6:17 a.m.
Football practice. Early-morning scrimmage. His standard window view.
His apartment provided the view. He rented it for the view. All roads led back to Belmont. Green-and-black 4-ever.
Ashida watched a block-and-pass drill. He made the two receivers Bucky. Both boys fumbled. He shut his eyes and made them more Bucky. His Bucky snagged the ball and ran through the goalposts.
He walked to the living room closet. His early trip-wire gizmo was stashed on a shelf. He kept his photo box beside it.
The pictures were paper-sheathed and sequestered from sunlight. He’d hidden the camera behind a ledge, facing the showers. A tight-sprung wristwatch tripped the shutter.
Basketball practice ended at 4:00. The camera clicked at two-minute intervals. Lucky clicks caught Bucky, stripped.
Ashida studied the photos. He held them by the edges and left no fingerprints. He recalled his lab work with Bill Parker. They turned up that one print. He dusted the other Lugers, with nil results. Parker nailed him for the Deutsches Haus 459. They eschewed an explicit exchange.
The photos were perfect. Bucky was perfect. The black-and-white was perfectly etched. Kay Lake tugged at him. He assumed her perspective. The silly huntress mooned for Bucky Bleichert. What would she think of his Bucky, nude?
She called him last night. It was all about that crazy film. A muckraking exposé. Roundups as pogrom. It derived from her maneuverings with Bill Parker.
She invited him to a party tonight. “Comrade” Claire was tossing a do. He agreed to go.
Ashida replaced the photos and studied the gizmo. The lens mount was firm. The shutter wire was taut. The switch mechanism had chipped over time. It rendered the gizmo unperfect.
The new gizmo was still stashed outside Whalen’s Drugstore. Secondary switch gears were tucked in. It was early. He could remove the backup gears and refit the old gizmo.
He walked downstairs. He got his car and drove downtown. Traffic was light. It supplied a cognitive window. He brain-walked through the house.
Watanabe/187 P.C. Room by room, quadrant by quadrant. Nine days since the murders. His ten thousandth walk-through.
6th and Spring was morning quiet. He parked outside Whalen’s and studied his gizmo. The casing held firm. The gizmo remained protected. He pulled the secondary switch gears and drove off.
He turned on the radio. The police band kicked in. Code 3—homicide at Melrose and Virgil.
Dead man in a phone booth. Gunshot wounds, close range. Lab men and morgue men requested. Ray Pinker and Thad Brown there now.
Ashida drove home. He walked upstairs and grabbed the a.m. Herald. He saw a news pic below the fold.
A Fed roust. A curio shop—1st and Alameda. Dick Hood, Ed Satterlee, two unknown Feds. One frightened Japanese man.
Two Feds held large swords. Two Feds held matching SCABBARDS. There it was. Hot off a fluke. Right at mental walk-through ten thousand.
Here’s what he missed. Here’s what Dudley missed.
There were no SCABBARDS. There were no HOOKS or WALL PEGS to hang the swords on. They were display items. They were always left out to see.
Ashida vibrated. Camera shutters clicked.
No scabbards.
No hooks or wall pegs.
No spackling or wall indentations. No wallpaper inconsistencies.
CLICK—ten thousand times. CLICK—ten thousand and one.
CLICK—the world’s revving up now. CLICK—it’s at silent-movie speed.
Ashida walked back downstairs. He got his car. The car drove him. He made Avenue 45 in one second. The house glowed ten thousand times too bright.
He let himself in. He stood still and reduced all that speed.
He walked through the living room. He scrutinized and confirmed. He walked through the dining room. He scrutinized and confirmed. He walked through the kitchen. Yes, scrutinized and—
“Hello, lad.”
Ashida turned around. Dudley wore plaid suit pants and no coat.
“You embody revelation, lad. You have quite the large eyes at this moment.”
“I know what we missed. That ‘very obvious thing.’ I came here to confirm it.”
Dudley smiled. His neck was lipstick-smeared.
“Were you going to tell me? Or were you going to share the insight with Bill Parker exclusively?”
Ashida said, “I hadn’t decided yet.”
Dudley laughed. “How much evidence have you withheld? I’m curious about that, and about the extent of your collusion with Bill Parker.”
Ashida gripped the sink ledge. “I’m not telling you.”
Dudley said, “Tell me what I missed, then. Dazzle me with your circumlocutions.”
