Toward Night's End (13 page)

That had been the day before. Today there wasn’t any rain, but a dense fog surrounded him, so he had no idea if he was close to shore or miles out. His head hammered, and he alternated between taking off the rain slicker when he felt like he was burning up, and wrapping himself up tight in it when he got so cold that he shivered uncontrollably.

He couldn’t understand why he was either extremely hot or exceedingly cold. Nor did he understand why his throat was so raw. At first he thought it was because he needed to drink, but he knew instinctively that something else was wrong – every time he swallowed it felt like he was gulping down razor blades.

Lying back as best he could, he pulled the slicker firmly around him, shivering again. As he watched the clouds float by, he was surprised to suddenly see Tom walking toward him. A huge smile on his face. Matthew blinked, trying to make sure what he was seeing was real. But it was Tom. And he was fine. Even smiling. That lopsided grin he always wore that had captured Sally’s heart. There was no bruising on his face. In fact, he needed to shave. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just a pair of khaki pants. Matthew was amazed to see that his chest was perfectly fine.

“I can’t wait until you get here, buddy,” Tom told him, still grinning from ear to ear. “Just wait ’til you see it.”

Matthew’s mouth was too dry to reply. But he nodded. It sounded good. He was ready. He closed his eyes, a small smile on his lips.

Waiting near the door of Barracks #5, Lieutenant Donald Bollgen felt the stares of several Japanese-Americans gathered just outside the door. Much like a family might gather on their porch after dinner. Except there was no porch. No deck. No chairs. Just three wooden steps leading up to the barracks door. So, the group, three men and two women, squatted near the steps, talking quietly among themselves. Of course, they spoke in Japanese, so he didn’t know what they were saying. He was sure they were talking about him. Why was an Army lieutenant here to see Mrs. Kobata? He imagined there must be great speculation about that.

Little did he know that these people, housed with the Kobata family, knew only too well what was going on. And they didn’t like the attention brought on their barracks by the missing son’s presumed misdeeds. They felt it painted them all with a tainted brush. It was due to people like her son that they were all rounded up like criminals and placed in this desolate camp. There was some discussion of asking the Army to place the Kobata family somewhere else. Not in their barracks.

But of course, Donald did not know this. He glanced at his watch again. Nearly eight o’clock. He knew dinner in mess hall #14 had finished some time ago. But he imagined that there had to be a lot to clean up if you were feeding 300 people. He told himself to be patient, although that was hard. He accomplished nothing the day before. Twice he had thought he had found Mrs. Kobata, only to be told she had just left. First the mess hall, then her own barracks.

Then today, at oh-700, Major Dorrell summoned him to his office to see what Donald had learned. He wanted to say,
I’ve learned this is a huge camp, with over 1,000 new Japanese-Americans being brought in daily. I’ve learned that by July, the Army expects to have nearly 10,000 people housed here. Most from Southern California. A much smaller percentage from Stockton, California, and all those who had been living on Bainbridge Island. That’s what I’ve learned. Oh, and I’ve learned that as soon as I’m told where to find Mrs. Kobata, by the time I walk across this huge complex to get there, she is gone.

But he knew he wouldn’t miss her this time. A lamp, attached to a nearby telephone pole twenty yards away, provided enough light for him to see. He would easily be able to identify her. And she would be coming. If nothing else, she would come back here to sleep. Then he would learn the truth about Matthew Kobata. He would put it all in a report for Major Dorrell, and then he would make sure he was back to his unit in time to deploy to the Pacific.

The Japanese squatting by the door suddenly hushed. He saw what they saw – Mrs. Kobata making her way to the barracks. Donald quickly stepped forward.

Kumiko hesitated seeing people huddled by the door. The group rose to their feet, all at once, every face turned her way. She gave a slight bow to the group, saying, “Excuse me.”

“You bring us shame,” one of the women hissed.

