1:31 a.m.

Dudley Smith said, “Surely a suicide note.”

Ashida said, “Yes, most likely.”

“Are you Nisei, Dr. Ashida?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Have you insights born of your cultural background that might serve to enlighten me thus far?”

The body placement felt wrong. The house was too tidy. Domestic chaos often precipitated seppuku. There should be more disarray.

Ashida said, “The note justified rather than acknowledged dishonor or shame. ‘Looming apocalypse’ is ambiguous. Most Japanese mass-suicide notes are somewhat more specific and stress the concept of honor regained.”

Dudley Smith smiled. He was tall and fit. He had small brown eyes. His soft brogue seduced suspects. The gas chamber ensued.

“I appreciate your comments. I intend to remain in this room and ponder them while you assist downstairs.”

Ashida bowed and walked to the stairs. He made the stench: visceral fluids mixed with stale air. He walked down to the living room. Blanchard and Brown stood away from the carpet. They went P-U and lit cigarettes.

Ray Pinker snapped body pix. Nort Layman studied the bodies. He wore knee-high waders. He came prepared for liquid rot.

Blanchard said, “I like the girl. If she was alive and kicking, I’d give her a poke.”

Brown said, “This could go long. You think Ace Kwan would send up some chow?”

Blanchard said, “Hop Sing and Four Families are back in the shit. Ace has his hands full.”

Brown said, “Dudley has truck with Ace. He’ll get us some grub.”

Blanchard said, “Don’t tell Ace we got dead Japs here. The Japs and Chinks got some historical beef.”

Two morgue men lugged in blood cans. Layman wrote the time and date on adhesive labels. The morgue men wore rubber gloves and packed metal scoops. Layman pointed to the stiffs.

“Clear a path all around. Seal the cans with tape. Refrigerate the blood, so I can get a peek at the cells.”

The morgue men went to it. They scooped blood chunks and canned them piecemeal. Layman tossed them four more cans. The blood was full-caked now. It came loose half-dried.

One man dug a path to Ryoshi Watanabe. One man dug a path to Johnny. They filled six blood cans. They threaded their arms through the handles and hauled them back off the rug.

Blanchard said, “Holy shit.”

Layman walked over to the bodies. He picked up the swords. He placed them on the rug. He turned the bodies prone and pulled down trousers, skirts and underwear. Pinker tossed him four thermometers cinched by a rubber band. He inserted them into their rectums and counted seconds on his wristwatch.

Ashida counted off his watch. Layman removed the thermometers and checked the bars. He signaled the morgue men: Go now. They peeled off to their hearse.

Layman coughed. “I’d say they’ve been dead for ten hours. They were disemboweled, so the food in their intestines might have partially dispersed through their blood, onto the rug. If I can get a handle on their digestion, I might be able to pinpoint the time of their death more precisely.”

The morgue men wheeled in four metal gurneys. The borders were blood-guttered. Pinker stood over the bodies and snapped posterior shots.

Brown said, “It’s suicide. I talked to the Chief. He said to wrap it up and shitcan it.”

Dudley Smith walked in. “I lean toward suicide, but we’ll make that determination in good time.”

The morgue men leaned on their gurneys. Layman signaled Resume. They formed a stiff line. The inside man hoisted the stiffs. The outside man grabbed the stiffs and swung them. Layman stretched them out on the gurneys, face-up.

Ashida observed. Ashida gulped and spoke.

“The practice of seppuku entails a ritual meal shortly before the disembowelings. Dr. Layman should be able to determine the amount of food in their digestive tracts.”

Layman laughed. “I like this kid. He could call me ‘Nort,’ but he calls me ‘Dr.’ ”

Pinker laughed. “He’s a doctor himself. He’s a goddamn Stanford Ph.D.”

Blanchard made the jack-off sign. Dudley Smith winked at Ashida.

He fluttered. His legs dipped. Eight white men looked at him.

He walked to the gurneys. He slipped on rubber gloves. The morgue men gave him Who’s this punk? looks.

Ashida turned Ryoshi over. Yes—instinct confirmed. Ashida turned Johnny over. Yes—there again. Ashida turned Aya and Nancy over. Yes—again, again.

He had the floor. Eight white men stared at him.

“We’ve got hesitation marks directly below the entrance punctures. It’s not surprising, given the enormity of the deed. What’s anomalous is the similarity of the marks, given that the four people allegedly eviscerated themselves. In seppuku cases, the hesitation marks are usually straight downward punctures. In all four cases here, the tears go side to side, as if the people were thrashing or resisting the urge to kill themselves, in some way that has never been evidentially recorded in any criminological journal.”

Pinker and Layman crowded up. Ashida pointed to the marks on Nancy and Johnny. Layman brushed off blood flakes. Pinker whistled. Layman said, “The kid’s right.”

Ashida said, “The positioning of the bodies seems wrong to me. I’ve seen mass seppuku photos in Japanese textbooks. Invariably, family members grasp for one another as they die, even though their original intent was to pose side by side. The bodies are always found in a heap.”

