Chameleons, a Novel Based Upon Actual Events Read online

  Yamura plops onto a chair and throws the file she’s holding on top of a nearby box. She’s hungry, tired and a little frustrated as they’ve been working for hours on end with no finish line yet in sight.

  “I was thinking, if I was Yokoyama the first thing I’d do once the burial was over would be to try and get myself to one of the recovery points where the Jap Navy had “I” boats waiting.”

  “Fine,” responds Yamura, “but if Yokoyama had done so, we’d know about it as history would have confirmed the fact and we’d have no problem.”

  “Maybe, Karen. From what I’ve read, no fishing boats would have dared to do anything out of the ordinary after the Japanese attack. Hell, our fly boys shot up quite a few fishing boats and killed more than one unlucky fisherman those first few days after the attack. But there’s still an outside chance he tried to get to one of the pickup points and managed to get himself drowned. Who would know? It would certainly make a nice clean ending to our problem, and, as I recall, one of the Jap submarines did manage to get itself sunk. He could have been aboard her.”

  “If he was on the Jap sub we sank, I would expect the Captain would have transmitted the fact they picked up a midget sub survivor to the fleet as soon as it happened. But I’m unaware of any such transmission and from what I’ve read, we plucked a number of Japanese bodies out of the waters around Oahu over the weeks following the attack and none were in naval uniforms. We had patrol boats scouring throughout the islands so it’s just not likely they would have missed his body; if there was a body to be missed. And remember, we thought the Japanese intended an invasion so we were vigilantly patrolling all of the beaches. And let’s face it, if we anticipated an invasion was in the offing, Yokoyama would probably have been of the same opinion and would have been lying low, waiting for his countrymen to arrive.”

  Pastwa momentarily turns to gaze towards the harbor when another thought strikes him.

  “In fact, if you consider it, there just might be a clue there.”

  “How so?” Yamura asks.

  “Assuming Yokoyama decided to stick around he needed a new identity and he would have needed one pretty damn quick. It was essential he assimilate into island life, sooner or later, and without a new identity it couldn’t happen. He was a living body in need of a dead body, or at least the dead body’s identification.”

  “Right. He had to come up with something, or someone, fast,” adds Yamura.

  “So,” she pauses as she puts together her thoughts, “we know he made contact with some Japanese sympathizers, for example; the doctor who operated on Kamita and maybe some German Nationals. They could easily have supplied him with clothing, a job, a place to live, but just how would they have gone about getting Yokoyama a new identity?”

  They turn silent while they jointly consider the problem. Pastwa, as is his style, is looking out towards the harbor. Yamura prefers to concentrate her gaze on a fixed object and let her mind go to work and she has chosen their copy of the logbook as the object of her focus. After a few minutes Pastwa raises his right hand, signaling an idea, and swings around to face Yamura.

  “You know, Karen, any identity they arranged for Yokoyama would need to closely match his age. My guess is in order for a new identity to work, they needed to be certain he was a Nisei because as a Nisei he’d have been born in Hawaii, which would make him an American; and he’d stand out from the crowd a lot less if he was Nisei. In fact, if I was looking to get someone a new identity that would have been a critical requirement. It’s just a guess, but with locals involved and maybe the German folks I think it’s more likely than not they made him Nisei which would have been absolutely perfect for their purposes.”

  Yamura, her right eyebrow raised, replies, “So he needed an identity from someone very real, yet very dead. As for Nisei, no doubt they would have sought just such an identity. And where better to get that new identity than from a medical doctor who would, of course, have access to both birth and death records for a large segment of the population back then. Yes, a doctor could very possibly do it, but only if he was Japanese. In fact, according to the logbook we know they sought out a Japanese doctor to attend to Kamita and he likely was the person who helped create a new identification for Yokoyama.” Yamura slaps the top of the desk with the palm of her left hand to amplify her point.

  “You’re right Karen; we should be looking at death records. It’s all a matter of making a record!” Pastwa picks up the phone.

