically asked directions to come here.”
Harkin didn’t look up from his hoeing. “He come here, I didn’t see him.”
Johnstone reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out the picture of Carsteen. “Mr. Harkin.” Nothing. The older man kept working. In a louder voice, Johnstone said, “Mr. Harkin, I need you to look at this.” Finally, Harkin glanced up. “Could you look at this, please?” Johnstone offered him the photo. “Might jog your memory.”
Harkin tentatively took the photo, looked at it briefly, and handed it back. “Nope.”
Merrick looked to Johnstone and shrugged. “I say we take him back to base. He can answer our questions there after he cools his heels in the brig.”
This got to Harkin. He looked nervously at Merrick.
“No, my captain wants him. He’s a civilian, after all,” Johnstone explained. “Police jurisdiction.”
“I’m not going nowhere!” Harkin interrupted, defiant. “This is my home!”
“You answer our questions truthfully, or we take you in,” Merrick said harshly. “We’ll toss a coin whether it’s civilian or Navy.”
Johnstone displayed the photo again. “Why was this man here?”
Harkin looked nervous now. “I swear, I don’t know he was here. He come, I didn’t see him. I swear!”
Merrick nodded toward the barn. “Maybe he came to see your friend.”
Harkin started digging at the ditch again as he frowned. “Don’t got no friends.”
“Grandson, then? Came out of the barn. Told us where we could find you.”
Harkin nervously look up at him. Then resumed digging. “He’s not anybody.”
Johnstone and Merrick exchanged glances, then Johnstone said, “Not anybody, but he’s on your property working.”
“Just a hired hand. A drifter, I expect.”
“So, not a local?”
Harkin shook his head. Then nodded to the photo. “I don’t know that man. So, someone told you wrong.”
“What’s he do?” Merrick asked. “Your drifter?”
Harkin seemed taken aback by the question. “Whatever I need, I reckon.”
“Looks like he was working on some machinery,” Merrick said. This got Harkin’s attention. “His hands were quite greasy.”
After a moment, Harkin said, “Old tractor’s been
acting up again.”
“What’s the man’s name?” Johnstone asked. “Your drifter?”
Harkin immediately looked nervous again. “Carl.”
“Carl what?”
“I swear, I don’t know,” Harkin anxiously replied.
Johnstone and Merrick exchanged looks. Johnstone shrugged. He nodded toward the barn, Merrick nodded in agreement. “We’ll come back, Mr. Harkin. If we have more questions, we’ll come back.”
***
“I don’t think my shoes will ever be the same,” Merrick complained as they hiked up the hill toward the barn.
Johnstone glanced at the commander’s black dress shoes, now coated with a layer of fine dirt, and laughed. “I’ve got a clean towel in the trunk.”
At the crest of the hill they spotted the drifter, sitting on a turned-over bucket near the barn, eating an apple. They silently approached, stopping just a few feet away. The man looked up at them, squinting in the sunlight.
Merrick began by saying, “We understand a Navy sailor came by here a few weeks ago.”
Carl took another bite of his apple, speaking with a full mouth. “You understand wrong.”
“We know he was here,” Johnstone retorted, getting testy at Harkin’s evasion, now his hired hand doing the same.
He shrugged. “Maybe so. Maybe I weren’t here.”
“We need to see inside the barn,” Merrick abruptly announced.
Another shrug, nodding over his left shoulder. “Help yourself.”
Johnstone and Merrick went to the large door. A long two-by-four sat in two L-shaped saddles, one saddle on each door so the two-by-four kept the doors closed. Merrick removed the two-by-four and pulled open one door. Johnstone glanced back at the drifter. His back was to them, and he appeared to not have a care in the world, other than eating his apple.
It was quite dim inside. Johnstone stopped to pull open the other door too. They went further inside the barn.
True to Harkin’s word, there was a large tractor in the middle of the barn, up on jacks, one wheel lying on the floor. Attached to the front was a long boom water sprayer. The tractor’s engine cover was propped open, a large toolbox on a stool nearby. Both Merrick and Johnstone slowly walked around. Johnstone didn’t know a thing about farming, but what he saw made sense – picking trays of various sizes, several large overhead mobile sprinkler watering systems, each on wheels, and three large weigh scales. At the west end of the barn, Johnstone noticed what was obviously a cold storage area with concrete walls and a concrete slab.
Merrick, a few feet away, said, “No anti-aircraft guns.”
Johnstone shook his head. “Carsteen is still tied in somehow,” he argued. “I see no reason for Daniel Kobata to lie. Carsteen was found dead out here on the island. Not the city. Here.”
“I agree, I agree.”
“Let’s get some lunch,” Johnstone suggested, feeling slightly defeated.
They left the barn, and the man was still sitting on the bucket. The apple core about ten feet away, tossed in the dirt. “You want to help fix the oil pan? I’ll take all the help I can get,” the drifter said with a laugh.
Neither man replied. They simply walked to the car. Johnstone opened the trunk, grabbing the old, but clean, towel. He turned to give it to Merrick, but he was a good twenty yards away, looking back toward the road. Johnstone joined him.
Merrick felt his presence and said, “Someday, when this war is over, I wouldn’t mind this. Working with my hands. My back.”
Johnstone followed his look. Large strawberry fields spread out for acres. Two fairly large stacks of hay at the far end. “My back would protest too much.” He offered the towel. “For your shoes.”
Merrick took the towel, looked at the fields for a moment longer, then turned toward the car.
