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Authors: Douglas Wynne
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went halfway to the
ground with the built-in ladder. Didn’t want to encourage the local kids, you
know? Stunts, graffiti, etc. We brought the other ladder in this morning.”
“‘We?
Were you personally here when the ladder was brought in?”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
“Did
you check the ground under the tower for impressions from another ladder used
by the perp?”
“There
weren’t any.”
“How
about shoe prints?”
“Negative
again.”
“Anybody
take a picture of the ground before stomping around on it and erecting a
ladder?”
The
officer pulled his hat down to shield his eyes and looked up. “We went up
before the CSI got here. There was nothing on the ground to take a picture of,
Agent.”
“And
what did you find up top?”
“Just
blood. Mostly soaked into the wood and not much of it considering what we found
in the park.”
“Do
you think whoever went up there last night climbed the bracing to reach the
half-ladder?”
“Must
have. Probably had the head in a backpack or something so he could use both
hands for climbing.”
“Where’s
the head now?”
“On
the ground over there in Block 20 where the birds dropped it.” He pointed beyond
the barbed wire at a spot in the patchy sagebrush where two figures stood over
a white canvas sheet held down with stones. One of the figures was driving a
pole into the ground with a hammer, but the wind was pulling the clanging in
some other direction so it sounded out of sync with the blows, a dislocated
sound, like the tolling of a phantom bell. “If it wasn’t for the crows fighting
with him, that turkey vulture pro’ly woulda got away with it. Then all we’d
have would be a little blood up there that wouldn’t be found until God knows
when.”
Drelick
nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant….”
“Wilkes,
ma’am. Sherriff Knowles is waiting for you at the main entrance.”
She
climbed back into the car, and Pasco crawled up the gravel shoulder. They
passed a wooden sign suspended from a pair of posts by rusty chains at the four
corners: MANZANAR WAR RELOCATION CENTER. She recalled seeing a heated debate in
the Los Angeles Times a few years back about the use of the phrase
“concentration camp” at the site. Apparently, the more conservative party had
prevailed. The park featured an auto tour but not today; another police cruiser
blocked the entrance. Pasco flashed his ID, and they drove between a pair of
stone huts to where the sheriff’s car was parked. Knowles started his engine at
their approach, pulled out in front of them, and gave a curt “follow me” wave
out the window.
Drelick
had looked at the web site, so she knew that the white building going by on the
left had once been the school auditorium and was the only building that
remained from the original camp. With a modern facelift, it now served as the
Information Center housing artifacts, photographs (including the famous Ansel
Adams set), and little theaters that screened short documentary films for
visitors. All that remained of the rest of the village amounted to a few stone
foundations, piles of rocks amid the sand‐blasted scrub, and signs indicating
the places where numbered barracks blocks had once stood. They cruised past a
replica of a tarpapered plywood barracks near Block 20 and parked in the scant
shelter it provided from the dusty wind, behind the sheriff’s car.
Sheriff
Knowles shook their hands while shouting over the howling wind, “Welcome to
Manzanar. What have you been told about this crime scene and your role here?” As
a national monument, Manzanar fell into a weird jurisdiction where the
Department of the Interior, the California State Police, and the FBI all played
in the same sandbox.
“We
were told you have partial remains,” Drelick said. “Remains of a victim we may
have the rest of. We’re here to make an ID.”
Knowles
nodded. “If it’s a positive, he’s yours. If not, he goes to the morgue in town.
I sure as hell hope he’s yours because
ground with the built-in ladder. Didn’t want to encourage the local kids, you
know? Stunts, graffiti, etc. We brought the other ladder in this morning.”
“‘We?
Were you personally here when the ladder was brought in?”
“Yes,
ma’am.”
“Did
you check the ground under the tower for impressions from another ladder used
by the perp?”
“There
weren’t any.”
“How
about shoe prints?”
“Negative
again.”
“Anybody
take a picture of the ground before stomping around on it and erecting a
ladder?”
The
officer pulled his hat down to shield his eyes and looked up. “We went up
before the CSI got here. There was nothing on the ground to take a picture of,
Agent.”
“And
what did you find up top?”
“Just
blood. Mostly soaked into the wood and not much of it considering what we found
in the park.”
“Do
you think whoever went up there last night climbed the bracing to reach the
half-ladder?”
“Must
have. Probably had the head in a backpack or something so he could use both
hands for climbing.”
“Where’s
the head now?”
“On
the ground over there in Block 20 where the birds dropped it.” He pointed beyond
the barbed wire at a spot in the patchy sagebrush where two figures stood over
a white canvas sheet held down with stones. One of the figures was driving a
pole into the ground with a hammer, but the wind was pulling the clanging in
some other direction so it sounded out of sync with the blows, a dislocated
sound, like the tolling of a phantom bell. “If it wasn’t for the crows fighting
with him, that turkey vulture pro’ly woulda got away with it. Then all we’d
have would be a little blood up there that wouldn’t be found until God knows
when.”
Drelick
nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant….”
“Wilkes,
ma’am. Sherriff Knowles is waiting for you at the main entrance.”
She
climbed back into the car, and Pasco crawled up the gravel shoulder. They
passed a wooden sign suspended from a pair of posts by rusty chains at the four
corners: MANZANAR WAR RELOCATION CENTER. She recalled seeing a heated debate in
the Los Angeles Times a few years back about the use of the phrase
“concentration camp” at the site. Apparently, the more conservative party had
prevailed. The park featured an auto tour but not today; another police cruiser
blocked the entrance. Pasco flashed his ID, and they drove between a pair of
stone huts to where the sheriff’s car was parked. Knowles started his engine at
their approach, pulled out in front of them, and gave a curt “follow me” wave
out the window.
Drelick
had looked at the web site, so she knew that the white building going by on the
left had once been the school auditorium and was the only building that
remained from the original camp. With a modern facelift, it now served as the
Information Center housing artifacts, photographs (including the famous Ansel
Adams set), and little theaters that screened short documentary films for
visitors. All that remained of the rest of the village amounted to a few stone
foundations, piles of rocks amid the sand‐blasted scrub, and signs indicating
the places where numbered barracks blocks had once stood. They cruised past a
replica of a tarpapered plywood barracks near Block 20 and parked in the scant
shelter it provided from the dusty wind, behind the sheriff’s car.
Sheriff
Knowles shook their hands while shouting over the howling wind, “Welcome to
Manzanar. What have you been told about this crime scene and your role here?” As
a national monument, Manzanar fell into a weird jurisdiction where the
Department of the Interior, the California State Police, and the FBI all played
in the same sandbox.
“We
were told you have partial remains,” Drelick said. “Remains of a victim we may
have the rest of. We’re here to make an ID.”
Knowles
nodded. “If it’s a positive, he’s yours. If not, he goes to the morgue in town.
I sure as hell hope he’s yours because
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