by Neil Watson
After staring at the body for a few minutes, the young woman searched thoroughly around the rest of the house, including the bedroom. She had learned that usually sex or money, sometimes both, were the root causes in murder cases. And this was, in her opinion, certainly a murder—although at first sight she wasn’t able to second-guess the cause of death. Judging by the bloodstain on the kitchen counter-top, the victim’s head must have hit it prior to falling to the floor.
But what caused her to collapse in the first place? Had she been hit, and if so, with what? She peered again at the corpse, and at the mass of thick blood surrounding it. In fact, it was so thick that she nearly missed the raised profile of some objects from within it. She called out to one of her co-workers. “Get over here, please. We need to take a look at this before the CSC’s come in.” Copeland was aware that once the Crime Scene Cleaner agency began doing its job, there would be no more opportunities to afford her further detailed examinations of the room.
“Okay Katie. I’m onto it,” responded her Number Two. While the grisly task of separating the small solid objects from the now-brown, sticky goo was being carried out, Copeland studied the bedroom. She stood there and ran her left hand through her straight, shoulder-length blonde hair, as if the action helped her to think. With the other hand, she prodded the unmade bed, and the glup-glup sound that only waterbeds made as their content swished back and forth, could be heard. “Nice,” she thought. She looked closer at the pale white marks against the blue mattress sheet. “Okay, so it appears a male has been enjoying her bed, too,” she deduced, having found dried semen stains at a few previous homicide investigations she’d worked on before. “Any news from the kitchen yet?” she shouted, on her way back to where the ambulance crew were on standby, waiting for her to give the all-clear to remove the body.
Her colleague was standing at the sink, still stained by the neighbour’s smelly vomit, washing the small objects under the faucet, and holding them up to the light to examine them more closely. “Well, we have pieces of plastic, and a knob of some sort, Ma’am, that I can tell you. But what they’re from is anyone’s guess.”
***
Still at the Toporofskis’ house, the police chief was just wrapping things up with Hannah. Apart from detailed accounts regarding antiques and dental appointments, she hadn’t offered an awful lot of useful information, with the exception of one mildly possible lead. Mrs. Baltop said she remembered seeing an old pickup truck being driven past her house very early the day before. Unfortunately, she didn’t know what make of vehicle it was, nor could she describe the driver well as she could only make out the profile. “It was very dark,” she explained. “And I’m not very good with cars. As for the driver, I think it was a man wearing a hat.”
“That narrows the possibilities down to several million,” thought Moores, as he stood up to leave and thank the lady for her help. As he was leaving, he turned to ask one last question. “If you don’t mind me asking, where on earth does a name like, err, err . . .” he struggled to remember, “ . . . Baltzwinik-Toporofski come from?” His enquiry was music to Hannah’s ears. It was an opportunity to explain her family’s name to someone who, at last, showed interest.
“Well, where we came from, to begin with we had no family name,” she started to explain. “Then we were required to take a surname when we lived in little shtetls—village ghettos to you. In my country we would simply use the patronymic names of our trade. ‘Topor’ is the word for axe, and my family used axes to collect turpentine by cutting grooves in trees. And if you want, I can tell you how we got the name Baltzwinik . . .” Hannah would have continued enthusiastically, but Moores interrupted, as politely as he could.
“Perhaps another time, Mrs Baltop, but for now, as much as I’d like to stay longer, I have to be getting along.”
Hannah understood.
“Yes, indeed you must. That poor, dear Sandy. I do hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”
As Moores returned to Sandy’s drive, he was approached by Sergeant Staples, who was holding a crumpled piece of paper that he’d found screwed up on the ground, and which he handed to his boss. Moores read it and reread it. “So, who the hell—or what—is ‘Sweet Yushi’? Sounds like one of those foreign rice dishes you get up in Chicago. Okay, you’d better get on over to the De-Lux, now!” he commanded Staples. Staples had worked under his Chief for some time, and had become used to being bossed around without so much as a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. It didn’t faze him—he merely saw it as part of the job, and chose to simply “accept the status quo”, as he put it.