Ashida smiled. “There were no scabbards. There were no wall pegs or hooks. I don’t understand how we both overlooked it.”
Dudley bowed. “Extrapolate, please.”
Ashida said, “The killer brought the swords inside, in some form of conveyance, or had secreted them here on a prior visit. The act was premeditated, and conceived and embellished in a state of escalating psychosis. The family complied out of a racially and culturally regressed sense of shame, deriving from Nancy Watanabe’s sexual misconduct and recent abortion, and Johnny Watanabe’s incestuous voyeurism and probable molesting of Nancy. The motive for the killings is tripartite. The killer was driven by sexual animus, a sense of personal betrayal, and insane ideological conviction. The entire case rests on the distinction between the shade of mauve and various shades of purple. The mauve fibers on the victims’ posteriors conclusively indict the killer, regardless of what you and Chief Horrall want. It might be the heavyset white man, seen in a purple sweater. It might be a Japanese man, wearing a much lighter-shade garment. Ceremonial swords are quasi-illegal. The curio shops that sell them keep no records. White collectors purchase the swords, along with Japanese patriarchs eager to celebrate their feudal heritage. We remain at an evidential dead end. The overall motives are becoming clear to me.”
Dudley sniffed his shirt cuffs. Ashida smelled an orchid-content perfume.
“I will not require you to divulge what you’ve withheld from me. I will ask if you have suspects.”
Ashida said, “I think I understand the crime, but I have no inkling as to who committed it. It feels very much like an open-file case to me.”
“You said it yourself, Doctor. Chief Horrall and I would very much prefer a Japanese killer. I’m sure you’ve discussed our wishes with Captain Parker.”
Ashida said, “Yes. We’ve discussed it.”
“Have you discussed official versus unofficial justice? Has Whiskey Bill extolled the virtues of expedient justice to you?”
Ashida stepped close. Dudley Smith reeked of a woman.
“You explain it, Sergeant. You tell me what it means.”
Dudley stepped closer. Their hands almost touched.
“A Japanese killer indicted by New Year’s. A man so vile that the injustice of his conviction is monumentally overshadowed by the sheer monstrousness of the acts he’s already committed, and fully justified by the interdiction of the future acts he will most assuredly commit. The real killer, perhaps uncovered at a later date, perhaps not. Anonymously extinguished, regardless of his race.”
Ashida bowed. “That statement in no way offends me.”
Dudley sniffed his shirt cuffs. The mad creature, moved by scent.
“I commend you for your actions at Kwan’s Pagoda. Your composure in the face of Whiskey Bill’s boorishness did not go unnoticed by Jack Horrall.”
Ashida said, “The Chief’s patronage is important to me.”
Dudley said, “As it should be. The Chief will be meeting J. Edgar Hoover at Union Station this afternoon. Mr. Hoover is here to further implement his plans to abrogate the civil liberties of your people. Japanese radios and firearms will be confiscated. A good many more Japanese businesses will be forcibly closed. There will be a massive seizure of Japanese property and financial assets, and it is likely that your people will be made to wear demeaning armbands. I condemn these actions, even as I attempt to exploit them. I am grateful that my lawless streak allows me the latitude to maneuver, and to offer opportunities and protection to my colleagues and those who serve to further my designs. I feel that you have begun to emerge as a colleague.”
Ashida went dry-mouthed. The kitchen went gas-stove hot.
Dudley said, “A Japanese man was murdered early this morning. His name was Goro Shigeta, and he was shot in a phone booth south of Hollywood. He appears to have been heavily in debt to bookies in Little Tokyo, and Thad Brown thinks he was killed to settle a gambling debt. I would disagree with that hypothesis. I think a white man motivated by misguided patriotism and racial hatred killed Mr. Shigeta, and I think that a good deal more of such hatred will be inflicted upon your people. I would like to spare you and your family the horror of it.”
Ashida white-knuckled the sink ledge. “And, in return?”
“In return, I would like you to weigh the pros and cons of my patronage versus Bill Parker’s.”
Ashida said, “Yes, I’ll keep an open mind.”
Dudley half-bowed. “Grand. And, along those lines, I would like to show you something. It entails a trip to Malibu, tomorrow afternoon, and it pertains to a plan that Ace Kwan and I are working on. We are determined to assist members of the Japanese community in avoiding internment.”
“Well-heeled members?”
