The Falling Sun
Hinode - Sunrise

After the slaughter.
     The skirmish had involved two rival gangs of the Mission District – the White Cobras and Little Saigon. Racial tension and a drug dispute had flared into war, with one side claiming benevolence to the city; the other defending their own interests and honour. That was as far as the police investigation went.
     There were no arrests. No raids. No trials. Nothing. Both sides got on with their lives, whilst the police department turned a blind eye to the innocents killed.
     My Issho, she was one of them.
     I had begged the police to act – anything to give me peace of mind. But they shrugged me off.
     So, I took matters into my own hands. I was going to get the justice that she and that little boy deserved.

                                                                                                                   I)
“He’s in room three.”
     Officer Arthur Lawrence took the folders from across the counter. One was as thick as a novel; the other contained two sheets. John F. Thorbes had had a busy career. His kidnapper, however, was an enigma.
     “Thanks,” he said.
     He turned to leave but was stopped by Judith, the secretary at the San Francisco Police Department. She said: “There’s orders from the chief that you wait for a D.I before going in. Particularly with our special case.”
     Lawrence replied: “Look around – where is everyone?”
     San Francisco PD had never been so empty. From the grand doors to the desk where Judith worked, all was quiet – only the murmurings of the offices upstairs could be heard, a radio chattering in the background.
     Yet, panic haunted the air, as if a storm had passed: papers strewn across the desks and floor; telephones hanging off their hooks; the station flag dishevelled, where those who had charged out the doors had whipped up a hurricane to unsettle it. Lawrence gathered that he had only just missed the rush. Perhaps someone had finally pressed the red button.
     Judith replied: “They’re all caught up at Alcatraz.”
     “Why?”
     “The island’s been invaded.”
     That was big news. Since the closing of the prison six years ago, the redundancy of Alcatraz Island had been a small but hotly debated topic. Lawrence could recall that Mr. John F. Thorbes had promised to reopen the prison during his mayoral campaign. He had proposed to use the complex to house delinquents and those that did not entertain the American ideal. It would have meant a rebirth of McCarthyism and the witch hunts that had entailed. It was just as well that the ex-general had lost.
     “A gang?”
     “No. Indians and a bunch of sky-high youths. They claim the island’s rightfully the natives’ and want it back.”
     Very big news.
     There had been whisperings of unrest amongst the American Indian population, personified in the Red Power movement, and others had previously failed to occupy the island, but no-one had viewed it as seriously disruptive. Every day there were youth protests, and gang skirmishes, and threats of revolution – people had come to accept it as part of life. If you were to live in San Francisco and be afraid of the cultural and generational agitation, then you would never have left your apartment. It was the price for change, many would say. The youth with their bright gambles; the old with their stale successes.
     Four months ago, man had landed on the moon. It had been a time of national pride; a time that had promised change – change for the better. Already, such resolutions had been forgotten.
     “Doubt it will blow over soon.” Judith added.
     “I can’t wait! Thorbes is already up my arse.”
     “Just as well the press is distracted at Alcatraz.”
     “They won’t be if we can’t get Thorbes in the interrogation room.” The young officer spun and was half-way down the corridor when he said: “We need to sort this now.”
     “Orders are orders.” Judith’s by-the-book expression chased Lawrence the rest of the way. He could hear the contemptuous ex-general before he arrived at the ajar door of interview room two:
     “You’ll let me go this instance.”
     Then the more humane voice of his partner, Garcia: “Mr. Thorbes, we need to ask you some routine questions. You’ve been through a shaky ordeal.”
     “What questions are there to ask? It’s pretty simple what happened – that mad Jap tried to kill me.”
     Lawrence shook his head: Mr. Thorbes’ words troubled him. If the kidnapper, Mr. Yamamoto, had tried to kill Thorbes, then the ex-general would be dead already. The abductor would not have needed to transport him to a warehouse. No. Mr. Yamamoto had never tried to kill John F. Thorbes; that was what intrigued Officer Lawrence.
     His partner fought on; “What’s the harm of a few questions? We need to know why.”
     “It don’t need a detective to work that out.”
     “Mr. Thorbes –”
     “That’s sir to you.” the venom in the veteran’s voice could have felled an elephant; “I don’t like the way you’ve handled this. I’ll sure be telling Tom about it all.”