Moores walked across the gravel drive to the Forensics’ station wagon, where the team were just finishing up. Judging by the number of small stones on the lawn, Sandy Beach must have been a pretty careless driver, he thought. “Okay, what have you got for me?” demanded Moores of Copeland. The pieces of red and black plastic that had been recovered from the congealed blood were held out to him in a clear polythene bag. “Is that all?” he asked, dismissively. “What are they?”
“Well, I’m not sure, Sir,” answered Katie. “Most are broken pieces of plastic from an unidentified object, but there’s also what appears to be a knob from some kind of apparatus. It’s quite tiny—maybe it’s from a kitchen gadget—like a food mixer. But we couldn’t find anything else in the room to match it. Whatever it’s from, it was used to strike the woman. We found a cut to her head of a similar size, and another fragment of the same red plastic embedded in her scalp.”
“Did it kill her?” asked Moores.
“We can’t say at this point, Chief. She may have struck her head on the counter top, or the stone floor, and that may have finished her. Or she may have been hit after she’d fallen. We’d need to wait for the lab report to come back.” That was all Katie could offer for now.
Over at the De-Lux, Staples was also gathering important information. The proprietor handed his register over and, sure enough it looked like someone by the name of ‘Y. Kamoto’ had stayed two nights ago, according to the almost illegibly-scribbled signature. With a description given of a male in his twenties, dark hair and of Asian appearance, Staples headed back to police headquarters in Marshall, mildly pleased with himself. He had a name, and a description. And the room had been reserved in the name of ‘Yushi’, and paid for by Ms. Beach herself. But what was lacking was the crucial ID of Kamoto’s vehicle. The motel owner said he hadn’t noticed any car pull in to the parking lot around the time of the guest’s arrival, but he admitted he hadn’t particularly been looking either. Kamoto had failed to enter his plate number in the book, and unfortunately the motel owner hadn’t insisted he did so either.
“Don’t you have a camera outside?” asked Staples, enthusiastically anticipating returning to base with pictures of the main suspect.
“We do,” the owner answered, slowly. “But it’s been down a week now—we’re still waiting for the technician. He should be coming tomorrow to fix it.”
By the time Staples had returned to Police HQ, Moores was sitting back in his office chair, with his feet up on the desk. It had been a long day, and the chief was tired. Once Staples had relayed what he’d found out at the motel, Moores went over the information they had so far managed to obtain: “So, we’re looking for a male, name of Yushi Kamoto, Asian, probably a goddamn Jap with a name like that, in his twenties, and the murder weapon probably being a kitchen appliance striking a blow to the head of Sandy Beach. Semen on her bed too. She pays for Kamoto’s motel room, but we don’t know why. We don’t know what he was driving, but the nosey neighbour next door remembers seeing a pickup truck before dawn of the morning after the murder. The truck may have nothing to do with it, but it’s all we’ve got for now. Okay, Staples. Let’s turn in. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find this sonofabitch. We’ll get him tomorrow, no problem. I’ll see you here sharp at nine.”
Moores couldn’t let his racist tendencies be seen publicly, but to himself he admitted that he had t
hem, and he had good reason as far as he was concerned.
Ever since his father had died a sad old man, bent double and racked with pain as a result of his beatings as a prisoner-of-war at the hands of the Japanese, the police chief just couldn’t help how he felt. His father had told him time and time again how he’d suffered so badly, so it was understandable that he still felt the way he did, wasn’t it? That’s how Moores justified the ingrained feelings of hatred he had towards all Japanese, even twenty years after his father’s passing. And now, already convinced of Yushi Kamoto’s guilt, he went home satisfied that before long one less “Nip”, as he referred to them derogatorily, would be freely roaming the streets of the America he was so proud of.
