Sensei (6 page)

Micky nodded. "No thief is gonna act like that. Akkadian had tons of valuable stuff in there." Micky seemed outraged by the ineptness.

I sat, digesting this, and Art followed up. I think they were both secretly enjoying lecturing to me. "And, if something goes wrong and you have to knock some heads, you tend to boogie outta there quick, your basic thief doesn't whip out the old magic marker and do Chinese graffiti all over the place instead of stuffing valuables into a sack."

"So what do you mean? What happened?" I asked.

Micky answered me. "This wasn't a smash and grab sort of thing."

"Maybe just a smash," Art said. I guessed he had seen the body before they came to fetch me.

"This is some weird, hokey murder," my brother said. "And that 'roniri shit is the clue."

"Guy like this," Art said, "is gonna leave a trail. And a trail..."

"Is just what two ace bloodhounds like us need," Micky said.

That seemed to do it for them. They drained their cups and headed out. Art paid the cashier, and Micky provided a running commentary as we headed out to the car, double-parked out front.

"We'll run a check. Connor, we'll need a statement. Compare your prints with any latents the lab people picked up. They won't match and you'll be cleared. Then, we see if there are reports with similar MOs. Shouldn't be hard to spot. The newspaper clippings alone should stick out a mile."

"Martial mayhem." Art offered.

"Samurai slaying."

"Psycho Samurai Slaying."

And off we went. This time, I had to sit in the back.

Progress has pretty much ruined everything. When Micky and Art invited me back to the squad room, I had all those B-movie images of where cops work lodged in my brain: dark and dingy rooms crammed with untidy desks, choked with cigarette smoke, and smelling of old coffee and stale sweat.

In reality, Micky and Art shared the wall of contiguous cubicles in a brightly lit, cavernous area made mazelike by the portable half-walls that divided up the space. Phones didn't ring; they chirped. There were even faxes in plain view, along with prominently displayed "No Smoking" symbols. Despite my disappointment, there were some comforting links with the past. The room was littered with coffee cups: anonymous Styrofoam ones, others with the very popular blue Greek motif, upscale types made of paper sporting various brand names, and even some ceramic mugs of the kind people get at conventions or as gifts from other people with no real clue about what to buy as presents.

The surface illusion of order and neatness was somewhat damaged when I got escorted to Micky's cubicle. Cartons awash in folders and dos-eared documents were shoved beneath the

desk. Little slips of paper were tucked under blotters, half-empty coffee cups, and anything else remotely heavy. Art was on the phone, standing up and peering over the wall that divided him from us, murmuring "uh huh, uh huh" into the receiver and taking notes. His pen ran out of ink. He grimaced and snapped his fingers at Micky while throwing his dead pen in the trash. Micky opened a drawer that was crammed with paper and rummaged through a pile of ballpoints with mismatched caps, tossing one to Art.

"Excuse me," I said as I approached, "is this 22 IB Baker Street?"

Art sat down, rolled his chair out, and swiveled in it to eye me briefly. Micky pulled some paperwork off a chair and gestured for me to sit. Art hung up the phone.

I eyed him expectantly.

"Nah," he shook his head, "nothing. Other case."

He thumbed through some pages of notes in his little book. Art had thick, freckled hands and his fingers made the book look tiny. "OK," he said, "Connor's landlady confirms his statement that he was home the night of the murder. She heard him come in and various noises in the apartment for most of the evening. Seems to corroborate his statement."

Micky raised his eyebrows. "Noises? Way to go, bro."

"Don't get too excited, Mick, it's a two-family house. I live upstairs and the floors creak."

"Yeah, well. One less thing to worry about."

"Which is nice," Art said, " 'cause there's a shitload of other stuff to wade through here."

"What," I said, "you've got something?"

They swung their chairs to face me at almost exactly the same time. I felt left out because my chair had no wheels. Then they looked at each other.

"To the Batcave," they said together.

I followed them out of the cubicle and into a conference room, thinking that they really were seeing too much of each other.

It had only been a few days since Reilly's murder, but in that short time the investigation's paperwork had ballooned. Art and Micky both hauled various boxes, manila envelopes, files, and VCR tapes to the Batcave. It was pretty state of the art for cops, a carpeted conference room with a computer hooked up to a projector, a TV VCR unit, and a large oval table. They dumped the stuff at one end and began sorting it, rooting around and grunting at each other like apes contentedly working a grub nest.