     That was when Lawrence intercepted: “I’m sure the Chief would love to hear that, sir.” Before the ex-general knew what was happening and could resist, Lawrence had his arms on his shoulder and was ushering him inside the room; “Please, go in and take a seat. We promise we won’t be long.” He gave a false, endearing grin.
     In a huff, John F. Thorbes shouldered into the interview room. Lawrence shut the door.
     “Thanks.” Garcia saw his partner’s grey features. He knew that look well; “Bad news?”
     “They won’t let us interview them without someone senior.”
     “Man,” Garcia exhaled; “But it’s our case?”
     Lawrence threw his hands up in an ‘I know’ gesture. Pacing the corridor, he scratched at his neck like a dog with fleas; he turned back, said: “We have to wait.”
     “How long’s that gonna take?”
     “God knows.”
     “But we’ll lose Thorbes – he’s not gonna stay around no more than he has to.”
     “Nothing we can do.”
     “The Chief said that?”
     “He isn’t here. There’s been trouble at Alcatraz.”
     “Again?”
     “Judy thinks it’s serious this time.”
     “Man, I wish those reds would just give it up.”
     “So could we.”
     Garcia threw Lawrence a cocked glance. His mind diverted; “They won’t be back no time, then. What if…” he begun; “What if we did it anyway? Interview them, I mean. I’ve got tough nut Thorbes. You’ve got –”
     “Mr. Yamamoto in three.”
     “Exactly. If we do it quick – get to the bottom of the case before they ever get back – well…” Garcia smiled; “We’ll be heroes.”
     “Yeah… But how are you gonna deal with Thorbes?”
     “I can be quite persuasive when I put my mind to it.”
     Lawrence was galvanised. After all, John F. Thorbes had already threatened to destroy their careers. What more did they have to lose?
     He nodded; “Alright. We make sure we do this before they get back from Alcatraz. Otherwise, we’re gonna have the Chief tearing us up.”
     “So long as Thorbes doesn’t get word to the outside, we should be good.”
     “Is that legal?”
     As he took the novel-thick folder, Garcia shrugged his shoulders and gave a careless frown.
     Both men chuckled and parted their separate ways.


                                                                                                                   II)
Akira Yamamoto was no criminal, Officer Lawrence thought. Not in the usual sense.
     There were the hard types, with tattoos across their knuckles that said ‘punch’ or ‘Jesus’, and who snarled like a dog ready to tear the interviewer’s throat out. There were the maniacs who swore innocence, despite having been found at the scene red-handed; the intellects who unsettled everyone with their shifty eyes and stubborn refusal to comment on anything, not even their names. The tropes – and Akira Yamamoto was different. He had not spoken since the warehouse; such deep contemplation frightened the young Officer more than if Akira had been a dog wanting to tear his throat out. At least in that situation he knew what the one in custody was thinking.
Akira Yamamoto was an old man – the lines around his eyes and mouth conveyed that, lines scarred with history, with grizzled triumph and dusty heartache. What was a man of that age doing in kidnapping a politician?
     A rattling cough escaped Akira. He threw a cuffed hand to his mouth. He had rasped like that the entire car journey. At one point, he had reached a climax of orchestral bolt-chewing, and Lawrence had been afraid that Akira was going to perish on his back seat. The inmate had managed to stop himself from hacking his lungs up onto the upholstery. But he had been pale since.
     Lawrence shifted a cup of water across the table. Akira snatched it hungrily. He soothed.
     “That doesn’t sound good.” Lawrence said; “You should get yourself looked at.”
     With cold, burning eyes, Akira looked through the young officer.
     Lawrence shivered and glanced into his peripheral, paranoid that there was something standing behind him. He shrugged it off, asked: “Mr. Yamamoto, can you tell me what happened earlier today?”
     “You arrested me and brought me here.”
     “No, Mr. Yamamoto, before that.”
     “Oh,” Akira exhaled casually, and he straightened himself; “I abducted John Thorbes and interrogated him for answers – much as you are doing now.” He read the surprise on Lawrence’s face, smiled, said: “That is what you want, isn’t it?”
     A confession? Lawrence was astounded. Surely it couldn’t be that easy. It didn’t make sense. Was the interview over? Could he arrest the man? It wasn’t right. Akira had declared it flippantly. As though – as though the kidnapper had said it only to please him. Perhaps Akira was senile. Perhaps he was a lonely old man who thought that he could get company behind prison bars. No. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t satisfying. Lawrence had questions of his own.
