The Pearl Harbor Murders (17 page)

Jardine waited until Stanton stopped crying again, then said, "You were seen arguing with her last night."

"I know." Stanton worked up a sneer. "By that fairy Mizuha. He told you, right?"

Jardine's face was as impassive as a cigarstore Indian's. "The way this works is, I ask the questions. You argued with her?"

"It... it wasn't really an argument. I was ... a little drunk. I yelled at her." The soldier leaned against an elbow, hand to his forehead, as if taking his own temperature. "She just looked at me, like ... like she felt sorry for me. And maybe a little ... disgusted... after I wouldn't stop yelling. I almost think that's what hurts most of all."

"What?"

"That she died thinking I was a jerk."

More tears followed, then Jardine asked, "Where were you, around twelve-thirty, one o'clock?"

"Back at Hickam."

"What time did you argue with Pearl?"

"Midnight—right after the band got finished."

"Where did you go, after the argument?"

"I told you—Hickam. I took a cab. I was in my rack by twelve-thirty, or damn close."

"You were in the barracks?"

"Yeah."

Jardine was jotting this down in his little notebook. Hully realized these assertions would be easily

checked: the cab could be tracked; and whether or not Stanton had been in the barracks at the time of the girl's death. Pearl had been alive at twelve-fifteen, when she'd taken her leave of Hully's father, at their bungalow. And Hickam Field was twenty minutes from Waikiki.

If he was telling the truth, Stanton couldn't have been Pearl Harada's murderer.

"I want you at Central Police Station at ten o'clock Monday morning," Jardine said to the corporal. "For a formal statement. If you need to have your commanding officer call me, I work out of the Prosecutor's Office at City Hall."

And Jardine handed Stanton a business card. Stanton held it between thumb and middle finger and stared at it like a chimp trying to figure out a math problem.

Stanton's expression was one of astonishment. "You don't really think I... listen, I didn't... Do I need an attorney?"

"That's up to you, Corporal. If you were a prime suspect in my mind, I'd be taking you in right now."

He was shaking his head, his eyes as intense as they were red. "I wouldn't have hurt her. I would never have hurt her. I'd sooner kill myself. Do you have any idea what I'm going through? What it feels like inside my head right now? Inside my gut? My heart?"

"Monday. Ten o'clock."

"I thought Harry Kamana did it. Didn't you arrest him?"

“Ten o'clock. Monday."

Jardine rose and Hully followed suit.

"What about Fielder?" Stanton asked, still seated. "Where was he when Pearl was ... ?"

"We're going to find that out," Jardine said. He touched the brim of his fedora, in a tip-of-the-hat manner, and headed for the door, Hully trailing after.

Just as they were going out, Hully saw Stanton heading back out to the dance floor with the Japanese girl, the combo playing, "I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good."

The Black Cat was a long, open-faced cafÈ that benefited from its proximity to the YMCA across the street, where buses and cabs had brought—and would later pick up—sailors and soldiers ... anyway, those who weren't sleeping it off in a room in the big, rambling, palm-surrounded Y.

Sam Fujimoto was at a table right on the street with two sailors—one of whom was Bill Fielder. The other was Dan Pressman. The Black Cat served liquor, but all three were drinking coffee.

"Nice work," Jardine said to Sam, pulling up a chair, Hully doing the same.

Bill sat slumped in his chair, his expression dour, his handsome features puffy, his dark hair uncombed. Blond, blue-eyed Dan Pressman seemed more alert, and was watching Bill the way a parent watches a child. Hully's hunch was that Bill had been tying one on, and Dan had laid off the booze, to keep an eye on his friend's safety and welfare.

"Found Bill and Dan down at the Tradewinds," Sam said.

"Rough joint," Jardine said, and showed his badge to the two sailors. "I'm Detective Jardine. How are you doing, Bill?"

"My fiancee was murdered," he said, just slightly slurring his words. "How the hell you think I am?"

"When did you see Pearl Harada last, Ensign?"

Dan said, "Detective, if you want to question Bill, don't you think it'd be more appropriate if you waited till he's—"

"I'll talk to him now," Bill said sharply. "Right now. I'm sober—sober enough. And I don't have a goddamn thing to hide."

"You should have a lawyer," Dan said. "This is a murder case."

