Retribution ("M" Mystery) (7 page)

Chapter Twenty

Ramos parked and walked
across the lot into the courthouse lobby where he took the stairs down into the morgue. He bypassed the vault room where bodies were stored and followed the short hall directly to the medical examiner’s office. The room was dark and the fogged glass kept him from looking in. He turned and headed back down the hall but on second thought stepped into the vault room and picked up the wall phone.

“Dungeness Bay County Courthouse, how may I direct your call?”

“This is detective Octavio Ramos. Can you tell me when Sato Tessue left for the day?”

 “Oh no detective, he hasn’t left the building; he said he’d be working late tonight on the victims of that murder. Isn’t that just awful? They were killed right in their room, I can tell you I’m locking my doors tonight.”

Ramos reached around to the holster in the middle of his back. “Yes that sounds like a good idea, thank you for the information.” He hung up the phone as quietly as possible, and leading with his .45 back tracked to the ME’s office. He tried the knob. Locked. But as he shifted his weight the door moved a fraction. He dropped to one knee, pushing it all the way open. Sliding his hand up the wall he found the light switch. From his position the room appeared to be empty except for the desk in the center and a stack of file cabinets in the far corner. Slowly standing, everything appeared in order.

He turned out the light as he exited back into the hall, hugging the wall until he reached the vault room door. It was unlocked but he could see light coming out from underneath. Turning the knob he shouldered the door so hard it slammed against the wall. Sato Tessue was sitting in the chair behind the desk, held up straight by his out stretched arms, hands on the blotter. His head was gone.

At the sound of footsteps Ramos spun and dropped to his stomach.

“Shit, I almost let the air out of you.”

Buck froze when he saw the gun, arms out to the side, hands open.

Ramos nodded toward the desk as he got up. “Check out the blotter”

Buck walked to within a foot of the desk and leaned in. “It looks the same as the one on the fridge. Retribution.”

When the two detectives turned to leave they were confronted by a police officer.

“Sir, Detective Ramos.” He seemed to have something to say but didn’t know how to say it.

“This is detective Shore.”

 Then in a whisper, “Sir, there’s been another murder. North Beach, a woman.”

Both detectives took a step closer to the officer, causing him to take a step back.

“Cause of death?” Ramos said.

The officer took out a little notebook, more of a crutch than a memory aid. He glanced at the book and flipped a few pages. “Trauma to the back of the head.”

Ramos and Buck exchanged looks.

“Oh, and sir, the victim was also sexually assaulted.”

Ramos looked again at Buck who just shook his head. “Has the victim been identified?”

“Yes, sir. According to the drivers license found on the victim her name is Amy Kitting.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Anyone looking in the right direction
would have seen a shadow created by the streetlight. If they had looked long enough they would have seen the shadow split. But the sidewalks were empty. Shops in Dungeness Bay closed at six. Merchants went home, tourists returned to their motels. Traffic was reduced to the occasional traveler stopping for gas.

In Bay Park two deer were surprised by an image rather than a sound or scent. A black clad figure running along the edge of a meadow leapt across a creek without breaking stride. He stayed close to the trees and hopped the occasional boulder. Driven by duty, the cornerstone of bushido, the warrior’s code, he pushed himself. 

When he reached the entrance to the park he crouched behind the brown PARK CLOSED sign. He dropped to the ground and rolled into a drainage ditch, then crawled along until he came to a culvert that crossed under Main Street and came up on the far side of the Dungeness Hotel’s parking lot.

Scanning the lot and the front of the hotel for movement, and finding none, he leapt from the ditch and scrambled over the pickle weed to the edge of the bluff, and climbed down the rock face until he reached the beach. Scaling a boulder, he nimbly jumped onto some barnacled covered rocks, then dropped onto the sand and stepped into a large cavern. He looked up at the roof of the cave until he got his bearings and walked to the back wall. Using hand and foot holds invisible to the untrained eye he made his way like a spider up the wall toward the ceiling of the cavern until he disappeared into a shadow.