I sat and watched the process, waiting until they were ready. Finally, Micky popped a tape in the TV The sound kicked in and it was some cop I didn't know narrating the examination of the crime scene. Date and time were automatically displayed, but he went through the motions anyway, identifying the location, the hour and day, and the fact that Art and Micky were the investigating officers.

The camera panned carefully around the room, noting entrances, windows (there were none), lighting and alarm controls, orienting the viewer. Then it carefully focused on the floor where Reilly lay.

The camera panned over the body. Reilly's form was like something discarded. It had the shape and dimension of a human being, but it was just flopped there on the floor, a heap, without any of the sense of connection you get from looking at a person at rest. The left shoulder looked droopy and it was obvious from the face that Reilly had taken a major blow to the head. What looked like an oak sword was pinned under the body.

Micky shoved some still photos across the table: Reilly from various angles. "OK," he began. "So much for cinema. Mitchell Reilly, aged forty-two. Casual employee of Samurai House. Ran a martial arts school in Queens. Some minor stuff as a juvenile, nothing on the record for the last twenty years or so."

"Saved for clean living by the martial arts?" I asked.

Art snorted. "Saved for the coroner's office."

"Doesn't matter," Micky said. "No apparent problems in his life that would suggest he was anything but a guy who got in the way here."

"We put an end to that grudge match thing, by the way," Art said. "Once we squeezed Akkadian, we got to the bottom of it. Anyway," he continued, "we told Bobby Kay that you were clean."

"What was his reaction?" I asked.

"He seemed like his mind was on other things," Micky commented. "He did say that he never really thought it was you; you seemed OK."

"Yeah," I said, "I seemed so OK he couldn't wait to finger me for murder."

Art waved it away. "It happens." Then he picked up the thread, "Time of death is estimated somewhere between two-thirty and six-thirty

A.M."

"Is that significant?"

Micky made a face. "There's a four-hour margin of error in this stuff. He was found at around seven-thirty in the morning, so it doesn't tell us much that we didn't already know."

"Deceased suffered a number of fractures, including a cranial blow that might have killed him," Art continued.

"Do you know what did it?" I was trying to remain as clinical as they were, but my eyes kept drifting to the frozen video and the stills on the table.

"Cellulose fragments from his shirt and scalp suggest the weapon was wood of some type; we haven't got it fixed yet."

"Let me ask," I said. "Reilly suffered a number of fractures. Collarbone?"

They nodded.

"The head wound is obvious. Any sign of damage to the right wrist or forearm?"

Micky consulted the M.E."s report. "No breaks that are noted. Did seem to have taken some bangs there, though."

It figured. I got up and shut the TV off so I could concentrate better.

"OK," I continued, "so Mitch Reilly is in the Samurai House guarding Bobby Kaye's exhibit. He got let in when?"

"Building shuts down about eleven. Lobby security logged the cleaners out and Reilly in at ten P.M. Reilly activated the Samurai House alarm and buttoned up for the night. There's no lobby security presence until five-thirty A.M."

"Custodial shift comes in at seven," Art said. "Secretary at seven-thirty. She takes a quick look in the gallery and all hell breaks loose."

"She screamed so loud, the guards spilled their coffee," Micky said. "They were very upset."

"So how'd the murderer get in?" I asked.

Micky snorted. "That's the easy part."

"Yeah," Art said. "Reilly let him in."

Reilly lay sprawled there in the photo with the bug-eyed look of head wounds and offered no clue to me as to why he let his killer in.

"What we need to know is whether you've got any insights into what happened," Micky prompted.

I nodded. "This thing wedged under the body, do you have it?" "Sure." Art pulled another photo out of an envelope.

My first impression was right. It was a bokken.

"Murder weapon?" I asked.

"Nah. We're pretty certain it was Reilly's weapon," Micky said.

"What makes you so sure?"

"He carved his initials in the butt end."

"Then again," Art countered, "letters could stand for "Master Robin.""

"Murder Rampage," Micky suggested.

"Mister Roberts," Art offered.

I cut them off in mid-flow, "One of his students can probably identify it as Reilly's."

