Dismissed with prejudice

CHAPTER 2

I have worked with these two men for so long, spent so much time in both the medical examiner's office and the crime lab, that I know Doc Baker and George Yamamoto far better than I know some of the Seattle P.D. brass upstairs in the Public Safety Building.

The two men are a study in contrasts. Baker is a big burly man, a human tank, who habitually goes over or through people rather than around them. His volume control is permanently stuck on loud, and when he speaks, he gesticulates wildly, flapping around like some overweight bird attempting to become airborne. Baker's suits look like they were pulled as-is off the rack at the nearest big-and-tall shop. They're often wrinkled and unkempt. He looks like the proverbial rumpled bed much of the time, and his socks seldom match whatever else he's wearing.

George Yamamoto, on the other hand, is absolutely precise, from the meticulously folded and creased cuffs of his Brooks Brothers trousers to his carefully articulated manner of speech. When he speaks, he punctuates his words with small, deft hand gestures. Where Baker orders his subordinates around, George's quietly efficient management style inspires both loyalty and dedication. Of the two, I'd have to say, George Yamamoto's crime lab is a much tighter run ship than Doc Baker's medical examiner's office.

Now, as George stood over the body of his dead friend, I was struck by his unflinching self-control. Tadeo Kurobashi may have been one of George Yamamoto's close friends, but you couldn't tell that by looking. The head of the Washington State Patrol Crime Lab is nothing if not a complete professional. His friend was dead, but it was George's job to help us find out how and why. That didn't mean he wasn't hurting; he was, but he didn't let it show, and he didn't let it get in the way.

"What do you have so far, Howard? he asked.

For once even Doc Baker seemed subdued. "George, I had no idea he was a friend of yours, or I never would have called you in.

Yamamoto finished donning his protective clothing. "It's all right, George replied, waving aside the apology. "You had no way of knowing.

He made his way around to where Doc Baker was standing, and together the two of them knelt on the floor beside the body. Speaking in hushed, careful tones that were astonishingly low for someone as noisy as Doc Baker, they took their time examining Kurobashi's corpse with its gaping, horrifying wound. Finished at last, both men stood up simultaneously.

"Well? Baker asked pointedly, almost but not quite reverting to his normally brusque, blunt style. "What do you think?

"It's definitely not hara-kiri, George announced.

Baker frowned. "It isn't? But I thought…

George shook his head. "Absolutely not, although someone may have wanted us to think it was.

"How can you tell?

"It's just not right. Seppuku is a form of ritual suicide with a long and honored tradition. Originally it was done with sharpened bamboo. But this is wrong. Totally wrong.

"What's all wrong? Baker asked.

"For one thing, he's in a chair, not on a zabuton. That's a floor cushion. For another, he's not wearing a kimono. Tadeo was a stickler for tradition with an eye for detail as well.

"What detail? Doc Baker was frowning.

"The traditional dress for seppuku is a white kimono.

The frown became thunderous. "You mean to tell me it isn't seppuku because he's wearing the wrong goddamned clothes? What about the sword? That is a samurai sword, isn't it? And isn't this hara-kiri or whatever the hell you call it a samurai tradition?

Baker was reluctant to give up his pet theory even in the face of expert information to the contrary.

"It is that, George Yamamoto agreed; "and it may still turn out to be suicide, but I doubt it.

Up until then, Doc Baker had been treating George Yamamoto with uncharacteristic deference and consideration, but anyone casting doubt on one of Baker's prize assumptions is going to get run over by a truck.

"You're saying it's not suicide then? You think it's murder?

George nodded. "Of all people, Tadeo wouldn't have violated the ancient traditions.

Baker rolled his eyes in disgust. "You mean he'd commit suicide by following some ancient recipe? Come now. Some of Baker's customary truculence was leaking back into his manner, but George wasn't intimidated.

"Tadeo knew more about samurai traditions than almost anyone in the country, he replied quietly. "He spent a lifetime learning about it.

Big Al and I had lingered in the background. We didn't want to disturb their deliberations, but we didn't want to miss out on something important, either.

"What did you call it? I asked.