Dudley Smith lit a cigarette. “Let’s say that we attribute the hesitation marks to papa. He was afraid that his wife, son and daughter would falter at the last moment and be unable to wield the blade. He guided their hands, killed them, arranged their bodies, and then killed himself. He hesitated on himself because the act of killing his family had unnerved him.”

Ashida said, “Yes, it’s plausible.”

Brown shrugged. “We’re getting too far afield. It’s a goddam suicide.”

Blanchard haw-hawed. “It’s a back column in the Mirror. ‘Dead Japs in Highland Park. Emperor Weeps.’ ”

Dudley Smith said, “Apologize to Dr. Ashida, Leland. ‘I’m sorry, sir’ will suffice.”

Blanchard stared at his shoes. Blanchard said, “I’m sorry, sir.”

Ashida stared at his shoes. Layman produced a flask. Pinker grabbed it, took a pull and passed it around. Ashida caught the dregs.

A morgue man laughed. Brown laughed. Ashida laughed. Dudley pointed to the swords and the stiffs.

“We’ll print them and run comparisons. We need to determine whose hand touched which weapon.”

Pinker shook his head. “The handles are pebbled leather. They won’t sustain prints.”

Layman said, “Dust the blades. We might get something.”

Ashida opened his evidence kit. On top: print powder, print ink, print brush, print cards.

He balanced the kit on Ryoshi’s gurney. He examined the four sets of hands. Rigor mortis had set. Their fingers were curled inward. It made the potential print rolls difficult.

Pinker opened his kit. Layman picked up the swords. Dudley walked over and stood by Ashida. They shared a look. It felt telepathic.

Ashida grabbed Ryoshi’s left wrist. Dudley bent the fingers and broke them. Bones snapped audibly. Ashida got a stable print surface.

Blanchard said, “Fuck.”

Brown said, “Don’t go squeamish, son.”

Ashida inked the fingers and thumb. Ashida rolled the tips onto a print card and got perfect spreads.

Blanchard said, “Mother dog.”

Pinker and Layman worked on the swords. Dudley broke Ryoshi’s right-hand fingers. Ashida inked them, rolled them and got perfect spreads.

The room temperature climbed. Ashida started sweating. Dudley broke Aya’s fingers. Dudley broke Johnny’s and Nancy’s fingers. Bones snapped. Slivers pierced skin.

Ashida inked the fingers. Ashida rolled the fingers. Ashida got perfect spreads. Dudley winked at him. Ashida felt himself blush.

Pinker and Layman held up the swords. They were dusted, hilt to tip. Pinker said, “No latents. Just smudges and smooth-leather glove prints.”

Blanchard whistled. “Shit, it’s homicide.”

Brown said, “Not necessarily.”

Pinker said, “Someone could have touched the blades with gloves on.”

Dudley said, “Toss the premises, Leland. We’re looking for smooth-leather gloves. No rough-leather work gloves or ladies’ gloves. We’re working on suppositions now.”

Blanchard scrammed. Brown produced a flask. Layman grabbed it, took a pull and passed it around. Dudley passed it to Ashida. He took a pull. The booze sparked a brainstorm.

“There’s a samurai tradition called ‘accomplice suicide.’ Dishonored patriarchs would bring in close friends or Shinto priests to help them kill themselves and their families. They were the ones who would actually wield the blade.”

Brown said, “You’re thinking that would account for the hesitation marks and positioning of the bodies.”

“Yes, but there’s one detail off. The accomplice always leaves family pictures beside the bodies.”

Brown shook his head. “Why did I roll out on this one? I’m a ranking police officer.”

Layman shook his head. “We don’t need Jap homicides with the world in the straits that it’s in.”

Dudley smiled at Ashida. “As a confirmed isolationist, I would have to agree.”

Thumps echoed upstairs. Scrape sounds followed. Blanchard yelled, “No leather gloves! We got cloth gloves, and that’s it!”

Ashida felt the liquor. The room was packed. White men with booze breath. Cigarette smoke. Four dead Japanese.

“There’s one more thing. The whole family was attired in smooth woolens, from the waist up. If Mr. Watanabe assisted in the suicides of the other three, he would have stood behind them to hold the swords, so he might have left foreign fabrics on their posteriors. A fifth person—a suicide accomplice or killer—might have left foreign fabrics on all four people, Mr. Watanabe included.”

Nods circulated. Yeah, we get it—but.

Pinker tossed Ashida a flashlight. He pushed the gurneys up flush and rolled the stiffs on their sides. The morgue men stepped back. Ashida went in two-handed—flashlight and magnifying glass.

He started with Nancy. She wore a thin wool blouse with embroidered snowflakes. In close now. Yes, there—light-colored foreign fibers. They were coarse and brightly dyed. Yes—mauve Shetland wool.