     He decided that this man could not be trusted.
     “Did I surprise you?” the kidnapper said; “I thought you lot would have realised when I called you in.”
     “Are you being serious?”
     Akira did not reply. His palms raised slightly, as if to say that he was not hiding anything. The motion tormented the young officer.
     “What did you talk about?”
     “Weather. Baseball…”
     “Very funny, Mr. Yamamoto. You confessed so easily. Why are you reluctant to tell me what you wanted from Mr. Thorbes?”
     “Why do you care?”
     “It’s my job.”
     “No.” Akira raised a finger; “I confessed – the case is closed. You can lock me up and throw away the key.” He paused, sidled forwards; “But that’s not enough, is it? You want answers – like me. You want the story – or else why did you pick this up?”
     “I’m just doing my job, Mr. Yamamoto.”
     “For yourself? Or for John Thorbes?”
     Lawrence bit his tongue. Akira was trying to get into his head. He was supposed to be the one asking the questions. Who the hell did this guy think he was?
     Akira observed: “He is not the man you think he is. Nor is he the hero he thinks of himself.”
     “And who exactly are you, Mr. Yamamoto?”
     “A tired man who wants to rest.”
     “Funny way of resting in kidnapping one of the most powerful men in California.”
     “It got your attention, didn’t it?”
     The young officer was beaten into retreat.
     Was this man – this enigma – the Zodiac Killer? For Lawrence could see little else to explain that bitter charisma, the sort he had ascertained from the Zodiac’s letters in the San Francisco Chronicle. Had Akira handed himself in for recognition? For fame as he sat in the celebrity line-up of death row.
     “Why do you need us?”
     “No.” came that laconic dagger again; “You. Someone to listen to my story.”
     Puzzled, Lawrence looked back down at the file; returned to his script: “How long have you lived in this country, Mr. Yamamoto?”
     “I am an American.”
     “That wasn’t the –”
     “I am American!”
     The ailed labourer slammed his hands onto the table. His breathing was heavy; his chest pitched, crackling with the sparks of the death-rattle, which tried to ignite into a choking fit. Akira controlled it, but his gnarled hands shook against the tabletop.
     Lawrence tried: “No-one’s questioning your racial allegiance, Mr. Yamamoto.”
     “They always are.”
     Officer Lawrence looked away, compelled to show a mark of respect. He then said: “We found some newspapers, photographs and such at the warehouse.”
     “Tell me you read them.”
     “One.” Lawrence replied; “It spoke about an internment camp during the war – Tule Lake.”
     Akira grimaced; “You know nothing.”
     “Enlighten me.”
     Expecting another outburst, Lawrence was surprised when the former incarceree smoothed over the part of the table that he had abused, brought his hands together, leant forwards, and then said: “How long have you got?”
     Lawrence was uncertain whether Akira was serious. He decided to probe further. From his pocket, he produced the polaroid of the woman on the bench.
     Akira recoiled, as though Lawrence had pulled a cursed totem from his jacket; his eyes fluttered and begun to water. He glanced to a spot behind Lawrence, in the corner of the room – but there was nothing there.
     Officer Lawrence slid the photograph across the table. “I found this amongst the others.” he said; “What can you tell me about it?”
     “Issho. My Issho.”
     “Yes, that’s what the inscription said.” Lawrence wanted more. He could sense that Akira was holding something back. He went to press the ailed labourer, but then –
     Akira picked up the photograph. It was delicate in his coarse hands. He said: “My wife. She died six months ago.”
     “I’m sorry.”
     “You didn’t know her.” Akira didn’t snap, but it wasn’t soft and forgiving either. As he lowered the image back to the table, Akira continued in his dreamy pitch; “You didn’t know her. Neither did he – but he killed her.”
     “You said that in the warehouse. John Thorbes?”
     Akira gave a hard stare.
     Again, Officer Lawrence felt there was someone standing behind him.
     “You’re saying John Thorbes killed your wife?”
     “No. But he’s part of what did. Part of what has killed countless lives. My wife. My parents. My friends. He is part of the system – the nature – that forever silences.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “You will listen?”
     “Yes. Now tell me. I want to understand.”
     Akira was happy. The bait had worked. He said: “Let’s begin.”