"Seppuku, Yamamoto repeated. "You probably know it as hara-kiri. It's the ritual disembowelment of the samurai.

Big Al stirred uneasily. "What's all this crap about samurai? This is Seattle, for Chrissakes, not Japan. Besides, I thought all that samurai bullshit went away a hundred years ago.

"More like a hundred and twenty, Yamamoto corrected. "It's gone, but not forgotten.

"And that rusty old knife over there is supposedly a samurai sword?

George Yamamoto regarded Big Al with an air of impatience bordering on irritation. He nodded slowly. "A tanto, he said. "A hidden sword, sometimes called a woman's sword.

Al Lindstrom grunted. "That thing's so rusty it's hard to believe it could do that kind of damage.

George knelt down on one knee and examined the weapon. "Don't let appearances fool you. It can cut, all right. Those ancient swords were made from such high carbon content steel that they'll rust in minutes just from not having the blood wiped off, but they're still sharp as hell. From the looks of it, this one could possibly be very valuable.

"An antique, then? I asked.

George nodded.

"Do you think it belonged to him?

George glanced at me. A shadow of personal grief flickered across his carefully maintained professional facade. He stifled it as quickly as it had appeared. "I don't know. If it did, he never mentioned it, at least, not to me.

"You said he was an expert. Why? Was he descended from a samurai warrior?

"Not that I know of, but from the time I first knew him, he was interested in samuari history and lore as well as the swords and all the accompanying sword furniture.

"What kind of furniture? Big Al asked.

"The other equipment besides the blades themselves that were part of a warrior's equipment.

"How long did you know him, George? I asked gently.

There was a slight pause before he answered. "We had met earlier, when we were little, but we became friends in Minidoka. George Yamamoto made the statement softly, evenly, looking me square in the eye as he did so. "During the war, he added with quiet dignity.

George turned away. Once more he stood looking down at his friend's body in a room that was suddenly oppressively quiet. The $20,000 reparation being paid to survivors of Japanese War Relocation Camps may have mystified the rest of the country, but not the people who live here in the Northwest. We had a larger concentration of Japanese-Americans before the war. As a consequence we're more aware of the irrevocable damage done to those 125,000 people who were stripped of their rights and packed off to detention camps during World War II. Around here the scars are still very close to the surface.

Most the the detainees were citizens, born in the U.S. or naturalized, but they were nevertheless suspected of complicity with the Japanese, summarily deprived of their livelihood and possessions, and shipped into the interior. Minidoka, a raw barracks camp in the wilds of the Idaho desert, was where many of Seattle's Japanese-American folk, suffering alternately from terrible heat and terrible cold, waited out the war.

I knew vaguely that as a young teenager George Yamamoto had been incarcerated in one of those camps, but this was the first time he had ever spoken of it, and although I was barely born at the time, I felt ashamed of what had happened to him and to his family. Ashamed and chastened-a variation on a theme of the white man's burden.

The silence in the room had lengthened uncomfortably. I'm not sure George even noticed. He stood, lost in thought, gazing down sadly at the mutilated body of his dead friend.

"What does Minidoka have to do with samurai history? I asked.

George walked over to the window before he answered. "Tadeo was interested in it, that's all. Interested and curious. He spent hours every day talking to the old ones there, asking them questions, listening to their stories. He came out of the camp as an unofficial samurai expert. He was particularly interested in swords. The rest of the time he spent fiddling with radios. He single-handedly kept the few radios in the camp running on scavenged parts.

"Swords and radios? I asked. "That's an unlikely combination.

George smiled and nodded. "Tadeo is…was a very unusual man, equally interested in both the very old and the very new. Once the war was over, he went on and got degrees in electrical engineering from the University of Washington. We were in school there at the same time.

I could tell from the set of his shoulders that grief was hammering at him, and George Yamamoto was doing his best not to give way to it. Listening to him, I had, for the first time, a sense of what their meager existence in Minidoka must have been like. Obviously, living there together had forged a long lasting comrade-in-arms bond between Tadeo Kurobashi and George Yamamoto, the same kind of bond that comes from surviving other varieties of wartime experiences.

"Is that where he met his wife? I asked, once more trying to break up the silence before it swallowed us whole. "In the camp?