  “I’m calling down to the other Honolulu paper to see if we can’t get into their obituary records from, say, early ’38 to maybe as late as January, ’42. There’s no use wasting any time at County as they had that devastating fire back in the late forties.”

  Yamura perks up as she realizes there just may be a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. “Right! We compile a list of all male Nisei who died in that time frame and who were about twenty two years old, give or take, say, five or six years.” Yamura pauses, “But what then?”

  Pastwa is dialing the newspaper and stops to answer.

  “Then we simply cross-reference the list with the rolls of all interred Japanese/Americans from Oahu. Hopefully the resulting list of matching names will be a short one, or at least manageable. From there we hunt down each and every one of the deceased Nisei and figure out if any of them is our man. If it turns out he’s still not accounted for, we’ll try some other approach; however, I have a good feeling this will bring us the result we want and a final resolution with no loose ends.”

  Just then Clarke walks in carrying a sack of sandwiches and some coffees. Yamura looks at Clarke while Pastwa phones the newspaper.

  “Good timing Clarke! Please go and pull us a car from the pool” She pauses a moment before continuing. “And bring three blank notebooks, pens, your camera and mini-tripod, along with the food because you’re coming with us!”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Maybe I should put together a couple of ‘stay hot’ pitchers of coffee too; and some donuts for energy.” Clarke can hear Pastwa is talking to someone at the paper, so he looks to Yamura for an answer.

  “Hell yes sailor! This could turn into a long afternoon and an even longer night. For once I will take you up on the donut idea. Now let’s get moving! The sooner we get there, the sooner we can finish. And I really want to finish this before Lani Gale or somebody else beats us to it.” Yamura turns to look for a file as Clarke hurries out of the office.

  “The paper says they have someone down in records on a twenty four-seven basis and we’re welcome to stay all night if we like. They even have a coffee machine down there so we’re in good shape.” He notices Clarke is not around and looks over to Yamura. “We just have to be careful not to speak too loudly or leave a paper trail of our research. We don’t need to hand anyone there another story.” He again looks around for Clarke.

  “Karen, where’d Clarke go?”

  “He’s out getting us a car, coffee, donuts, extra notebooks and pens and I told him he should bring his camera in the event we need to photograph any records. He has our food too, which we can eat in the car. I believe we should be all set in about ten minutes.” Yamura smiles as she is suddenly experiencing the type of goose bumps she gets when she knows she’s onto something.

  “Excellent. By tomorrow morning I trust we’ll have some definitive answers.” Pastwa grabs his briefcase but momentarily sets it on Clarke’s desk as turns to face Yamura.

  “Karen, are you getting the same goose bumps I have right now?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LIVE AND LEARN

  Sun and one of her granddaughters are clearing the dining table following a late lunch. Gary and Ken are sitting on the rear lanai, the banana leaf-shaped blades of a large fan slowly revolving overhead. Most of the backyard is now in shade from a mix of palms, lemon, lime, cherry and papaya trees. The fusion of fragrances from the collection of mature trees Ken has planted over the years engulfs the entire yard.

  The backyard provides Ken with
a semblance of what he recalls of his family’s home in Japan. Years earlier he attempted to build a koi pond, but discovered the hard way he didn’t have a knack for raising koi so he repurposed it into a garden, complete with bonsai trees. The site of dead fish floating on the pond had sent several grandchildren running into the house engulfed in tears, and every once in a while they still remind him of the gruesome sight.

  “Gary, whenever I consider my first life I always conclude it was overly sheltered and extremely regimented. I possessed an extremely narrow view of the world, a view carefully constructed by the Japanese government, which was basically controlled by the Army. My second life has been more of an awakening, as if I found myself emerging from a suffocating chemical fog.” Ken pauses to enjoy a few sips of Sun’s cherry iced tea.