(THURSDAY, 16TH APRIL, 1981)
When Moores arrived at the precinct the following morning, the busy open-plan area was already buzzing with the usual din of ringing phones, people talking loudly, and typewriters clattering. Staples was already seated in the chief’s office, waiting, with a brown paper bag in front of him. “What’s this? Doughnuts already?” Moores asked.
Before he had the chance to peek inside, Staples took the bag and emptied its contents all over the desk. “This was brought in by one of our guys out on routine patrol—everyone was told to look out for anything suspicious within a three-mile radius of Beach’s house.” The pile of bits consisted of a number of red and black plastic pieces, a small loudspeaker, a couple of batteries and some wires. “And look at this,” he went on, picking up something else in particular and holding it forth. “A silver-coloured knob just like the one we’ve already got.”
“Bingo! But what the hell is all this? It’s no way a kitchen appliance. Looks more like the parts to a goddamn radio, but I ain’t never seen a radio looking like this,” said Moores. There were so many tiny pieces, it would have been like trying to put together an impossible jigsaw puzzle in 3D to work out what it had once looked like. He went out from his office into the main area. “Listen up, everybody. Does anyone recognise what kind of radio these pieces are from?” he asked, holding up the largest pieces and the loudspeaker in the air for all to see.
“Sure, Chief,” answered one of the sergeants. “I got me one of those for my bicycle. It attaches on the handlebar.”
The cogs in Moores’ head were turning ten to the dozen. “What if this Kamoto guy didn’t have a pickup truck, or any other motor vehicle for that matter? Maybe the truck that Mrs. Toper-what’s-her-name reported has got nothing to do with the murder. What if Kamoto used a cycle for his getaway?”
“Yeah, and that would explain why there was no record of any license plate numbers in the motel register,” added Staples.
“Okay,” continued Moores. “So we’re looking for a goddamn Jap on a bike. Forget the pickup truck from now on.” He turned to the other sergeant. “How far can you cycle in a day?”
“Well, it depends on wind, land contours, road condit . . .” he began.
“I don’t wanna goddamn lecture—just a rough number of miles. I’ve no idea—I’ve not ridden a bike in years. Is it 20, 50, 100, 200? Just give me an approximate number,” said Moores, impatiently. He finally got the number he’d been waiting for. “It could be up to 100,” said the sergeant.
“Okay,” said Moores, going over to the map on the wall. “Our friend Makoto started from Beach’s house three days ago in Paris and goes in this direction,” pointing to the motel’s location.
“Kamoto,” corrected Staples.
“Jeez, whatever. They’re all the goddamn same,” the chief said quietly to himself. “Thank you, Staples,” he said, rather patronisingly. “If he’s going in that direction, my hunch is he’s heading west. And if he cycles a hundred miles a day, he’ll be past St. Louis and halfway to Kansas by now.”
“But that’s if he stays on his bike,” Staples pointed out. “Maybe he’d get a ride, or take a train or a Greyhound? And why wouldn’t he just head home, wherever that may be?”
“Because he’s smart. He’s going around in broad daylight on a pushbike for all to see. He’s right under everyone’s noses. He thinks he’s the last guy we’d be looking for. But he’s so wrong. Put out an APB for a cycling Asian gentleman. Yushi Kamoto, we’re coming to get you!”
“But, Chief. We’re still drawing a blank with that, as well. No record of anyone by the name of Yushi Kamoto so far.”
(THURSDAY, 16TH APRIL 1981)
Meanwhile, oblivious to the frantic activity that was taking place 150 miles away, Yushi’s prediction of arriving at the Gateway Arch by midday was perfectly correct, and as he crossed the mighty Mississippi River he could see the colossal Gateway Arch structure towering to the sky in front of him. “Wow! That’s just how it looks in the pictures—but even more impressive,” he marvelled, as he padlocked his machine to the bike rack after riding up to the entrance. Gazing upwards, he could just about make out the 16 observation windows at the top, and he could hardly wait to ride up there on the special internal tram that he’d read about.