Dudley winked and about-faced. He grabbed the dining room phone and dialed a number. Ashida heard a pick-up sound.
Dudley laughed. The phone line crackled. Dudley said, “Dr. Ashida” and “witness the procedure.” Dudley listened and smiled.
Dudley said, “Our surgeon chum, Terry Lux.” Dudley listened and smiled. Dudley said, “He’s drying out Miss De Haven? Yes, I’ve heard of her.”
“Comrade” Claire. Kay Lake. The party tonight. Some odd confluence.
Ace Kwan brayed on the telephone. It was surely his bray. Dudley winked and turned away. Ashida ducked out the kitchen door.
There—one last glance. A telling one—Dudley sniffs his shirt cuffs.
He walked around the house. Neighbors evil-eyed him. Who’s that Jap? Oh, yeah—he’s with the cops.
Ashida bagged his car. He felt light-headed. The car drove him. It bypassed the lab. It drove him to Virgil and Melrose.
The booth was roped off. POLICE SEARCH AREA, NO TRESPASS, KEEP OUT. Black-and-whites, K-cars, meat wagons. Thad Brown, Nort Layman, Ray Pinker. Three morgue jockeys, poised with body sacks.
Ashida parked across the street. He pushed his seat back and watched.
Goro Shigeta had a face and no head. His rear skull was obliterated. His ears blew out with his brains. The killer stood close to him. The powder burns on his forehead indicated that. The shots shattered the rear phone-booth wall.
Ray Pinker bagged shell casings. They were fat. They were probably .45 ACPs. The morgue men scooped up brains.
Ashida watched. Simple details held him. The day slipped away.
The morgue men hauled off Shigeta. Thad Brown directed a canvassing crew. Bluesuits swarmed Virgil down to the south horizon and worked their way back. They buttonholed Brown. They went Nix, nothing, nyet.
Brown sent them home. The scene dispersed. A bluesuit lagged back and watchdogged the booth.
Ashida took off. The car drove him. He thought of Dudley Smith. Some woman marked the Mad Creature. He knew her scent, secondhand.
Ashida drove downtown. He double-parked outside the station and ran up to the lab. He was late for Claire De Haven’s party. He kept spare dress clothes in his locker.
He beelined over. A note was taped to the door.
Hideo,
Per Watanabe/187 P.C.
Nort’s got more on the bodies. (The thawing revealed an irregular threading on the wounds, & now Nort’s convinced the swords found at the scene couldn’t have made the incisions.) Also, he found minute traces of a rare Japanese narcotic poison in the victims’ livers.
R.P.
It came at him, jumbled. He sifted it forensically. He layered in case logic. He shook it all out.
The killer brought the swords and smeared blood on them postmortem. He didn’t kill them with the swords. The swords made the hesitation punctures only. The punctures were inflicted postmortem and were solely obfuscation. The narcotic poison anesthetized the Watanabes. It left them compliant and immobilized at the moment of their deaths. The killer killed them with a prosaic foreign implement or THE KNIFE.
Japanese narcotic poisons induce near-immediate retching. Predeath euphoria and narcoleptic states follow. The killer knew the Watanabes. The killer served them tea. They retched on their clothes. He made them change clothes in a euphoric state. Ryoshi wrote the suicide note then. The killer was Japanese or knew Japanese or decided to risk Ryoshi’s predeath warning to the police. Ryoshi might have considered it all a prank and might not have known they were doomed. The purple-sweater white man was middle-aged and heavyset. Jim Larkin knew Japanese. Jim Larkin was a gaunt sixty-seven. The purple-sweater white man pulled up in a car. Jim Larkin had no driver’s license and did not own an automobile. Jim Larkin was Fifth Column. The Watanabes were Fifth Column. Foreknowledge of Pearl Harbor defined all five deaths.
The Watanabes were dead. The killer lingered in the house. He washed their soiled clothes and hung them up to dry. Why wash clothes on the day that you intend to die? This hypothesis answered that question.
The killer served them tea in the kitchen. They retched onto slick linoleum. The killer wiped their vomit up. Feudal warlords dipped their knives in slow-acting poison. This killer did not. Japanese narcotic poison absorbed rapidly. It evaporated more rapidly in spilled blood. The poison should not have been identified. The killer did not bank on Nort Layman’s near-insane persistence.
Ashida thought it all through.
Ashida thought, THE KNIFE.