George swung away from the window. "Machiko? he asked, spitting out the name as though the very sound of it was offensive to him. "No, he answered. "Not her. She came over as a war bride in 1946 during the occupation. Tadeo married Machiko after her first husband died. He was still working his way through school when they married.

From the way he said it, I could tell that George had disapproved of his friend's choice of wife, that he had despised her in the past and still did in the present, even after all the intervening years.

Moving away from the window, George stepped over to the desk, standing in front of it and studying the items that lay on the smooth, polished surface. Without touching anything, he focused briefly on each of them, stopping eventually on the two halves of the wooden box. "Come look at this, he said.

Big Al and I did as we were told. Both the top and bottom of the slightly curved rosewood box had been carefully crafted and polished to a high gloss. The outside surface had been worn thin by years of opening and closing, but I was certain from looking at them that the two pieces would still fit together perfectly. On the top surface, a delicate inlaid ivory squirrel gathered an equally tiny mound of mother-of-pearl acorns. The exquisite inlay work was some of the best I've ever seen.

"It's beautiful, I said.

George Yamamoto nodded. "It is that, and I'm convinced that under all the blood we'll find the same design repeated on the handle of the tanto itself. Once the blade is cleaned up, we'll be able to see who made it.

"How can you do that? Big Al asked.

"A sword that fine would have been signed by the artisan who created it.

"You said a few minutes ago that it may be valuable. Just how valuable?

George shrugged. "That's hard to tell. Several thousand maybe. Possibly more, depending on whether or not we're dealing with a name-brand sword maker. Why do you ask?

"The landlord told us that Kurobashi was losing his business, that he was supposed to be completely moved out of the building by the end of the month.

"I didn't know that, George murmured. "I can't imagine how it could have happened. Tadeo was always careful with money. He shook his head. "Getting back to the sword, even if it is valuable, selling it probably wouldn't have helped him enough to make any difference. He paused and looked around the room. "If he was losing his business, I suppose that makes the idea of suicide a little more credible, but still…

Impatiently, Howard Baker stripped off his surgical gloves with a series of sharp snaps. "And as of right now, that's my preliminary finding, pending the autopsy, of course. All this talk of traditions and rituals doesn't mean a damn thing. We're going to find his fingerprints and nobody else's on that knife handle. I'd bet money on it.

Baker moved quickly to the door to summon his peons, the two technicians from the van who, along with their stretcher, were still waiting patiently in the outside reception area. "You can move him out as soon as George and the detectives give the word.

George waved for them to come ahead, while Big Al and I stepped back far enough to allow them to bring the stretcher into the room. George Yamamoto watched in silence as they carefully wrapped the hands to preserve trace evidence, covered the body with a disposable sheet, and eased it into a body bag and onto a stretcher.

Although the rubber-gloved technicians worked in almost total silence, Doc Baker's voice, booming away in the next room, provided more than enough background noise.

When they finally carried the stretcher out the door, Doc Baker stuck his head back inside. "I'm leaving, he said.

"When will you be doing the autopsy, Howard? George Yamamoto asked quietly.

"I don't know exactly. That'll depend on whatever else is scheduled. Why?

"I'd like to be there.

Baker frowned. "How come?

Doc Baker can be pretty overbearing at times, but George Yamamoto didn't back off an inch. "Tadeo was a friend of mine, Howard. I'm asking as a personal favor.

Finally Baker nodded reluctantly. "That doesn't sound like such a good idea, but all right, he agreed. "Except I don't know how much advance notice there'll be.

"Whenever it is, George replied, "I'll be there.

Baker looked from Yamamoto to me. "Crime-scene team's up next, you guys. They've been waiting outside. With that, Dr. Howard Baker marched out of the room. George started after him.

"Wait, I said, stopping him. In the flurry of activity, Baker had forgotten to ask George to look at the words on the CRT. "While you were over by the desk, did you happen to get a look at what was on the computer screen?

"No. What was it?

"Check it out, would you? Can you read Japanese?