In the long forgotten sub-basement of the Dungeness Bay Hotel a trap door opened and the black clad figure emerged. He silently closed the door and climbed up a ladder that led into the basement of the hotel, and came up next to the giant boilers. Cold now, they were once used to heat all four floors. With a stealth born of years of practice he stepped onto the carpeted hall of the first floor. When he got to Room 12 he paused, placed his hand on the doorknob and applied his shoulder once. The door jam splintered with barely a sound.

Crabbing on the outer edge of his foot he remained silent as he made his way down the short hall to the bedroom, the door was ajar. Two. The bed held two. He relaxed his stealth and took a step closer. The silence was suddenly shattered by a creak in the floor as he shifted his weight. In a heart beat a small lamp went on and a short man with graying hair and squinting eyes leapt out of the bed and confronted him. In that moment he was paralyzed.

“Why do you enter our room?”

The man spoke in rapid fire Japanese. Confronted by an elder who recognized him as Japanese despite the hood, he executed a short bow.

“Forgive me, I’m on a journey of Giri.”

The older man bristled and took a step closer.

“Duty? What duty demands that you break into the room of this old man? You are too young to know of duty. Now get out”

He cowed under the harsh questioning of the aging Japanese, suddenly awash in memories. His mother’s screams turning into sirens, taking the phone from her hand and hanging up, the image of his father’s final choice, feet swinging above the toppled kitchen chair.

The old man stepped forward thrusting him back into the moment.

“I am not afraid of you.” He spotted the glint from a knife. “Would you kill me?”

In one step the black clad intruder spanned the distance to the old man, knocking him to the floor with a single strike. He hovered over the diminutive form of the old Japanese, knife poised for the kill.

“Eeeeeeeeee.” The wife sat up in bed, covers held at her chest as she screamed.

“Do you invade our privacy to kill or to rob us?” she asked. “Perhaps you are here to rape me? Come then.” In a single move the tiny woman swept the covers from the bed revealing her nude form.

“Leave the old man. I am what you seek.”

Shamed, he averted his eyes. Turning away, he fled the bedroom. Driven back from the front door by laughter, in the connecting hall he spun, sprinted across the tiny living room and dove through the window.

Chapter Twenty-two

The cruiser entered
the circular parking lot that opened onto Whaler’s Cove. It had to pull onto the shoulder to allow the ambulance to get by.

By the time it parked next to two black-and-whites and the van marked “Fort Point and Bay County Medical Examiner,” it was dark. Ramos walked around to the trunk and popped the lid retrieving the two spotlights by the pale illumination provided by the trunk light. He handed one to Buck.

They followed the curve of the unpaved road, leaving the parking lot behind, until, if they looked back they couldn’t have seen it at all. At the sharpest point of the curve sat a tow truck, its cable extending out across the sand. They followed it to the VW, approaching two officers who appeared to be just standing, watching. Ramos touched the nearest man on the shoulder.

“Jake, what can you tell me?” Ramos said, taken aback by the officer’s gaunt look. “Are you alright?”

Jake looked down then pulled out a little notebook. “It’s kind of hard, sir, we were dating a bit.”

Ramos grimaced internally. Dungeness Bay was a small town, most of his officers had grown up in tiny Bay County; a few had seen the occasional floater, usually a fisherman gone overboard and washed up on the beach.

He reached over and patted Jake on the shoulder. “Go home son, I’ll get your report later.”

Without a word Jake turned around and headed back to the parking lot.

Neither man spoke as they walked up to the VW. The tow truck operator was on his back, half under the vehicle looking for a place to hook the tow cable. Ramos walked to the driver’s side, and shined his light in.

“Buck, open the passenger side door.”

On the bench seat was a chalked image of a body. Until
Buck opened the door Ramos could only see the image up to the shoulders.

“What do you make of that?” Ramos said. “Lemon, have you seen this?”

The officer did a little jog up to the VW, “Yes, sir.” He then walked around the car, reached in and fingered the little switch to the on position triggering the interior light.

“Turn your light off, sir.”

The dim bulb under the yellowed plastic cover illuminated the interior creating a faint glint on the seat.

“That’s why Jake was so upset?” Ramos said.

“That and what the ME said,” the officer indicated the glint of moisture with a tilt of his head, “that was done after the victim was dead.”