***
Rex Bollgen looked like he had aged a couple decades in just a few weeks’ time. He sat on a milk crate behind the Crow’s Nest, smoking a cigarette. Johnstone had dealt with the surviving family members of murder victims before, but it never seemed to get easier. Then he remembered that they were at war. How many more men like Rex Bollgen would have their hearts ripped out as the war raged on?
“Afternoon,” Johnstone said. Rex looked up at him, but showed no recognition. “Detective Johnstone, Seattle P.D.” He nodded to Merrick standing beside him. “This is Commander Merrick, U.S. Navy.”
“You find who did it?” Rex Bollgen asked. The tone was neither angry, nor curious. Just flat. Like a man defeated.
“Not yet,” Johnstone said. Rex nodded, as if that was the answer he had been expecting. “Before we had lunch here – wonderful tuna sandwich, by the way – we were just over at Peter Harkin’s place.”
Rex raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You know who the man is that’s helping him there?” Merrick asked. “Man named Carl?”
Rex shook his head. “Old Man Pete don’t say much. Never did, never will. He usually gets the kids to help when he needs it, but most are off now, fighting the war.”
“So you don’t know him?”
“I don’t have much to do with Old Man Pete.”
“Why’s that?” Johnstone asked, thinking that Rex Bollgen and Peter Harkin were probably close in age, which made it a bit ironic that Rex would call him Old Man Pete.
“Don’t like the man,” Rex replied simply.
“Why not?”
“He’s a boozer, for one,” Rex said. “Couldn’t handle it too well when his Mrs. was there. Just got worse when she wasn’t, you know?”
“She divorce him?”
Rex gave him a surprised look. “Died. She and their son. A ferry capsized. Years ago.” He frowned. “Ever since then, all he does is drink.”
“Some say alcoholism is a disease,” Johnstone offered.
Rex Bollgen waved the thought away. “He don’t care for no one but himself. That’s why I don’t like him. Not many people do around here. Just ask around.” Then he suddenly gave Johnstone a hard look. “You think he shot my Tom?”
“I don’t know,” Johnstone said. “I think he might be mixed up in what happened to Matthew Kobata and Tom, but I’m not sure how yet.”
“What made you go talkin’ to him?”
“We have it on pretty good authority that a man who was killed out here – the man found only in his underwear—” This prompted Rex to give him a double take. “We’re told that man had business at Old Man Pete’s.”
“Who was the man? Dead man? He died when my Tom did, you know.”
“U.S. Navy sailor. Man named Cody Carsteen,” Merrick explained. “Ever hear of him?”
Rex just shook his head.
“Anything else you can tell us about Peter Harkin?”
“I just don’t like him much. His drinking, gambling. He’s just no good.”
“Gambling?” Johnstone asked, surprised.
“Oh, he likes his cards. Goes over to the mainland. Been doing it off and on for years.”
“You know where he goes?”
“Just what I hear,” Rex said. “Bog Adams’ place.”
“Bog Adams?”
“Near the south-end fishery, if you know where that is.”
Manzanar War Relocation Center, Owens Valley, California. April 11, 1942
The Kobata family was now known throughout Manzanar, and there wasn’t one detainee who thought well of them. Quite simply, rumors that Matthew Kobata was somehow aligned with the Imperialists had been taken as absolute, irrefutable truth. And this meant one thing – it was due to people like Matthew Kobata that all Japanese-Americans suffered the indignity of incarceration.
True to her nature, Kumiko never wallowed in self-pity. Her family’s circumstances could not be changed, and there was no point in wishing things different. Since the entire camp had learned about Matthew, only two people had been kind to her. One was an older man, Daisuke, who worked in the mess hall with her. Although she should have been grateful for his nice demeanor and hi
s assistance with the cooking, she knew he was a widower who was simply lonely. In fact, he was probably grateful Matthew had not appeared, several times offering to bunk with her family in order to provide them comfort. Such comfort she did not need, nor would she ever need.
The only other person in the camp who had befriended her was a younger woman in their barracks who had come with her aunt. The aunt had plenty of nasty words for the Kobata family, but the younger woman, though shy, had only gentle words for Kumiko. She was kind to Daniel, too, when he came home from the hospital, his nose bandaged, his face still bruised and ugly.
In fact, the woman offered to take Matthew’s waiting, empty bed away. At first, Kumiko insisted it stay. Then she realized how silly this was. Matthew was not coming. And if somehow, by some miracle, he did appear one day, she was sure the Army would provide him a cot. Once the unused bed was gone, she was surprised to find it was a relief – constantly being reminded that her son was gone was extremely stressful.
She had also let Daisuke know that there was now no room for him in their little living space. No bed. Seeing his crestfallen face, she had felt a bit sorry for him. But better he not be encouraged in any way.
Busy chopping onions that would go into a meager stew for that evening’s meal, Kumiko literally jumped when another woman came running through the mess hall’s back door, full of excitement. “Rice! Rice! We have rice!”
Kumiko couldn’t believe it, and like the others, she quickly went outside. An Army Jeep was parked at the back door. Sacks and sacks of rice were being unloaded by two privates.
There was much discussion among them as to how much rice they should prepare. It was finally decided they would make as much rice as they could with the pots and pans they had available and serve it with the staple luncheon meat of the day – hotdogs. And that evening, there would be rice to go with the stew. Not potatoes.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, the entire Japanese-American mess hall staff acknowledged Kumiko, praising her for getting the rice. She glowed at the warm reception, so at odds with the usual chill she received each and every day.
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