Hansen tapped the table with his fingers in irritation. He absently reached to his shirt pocket where he had a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He caught himself and actually scowled. Early in the interview he had asked me if I minded if he smoked. In the cooped-up little room I most certainly did mind, and Hansen had now gone a couple of hours without a smoke. “Let’s try a different topic for a while then. Why don’t you tell me more about this club that you belong to?”
“The L.A. Mystery Club is a group of mystery enthusiasts who get together monthly to solve crimes.”
“Crimes?” Hansen’s eyebrows angled quizzically.
“Not real crimes,” I added. “Some members of the club create the crime that’s going to be solved. The other members come on a Saturday and follow a trail of clues to see if they can solve the crime. Afterward there’s a dinner where the winners are announced and the solution is revealed.”
“So it’s sort of like kids playing Let’s Pretend,” Hansen said.
“No. It’s adults solving intellectual puzzles. Sometimes quite complicated intellectual puzzles. But to solve these puzzles you pretend to be something that you’re not. To solve the puzzles some members play roles like in a play. Sometimes we even hire professional actors. They act the parts of various characters in the mystery. The other members sometimes act out the parts of various favorite detectives.”
“Like what?”
“Like Sherlock Holmes or Miss Marple, characters from detective literature. People like that.”
“It all sounds kind of silly to me,” Hansen said.
“Most recreation is. With you, solving crimes is a profession. With us, it’s a hobby. There’s a difference in your outlook when you’re doing something just for the fun of it.”
“It seems like there’s a more important difference,” Hansen said. “All these club crimes are just foolishness. What I’ve got on my hands is a real murder.”
I felt my face burn red. I hated Hansen’s attitude, and his remarks about the childishness of the L.A. Mystery Club were all the more infuriating because they had a germ of truth to them. Despite this truth, I felt my anger toward Hansen growing. In the back of my mind I wondered if this was a technique Hansen was using in an effort to make me lose my temper and perhaps say something that I normally wouldn’t.
“So because of this club activity, you rented the office and had business cards made up,” Hansen continued.
“Yes.” My voice now had a brittleness caused by anger.
“And you claim that this woman, Rita Newly, showed up at your office by mistake.”
“I assume it was a mistake. Initially I thought it might be another member of the L.A. Mystery Club playing a trick on me.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“Obviously not.”
“So she hired you to go get the package from Matsuda?”
“That’s right.”
“And you decided to play detective and do it.”
Once again I felt my face turning red with embarrassment and anger. My jaw clenched and I spat out, “Yes.”
“So apparently you weren’t able to differentiate between your little playacting and reality?”
“Apparently.”
“You didn’t get Newly’s address or telephone number?”
“No.”
Hansen sighed and sat back in his chair. “Not much of a detective, are you?”
“Apparently not.”
“By the way, what did you do with the package?” Hansen asked.
“I gave it to her,” I lied.
“Rita Newly?”
“The woman who called herself Rita Newly.” My anger made me lie about the disposition of the package, and I knew it was a mistake to make such a foolish statement as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I was about to retract the lie when I saw Hansen shaking his head with a patronizing smirk.
“So essentially you were a delivery boy and not a detective.”
“Yes, and please don’t call me a boy. I’m a full-grown man.” I stared at the black tube of the microphone sitting on the desk and wanted desperately to retract my lie, but I realized the entire interview was being recorded, and I didn’t know how to extricate myself gracefully from the situation I had just put myself in without giving Hansen a chance for more snotty comments.
Hansen lifted up the manila envelope. “I want to show you something.” He opened up the envelope and took out several large photographs. “These are pictures of the body and the room. Could you identify Matsuda if I showed them to you?”
“I only met him once. Aren’t you sure he was the one who was killed?”
“The fingerprints and photo matched his passport, so we’re sure who the victim was,” Hansen said. “But I want you to look at the pictures to make sure the man in the room you met was actually Matsuda.”
Hansen hesitated a second, then added, “It may be difficult to identify Matsuda’s face. The body was pretty well cut up. The doctors say a lot of it was done after he was already dead. It was a pretty violent murder.”
Hansen handed the photos to me. I looked at the first photo. My stomach gave an immediate lurch at the sight. It was in color; an eight-by-ten blowup.
Lying on the floor in a corner of the room, dressed in the same suit that I had seen him in, was the body of Matsuda, or what was left of it. Long red slices crisscrossed the head and shoulders, and flaps of skin, matted with blood and hair, hung loosely, exposing the white skull beneath. It was hard to identify the face with the multitude of slashes, but I could see a part of the birthmark on a patch of skin that still clung to the skull. Blood was splashed everywhere.
In my short time in Vietnam I can’t say that I know for sure that I ever killed someone. I shot at people but I never actually saw anyone get hit. I did see several people killed, however, including someone blown to pieces by a land mine. It was his second day in Vietnam, and he was just unlucky. The horror of that ripped-apart body in Vietnam was no worse than the slashed body before me in the pictures. But for some reason the situation with Matsuda struck me as somehow more terrible. The body in Vietnam was mutilated by the effects of mindless energy during a time of war; an explosion set off because a foot was placed on the wrong patch of earth. The body in the picture was ripped to pieces because someone had stood before it and slashed at it over and over again.
In the picture, one of Matsuda’s arms was twisted to one side, and the other arm was just a stump. A ring of blood soaked the end of the cut-off jacket sleeve where the rest of Matsuda’s arm should have been.
I shuffled the pictures. The second picture explained the mystery of the missing arm. Lying on the green rug of the hotel room was the severed arm, with the hand mutilated and missing some fingers. It seemed to be resting just inside the doorway, where someone entering the room would see it first. Next to the arm was a little slip of paper with a number written on it. It was some kind of identification number used by the photographer.
I turned to another picture to see one of the severed fingers lying on the carpet in a closeup shot. The curly nap of the green carpet was clearly visible, with the brown severed finger lying incongruously on it like some red and tan slug crawling across a curly green sea bottom. Another identification number flanked the finger.
The last picture was a closeup of the face. The flesh was sliced by dozens of blows that exposed bloody muscle and bone. I glanced at it without focusing on what I was seeing. I handed the pictures back to Hansen.
“It’s unbelievable,” I said, shaken.
“It’s not unbelievable because it happened. That’s the difference between your recreation and my job. The blows on the hands and wrists are characteristic of defense wounds; someone placing their hands and arms over their head to protect themselves. That’s how the fingers got sliced off and how the arm was hacked off, too. You can see the defense mechanism didn’t do much good, because even after Matsuda was dead someone continued to hack away at his head. The forensics boys say it was probably done with a long, sharp instrument. Maybe a sword.”