  “Growing up I had no choice but to adhere to unbending expectations and rules. Everything I would do was the result of what was demanded of me, including my enlistment in the naval academy. All things seemed to be as simple as black and white and I was a believer in the dogma which propounded that we, as Japanese, owed a protective responsibility to the balance of the people living in the Far East and the Pacific Rim, extending all the way to Hawaii. I was taught we were a superior race and should view Japan as a benevolent guardian. I did not know any other way, nor did it ever occur to me my government was, in reality, seeking the virtual enslavement of the peoples we were sworn to protect.” Ken slowly shakes his head. “I lived a carefully sheltered life, a life sheltered from the truth, along with the overwhelming majority of my countrymen.”

  Ken pauses as he looks at his grandson with the love and pride of a grandfather. He lightly slaps his right hand on his right thigh and continues.

  “But I am digressing! Certainly you want to hear about the rest of my first life, correct?”

  “I really don’t know what to say. I don’t doubt you grandfather, but this is amazing and hard for me to grasp. I always wondered why you seldom spoke about your life prior to the time you met Kapuna and out of respect, I never asked.”

  Gary squirms in his chair as he attempts to achieve a modicum of physical comfort, as he finds it impossible to be emotionally comfortable.

  “I know some pretty nasty stuff happens in war and I always believed if you wanted to talk about it, then you would have. For me, it’s always been enough to see the medals on your wall, those medals tell me everything I need to know about your past.”

  “Gary, I appreciate that and I tell you all of this not to confuse you, but to ease the blow. If I am found out, I fear bad things will happen to me, even at my advanced age. But for now,” Ken smiles and puts some enthusiasm into his voice, “it is just you and me. You will be staying for dinner tonight, correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “Excellent, then I can continue where we left off after dinner. Right now, however, it is time for my daily afternoon meditation followed by a nice nap.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE PLANK BAR

  It may only be mid-afternoon, but it’s quite dark inside the Plank Bar. The place has been a Pearl City fixture since before World War II and the windows still adorn traces of the blackout paint required back in the first few years of the war. The majority of the lighting consists of cheap tiki lights, strings of miniature Italian lights around the bar and a few light fixtures tenuously hanging over the several pool tables scattered around the low-ceilinged premises. The terms “dark” and “dingy” pretty much describe the place. If a person breathes a little too deeply the tell-tale aroma of mold greets the nostrils. The Plank’s clientele prefers it stay dark and a little moldy and dingy, just as it was in 1941.

  Lani Gale walks in the front door which momentarily hangs open behind her. The rush of sunlight causes several patrons to bark out complaints, but one patron in particular is enjoying the silhouette of Gale’s body outlined by the bright Sun. She’s wearing a short, low cut and brightly colored Hawaiian print dress which hugs her shapely derriere. Her deep yellow high heels exaggerate her height and she’s sporting a very cute, albeit small, red purse. The yellow trim of the purse matches her heels and is casually slung over her right shoulder.

  Petty Officer Paul Young is off duty, not in uniform and immediately recognizes her. He stands and motions with his left hand beckoning her to his booth. Gale spots him and slowly walks over, though she’s clearly unhappy with the lack of cleanliness surrounding her.

  It’s not Gale’s first visit to the Plank as it’s her favorite venue when she wants to meet with an informer for it’s not too far from the naval base and is dimly lighted. The Plank is seldom crowded and people who treasure their privacy while eschewing pretense are the primary clientele. If a person’s seeking good food and chilled mugs they’d be well advised to keep driving. The Plank is not a tourist spot and harbors no aspirations to become one.

  Gale walks up to Young’s booth and slips onto the opposite, well-worn wood bench. Young resumes his seat and motions to the bartender. The bartender acknowledges him, but doesn’t exactly drop everything he’s doing to rush over.

  “So, Paul, it’s been a long time without hearing from you. Why the drought?” Gale slips her purse from her shoulder and sets it on the bench to her right. She presses it against the booth’s wall to prevent any insect, or worse, from crawling behind it. She makes certain it’s zipped closed just in the event something might sneak into it when she’s not looking; these are precautions she has adopted due to prior experiences here.

