The Chinese Jars (8 page)

Charles told the taxi driver where they wanted to go, and they soon found themselves in front of the office of the medical examiner, a one-story gray stone building. When they arrived, Samuel said hello to the emaciated clerk who had received him the time before and explained they needed to see his boss, because the feds had a subpoena and wanted to examine their files on Rockwood.

The clerk took the document that the attorney had filled out by hand and disappeared behind a frosted-glass door. Within a minute the door reopened and the examiner appeared in his white coat with the nameplate attached to it. “An investigation, huh? What in particular are you looking for?”

Charles Perkins puffed up. “You know I can't discuss particulars with you, sir. I just need to look at everything you have on Rockwood. Can you hang these somewhere?” he asked, handing him his coat and scarf.

“Be my guest,” said the examiner, pointing to the coat rack next to the front entrance. He scratched the thinning gray hair on his head and squinted, curious to know what the attorney was after. “Samuel, can you be of any help?” he asked, directly.

“I'll do the talking. He's with me,” Charles interrupted.

Samuel and the examiner exchanged glances. From the looks of it, he thought, he'd have to put up with this peacock.

“Very well,” said the examiner, who by now realized he was being left out of whatever was going on.

He gave instructions to the clerk. “Bring out all of Mr. Rockwood's personal belongings and his autopsy file and put them in that room over there. I'll answer any questions these gentlemen have.”

“I'm sure you have other things to do,” said Charles, who preferred to work without vigilance.

“It's protocol,” answered the examiner. “It has to do with the chain of evidence.” If he'd wanted to, he could have left them alone with the belongings; but he didn't like Charles, so he wouldn't budge.

“Very well,” said Charles. “I assume we can take photos of anything we want?”

“Yes, of course, as long as no original leaves the premises. You understand, chain of evidence.”

“Yeah, yeah, you already told me,” murmured Charles.

The examiner accompanied them to the same room where Samuel had been on his first visit. They spread Rockwood's belonging on the wood table and started going through the contents of the dead man's pockets. Samuel wasn't moved this time when he saw the small pile that represented all that was left of Rockwell. He was now convinced that he knew nothing about him, and that he wasn't really his friend. There was a half pack of Philip Morris cigarettes, which yielded nothing, and the Zippo lighter, which Charles stroked with his thumb. It worked. The seventeen dollars cash was still there, as was the engraved invitation. His wallet contained the same social security card and the photograph of Rockwood in army officer's attire. Charles pulled out a flash camera and took pictures of the items, one at a time, throwing the used bulbs into the wastebasket in the corner.

“Is this his social security number?” asked Charles.

“It checked out,” said the examiner, “and he really was in the army.”

“Interesting, there were no keys on him,” said Charles.

“Not necessarily,” said the examiner. “This was a suicide. You may find he left his keys at his place of employment, where I understand he lived. If you find out anything new, I know you'll report back to me. Right, Samuel?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Samuel, giving him a sly look.

Charles Perkins, ignoring the examiner, and still irked he wouldn't be allowed to borrow any evidence, turned his focus to the invitation. “You say this came from Engel's? How do you know that, Samuel?”

“You see that trademark in the middle of the lower part of the document? If you look real close, you'll see it has their name on it. That's how I knew where to go.”

“What about the RSVP number?” asked Charles.

“I called and they never heard of him,” answered Samuel.

They searched the tuxedo and at first found nothing. Then Samuel slipped his hand deep into the inside pocket where Rockwood would have kept his wallet. He pulled out what looked like half a claim check with red Chinese characters on it. “Look at this!” he exclaimed. “It looks like a receipt for something.” He asked both men searchingly, “Do either of you read Chinese?”

“What do you think, Mac?” said the examiner, laughing. “Does this Irish face look like it speaks Chinese?”

Charles, ignoring their conversation, took a close-up photo of the claim check and tried to duplicate the Chinese characters on a piece of paper. After three attempts he shrugged and said, “This will have to do until we get the pictures back.” He and Samuel then put everything back in its place.

