Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 11/01/10 Read online

  Lockhart swallowed hard. The morgue was too bright. It was always too bright.

  “How about a katana?” Ericson asked, unfazed.

  “He means a samurai sword, doc,” Lockhart said, clenching his jaws and trying not to look at the corpse.

  “I know what a katana is,” Guerra snapped.

  “I just thought, you know, what with the Chinese writing and all,” Ericson said. “Maybe the killer is something of a connoisseur of Asian martial artifacts.”

  “‘Connoisseur of Asian martial artifacts?’” Lockhart said, almost under his breath. “Whack job with a fetish for knives is more like it.”

  Ericson didn’t react. Maybe he hadn’t heard.

  “From the angle of attack, I’d say a tall man. Or a very tall woman,” Guerra said, pointedly ignoring Ericson. “Well over six foot.”

  Lockhart’s cell phone chirped and he took the opportunity to turn away from the steel table. “Lockhart . . . right. Thanks.” He flipped the phone shut and looked at Guerra and Ericson.

  “Got to go. Maybe the idea of a katana isn’t so farfetched. That writing on the wall, it’s not Chinese after all. It’s Japanese. A signature.”

  The Asian man was sitting on the chair beside Lockhart’s desk. He was small, in his sixties, conservatively dressed in a loose gray suit, his red and blue regimental-stripe tie tucked into a maroon sweater vest. The professorial look was further emphasized by his rectangular steel-rimmed glasses, partially obscuring his quick eyes. As Lockhart approached, he stood and perfunctorily bowed, holding out his business card with both hands.

  Lockhart took the card, held out his right hand, and they shook. He looked at the card, which was printed in Japanese on one side and in English on the other.

  ODA MASATO, PH.D.

  CULTURAL ATTACHÉ, CONSULATE OF JAPAN

  “Please sit, Dr. Oda.” Lockhart pulled one of his own cards from the cardholder on his desk and unceremoniously handed it to Oda.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, Detective,” he said. “I think that you might be able to help us.”

  “Likewise,” Lockhart replied. “I understand that you’ve identified the . . . the signature at the crime scene.”

  “Yes, very strange,” Oda said. “That is, I had never expected to see such a thing ever again.”

  “You’ve seen something like this before?”

  “Not for many years. I had begun to lose hope.”

  “Hope?” Lockhart felt his gorge starting to rise.

  “You misunderstand—perhaps I expressed myself poorly. Of course such a discovery is very upsetting, and in such tragic circumstances. But it is the first, I suppose you might say, lead, we have seen in thirty years. I am sorry; I am not explaining things well.”

  “Not really.”

  “You asked if I have seen such a thing before. The answer is yes, twice before, although never at first hand. The first time was in Japan. That was in 1956. Of course, I was only a student then, but I saw the police report many years later, when I was in graduate school. Then I came across something similar in 1983, but that was here, in America.”

  “Why don’t you cut to the chase, Doctor?”

  “Excuse me, please?”

  “Get to the point. I mean, please get to the point.”

  “Ah, yes, of course.” Oda reached into his inside coat pocket and withdrew a black and white photocopy of the name on the wall. He laid it flat on Lockhart’s desk and fixed his index finger on the top ideogram.

  “This is a signature, Detective, a very infamous signature.”

  “So I’ve been told. Murderers don’t usually sign their work.”

  Oda smiled deprecatingly and tilted his head. “That depends on what you mean, Detective. But this, this is the signature of Muramasa Senzo.”

  At last, a name. “Is he wanted in Japan?”

  Oda sat up in surprise. “Oh, no, Detective, not at all. You see, he has been dead for almost five hundred years.”

  Lockhart stood, clenching his fists. Oda stood with him, his palms forward in a placating gesture. “Let me explain. Let me explain, please.”

  “Sorry,” Lockhart grunted, and returned to his seat. “So the murderer wrote the name of a man who has been dead for a very long time. Well, that’s something. Maybe a profiler can make something of it.”

  “Yes, but it is not simply Muramasa’s name—it is his signature. As if he had written it himself.”