Kumiko stopped short. Surprised. Although, she shouldn’t be surprised, she thought. Word had gotten out in her barracks and nearby. Almost everyone thought the worst of Matthew, no doubt. But she didn’t try to defend the actions of her son. She just tried to ignore the glares from others and do her job at the mess hall. At least there, no one knew about Matthew. Of course, give it a few more days and they would probably know too. But for now, the mess hall was her salvation. Her sanctuary.

“You hear? You bring us shame,” the woman repeated.

Kumiko glanced at the woman. She knew the woman and her husband were tenant farmers on a dairy farm in Norwalk, California. She also knew exactly why the woman was saying what she was saying. She had tried to explain about Matthew to several others in their barracks, but her words had fallen on deaf ears.

“Excuse me, please,” she said again.

“The lieutenant is waiting,” one of the men told her, nodding behind her.

Kumiko turned to see the Army officer who had come to her house on the day of the evacuation. Her heart leapt. Matthew. He had news of Matthew. She swiftly walked toward him, giving him a slight bow. “Good evening,” she said politely in English.

“Good evening, Mrs. Kobata.”

“You have news of Matthew? You find Matthew?”

“No, Mrs. Kobata, I’m sorry. No news.” He saw the others watching them, so he asked, “You have a minute to talk to me?”

“Of course, yes. Of course.”

“Let’s walk,” the lieutenant said, leading her away from the others. She wished there was somewhere to sit. But there wasn’t. There was only one barracks after another for as far as the eye could see. After a few minutes of silence, Donald abruptly asked, “My cousin Tom, you remember him, yes?”

Mrs. Kobata’s face lit up. “Tom, yes. Of course. He spend much time at our house.” Then she corrected herself, saying, “When they were in school, yes? After, he always at the restaurant, working. But yes, years ago, I teach him how to use chopsticks.” She talked with her hands, as if illustrating. “I put rubber band on the ends of the chopsticks. Then show him how to hold.” She laughed. “Some days he could do okay, some days, no.”

“He’s dead, Mrs. Kobata.”

Kumiko stopped smiling. Shocked, she quietly said, “Dead?”

Lieutenant Bollgen nodded his head. “He was shot. On the day of the evacuation. The same day Matthew went missing.”

Kumiko placed a hand over her heart. “Tom? Shot? Tom?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“No, no, no.”

Donald saw tears in her eyes. He swallowed back his own emotions, saying, “So I need to know, where were they? The night before the evacuation?”

“Matthew dead too?” she asked. “If Tom dead, where is Matthew? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know,” Donald said, his tone harsh. “Where did they go? Sally says they were together, so where did they go?”

Kumiko thought for a moment, then looked up at him, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Maybe they take last fish in. Matthew fished the day before. Last time he could fish, yes? He took fish across by truck, not boat.”

“Mr. Porter’s truck,” Donald clarified.

“Yes, yes,” she replied. “I don’t know Tom go. Maybe Tom go too. But shot? Tom shot? By who? Who would kill Tom?”

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly it dawned on her, and she said, “Not Matthew. Matthew no do this. Not Matthew.”

“I agree,” Donald promptly told her. Although at first he hadn’t been too sure, the more he had thought about it, the more he realized it didn’t make sense. “My uncle? Rex? He says the same. Matthew didn’t kill Tom.”

She gave a slight nod of the head in acknowledgement. Then she looked up, sharply, “Police? They know about Tom?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do they say?”

“I don’t know,” Donald said. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “Look, Matthew’s in trouble. Obviously, or he’d be here. I need to know what happened. How’d he get in trouble? With who? Who are these people? And did they kill Tom? And why? Why would they kill him?”

“I sorry,” Kumiko said. “I sorry. I don’t know. I sorry, I don’t know.”

Donald believed in his heart she was telling the truth. He nodded. “Think about it for me, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

Kumiko nodded. Gave a slight bow. “I sorry. About Tom. I so sorry.”

Donald nodded, and she quickly scurried away. He watched as she passed the group by the barracks steps and ducked inside. Then he turned and slowly walked the other way, back to his own quarters, all the while wondering why he even mentioned Tom. He had planned to push her hard on Matthew. But instead, he blurted out that Tom was dead. What was he thinking?

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.”