“You're acting like you know something you're not telling me,” said the examiner. “Do you want me to ask for an inquest?”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” said Charles. “We're just starting our investigation. Let's see where it leads, and then you can decide.”

On their way out, Charles whispered to Samuel, “We really pissed the old man off,” and he smiled with a self-congratulatory smirk. “Now let's see what we can find out from his employer, Mr. Engel.”

They walked around to the front of the new Hall of Justice on Bryant Street and got in another cab.

“Engle's on Sacramento Street,” said Samuel, “right near Front.”

“This is pretty fancy,” said Samuel, impressed anew with the elegance of Engel's waiting room. “The owner has good taste. Those are real Piranesi drawings.”

“And who the hell is Piranesi?” asked Charles, examining a couple of them without interest.

The receptionist remembered Samuel. “You're here to see Mr. Engel again about the janitor, aren't you?” she asked. “Just a second.” She dialed the phone and called Mr. Engel. He appeared quickly from the hallway by the reception desk.

“Hello again, Mr. Hamilton. I see you didn't waste any time in coming back.”

“I'm glad you recognized me,” said Samuel. “This is Charles Perkins from the U.S. attorney's office. He'd like to see Mr. Rockwood's stuff and the closet where he lived. He has a subpoena to make it all legal.”

“You'll have to give me a few moments. We put everything in boxes. We wanted to get rid of it, but thought someone might claim it.”

They followed him to the rear of the building, where he unlocked a storage room. The tuxes were hanging in four plastic bags from an overhead water pipe, and two boxes with the Engel company name on the outside were stacked next to them. They were crammed full and heavy. As Samuel lifted them, Charles talked to the owner.

“Can we use this work table here?” he asked, pointing to one that was directly outside the room.

“Of course,” said Mr. Engel. “If you need anything else, let me know.” He tipped his hand, as if removing a bowler, and wandered toward the front of his establishment.

Samuel lifted the two boxes onto the table and began to remove several shoeboxes from inside. Charles began taking invitations out of the boxes. They were all in alphabetical order. He examined and looked at the notes on some of them, but he trusted what Samuel had already told him, so he didn't want to waste time on ground his friend had already covered, especially if it didn't produce anything of significance.

“Tell me if you find any plane tickets to Morocco,” said Samuel.

“What are you looking for?” asked a surprised Charles.

“Never mind. I'll know if you find 'em.”

Samuel searched the pockets of the hanging tuxes, but found nothing. He returned to the boxes they'd started to empty. In the bottom of one he found a set of keys, which he jiggled as he pulled them out to catch Charles's attention.

“Those may be our most important find,” said Charles.

“I hope so,” said Samuel. He placed them on the table and went on looking for the other piece of the claim check. He found another piece of stiff paper with red Chinese characters tucked in the pocket of a notebook that had “Daily Reminder” written on the front, but was filled with blank pages. Samuel smoothed out the torn piece of paper and placed it right next to the page Perkins had copied at the medical examiner's office. It looked as though they'd found what they were after.

The attorney took photos of the two papers, and then yelled for the owner, “Excuse me, Mr. Engel, can you come back here for a moment?”

Engel didn't respond, so Samuel went to fetch him and brought him to the table.

“Do you know where this piece of claim check is from?” Charles asked the owner.

“I'm afraid I don't. And no one here reads Chinese,” he said.

“Did Mr. Rockwood ever mention any Chinese friends?' Samuel asked.

“No, he didn't. I can ask the other employees, but I doubt they know anything,” he said. “The janitor was friendly and efficient but he didn't mix with the other employees. I'm afraid he didn't make any friends here.”

“Tell us about these keys,” said the attorney.

“I recognize this one; it opens the front door. And this one, the back door. The third one, I believe, is the key to the broom closet where we discovered he lived. The one next to that one opens the storeroom. But I've no idea about the other two,” said the owner. “They've nothing to do with our business.”