  Lockhart stared down at the photocopy as if it could tell him something more. Of course, it didn’t.

  “So who exactly was this Muramasa?”

  “A renowned swordsmith of the late fifteenth century. It was the golden age for great swords.” Oda could see the impatience on Lockhart’s face and hastily continued. “Swordsmiths are held in very high esteem in Japan, Detective, very high. They are considered artists as much as painters or poets. They imbue their work with their own spirits, just as surely as the soul of a Hokusai, or a Basho, shines in his own work. But Muramasa Senzo was different. He was not a good man. His swords were known for their thirst for blood. They are dangerous.”

  “What are you saying? His swords were what, cursed?” Lockhart stared incredulously at the little man across the desk.

  “Ne, I don’t mean to suggest—Curses are not such simple things, Detective. I believe you have an expression in English, the self-fulfilling prophesy? Many times for a curse to be effective it is only necessary that someone believe in the curse. Is that not so?”

  Lockhart frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Perhaps some history will illustrate. You are investigating a crime. I have knowledge of two similar crimes. The earliest of these was committed in 1956, in Tokyo. The victim was a jigoku, a hell woman—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A prostitute, who practiced her trade among the American soldiers. She was beheaded, and Muramasa’s signature was written on the wall of the room where she was found, in her blood. The person most suspected of the crime was an American, Corporal Roger McClardy of Cleveland, Ohio. This McClardy collected Japanese weapons as trophies, and at some point had acquired several valuable swords, among which was one that was alleged to be a Muramasa. He was tried for the murder by court-martial, but he was acquitted, since it seemed obvious that the murderer must know how to write kanji, Japanese characters.”

  “Couldn’t he have just copied the design?”

  “Japanese calligraphy is also a high art, Detective,” Oda replied. “The hand that had written Muramasa’s name on the wall of the prostitute’s room had all the appearance of being a master’s. Forgery or imitation by an untrained foreigner is not credible. This was evidence that the murderer must be Japanese.”

  “So he was innocent.”

  Oda smiled and sharply inhaled. “Ah. But there was other evidence against him. He was a collector of spoils. Among other treasures, he claimed to have acquired an antique sword of inestimable worth. Investigation showed that this sword was supposedly the very blade with which Nagatake cleaved the crest of Toda Shigemasa’s helm at the battle of Sekigahara in 1600. A very famous sword, indeed.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Of course. But there is more you should know about the battle. Sekigahara was the greatest battle in the history of Japan, regarded by us as you might look at Gettysburg in your own Civil War. The winner of the battle was Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first shogun, and with his victory he attained a power for his dynasty that would last almost three hundred years and isolate Japan from the world.

  “Now, Nagatake was a great warrior on the side of Ieyasu, and Toda Shigemasa was a valiant vassal of Otani Yoshitsugu, the closest ally of Ieyasu’s great enemy, Ishida Mitsunari. After the battle, Ieyasu asked to see Nagatake’s sword—and accidentally cut himself with it, a fact beyond all comprehension when you consider that Ieyasu was born to the blade. Ieyasu then remarked that it must be a Muramasa blade, as it was well known that Muramasa swords held a particular hatred for
the Tokugawa clan. And so it proved.”

  “All very interesting, but hardly relevant.”

  “But it is relevant, Detective. Because of their reputations for being antagonistic to the most powerful man Japan has ever known, Muramasa blades were highly prized by Ieyasu’s enemies and were unusually valuable. As a consequence, there was a proliferation of forgeries, false swords bearing Muramasa’s signature that commanded prices far above their actual worth. Ieyasu almost certainly had Nagatake’s katana destroyed—it is unbelievable that he would suffer it to exist. This means that Corporal McClardy’s sword was almost certainly one of those forgeries.”

  “Then it couldn’t bear the curse.” Lockhart was tiring of the lesson. He didn’t like academics to begin with, and found Oda particularly irritating.

  “Precisely. But someone believing that the curse was upon the blade might be influenced to act as if the curse were real. This, by the way, was another point in Sergeant McClardy’s favor at the trial, because he knew little of Japanese history and nothing of Muramasa’s reputation.”