He went at Aya next. Her blouse was a wool-cotton blend. In close now. Yes—identical fibers, on her upper back.

Ashida oozed sweat. He wiped his hands on his suit coat and regripped his implements. Johnny wore a flannel shirt. In close now. Yes—mauve Shetland wool fibers, curlicued.

Ryoshi wore a fine-gauge cardigan. In close now—confirm or refute the thesis—

Yes. Mauve-colored Shetland wool fibers, along his entire back.

Ashida wiped his face. “There are identical fibers on all four of them. It’s a common sweater fiber, so it was an easy make. It’s mauve-dyed Shetland wool.”

Blanchard walked in. He looked slaphappy. He’d stuffed his pockets with comic books.

Dudley collared him. “Toss the place again, lad. Look for mauve-colored Shetland wool garments. Mauve is a light purple shade, in case you were wondering.”

Blanchard about-faced. Dudley said, “I want photographs. Create a perspective of the whole house. Let’s see if we’ve missed anything.”

Pinker dug in his kit. He grabbed flashbulbs and film. Ashida dug in his kit. He grabbed tweezers and an envelope. He wrote “Watanabe/​Avenue 45, 2:17 a.m., 12/7/41” on the flap.

Pinker snapped posterior pix. He got close-ups of the fibers, four bodies across. Brown and Layman walked out to the porch and lit cigarettes.

Ashida tweezed fibers and sealed them. Blanchard thumped around upstairs. He yelled, “I tossed all the dressers and closets! There’s nothing like that!”

Dudley watched Ashida work. Ashida tweezed fibers. He filled four envelopes. Pinker waved his camera. It meant Chop, chop. Ashida grabbed his evidence kit.

Photo sweep.

Pinker snapped the shots. Ashida carried the film and the flashbulbs.

They moved fast. Dudley followed them. They shot, reloaded, shot. The dead bulbs burned Ashida’s hands. He tossed them in his kit.

Photo sweep.

Living room, dining room, kitchen. A service porch and damp clothes on a line.

The detail tweaked Ashida. Why wash clothes on this day? Does this detail logically rule out seppuku?

Photo sweep.

They moved to the hallway. Floor pix, wall pix, ceiling pix—

Ashida looked down. Pinker looked up. They caught metal shards on the floor. They caught a small hole, directly above them.

Ashida said, “The floor.”

Pinker said, “The ceiling.”

Dudley saw it. He looked up and down. He said, “I find this compelling.”

Ashida squatted by the shards. They had to be silencer threads. They resembled the shards from the pharmacy heist.

“Did you read my report on the drugstore 211, Sergeant?”

“I did, Doctor. It was brilliantly etched and hypothetically rich. You said the bandit who brushed the book rack might not be the rape-o MP.”

Ashida nodded. He scooped the shards into an envelope. He wrote “Watanabe/​Avenue 45, 2:42 a.m., 12/7/41” on the flap. Pinker pointed to the ceiling. The hole was bullet size.

Dudley went After you. They quick-walked upstairs. A long carpet strip covered the landing. Dudley grabbed the near corner and pulled. The carpet flew off the floor.

Dudley yanked it to one side. There, on a floorboard—two bullet chunks.

Ashida got to them first. He knelt close. He put his magnifying glass in tight.

The chunks matched the drugstore chunks. It was a sure match or near match. It wasn’t a coincidence.

Pinker knelt close. “It’s a Luger with a shell catcher. I read your final report, Hideo. I know you did a recheck at the lab. There’s just one discrepancy. This bullet had to come from a different ammo batch. I could crush these chunks with my bare hand.”

Dudley knelt close. He picked up the chunks and crushed them. Powdered metal sifted off his hands.

He walked downstairs. Pinker went slack-jawed. Ashida thought he got it. It brought back his talk with Buzz Meeks. It brought back the green light on the Army rape-o.

Pinker stayed slack-jawed. Ashida walked downstairs. He heard voices in the kitchen. He hugged the hallway wall.

Brown said, “Maybe it’s our killer, maybe it’s not. All we probably have is the same man with a probable same firearm at two locations on the same day. Maybe he’s a rape-o, maybe he isn’t. We don’t know for sure that he left those fibers at the drugstore. Yeah, they were an MP’s armband fibers, but so what? If you’re thinking we’ve got a rape/​robbery/​homicide parlay, you might very well be right—but you sure as shit might be wrong.”

Dudley said, “It can’t be a full parlay. Nort Layman never fucks up his approximate time of death.”

Brown said, “Give me a road map, Dud.”

Dudley said, “I identified the rape-o off a mug-shot run. Jack Horrall gave me the green light. My boys and I killed the man at 3:30 p.m. yesterday. He couldn’t have killed the Japs.”

Ashida tingled with it. Another brainstorm sparked. Introductory Forensics: “Instincts will cohere.”

Deutsches Haus, West 15th Street. That Subversive Squad report. It’s a meeting place for pro-Nazis. They allegedly traffic in Lugers and silencers.