Charles separated the two keys from the rest and took photos of them. “Do you know if Mr. Rockwood had a bank account?”

“Yes, at the local Bank of America. At least that's where he deposited his checks. It's right around the corner.”

“Can I see his paychecks?” asked Charles. “Frankly, I'm trying to find out where he kept his money, in his own account or in someone else's.”

The owner brought the checks pertaining to Rockwood and placed them on the now crowded table. They were typical payroll checks with the name and address of the company in the upper left-hand corner. “I separated all of his checks, thinking someone might make an inquiry,” he said, waiting for the next question.

Charles went through them methodically. They were all endorsed the same way, Reginald Rockwood III, all written out legibly, as if the signer took great pride in his name. Underneath the signature was an account number and the words, “For Deposit Only,” in the same meticulous handwriting.

Charles took photographs of a few of the checks with Reginald Rockwood's name on the face of them and his signature on the back. He had Samuel write down the account number in his notebook so they wouldn't have to wait for the negatives to be developed. He then picked up the keys. “Can we keep these two?” he asked.

“I'd prefer to make you copies. There's a place right near here. I can have them for you in a few minutes,” said Engel. He called an employee and sent him off to get the job done.

“Do you have any information on this guy's private life?” asked Charles.

“None whatsoever. Mr. Hamilton can tell you we were quite surprised to learn he was living in our broom closet.”

“Referring to this Chinese claim check, or whatever it is, do you have any idea where this place might be?” asked Charles.

“Absolutely none,” said the owner.

“We appreciate the help you've given us today, Mr. Engel. Hopefully, we won't have to bother you again, but we do need to take this claim check with the Chinese writing on it. You understand, don't you? This is official business. I'll send you a photo of it, and here's a receipt.” He'd already written it out and handed it to Engel.

“I understand. How long do you want me to keep the rest of this stuff?” he asked.

“Until you hear from me,” Charles instructed him.

The employee came back with copies of the two keys. It was now three o'clock. Engle excused himself, and Charles and Samuel put everything back in the boxes, then returned them to the storeroom. They stared at half of the claim check with the red Chinese writing on it.

“Do you think you can find out what this is for and where the place is located?” asked Charles, handing the torn part with the Chinese writing on it to Samuel, together with what he had written at the medical examiner's office. “In any event, come to my office tomorrow at ten o'clock, and we'll at least go to the bank and see what kind of money this guy salted away.”

* * *

Samuel knew just where to go. He said goodbye to his friend and thanked Mr. Engel, then he boarded the Sacramento Street bus. He got off at Powell and walked the few blocks to Chop Suey Louie's. His friend Louie motioned for him to sit at his usual counter seat. Samuel shook his head and pointed to one of the tables in a corner, indicating he wanted the smiling man to join him.

“How's things, Samuel?” asked Louie.

“Good, Louie. We can have one more bet on the Forty-Niners. How much will it be?”

“You're not a good gambler, Samuel. You always lose,” said Louie.

Samuel laughed and pulled out the piece of the torn claim check and the characters the attorney had tried to copy on the notebook paper.

“Can you tell me what this says, Louie?” asked Samuel.

The man looked at the two pieces of paper for a long time with a frown on his face, trying to decipher the attorney's attempt to write in Chinese. Finally, he smiled, “This is a receipt for medium-sized jar at a Chinese herb shop,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” asked Samuel

“This means you own the contents of an herb jar at a very important Chinese healer's place of business. The problem is you only have one half. You won't get anything without the whole receipt.”

“Why do people own herb jars?” asked Samuel.

The proprietor laughed. “Go and find out.”

Samuel, puzzled, lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke into the empty seat across the table as he glanced at Goldie, his favorite fish, darting about the colorful aquarium. He felt tired. He'd eaten badly for days and had slept fitfully the night before. He shifted in his chair, wondering what kind of herbs Rockwood would have in a jar and whatever for.