  “Hi, there hasn’t been much excitement down on my end of the totem pole.” He pauses as he breaks into a sly grin. “That is, until this week.” He takes a sloppy gulp from his bottle of Budweiser and is about to continue when the bartender finally appears alongside the booth.

  “Hello little missy what might you be liken’ to drink today?” He makes no effort to disguise the fact he’s staring directly down her cleavage.

  Gale notices, of course. If he wasn’t straining his neck trying to determine whether she’s wearing a bra then she would have chosen the wrong dress. She looks at him and sits a little further back in the bench which has the effect of drawing her dress up to her neck; the result reveals much less skin than before. The bartender is disappointed the show is over and certainly looks it.

  “I’ll have whatever Kona Brew comes in a sealed bottle and is as cold as you can make it. Don’t open it, I can do that myself.” Her business with the bartender over, she turns to Paul.

  “So,” she pauses as the bartender has not left to fill her order, which draws her attention.

  “That’s all! Please bring me my beer.” She chastises the bartender.

  The bartender realizes he’d been staring and lets out a short laugh before returning to the bar.

  “So, Paul, what’s cooking?” She folds her arms in front of her, places them on the table and leans forward while smiling and staring him directly in the eyes.

  Young is a little intimidated by her physical beauty. He’s divorced and generally dates girls he meets at the Plank and similar places of questionable taste and unsavory patrons. Though he sports a crew-cut, the rest of him appears a bit sloppy, from his day-old beard to his worn Hawaiian t-shirt and loose fitting pants. Even his sandals appear to have been bought second-hand.

  Young’s out of his league and he knows it, but intends to capitalize on the situation regardless. He has information Gale is going to really want and money is on his mind. He is as yet unaware Gale disdains using money to buy information for in her opinion such use of money leads to mistakes and money can often be traced. Gale does not make many mistakes and most definitely does not leave trails behind her either.

  “You know that article you wrote about the body up in Kailua?”

  Gale raises an eyebrow and doesn’t even glance at the bartender who has just placed a bottle of Kona Longboard in front of her. She looks at the bottle and is pleased to find beads of sweat coating the bottle, confirming for her the contents will be cold. She picks
it up and twists the top off, though it is not a twist top; cleans it with a napkin and takes a sip. Satisfied, she returns her attention to Young.

  “Of course I do, I wrote the damn thing. So what of it?” Her tone is admonishing and the effect on Young is as she intends. He moves to the defensive.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that I know a lot more about what you printed; and I mean a whole lot more.” He pulls out an oversized manila envelope from the bench beside him and lays it on the table.

  “Are you nuts? Get that damned thing off the table!” Gale scolds him as if he were a child while she looks around the room to confirm nobody appears to have been paying attention to them.

  Young is obviously flustered and embarrassed. He immediately pulls the envelope off the table and places it back on the bench. He’s feeling more than a little intimidated and his confidence level has sunk to depths that make the Plank appear upscale.

  “Sorry Lani, I just thought you’d like to see I did bring with me exactly what I inferred to you on the phone.” Young’s also worried as he’s beginning to think he literally made the wrong call here and is panicking he might be getting himself into trouble.

  “Listen carefully, Paul. You never know who might be watching. Discretion is always my key word.” Gale leans back and pushes herself away from the table. Her intention is to create a little distance between her and Paul so he might relax a little. She wants to keep him on edge, but not over the edge.

  “So, Paul, tell me what exactly is in the envelope and how did you get it?” Gale sweetens her tone. In response she notices he appears a little more relaxed.

  “Sometimes I work in the same department as Lieutenant Ferguson in forensics and I got a good look at the skeleton they dug up along with the bullet they pulled out of its back too.”

  Gale’s eyes open a little wider. “Bullet? What kind of bullet?” She instinctively leans forward which again affords him a view of her cleavage. Though he’s clearly looking below her face, he continues.