They seemed somewhat put out, and just stared at me.

Art shook his head and went on. "We're looking at fragments in his wounds. We can't type the wood yet."

"Wood of the murder weapon could be a lot of things," I said. "That thing looks like oak. You can also have the forensic guys check hickory. It's commonly used for bokken. If they really want to get exotic, they can try loquat."

Art looked at Micky and silently mouthed the question "Loquat?" Micky shrugged.

"The wounds seem fairly consistent with the kind of damage you might get if two people went at each other with wood swords," I said

"How'd you figure the collarbone break?" Art asked me.

"Ydu can see a little extra slump in the shoulder," I pointed out, spreading the different still shots out and pointing it out in each. "It's also a pretty easy bone to snap if you hit it right. In kenjutsu swordsmanship there's a pretty common strike that would do that. Kesagiri. Means 'scarf cut." "

"Wouldn't that mean a cut to the throat?" Art was paging through the M.E."s report as I spoke, looking for details that would support or challenge my interpretation.

I shook my head. "Buddhist monks wore a large scarf draped from the left shoulder diagonally across their body. The cut was supposed to follow that line."

"Charming."

"Yeah, well. It's a basic technique, and if you do it with a blade, you can cut someone almost in half. With a wood sword, you would most probably break the clavicle.

"Now, if Reilly also had sustained some damage to his right wrist," I looked inquiringly to Art, who nodded, "he would have a hard time using the sword, you need two hands to use it well. With his clavicle busted, Reilly would have been in big trouble. You could use a real blade one-handed, but a bokken would not be very effective."

"So what are you saying?" Micky asked.

"I think this guy had a duel with someone using a wooden weapon. The murderer could have been using a sword or a staff or a bunch of other weapons, but it seems like this was someone with some training."

"A duel?" Art was incredulous.

The light went on in Micky's head. He pointed at Art, snapping his fingers. "Sure, sure. Bobby Kay wasn't too far off the mark. Reilly sets it up ahead of time, lets the guy in for the big showdown. Otherwise, why carry around a stick?"

Art nodded. "Maybe." He looked at me. "This Reilly know what he was doing?" I nodded. "OK. So he's no virgin." He thought a bit and said, almost to himself, "Been around the block a few times. Knows the cardinal rule of weapons."

"What's that?" I was curious.

"Contrary to all that Asian less-is-more crap you've been listening to," Micky said, "with weapons, more is more."

"Or," Art said, "to phrase it with some more elegance, "Never bring a knife to a gun fight.""

"So, if Reilly's carrying a stick ..." Art began. "It's a bokken" I corrected. "Yeah, whatever," Micky said.

"... then it must have been on purpose. Redly knew someone was co mine and he knew he would need the sword."

"But, he got in over his head," Micky said. "A pop here, a pop there, the rest is history."

"What's the motive?" Art asked.

"Man, I'd be a lot happier if we had a theft here," Micky suggested.

"Yeah," Art nodded, "but if it was just a smash and grab with a little witness cleanup attached, the whole sword thing seems a bit elaborate, ya know?"

"I thought we agreed robbery wasn't the motive," I suggested. Micky and Art turned to look at me.

"What you tend to find, Connor," Art explained, "is that motives tend to be a mishmash of things."

I shrugged and went on. "Maybe here the duel itself was the murderer's real interest. This wasn't a robbery scheme that didn't come off. Maybe the killer got what he came for."

They chewed on that quietly for a minute. Then Art looked at Micky. "Burke, your people are weird."

"Look," I said, "whoever did this was trained. From what I hear, Reilly was pretty good."

Micky rolled his eyes toward the photos. "Not as good as he thought he was."

"No one's as good as they think they are," Art commented.

Art had never met Yamashita, but I let it go.

"Besides, if someone used Reilly to get into the Samurai House to rob it and then planned on killing him, don't you think they would have brought something fairly lethal along?" I asked.

"Looks like they did," Art said. He had a point. One way or the other, the man was dead.

I got back to my idea about the killing. "I mean that they would have brought a real weapon, Art, not a wooden replica of some sixteenth-century sword from halfway around the world. With these things, you're essentially bludgeoning someone to death. Look at him lying there."

They both eyed the photos.