wouldn’t have to tell this part.
“What’s
Iaido?”
“Japanese
sword art. We used to have a visiting instructor come in to teach it one night
a week. Kendo too, that’s the fencing version with armor and bamboo swords.”
“And
this…Iaido is done with wooden swords too?”
“No.
They’re usually aluminum or unsharpened steel.”
“So
you actually taught a samurai-sword class here?”
“ I didn’t, Sensei Masahiro used to, but it was a long drive for him. When we
didn’t have enough students enrolled in the class we dropped it.”
Desmond
stood up and sat down again. He cupped his hand over his mouth and slid it down
his chin, looking at the ceiling. How had he ever doubted Harwood’s guilt? But
the homeless man had a home now—Walpole State Penitentiary. Crazy or not,
fascinated with swords or not, he sure wasn’t cavorting around playgrounds in a
samurai mask. “Did the police know you hosted a sword class that Harwood used
to watch?”
“We
had already dropped it by then, but they took a list of all the students who
had attended and interviewed them. I didn’t volunteer the information that
Harwood had observed a class. It was only the one time, and he was never in the
building. I’d sent him away, told him that me bringing meals to the camp didn’t
mean he was absolved for stealing the staff.”
“You do think he’s innocent.”
“I
don’t know, Desmond. When he asked me about the sword class he seemed indignant
about the whole idea of martial arts; why people would want to learn how to
hurt each other. I tried to explain, as I often do with parents, that in
addition to the self-defense techniques we teach in Aikido, the weapons lessons
have more to do with harmonizing body and mind. The opponent you are really
trying to defeat is yourself, your own clumsy, unconscious tendencies. The
martial arts are about mastery of the self and meditation on your own
mortality.”
Desmond
thought that sounded like a nice New Age sales pitch to gloss over a tradition
of macho posturing, but he had to admit that he liked Salerno. The man had a
gentle and intelligent presence. Not what he had expected when he ventured in
here. “So Harwood was offended by the school, by the idea of teaching
violence.”
Salerno
nodded. “And I didn’t want the police to be able to suggest that he was
fascinated by it, nor did I want to argue for his innocence. For all I know, he
did kill your wife, and I wanted to keep my hand off the tiller.”
Desmond
sat back in the folding chair. It creaked under his weight. He listened for
Lucas and didn’t hear the bouncing ball. “What are the chances of the sword
that killed my wife being found within a mile of a martial arts school with a
sword class?”
“The
police asked that very question. I think they knew that none of our students
would have risked ditching the weapon so close to a place where it could be
connected to them. But, correct me if I’m wrong…. Didn’t the sword that killed
your wife belong to you?”
“Yes.
Sandy’s grandfather brought it back from World War II as a souvenir. When he
died, her father gave it to me. He figured since I write fantasy stories, I’d
like a sword. I hung it over my desk, out of Lucas’s reach, and pretty much
forgot about it.”
“I
heard the killer broke into your house, saw the sword on the wall, and then
decided to use it when your wife encountered him.”
“Yeah.
They called it a ‘weapon of opportunity.’”
“What
was she doing in the backyard in the middle of the night?”
“Our
dog always whined to be let out around four in the morning, and she’d gotten up
to let him out. Usually she’d wait by the sliding glass door to let him back in
when he was done before he could bark. When he didn’t return that night, she
must have stepped outside and gone looking for him…the dog was killed first.”
“And
nothing was stolen?”
“Nothing.
Just the sword, later found in Harwood’s tent with her
“What’s
Iaido?”
“Japanese
sword art. We used to have a visiting instructor come in to teach it one night
a week. Kendo too, that’s the fencing version with armor and bamboo swords.”
“And
this…Iaido is done with wooden swords too?”
“No.
They’re usually aluminum or unsharpened steel.”
“So
you actually taught a samurai-sword class here?”
“ I didn’t, Sensei Masahiro used to, but it was a long drive for him. When we
didn’t have enough students enrolled in the class we dropped it.”
Desmond
stood up and sat down again. He cupped his hand over his mouth and slid it down
his chin, looking at the ceiling. How had he ever doubted Harwood’s guilt? But
the homeless man had a home now—Walpole State Penitentiary. Crazy or not,
fascinated with swords or not, he sure wasn’t cavorting around playgrounds in a
samurai mask. “Did the police know you hosted a sword class that Harwood used
to watch?”
“We
had already dropped it by then, but they took a list of all the students who
had attended and interviewed them. I didn’t volunteer the information that
Harwood had observed a class. It was only the one time, and he was never in the
building. I’d sent him away, told him that me bringing meals to the camp didn’t
mean he was absolved for stealing the staff.”
“You do think he’s innocent.”
“I
don’t know, Desmond. When he asked me about the sword class he seemed indignant
about the whole idea of martial arts; why people would want to learn how to
hurt each other. I tried to explain, as I often do with parents, that in
addition to the self-defense techniques we teach in Aikido, the weapons lessons
have more to do with harmonizing body and mind. The opponent you are really
trying to defeat is yourself, your own clumsy, unconscious tendencies. The
martial arts are about mastery of the self and meditation on your own
mortality.”
Desmond
thought that sounded like a nice New Age sales pitch to gloss over a tradition
of macho posturing, but he had to admit that he liked Salerno. The man had a
gentle and intelligent presence. Not what he had expected when he ventured in
here. “So Harwood was offended by the school, by the idea of teaching
violence.”
Salerno
nodded. “And I didn’t want the police to be able to suggest that he was
fascinated by it, nor did I want to argue for his innocence. For all I know, he
did kill your wife, and I wanted to keep my hand off the tiller.”
Desmond
sat back in the folding chair. It creaked under his weight. He listened for
Lucas and didn’t hear the bouncing ball. “What are the chances of the sword
that killed my wife being found within a mile of a martial arts school with a
sword class?”
“The
police asked that very question. I think they knew that none of our students
would have risked ditching the weapon so close to a place where it could be
connected to them. But, correct me if I’m wrong…. Didn’t the sword that killed
your wife belong to you?”
“Yes.
Sandy’s grandfather brought it back from World War II as a souvenir. When he
died, her father gave it to me. He figured since I write fantasy stories, I’d
like a sword. I hung it over my desk, out of Lucas’s reach, and pretty much
forgot about it.”
“I
heard the killer broke into your house, saw the sword on the wall, and then
decided to use it when your wife encountered him.”
“Yeah.
They called it a ‘weapon of opportunity.’”
“What
was she doing in the backyard in the middle of the night?”
“Our
dog always whined to be let out around four in the morning, and she’d gotten up
to let him out. Usually she’d wait by the sliding glass door to let him back in
when he was done before he could bark. When he didn’t return that night, she
must have stepped outside and gone looking for him…the dog was killed first.”
“And
nothing was stolen?”
“Nothing.
Just the sword, later found in Harwood’s tent with her
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