THE CREMATION MURDERS

Private Detective Frank Noguchi had been sitting at his desk in his brand new office long enough to restrict blood circulation in his right foot. He noticed the tingling sensation and stood, waiting for the feeling to return to normal. He stretched his five-foot, seven-inch frame and yawned.

 He sat again and examined the contents of the sealed envelope, sent to him by Police Commissioner Overton; the envelope contained information related to the August 25, 1953, triple murders, of which his father had been one of the victims. He mused for a moment, I cannot believe that thirty-seven years have passed since the murders occurred. I must be dreaming to think that I can find the killer after so much time has passed.

Frank read through several typed pages describing the scant evidence found at the scene and the lengths to which the investigating officers had gone until they hit the lack-of-further-evidence-wall. The envelope contained copies of Dr. Jacobi''s nearly four-decade-old notes on the retention of semen samples, waiting a time when DNA science might contribute information related to the case.

Commissioner Overton had included recent progress notes, indicating that the semen samples had been examined for DNA and that copies of all documents had been made available to Frank Noguchi, a San Francisco private investigator. The references to Dr. Jacobi stimulated Frank''s memories of the man who had encouraged Frank''s career in criminology.

***

In 1958, doctors had predicted that cancer would kill Dr. Jacobi within one year; they missed the time by two years...

...Images of his father’s body flashed in Frank’s mind; he accelerated the car and drove for an entire block, before saying, “The memories are still vivid and make me feel anger.”

Catherine reached over the picnic basket and placed her palm on his right arm. “Memories help us to stay motivated to complete present tasks.” She held her hand in place.

Frank felt her hand on his arm, but he kept watching traffic through the windshield. “You are right. Memories help motivate us. I hope my anger does not distort my judgment.”

“I don’t understand,” she questioned.

“If I ever find the person who killed my father, my anger might motivate me to take more than a pound of flesh.”

She said, “I hope you are able to resolve the anger without doing something that will cause you more grief.” She moved her hand.

Frank stopped the car for a red light. When the light turned to green, he asked, “Would you like to drive to where the men assaulted you?”

She stiffened, but said, “Turn right at the next corner and drive three blocks.” She remained silent until the car covered the distance she had described. “This is where it happened.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No, I have no memory of the attack; fortunately, I was unconscious when the men raped and stabbed me. For that, I am thankful.”

Frank turned the corner and headed to the street that would take them toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Catherine, how do you tolerate any hatred that your vicious treatment may have caused?”

“You mean, do I regret what happened? Yes, I regret it. If you mean, do I long for revenge? No. The crimes against me occurred long ago, and no evidence exists to assist in finding the men.”

“How do you find such serenity in your circumstance?”

“I am not the sum total of what happened to me as a young woman. More importantly, I have a life with which I am satisfied. I love my work and I’m excited about participating in your project.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Besides, had it not been for those unpleasant circumstances, most likely, I would never have met you.”