But first, he would do what he assumed may be the boring bit—a visit to the arch’s museum in the basement, and a viewing of the movie about the building’s construction.
As he entered the site, and walked towards the ticket booth, he was absolutely devastated to see a large A-board displaying some very unwelcome words.
“Due to maintenance work being carried out, today, the tram to the top is temporarily out of service. . . It will reopen at 10.00 hrs, Friday 17th”
Yushi just stood and stared at the sign, and couldn’t quite believe his unfortunate timing. “What to do? What to do?” he asked himself, trying to make a decision on the spur of the moment. After weighing up his options, there was obviously only one thing he could think of. He’d simply have to stay at the nearest hostel tonight and return in the morning. Meanwhile, he could at least do “the boring bit”. As it turned out, it wasn’t boring at all. Relaxing back in his theatre seat and stretching out his legs, he actually found the half-hour film very fascinating indeed.
While Yushi was completely absorbed by the documentary, events were developing at a very fast pace back in Paris, Illinois.
CHAPTER 13
(THURSDAY, 16TH APRIL, 1981)
Booth’s Tip-Off
P hilip Booth was getting himself ready for his shift that was due to begin at two o’clock that afternoon. With the morning free, he’d spent a very enjoyable time with the love of his life. In fact all three loves of his life, if you counted the dog and the motorbike. First, he went for a long walk with his wife Lou and their adorable Shar-Pei cross Staffy dog they’d named Bert. Phil, being somewhat of an anglophile, really liked those PG Woodhouse tales of Bertie Wooster, and so had named the dog they’d owned ever since it was a day-old puppy, after the very British character. Following the walk, the ever-smiling Lou and he had coffee and breakfast together at the new deli in town. Very nice it was, and great waffles too. And then, while Lou went off to work as a nurse at the local hospital, Philip enjoyed a couple of pleasant hours in his garage, tinkering with his Harley Davidson, taking things apart, cleaning them up, and putting them back together again.
Thursdays were usually good, and so far today this one had been no exception. As usual, when it was time, he’d collect his patrol car from the precinct, and check inside the office to see if there were any notices pinned to the wall. Sometimes, there might be an APB—All-Points Bulletin—meaning all law enforcement officers, including him, should be on the lookout for an individual who was wanted for having committed an offence, or who might also be a danger to the public.
Today, there were three such bulletins, containing the names and brief details of the alleged perpetrators. Tim Fort, Caucasian male, 54, in the Boston area. Leroy Williams, black male, 37, Silver Springs, Colorado. Yushi Kamoto, Asian male, early twenties, Marshall, Illinois. “Hmm, why does that name mean something?” pondered Booth. His curiosity got the better of him, so he read on, slowly grooming his beard and moustache while deep in thought
. Of course! Yushi was that guy he’d picked up last week for cycling on the freeway. And there’s a mention here also of a bike radio—the very same radio he’d retrieved from the car trunk and returned to Yushi at the Cincinnati hostel. What? Wanted for murder? The radio was the weapon? “But Yushi was such a nice guy. I’ll be darned,” exclaimed Booth generally to whoever was nearby. He flipped the page over to see who was investigating the case. “Okay, I’d better call and tell Chief Moores what I know.” Booth shook his head in disbelief about young Yushi, as he muttered to himself. “It just goes to show, you sure never can tell with some folks.”
As he picked up the phone and dialled, he also began flipping through the large lever-arched file where all traffic violation reports were stored, and went straight to the letter ‘K’ tab, looking for the ‘Kamoto’ page. There was no relevant report. “That’s odd,” he thought. He was sure he’d given out an advisory ticket to the cyclist, but where was it? The switchboard at the Marshall precinct answered his call, and Booth asked to be put through to Chief Moores.
After hanging on the line, and hearing a few clicks, he finally heard a voice.
“Moores here.”
Booth went through his account with the chief, who was extremely interested in everything that he was being told, while all the time Booth was now thumbing through his own handwritten duplicate book, searching for some explanation as to why the main report wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
