Retribution ("M" Mystery) (6 page)

Ramos sat up in his chair. “How old?”

“Pre-World War Two, according to M.”  Buck shoved the newspaper to the end of the desk. “It means ‘Retribution.’”

Ramos began folding the newspaper into smaller and smaller squares as he spoke. “Great, retribution for what? Are you trying to tell me the killer is a vet? That would make him what? At least sixty?” He let out a low moan. “You expect me to believer our killer is one of those nutty holdouts from the Japanese army who refuses to believe the war is over?”

Buck rolled his eyes, he’d seen his boss this way before. In the middle of an investigation he’d go off on some insane tangent. As usual, he ignored Ramos’s comment.

“And why couldn’t the medical examiner do the translation?”

“That’s what M and I wondered. Tessue stood right next to me and agreed with M that the character was old Japanese, but said he didn’t know what it said.”

When he caught sight of Buck rolling his eyes, Ramos half smiled. “He’s about the age of my imaginary Imperial soldier. I could check his records but I believe he was born in Japan, probably before the war. “Really now,” Buck said. “Our killer is Japanese, or at lest leaves clues in Japanese, and seems to be wanting revenge. What do we know about Sato Tessue?

Ramos and Buck exchanged looks.

“I want you to pay Tessue a another visit,” said Ramos.

Buck reached across the desk, picked up the folded newspaper and tossed it in the metal trash can in the corner of the room.

“M says she thinks she knows what the weapon was. I ‘m waiting to hear back from her.” He removed the contract she had given him from his inside coat pocket and placed it in the middle of the desk. “As a matter of fact I want to bring her in on this case. She lives in Dungeness Bay, reads Japanese and is friends with the maid. And she…”

Ramos held up a hand. “No need to continue, I anticipated this after seeing you two this morning. I ran her PI license and did a background check. Nothing came up but it appears that she’s set for life.” Ramos caught the look of surprise on Buck’s face. “Did you know that she holds the deed to the property the Dungeness Bay Hotel sits on? The city makes monthly payments on the lease. She also owns the Malmstrom building, outright. Anyway we need all the help we can get on this case,” Ramos said, and reached over and picked up the contract.

The door to the office opened and a pleasant looking female officer entered.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Ramos addressed the women with a look that could kill. “Can’t it wait?”

She didn’t blink an eye at her boss’s response to the interruption and continued as though he hadn’t said a word.

“Detective Shore, your friend M, Mary Malmstrom. She’s been admitted to Dungeness Bay Hospital.” 

 The two detectives looked at each other.

“Do you have the circumstances leading up to her admittance?” Ramos said.

“No, sir. Only that she was admitted by ambulance less then an hour ago.”

 Ramos snapped his keys off the top of the desk and tossed them to Buck. “Take my cruiser, I’ll meet you at the hospital but first I’m going to pay our ME a visit.”

Chapter Eighteen

The distance from anywher
e in Dungeness Bay to the hospital was only a matter of minutes, so the announcement that M was taken to the hospital by ambulance was an indication that her condition was serious enough that she couldn’t be driven.

Buck made the twenty miles from the police department at Fort Point to the Dungeness Bay Community Hospital in ten minutes, turning on the sirens when he entered city limits.

He raced through the hospital lobby doors leaving the police cruiser in front, his badge out when the charge nurse approached.

“I’m here to see a recently admitted patient. Mary Malmstrom.”

The nurse leafed through some papers on a clipboard then looked up. “I’m sorry Ms. Malmstrom just came out of ICU and can’t receive visitors.”

He didn’t bat an eye. “I need to see her right now.” The nurse started to protest. “Right now!”

She leered back. “This way, then.”

She led him to Room 101. “This is Ms. Malmstrom’s room, please be brief.”

Buck opened the door to M’s room just a crack and peeked in, not sure what to expect. Even from the door he could see that her head was swathed in bandages. She was so pale her auburn hair was the only contrast to the starched white sheets.

He slowly approached the bed, picking up the plastic green chair for visitors and moving it out of his way. Kneeling down he took her hand and noticed the contrast to his own color. My god, she was pale.

  M opened her eyes. The tip of her tongue darted out and ran over her lips.