"Some, George replied noncommittally. He turned and made his way back to the desk, walking gingerly around behind it, avoiding the blood-soaked part of the carpet from which the body had been removed. With a forefinger resting thoughtfully on one cheek, Yamamoto stood peering down at the computer's screen for several long seconds.

"It's part of a poem, he said eventually, nodding, "written in Romaji-romanized letters. I recognize it. I'm sure I've seen it before, but I can't remember the name of it or who wrote it. It's the same two lines repeated over and over.

"What does it say?

Again, George Yamamoto studied the screen for a long time. "It's something about a child, he said.

"What does it say exactly?

"I'm a criminalist, Beau, not a poet, but it's something to the effect that even in this fouled-up world, a child still gives hope.

I gave George Yamamoto full credit for keeping himself under very tight rein. Given the circumstances, I think I would have utilized far stronger terminology than fouled-up, but George is too straitlaced, too dignified to let something as profane as the "F-word escape his lips.

"Is that his child? I asked, motioning toward the picture on the wall behind the desk.

George nodded. "That's her, he said. "Kimiko. Kimi, we used to call her.

"Where does she live? Here in Seattle someplace?

"Not anymore. She's a graduate student over in Pullman, working on her Ph. D. at WSU. He pronounced it "WAZOO, the way generations of Cougars and non-Cougars alike have referred to Washington State University.

"Kimiko? I repeated. "Al, did you get that?

Big Al was taking notes for both of us, and he wasn't exactly being Cheerful Charlie about it. "Got it, Al answered grudgingly.

George Yamamoto looked closely at my injured hand. "What happened to you? he asked.

His question caught me flat-footed. I had no idea what had happened to my hand, and no ready-made answers leaped to my lips. Fortunately, Big Al Lindstrom came blundering to my rescue.

"Grace Beaumont. That's what we're calling him down in homicide these days. Got his fingers stuck in a car door. Pretty stupid if you ask me. How do you spell that name again, Kimiko?

What door? I wondered as Big Al continued taking notes. And how had it happened? And why didn't I remember it? But being a detective has its advantages. At least now I had more information than I'd had before.

Behind us the door to Tadeo Kurobashi's office opened and two crime-scene investigators entered the room. Quietly but firmly they shepherded us out of the office. In the reception area outside, Big Al determinedly kept gathering family information.

"So the wife's name is Machiko, and they live in Kirkland?

"It's called Bridle Downs now, George said. "And yes, it's part of Kirkland. Back when they bought it, though, it was still in the county. They moved there when Kimi got her first horse. She must have been around eleven at the time.

Big Al jotted some information in his notebook, then looked at Yamamoto appraisingly. "Since you're a friend of the family, do you want us to handle the notification, or would you like to do it?

George shook his head. Throughout the painful ordeal, he had seemed totally self-possessed. Now, for the first time, he appeared to be unsure of himself.

"I don't know. I knew Tadeo very well, but I was never close to his wife. Kimi and my two boys were friendly back and forth during high school, but that was years ago. Kimi would still remember me, I'm sure. I don't think her mother would like having me around at a time like this.

"So the two families socialized some? I asked.

"A little. At least Tadeo and Kimi did. Machiko lived like a recluse in that house of theirs. She never did anything or went anywhere.

There it was again, in his tone of voice, in what he said about Machiko Kurobashi, the same anger and resentment I had noticed earlier. If other people in their social milieu had felt the same level of antipathy toward Machiko Kurobashi that George Yamamoto did, then living as a recluse was probably a fairly good choice.

Looking for more breathing space in the small reception area, I backed around behind the receptionist's desk. Like Tadeo Kurobashi's, the desktop computer was still turned on, amber words glowing dimly on a dark screen in the office's bright fluorescent lighting.

I'm no linguist, but it looked to me as though that screen was showing the same thing as Tadeo Kurobashi's. To the left of the receptionist's desk was another small office, little more than a cubicle, with still another computer, this one sitting on a rolling stand. I hurried over to that one and discovered the same thing, a screen entirely filled with two brief lines, written in Japanese, repeated over and over.

George Yamamoto had watched me in silence while I moved from one computer to the other. When I stopped in front of the second one, something in my attitude must have tipped him off. He cocked his head to one side. "What is it? he asked.