Bill batted the air. "They already caught the guy. Didn't you catch the guy?"

"Harry Kamana is in custody," Jardine said. "When did you see Pearl last, Ensign?"

"At the Niumalu. I left about a quarter to midnight. ... The Harbor Lights were still playing."

Jardine gazed out from under the shadow of the fedora brim. "She was your girl, wasn't she? Why didn't you hang around to spend some time with her, after?"

"I wanted to talk to my father. I was spending the weekend with my folks—and I knew I'd have the chance to talk to Dad about... about Pearl and me. About us getting married."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yes." He shook his head, rolled his eyes. "Oh yes indeed."

"It did not go well?"

He grunted a humorless laugh. "It did not go well."

"What happened?"

Bill leaned forward, weaving slightly; his words remained slurred but coherent. "Just a shouting match. My mother tried to calm both of us down, but... I went to the guest room, slammed the door. That was the end of it."

"What time was this?"

"I got home just after midnight. We must have argued till one o'clock, one-fifteen."

Jardine glanced at Hully: this would seem to be an alibi for both Bill and his father. . . unless one was covering for the other.

"Ensign Fielder," the detective said, "I mean no disrespect ... but you were not the only man in Pearl's life."

Bill slapped the metal table and the coffee cups jumped, spilling a little. "You're wrong! I
was
the only man in her life."

Jardine's voice was a persistent near monotone. "What about Jack Stanton? Harry Kamana?"

Bill gestured with an awkward hand. "They were old boyfriends. I didn't say she was a... a nun. But we were engaged—she wasn't dating anybody else, wasn't seeing anybody else. Just me."

"How would you have felt if you found her in the arms of another man?"

The ensign bobbed forward. "Would it make me want to kill somebody? Is that what you want to know? Sure, Detective ..."

Touching his friend's arm, Dan said, "Bill—easy, now ... watch what you're saying...."

"I'd have wanted to kill the son of a bitch who was with her... not Pearl. Never Pearl. But that didn't happen, Detective, and it wouldn't happen, couldn't happen. She loved me, I loved her. We were engaged. She was going to be ... my wife."

"What if you found her in the arms of Terry Mi-zuha?"

Bill blinked. "Why would she be in that queer's arms? What the hell kind of stupid question is that?"

Jardine handed Bill a business card. "That's my office number at City Hall. But I want you down at Central Police Station at eleven o'clock Monday morning. Can you remember that?"

"Yeah." Bill was looking at the business card, trying to make his eyes focus. "Why do you wanna talk to me again?"

"I want your formal statement. I don't think you did this thing, Ensign Fielder, but you are a suspect. You may wish to bring an attorney along."

Bill's head was rocking, slightly. "I don't understand this—Harry Kamana did it! He had goddamn blood all over himself! Somebody saw him do it, right? Why..."

"We can discuss this Monday. Show up sober, Ensign."

Then Bill was on his feet, raving, ranting. "You let that bastard Kamana out, I'll kill his ass! You understand? You wanna arrest me for a murder, you'll get your chance...."

Dan also got to his feet, latching onto Bill's arm. "Take it easy, Bill. Just stop talking, goddamnit."

A male voice chimed in: "Did you kill her, Fielder? Did you murder my girl?"

As if he'd materialized, Corporal Jack Stanton was standing next to the table. Now Hully and Jardine were getting to their feet, as Stanton grabbed the startled Bill Fielder by his khaki blouse, with both hands.

"Why did you do it, Fielder?" Stanton demanded, his eyes crazed. "Was she throwing you over? Coming back to me?"

Bill threw the first punch. Then the two heartsick, drunken servicemen were slugging away at each other, flailing, stumbling out into the street, mostly missing, occasionally connecting. Within seconds a crowd of sailors and soldiers had formed around them, cheering them on.

Jardine was shaking his head, giving Hully a look. "Oh hell," he said wearily.

It was only a matter of minutes before the crowd turned itself into a brawling mob, sailors belting soldiers, soldiers smacking sailors. Fielder and Stanton were no longer visible, swallowed in the sea of white and khaki, with shouted obscenities mingling with cries of pain.

The gunshot froze them all.