“I’m parched, could you get me some water?” Without a word Buck went into the bathroom where he found cups and straws. He ran the tap until the water was cold. When he came out M’s eyes were closed.

“M?” he whispered.

Her eyes opened and she spoke but didn’t turn her head. “I’m awake, just resting my eyes.”

He placed the straw in her mouth and watched as she drained the plastic cup. Then he noticed the foam C-collar around her neck.

“What happened?”

She let the straw drop from her lips as she spoke. “I recognized my attacker.”

Buck took the empty water cup away setting it on the floor. When he looked up M’s eyes were closed.

“Who was it, who did this to you?” 

Her eyes stayed shut and she didn’t answer.  He stood, then paused in case she opened her eyes again, but she didn’t. He silently walked to the door and nearly fell over when it opened just as he reached for it. The doctor glanced in at M then quietly shut the door, and glared at Buck as he stepped into the hall.

“Please come with me.” He lead the way to the deserted nurses station where he reached over the counter, retrieved a clipboard, and gave it a quick glance.

 “That woman is suffering from head trauma and may have a fractured skull.” He tucked the clipboard under one arm. “You were told she was not receiving visitors yet you barged into her room, jeopardizing her recovery.” The doctor slammed the clipboard on the counter. “I’d like you to leave the hospital.”

Buck was startled but not deterred. He held up one hand. “Just a minute.” He then reached over the counter and punched a number into the phone. “This is detective Buck Shore, yes, I know, I’m there now. Could you send over an officer? No, he went over to the morgue. Yes, I will. Thank you.” Buck hung up. He turned back to the doctor. “I’d like to see that clipboard now, if you don’t mind.”

The doctor turned several shades of red visible even in the dim lighting of the hall.

“I don’t care who you are,” he told Buck, the muscles in his neck now looking like steel cables. He took a deep breath and noisily exhaled, then waved Buck to the door.

Buck didn’t move. “That woman is involved in a homicide and may be able to identify the killer.” 

The doctor seemed shocked. “You’re referring to the decapitation at the hotel this morning? I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

Buck picked up the clipboard from the counter and handed it to the doctor. “What can you tell me about her injuries?”

  He seemed to read the first page before speaking. “Your witness has been struck in the head four maybe five times. She has a concussion with a possible skull fracture and whiplash. I’m holding her several nights for observation.”

Buck looked shocked. “Bruises, signs of a struggle?”

The doctor looked back down at the clipboard, shook his head.

 “No. She does have a shallow cut that runs the length of her breastbone.”

Again Buck was shocked. “Weapon?”

The doctor set the clipboard back on the other side of the counter. “No way to know. Something very sharp that’s for sure, the cut was right to the bone.”

“Was she sexually assaulted?”

“No, but isn’t this the woman who owns the Karate studio in town?”

 “Yes, she owns Dungeness Bay Fitness and Martial Arts, why?”

 “It wasn’t a fight, that’s for sure,” he said over his shoulder as he reached over the counter for another clipboard. “I mean she must have known who her attacker was.”

“What would make you say that?” Buck said.

The doctor handed Buck the second clipboard. “Take a look for yourself, this is the initial admission report, there’s hardly a bruise on her body.”

Buck scanned the clipboard and handed it back to the doctor.

“Thank you, you’ve been a big help.”

The doctor put the clipboard back behind the counter and made a show of looking at his watch.

“If you have no more questions I have rounds to make.” Without waiting, the doctor turned and headed toward the elevator, then stopped and turned. “Oh, detective, she’ll need some clothes.”

The elevator door opened and the doctor turned and stepped in.

Buck stood watching him walk away, and wondered who would have the skill to pound M into unconsciousness. His pondering was interrupted by a police officer.

“Excuse me, Detective Shore, what room am I assigned to?”

Buck turned and smiled at the young officer and started down the hall. “Room 101, single occupant.” The officer caught up to him matching his rapid pace.

“The doctor or a nurse goes in, you go in. Your relief will be here in four hours. No bathroom or coffee breaks, if you have to go, go now.”

The officer held up a thermos, “I’m fine.” He watched Buck open the door a crack and look in for a moment before letting it shut. “Special instructions?”