  “So the killer must have been Japanese.”

  “That is far from certain. McClardy was eventually cashiered from the Army for unrelated crimes. He returned to the United States, but he took his swords with him, even though this was highly illegal. He died in 1959 while attempting to rob a bank. The sword was not recovered. And then in 1983, a crime was committed in Chicago almost identical to the Tokyo murder—and to the murder you are now investigating. That was the incident that engaged the attention of my government.”

  “But McClardy was already dead. No, wait. I get it. You think that McClardy’s antique katana was somehow involved, even though he wasn’t around to use it.”

  “Oh, no, Detective. I know beyond doubt that McClardy’s katana was the murder weapon. It was recovered, although the murderer was never caught.”

  “I think I see where you’re going with this. But it’s a dead end. If the sword was booked as evidence, it could hardly have been used again here.”

  “I am almost finished with my story, Detective. You see, I first came to the United States in 1987, specifically to take charge of this weapon, which is an artifact of historical interest and the property of the Japanese government. But when I arrived, the sword was gone. Someone had stolen it from police custody, perhaps years before.”

  As a lead, it was hopelessly thin, but it was all there was. Lockhart’s temper again flared when Oda coolly stated the obvious.

  “Find the sword, and you will find your murderer.”

  When Lockhart got home, he found Elaine made up and wearing a cocktail dress. At first he thought he’d forgotten about a planned night out, but the rich aromas wafting out of the kitchen told him she’d been cooking all afternoon.

  “Did John tell you what time he’d get here?” Elaine asked, fussing with a strap on her right shoe.

  She looked great. Lockhart was so distracted he didn’t digest her question right away, and then he remembered. Elaine had invited John Ericson to dinner, taking pity on his status as a lonely bachelor.

  “Sevenish,” Lockhart said, covering up his lapse with the smoothness of an accomplished liar.

  “What’s that?”

  He reached into the shopping bag he had brought into the house and pulled out a book. “This? Just some homework for a case.”

  She took the book from him and stiffened as she saw the cover. Arms and Armour of Feudal Japan by Neville Woodward.

  She quickly recovered and wryly smiled. “Must be an unusual case.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  She put the book down on his nightstand, keeping her eyes on its glossy dustcover. It showed a samurai helmet, a kabuto, complete with so-mempo, a face mask. The wrought-iron mask depicted a hideously contorted face.

  “You’re all dolled up for a family dinner,” he said, immediately regretting the tone of his voice. The invitation to Ericson had been couched in terms emphasizing the allure of wholesome home cooking.

  She shrugged. “I didn’t want to be underdressed. You know John. I’ll bet he wears a suit.”

  She had a point. Ericson’s idea of casual was vintage ’80s Don Johnson: a linen suit over a colored T-shirt, complete with hair gel and five o’clock shadow and chic deodorant body spray. He would have shaved today, though. It was a workday.

  His partner showed up at seven on the dot, wearing a suit as predicted, but with an open-collar dress shirt and a suede vest. Elaine had prepared chicken cacciatore and a fancy salad, with asparagus in hollandaise sauce as a side dish and tiramisu for dessert, the last having been bought at a specialty bakery. It was delicious, much better than their regular fare, but Lockhart did not enjoy the dinner at all. Elaine sparkled and Ericson displayed an unexpected talent for wit and tact, and Lockhart worked hard at not appearing sullen.

  He didn’t want to be there. He felt the need to talk to somebody, and he knew whom he wanted to talk to, but there was no way he could escape. Not tonight. Most likely Beth was with her husband, anyway. Their liaisons were becoming less frequent, and Lockhart wondered if maybe she was tired of keeping up the subterfuge necessitated by their circumstances. But Beth Lundstrom would have listened to him, and she certainly would not have tried his patience with any irritating demands. Especially not by making him put up with his stupid partner.

  Ericson departed just after ten. Lockhart watched impassively as his partner lingered over his good-bye handshake with Elaine, the two of them joyfully grinning as if they had just won the lottery. He bet Ericson was headed for a club rather than home.