Then their eyes turned to the little Portuguese detective who had fired his .38 revolver into the air. The sailors and soldiers did not have time to process this before the MPs and Shore Patrol descended, blowing whistles, shouting admonitions, arresting a few of them, the bulk scattering.

Hully found Bill Fielder in a pile on the pavement,

barely conscious, fairly battered; Stanton was nowhere to be seen. Hully and Dan Pressman—who had not gotten involved in the fracas—walked Bill to the table and sat him down.

Dan said to Hully, "Listen, I need to catch a liberty ship. You want me to haul him back to the
Arizona
?"

"No—I'll baby-sit him tonight," Hully said. "Clean him up, and let him sleep it off."

Jardine was talking to the Shore Patrol and the MPs, showing them his badge.

"You guys always have this much fun on Hotel Street?" Hully asked Pressman.

Dan grinned. "Every time."

TWELVE
Party Crashers

In the golden Hawaiian moonlight, Schofield Barracks—the largest military base in the United States—looked like a perfecdy idealized American town, right off the cover of
The Saturday Evening Post
or the back lot of MGM. If it were not for the surrounding fields of sugarcane and pineapple, no one would guess the Hawaiian location; if it were not for the sentry-guarded entry, no one would take this for an Army post. Street after street was lined with stucco and brick houses on well-manicured lawns, ranging from bungalows to near mansions, depending on the ranks of their occupants, of course; and—set off in splendid isolation, like castles of the realm—massive brick structures for various military purposes.

Burroughs pulled up outside the gate, waiting for FBI agent Adam Sterling. He had called the agent at the Niumalu, where Sterling had been brooding in his bungalow, after an unsuccessful meeting with General Short on the
lanai
of the latter's home, at Fort Shafter, the Army administrative quarters just outside Honolulu.

"Well, get out here to Schofield," Burroughs had told the FBI man, from a phone booth outside a gas station with a magnificent view of Pearl Harbor that rivaled the Shuncho-ro's. "I have new information for the general, and I won't be able to get past the guard without your help."

Burroughs filled Sterling in on what he'd learned from Kuhn and Morimura, and the FBI man, excited, said he was on his way and hung up.

The writer had paused to look at the view, before driving to nearby Schofield. Pearl Harbor was spread out before him, warships moored in pools of yellow luminance, signal lights blinking back and forth, search beams stroking the sky.

A chatty little Japanese man in coveralls—who had introduced himself as Mr. Sumida, the service station's owner, and who had smiled during every moment of gas pumping and windshield cleaning—was also admiring the glittering view, as Burroughs paid for his gas.

"So beautiful," Mr. Sumida said. "Like great big Christmas tree!"

Somehow this observation was less than comforting, and now—as Burroughs waited for Sterling outside the Schofield gate—he wondered how his son and Sam Fujimoto were faring. About now they would be combing Hotel Street for Bill Fielder and Jack Stanton, and \the writer was well aware of the potential perils of that sleazy strip of sin.

Sterling pulled up in a black Ford, government issue no doubt, and Burroughs left the Pierce Arrow and hopped in front, on the passenger side. The FBI man showed his ID to the guard and they soon were rolling through the lush, suburban "barracks."

"We're probably on a fool's errand, Ed," the FBI agent said. The rangy, square-jawed Sterling—who still reminded Burroughs of a hero from one of his own books—seemed frazzled at the end of this long day, his white linen suit rumpled, his tie a limp, wrinkled rag.

Sterling proceeded to tell Burroughs that when he'd arrived at Fort Shafter at seven, for a promised ten-minute audience with the general, both Mrs. Short and Mrs. Fielder were already seated in the general's car with its motor running, in the driveway, waiting to go to the party at the Schofield Officers' Club.

Short had been unimpressed with the transcript of the Mori radiophone call. "If this is code," the general had asked skeptically, "why do they talk in the clear about things like planes and searchlights?"

While the wives fretted and fumed in the car, Sterling had tried to make his case to Short and Fielder (who lived next door to the general).

"General Short thought the Mori call was 'quite an ordinary message,' " Steriing said to Burroughs, pulling into the officers'-club parking lot. "Nothing much to get excited about."

"And of course Fielder parroted that view," Burroughs said dryly.

"The worst of it is, the general said he appreciated my 'zeal,' but perhaps I was being 'too intelligence-conscious.' "