Buck leaned against the door. “No visitors. Anyone claims to be family, call me.”

“Mind me asking who I’m watching for?”

Buck shook his head. “No idea”

Chapter Nineteen

The Bay County morgue
was located under the courthouse. During the Cold War the basement had been converted to a concrete bunker complete with a complex filtered venting system. When Bay and Harbor counties decided they needed their own morgue, the outside wall was knocked out to allow access to vehicles.

Sato entered the darkened vault room. He walked straight from the door to his desk turning on the lamp. No need to light the room; he could see the Greens laying covered on the stainless steal tables. He opened the middle drawer and extracted gloves. The bodies were fine where they were but he wanted the head out of sight. He carried it to the open drawer, shorter and shallower then the others, normally reserved for children. He blocked the head so it wouldn’t roll and gently pushed the drawer shut.

      He blinked several times and turned from the wall of drawers when the room suddenly lit up. Confronted by a black clad figure he instinctively stepped back.

“You were at the camp,” the figure said, pulling down his mask.

Sato studied the face, far to young to have been interned, but was suddenly thrust back in time.

Manzanar, the Quonset hut where they manufactured parachutes. Training, after hours, in kenjutsu. For some of the boys it was a distraction, for others it was a connection to their heritage. But this man was too young. He couldn’t have been at the camp.

  The glint of the sword brought Sato back. “Who are you?”

“You remember Tyre Yamato, don’t you?” The figure moved to block the path to the door. “He was my father.”

 “Yamato? Yes, one of the children. I remember he had a run in with administration. I was saddened when I heard about his family.”

He brought the sword into a frontal defensive position. “Did you also know of their humiliation? Returning to Dungeness Bay to find their boats gone, home destroyed, replaced by a hotel?” As he spoke his sword dropped, his body racked by a silent sob.

Sato scanned the room for a weapon. “Many returned from the camps to find possessions, entire personal fortunes absorbed by the community. My entire family was lost to the bomb. I was cast out, penniless and adrift, into a society that reviled all things Japanese. My re-education was made a living hell. But I moved here, where our people, your people, lived and thrived for decades,” Sato said.

The black clad figure tensed, raised his sword. “You have been absorbed like the Yamato family, forgetting your heritage. You have become one of them.” He took a step forward. “They were your own, they were your people and you did nothing.”

In a single leap Sato cleared the space to the stainless steel tables. Opening a tiny drawer he removed a scalpel. The figure closed the distance with several small steps and raised his sword overhead. Sato moved clear of the table, stepping forward to answer the challenge. The figure brought the katana down in a diagonal sweep, intended to cut from shoulder to hip. Sato entered the circle, slicing deftly with his tiny weapon but missing altogether, he turned intending to sidestep the attack he knew was coming, but was too late. Sato Tessue died never knowing his attacker.

The figure stepped forward and knelt next to the crumpled form of the medical examiner, and bowed. “My name is Peter, I am on a journey of Giri for the purpose of Retribution. He stood, bent and grabbed the ME’s arms and dragged him to the center of the room and the desk there. He was surprised at how frail the old man was. How he’d stepped out to meet his challenge, not cowering or begging for his life. He placed Sato’s head next to the woman’s and reverently closed the drawer, and then turned to look at the old man where he’d propped him up behind the desk, arms outstretched.

For a moment Peter stood stalk still remembering how his father had been a child victim of an adult’s misguided solution. His idyllic life among his family’s fishing fleet in the small village at Dungeness Bay, Oregon was shattered with the arrival of a military transport bus. Men dressed in drab green, carrying rifles, went door to door. His father had witnessed his mother’s hysterics when she was told she told she would have to leave. Jimmy, the older brother, had rarely been included in his father’s stories. Only a single incident stood out. How he’d burst from the house that awful day, crossed the patch of pickle weed, climbed down the bluff and run across the beach to the cave where they moored the larger boat during storms, and disappeared inside.

Peter bowed again, and then turned and ducked under the half open roll up door, silently bringing it down all the way, then leapt from the dock where the ambulances parked. Two steps and he froze. He edged slowly back into the shadows. Only his eyes moved, following a patrol car to the front of the courthouse.