Ramos shut the door. “I’ve seen enough. You pull any prints?”

Lemon gave a half smile. “Yes, sir, we did. A thumb and an index finger. I think we may have the bastard, sir.”

Buck began to work his way around the VW in an ever widening circle while Ramos climbed the dunes. They left Lemon to assist the tow truck driver. Twenty minutes later, when Buck reached the outer edge of the dry sand, he turned back, still sweeping the area with his light.

“Lemon, get some crime scene tape up here,” Ramos ordered. Buck slogged through the sand up the dune. “Hold it there.”

Buck stopped and played the dune with his light. “I don’t see anything.”

“Come around behind me.”

He backtracked around and came up behind Ramos.

“Now shine your light along the edge of the dune.”

Buck sunk to his knees aiming his light so it danced across the crest, highlighting an indentation.

“Somebody laid down across the dune,” Buck said.

Ramos shined his light down the backside of the dune. “And look here,” he said.

Buck stood and shined his light with Ramos’s. Little punches in the sand were all that were left of foot prints. With the same idea at the same time both men shined their lights on the VW.

“Bingo,” Buck said. “He laid here and watched someone, then when it was clear, he got up and walked down the dune to his car.”

“Probably parked on asphalt so as not to leave tire tracks,” Ramos said.

Chapter Twenty-three

The black clad figure
made his way to the pickleweed covered bluff, the words of Japanese echoing in his head, and half slid, half climbed down to the beach below, the same path his uncle Jimmy must have taken so many years ago. He made no effort to avoid leaving prints. He knew the tide would take care of that. He had to hide. His right shoulder drooped where he’d hit the ground, tangled in the window drapes. A sliver of glass had sliced the top of his right hand. The tide was coming in as he waded into the cavern. He would have to take care of his injuries before completing Retribution. He checked his watch: 7:30.

Using his left hand only he pulled himself from rock to rock, sloshing his way to the vertical tunnel located at the back of the cave. A series of deep indentations carved in the rock acted like rungs of a ladder. He looked up the shaft and could almost see Jimmy waving, just the way his father had said. He shook his head to clear his mind. He couldn’t afford yet another misstep. He’d need to use both hands to avoid a possible slip. Pain shot through his shoulder as he pulled himself up far enough to reach the next indentation with his left hand; three more and he’d be at the ledge. The tunnel was narrow enough that he braced his back against the opposite wall.

Gasping and sweating, he rolled onto the rock outcropping. Then duck-walked into the low cave until he collapsed from the effort onto a straw-filled mattress, just like the ones in the stories his father had told of the camp. When he had slowed his breathing, he opened his eyes; the low ceiling began spinning and he closed them again. He allowed his mind to spiral into a memory of his youth, of sitting, listening to his father’s bitter tales of life at Manzanar.

Peter tried opening his eyes again but the room still spun around. He clamped them shut and was immediately awash in the memory of his father becoming emotional even before he began telling his stories. He would watch him wipe at the tears, take a deep ragged breath and start to talk in that low whispery voice. When he was finished, his eyes would take on a far away look and he would continue in an even softer voice, talking about their arrival.

“It had been hot and the mountains called the Sierra loomed large when we arrived in late June. Snow covered in winter, I had to remind myself that we lived in a desert.”

Softer still, sometimes Peter had to lean forward to hear his father explain how he missed the ocean and the fishing boats, helping with the nets at the end of the day.

“The tide pools and circling seagulls,” he would say, “were all gone.” His father’s stories would always end in an inaudible whisper.

A chill racked Peter’s body, shattering images of his father’s stories. He opened his eyes to the spinning ceiling and knew he had to get out of the dampness of the tunnel, make his way into the basement and the old boilers. At the top of the vertical shaft he pulled himself out, flopping onto his stomach, exhausted. Peering over the edge into the dark opening in the stone floor, he remembered hearing how sometimes at night during storms Uncle Jimmy would sneak the giant kerosene lamp and make his way to the basement. On this very spot, perhaps, he would open the hatch that covered the yawning mouth of the tunnel and shine the light down to the boat below. Listening to the clanging of the metal rings that held it moored, protected by the cave from the thrashing of the angry sea.