"Same as the first one, I said.

"What do you mean? Yamamoto came around the desk and paused beside me. "You're right, he said, looking down. "It is the same thing.

"What do you think it means?

"I don't know. If Howard is correct in his assumption and if Tadeo did commit suicide, then this is probably nothing more or less than an electronic suicide note. He paused. "For Kimi, he added.

"For Kimi? I asked quickly. "For his daughter and not for his wife? Doesn't that seem odd?

"What's odd is that he left it on all the computers like that. It seems to me as though Tadeo would have wanted it to be more private.

Whatever was on that screen was a clue, a direction finder. I needed to know what it said as well as what it meant. Somehow I needed to capture the words for later, preserve them in order to discover whatever evidence might be contained in those untranslated, repetitive lines.

I turned back to Big Al. "Is Nancy still out there?

Nancy was Nancy Gresham, a Seattle P.D. police photographer. Lindstrom shrugged. "Probably. Want to talk to her? I nodded and he hurried out into the outside hallway to find her. He was back with her a moment later, but when I told her what I needed, she shook her head doubtfully.

"I can try, but the resolution is pretty iffy.

"You don't think we'll be able to read it?

"Probably not. If I were you, I'd have someone copy it by hand verbatim, just in case.

Because of my fingers, that onerous task fell to Big Al Lindstrom.

"Who, me? Big Al protested. "I'm a Norwegian. You expect me to be able to write in Japanese?

"You can copy the letters, I said. With only minimal grumbling, Big Al Lindstrom hunched his massive frame over the computer. There was no question of touching either the computer or the stenographer's chair in front of it for fear of disturbing evidence. Laboriously, one and two letters at a time, he began copying the unfamiliar words into his dog-eared notebook.

"Tell me more about the daughter, George, I said quietly. "About Kimi. Why would he leave the note for her?

"They've been at war for years.

"Who has, Kurobashi and his daughter?

George Yamamoto nodded. "They were always very close when she was younger, but they had a falling out shortly after Kimi went away to school in Ellensburg. That's where she got her undergraduate degree, at Central. As far as I know, they never got over whatever it was. They never made up.

"Do you have any idea what the feud was all about?

"No. Tadeo didn't say, and I didn't ask. I didn't want to pry.

"And how old is she now?

"Kimi? Twenty-eight or twenty-nine.

"Ten years is a long time to carry a grudge, I observed.

George nodded. "I'm sure it ate at Tadeo, although he never talked about it. Kimi's an interesting girl, Beau, bright and stubborn both. She's right between my two boys in age. She never was the stereotypical lotus blossom. Tomboy is the only word for it. She was always out roughhousing with the boys, and she could hold her own with them, too.

"She was smart in school-good in science and a whiz at math. She took after her father in the brains department. I remember Tadeo telling me she was getting her Ph. D. in electrical engineering. He was proud of her, but I think he was a little baffled when he found out she was following in his footsteps. He was a double E too.

"A what?

"A double E, an electrical engineer.

"So even though they were what you call ‘at war,' Kurobashi kept in touch with her?

"I could be wrong, but I think the bad feelings were pretty much one-sided on Kimi's part. After all, he did have her picture on the wall in there.

"And the trophy, I added.

"Okay, Big Al said, standing up and closing the notebook. "I've got it as good as it's gonna be got. I don't know if anyone else will be able to read the damn thing, but it's the best I can do. So what now, notify the next-of-kin?

I nodded. George Yamamoto flinched at my answer, but he didn't offer to go along, and I didn't press him. "We'd better, I said, "before the Noon News does it for us.

We rode the elevator down in silence. Just beyond the gate a maroon Nissan Pulsar NX with a black plastic condom over its face was parked in a no-parking zone with its Jesus Christ lights flashing. A man in a gray three-piece suit and a dark red power tie was arguing loudly and heatedly with the uniformed officer at the gate as though using his blinkers gave him carte blanche to block the fire lane.

"I'll go in a minute but first I've got to find him, and no he isn't over there with all those other people. I've already checked. If we don't leave right now, we'll never get to the courthouse in time.

"What seems to be the problem here? I asked, stepping through the gate.

