Forensic

[Aardvark]

The door to the bathhouse hung loosely on it's hinges. The lock and a chunk of wood from the door were currently in the capable hands of Snr Sgt Cowell, who was studying it intently.

 

"I'm thinking this is the point of entry." he said to his offsider, Detective Black

 

"What makes you think that?" Black, annoyed at actually having to do real police work, replied.

 

"Door kicked in, lock found twenty meters away, inside. I'm thinking the door was struck, quite possibly with considerable force, from the outside. You there!" Cowell shouted at a rather pale young constable. "Front and center, Sonny. Sharpen up, suck in that gut. And get a little sunlight, boy. You're white as a ghost's bedsheets."

 

The constable, one Constable Goldsmith, was still queasy from the sight that he and his partner had been greeted with upon responding to the emergency call. His partner had been carted off by medics, the sight of so much blood, guts and severed limbs being too much for him. Suddenly hearing this voice of authority snapped some life back into him.

 

"Sir!" He answered

 

"Calm down, Sonny, don't get excited, loosen up a little, willyah. This isn't the army, Kiddo. Christ, how old are you? Don't answer, I don't really think I want to know." Cowell's mouth went a mile a minute on most days. This was disconcerting for anyone who didn't know him well enough to interrupt.

 

"Sir, I..." Goldsmith attempted

 

"Well now, I see here we have a murder scene... multiple murder..." Cowell began

 

"Closer to Genocide, I reckon." Black chimed in

 

"Yes, quite possibly... dead bodies... lots of them... all of one race. Yes, dear Sir, you appear to be on the money with that one. Right, younggun, get out a pad and paper. Take notes." Cowell turned to the rookie

 

"But sir..." Goldsmith tried again.

 

"Too slow, soldier, here take mine. Always have a pen and pad on hand. Good lesson, that one. Makes you look like you care if people think you're taking notes. Makes you look important. Anyway, take notes. Suspect could quite possibly be an nazi. Also take a note, get the sketch artist to whip up a mock up of Old Adolf. We may need it." Cowell circled the front room of the bath house while he talked, avoiding the medics carrying out bodybags.

 

"Do we have a count, Black?"

 

Black looked over the notes he'd been handed upon arrival. "Not too sure on that one, they're still trying to sort out some of the bodies. At least thirty."

 

"Thirty dead japs in a bath house. Sounds like it was racially motivated. Sonny, take a note. This new hitler may very well be from a nation with anti-japanese sentiments. I'll need three mockups, a chinese hitler, russian hitler and an american hitler." Never one to respect people's feelings, Cowell continued prattling away as he studied a series of bullet holes in the wall.

 

"Our man used a gun, Black old son?"

 

"So far all signs point to a knife of sorts. Quite possibly a sword." Black stepped over a severed hand and into the next room. Cowell followed and soon after came Goldsmith, but not with an encouraging, "Move it, soldier!" from Cowell.

 

"A bath. In a bath house. Who would've guessed." Cowell studied the bodies still floating in the red bathwater. "What about the girls, have we interviewed them?"

 

Black, fighting the urge to question Cowell's knowledge of the staff, replied, "They're fairly shaken. Being exposed to genocide and all."

 

"Hang on, they're all japanese, too. Well, some are chinese. Vietnamese.... indian... pakistani... hell, I'm sure one's name was Pocahontas or something. The point is, they all looked the part. Why didn't our hitler touch any of them?"

 

"Maybe Hitler's the honourable type. Gladly slaughter every single man of a race, but won't touch the women or children?"

 

"Hmm, right you could be. Sonny, less retching, more writing. You'll need these notes to write up my report when we all get back."

 

"But I don..." Goldsmith tried in vain

 

"Sure, sure, you should listen closely before volunteering next time."

 

"When did..."

 

"Never volunteer, that's my motto. But thanks for the offer, Sonny. It'll take a load off my mind. And remember, they have to be in triplicate. I give you permission to forge my signature, too."

 

Goldsmith gave up. He shook his head, sighed and started jotting down anything Cowell said that sounded relevant.

 

A commotion from another room made Cowell pause mid-spiel.

 

"Be a good lad and go see what all that kerfuffle is about, will you?" Cowell carefully prodded a headless corpse with the toe of his shoe, just in case. Black pulled out a camera and started snapping photos. If there was a need for hands to get dirty, Black always had a way for his to be overlooked.

 

Goldsmith stuck his head back in, excited.

 

"We've found a live one!"

 

"Good show, old bean!" Cowell grinned back, "Now, what's he got to say about this?"

 

"Umm... no one speaks..." Goldsmith began.

 

"Wait wait, let me guess... you responded to a call from a japanese bath house, right?"

 

"Yes."

 

"In Little Tokyo, right?"

 

"Umm... yeah..."

 

"And you didn't think to request someone who could speak the local language?"

 

"It didn't occ..." Goldsmith felt a knot of fear and guilt in his stomach.

 

"Son, write this down. Note to self: Put Constable Goldsmith on report. Now, have we found a possible murder weapon yet?"

 

"I'll know soon enough," Black said, seeing an opportunity to duck out. Goldsmith, still knotted, sealed his fate in ink, resisting the urge to hope Cowell just plain forgot.

 

"Good. Right. So we have thirty dead japanese men. All in business attire. Hmm... we could be looking for an activist here. One of those uni students who protest everything business all the time. Maybe one went postal."

 

"With a sword, sir?" Goldsmith said.

 

"Well, why not? I mean, even my youngest has his own sword."

 

"All these men had guns."

 

"Hmm... I don't believe a collage git would have the dexterity to dodge a bullet. Maybe you're right. So what have we got so far?"

 

"Hitler, possibly american hitler, who can dodge bullets..." Goldsmith read aloud.

 

"Ninja. He's probably a ninja. Ninjas do that, you know. Dodge bullets. They're good at the old bullet dodging, your typical ninja." Cowell said, in the classic know-it-all tone everyone seems to perfect by age 3. Goldsmith jotted it down.

 

Black returned. "We've found it. This way, gentlemen."

 

Cowell and Goldsmith followed him through a back corridor, stopping outside a pair of double doors just past a sign that probably read, "Staff only. Violators will be violated.", which no one could read, as it was in japanese. The bodies of the fallen had already been carted off, but at least seven chalk outlines could be seen. A few in pieces.

 

"So our ninja hitler was quite good at a little bit of the old genocide." Cowell said. Black looked at him as if he'd grown a third head. Goldsmith jotted it down, just incase.

 

They opened the double doors to reveal a grand chamber beyond. Silk curtains were drawn back to allow sunlight to flood the room. Antique furniture was positioned in a circle around the corpse of a rather fat japanese man. Protruding from the man's stomach was a fine japanese blade with a white cloth tied to the handle.

 

"There goes the ninja theory." Cowell said, disappointed. Blacksmith fought a laugh. Goldsmith scribbled out the note.

 

"Possible motive: Revenge." Cowell said after several minutes contemplation

 

"What makes you think that?" Black, slipping back into his role of smartarse offsider, chirped.

 

"Dunno, just a gut instinct. You gotta have them, rookie..." Cowell started, but stopped when he saw Goldsmith scribbling down notes furiously. Ahh, keen as mustard. He'll go far in this man's business. As long as he calms down and loosens up a little, Cowell thought to himself.

 

"I'm through with this. We'll let the boys clean up and we'll read about it later in the funny pages. Besides, I'm suffering caffeine deficiency."

 

"I'll drink to that," Black said. "But damn, if that isn't a whole load of paperwork ahead of us."

 

The two senior policemen turned to Goldsmith. Goldsmith dropped his head in surrender.