  At three o’clock in the morning, Elaine violently rose with a cry of pain, clutching her forehead. Before he could reach out to her, she cried out in anger: “Uragiri!”

  By the time she was fully awake, she didn’t remember anything.

  The 1983 case file detailing the second of Oda’s similar murders, the one in Chicago, had been overnighted from Chicago P.D., but it contained almost nothing of any value. Like Lockhart’s own case, there had been two victims. The first had been a high-end escort, the second a bellhop who worked for the four-star hotel where the murders had taken place. The prime suspect had been a bent veteran vice cop, Tiger Curzon, whose career was already in tatters before he attracted the attention of Chicago Homicide. Muramasa’s signature on the wall of the hotel room had been identified by a professor at the University of Chicago, who also apparently called the crime to the attention of the Japanese. The katana had been found at the scene, firmly wedged in the second victim’s cranium. Curzon had committed suicide six months later, apparently during an episode of drug-amplified depression, even though he was never charged. His suicide note was an incoherent jumble of self-loathing and shed light on nothing.

  The photocopy of the log from Chicago’s evidence locker revealed that the last persons to legitimately examine the collected physical evidence were the bent cop’s lawyer and a detective assigned to the case. At no time had either been alone. The Chicago detective’s name, Walt Wieczorek, seemed familiar to Lockhart. He was sure he’d heard it before.

  Ericson dropped the thick binder of the murder book on Lockhart’s desk with a thud and parked himself in the chair opposite.

  “I like the husband.”

  “What?”

  “Mindy’s husband. I like him for it.”

  “Who’s Mindy?”

  Ericson’s brow furrowed as he directed a sharp glance at Lockhart. “Mindy Gutiérrez Alarcón. Our female victim, the one without a head. Damn, Andy, you mean you can’t even remember her name?”

  “Sorry. I was off somewhere else. Her husband, you say.”

  “That’s right. He hasn’t been heard of since before the crime. Chances are he hot-footed it over to Mexico, where he’s got family.”

  “All right. So talk.”

  “They’d been having marital trouble. I think her brother was staying over at her house so he could protect her from Neto, that’s the husband. Her
sister says they were separated and Mindy had a new boyfriend, and that Neto threatened her because of it.”

  “Jealous rage,” said Lockhart. “Fits all right. Say, she wasn’t in the game, was she?”

  “You mean was she a hooker?” Ericson asked, surprised. “Not a chance. Very middle class, college graduate, worked as an office manager for her father. He’s a dentist. Where’d you come up with that idea?”

  “It’s just that the previous two were whores.”

  “Previous two what?”

  “Never mind.” Lockhart went back to reading the Chicago file, but Ericson wasn’t finished.

  “Just so you know. I put out a BOLO for Neto Alarcón, but I doubt he’ll turn up. Like I said, probably went to Oaxaca.”

  “Okay.” Lockhart looked down at the file. He saw the words but none of them registered. He was thinking of the sword. He didn’t want to ask, especially not Ericson, but he had to. “So, do you know if this Neto was into martial arts?”

  “What—oh, right, the sword angle. No, not that I’ve heard. Good idea, though—I’ll look into it.”

  Lockhart said nothing and stared at Wieczorek’s name. Why was it so familiar? Where had he seen it before? Ericson stood and waited until Lockhart looked up again.

  “I had a great time last night,” Ericson said, boyishly grinning. “Thank Elaine again for me, will you? You’re one lucky cop, to have a lady like her.”

  “I’ll do that.” As Ericson turned to go back to his own desk, Lockhart stopped him. “John, does the name Wieczorek mean anything to you?”

  “Can’t say it does—no, wait. What was the name of that Polack captain in Central Division some years back? It was something like that.”

  That was it. Lockhart reached for the phone and dialed Human Resources.

  Wieczorek’s career had run its course before personnel records had gone digital, and the original paperwork had long since been destroyed, but his file still existed on microfiche. Lockhart found himself in the basement parked in front of a huge old microfiche reader, awkwardly scrolling through hundreds of blurry images before he found what he was looking for.