The officer saw me and nodded gratefully. "This man says his client is inside and he needs to pick him up to go downtown. They're due at an appointment in twenty minutes.

"Who's your client? I asked.

The gray-suited man glared at me. "Who are you? he demanded in return.

"Detective J.P. Beaumont. I struggled my badge out of my pocket, marveling at how difficult even the most mundane tasks become when your fingers no longer work the way you need them to. The man in the gray suit sneered at my difficulty, which didn't make me like him any better. I've seen enough young, overly ambitious attorneys in my time to recognize the type. I made it a point not to genuflect. "Who's your client?

This guy was medium young, thirty-four or so, with a long thin frame and narrow sloping shoulders. His car and clothing both screamed cool macho dude. He was someone who needed all the macho help an image-maker could give him. His cheeks were puffed up like a chipmunk's and his protruding eyes were set too closely together. When he started to speak, a mouth full of silver braces flashed like a chrome grill in the midmorning sun.

"Mr. Kurobashi, he answered.

I took a wild stab in the dark. "This appointment wouldn't have anything to do with bankruptcy proceedings, would it?

"That's none of your business, he snapped. "That's privileged information. The braces caught the sun again and glinted wickedly. They were so at odds with his speech and mannerisms and cool macho dude getup that they somehow struck my funny bone. In my book, braces are for kids. I'm of the opinion that if your attorney is wearing braces, he's probably too young for the job.

"Mr. Kurobashi is dead, I said bluntly. "The medical examiner's already taken him to the morgue.

Stunned, the attorney reeled backward as though he'd been struck. He caught his balance on the shiny hood of the Pulsar and leaned on it heavily.

"Kurobashi, dead? he croaked. "You can't be serious!

"Yes, I'm serious. Now give my partner here your name and address so we can get back in touch with you later.

His name was Christopher H. Davenport, and his address was 1201 Third, the newest pricey address in town.

Davenport still looked shocked. "What happened? he managed.

"It's privileged information, I shot back. "Right now we're on our way to notify the next-of-kin. Please don't make any attempt to contact the Kurobashi home until we've had a chance to make a personal visit.

He nodded. "Of course not. I wouldn't think of it.

I left Davenport still dazed and sitting on the fender of his Nissan as I turned back to the cop. "Get word to Mr. Rennermann. Tell him that we'll have to stop by to see him sometime later today or tomorrow.

"Right, the officer said, "will do.

Once out of the building, George Yamamoto headed for his car and we went toward ours. Big Al was grumbling about having to play both chauffeur and secretary while my fingers were screwed up, but I wasn't paying much attention. My headache was back and I was hours and miles away from any possibility of aspirin.

We were waiting at the stop sign for traffic to clear on Fourth South when George Yamamoto pulled up beside us and honked his horn. I rolled down the window.

He had changed his mind. "I guess I'll go with you after all, he said. "You'll probably need someone to interpret. Machiko doesn't speak English very well or at least she didn't the last time I saw her.

"You know how to get to their place?

He nodded.

"We'll follow you, then. Lead the way.

Al waited long enough for George to pull out in front of us. "I could have found it all right, you know, he said.

I think he resented George going along, regarded his presence in somewhat the same light as Howard Baker did, as a hindrance rather than a help.

"Yes, I said, "but unless I miss my guess, your Japanese isn't all that hot. Mine sure isn't.

We drove to Kirkland in relative silence. At midmorning, traffic on the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge was fairly light. The entire trip only took about half an hour.

As we drove, I couldn't get the picture of Kimi Kurobashi out of my mind. What monster had reared its ugly head between that happy-go-lucky, horsy kid and her adoring father? What had set them at each other's throats? Whatever it was, now it was permanent. There would be no more chances for reconciliation. Those were gone. Used up.

Whatever hidden meaning might be locked in the cryptic message Tadeo Kurobashi had left for his wife or daughter in those final words on his computer screen, the feud between him and his daughter was never going to get any better. Their quarrel would never be over, never be resolved, not as long as Kimiko Kurobashi still lived.

People die. Quarrels don't. That inalterable realization made me sad as hell.

For everyone concerned.