Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

Perched atop a freight truck heaped with lumber like a mountain, Tony Fernandez drove along Sawyer Camp Road in San Mateo County, California, heading home from work.

It was the afternoon of March 8, 1919.

Though he had grown thoroughly weary of the tree-filled yet dreary rural scenery along his daily commute, Tony Fernandez had unwittingly developed a habit of observantly scanning from atop the truck—the slopes crowding the roadside, the rock-strewn riverbed where water had long dried up—for even the slightest anomaly as he passed by.
This time was no different—as he was jostled along with the truck’s cargo, gazing around idly to stave off boredom—when something suddenly caught his eye.
On the opposite side of the riverbed—no more than thirty feet away—a human hand floated in the air, appearing to beckon Tony Fernandez.
It was just a glimpse.
The truck's speed being fast, by the time he startled and turned around, that spot had already fallen well behind and become hidden beneath vegetation—yet he had seen "that hand" too clearly to dismiss it as some daytime illusion.
However, a human hand floating alone in midair—Tony grappled with reason as he hesitated for some time.

The riverbed lay at the bottom of a small ravine between two roads.
This side was Sawyer Camp Road—a privately maintained thoroughfare where only freight trucks occasionally passed—while the opposite side was Half Moon Bay Highway, a route with considerable pedestrian traffic. The section of riverbed where "the hand" had been seen spread out beneath that very highway, jutting slightly inward at a point about twenty feet below it; from the highway directly above, one would have had to lean out considerably to see it.
It would never catch the eye of ordinary passersby.
Instead, from this side along Sawyer Camp Road—running slightly elevated and parallel—the riverbed beneath Half Moon Bay Highway was clearly visible diagonally, and thus it was that Tony Fernandez discovered that "beckoning hand."

“Hey, Casey!
“Stop!
“Just reverse it a bit!”

Suddenly from atop the truck, Tony barked.
As driver Casey, flustered by what had happened, slammed on the brakes, Tony launched into his explanation with a voice that seemed ready to sprint off:

“I saw a hand.
“Someone’s hand!
“Down in that valley!
“No one’s there—just a hand sticking out of the dirt, waving us over!”

Of course, Casey wouldn’t have any of it.

“That’s why I told you to quit! Guzzling that rotgut liquor’s what did it!”
“You’re drunk!”

But Tony Fernandez stubbornly insisted like a madman.

“No! No! I really saw a hand! It’s in the shadow of that thicket over there. If you just reverse a little, you’ll see it.”

Casey muttered complaints but began turning the vehicle.

The desk telephone of Mr. Duncan Matheson—Chief of Detectives for the San Francisco Police, who had overseen the city’s investigative operations for fifteen years and now served as its Revenue Officer—rang out with an ear-splitting shrill. Thus began, entirely unforeseen, the unraveling of “The Mystery of the Beckoning Hand,” one of modern America’s most notorious murder cases.
At the urgent report of pale-faced Fernandez and Casey, Dr. Paul Sheridan—prosecutor and police physician of San Mateo County—was dispatched to the scene and immediately telephoned San Francisco authorities to request reinforcements.
The corpse of a woman of extraordinary beauty discovered in the mountainous riverbed along Half Moon Bay Highway was estimated to be twenty-five years old, her attire at first glance betraying impeccable taste—expensive and meticulously coordinated.
Her outfit comprised high-quality navy serge separates paired with a small stylish hat adorned with blue ribbon in Indian turban fashion, a fur coat of evident worth, black silk stockings, and fashionable high-heeled shoes. While it holds true both in the West and here that death often lends beauty to ordinary women, this woman alone stood as an authentic rarity—a veritable beauty even in life.

Though Tony's earnestness seemed excessive, Casey backed up the truck with every intention of mocking him later—but when he followed Tony's frenzied pointing, Casey instinctively slammed on the brakes as if frozen solid, his mouth falling open in a dumbfounded gape.

It was neither a joke nor a midday dream.
From between the piled rocks just ahead, a pale bare arm jutted out as if pointing straight at the sky, swaying stiffly in the wind to appear as though it were beckoning.
Depending on how one looked at it, it could appear as though floating in the sky or sprouting from the earth.
Tony Fernandez described his observations at the time of this discovery to police officers and newspaper reporters, stating as follows.

“There was nobody there――just a hand, sticking out of the ground, waving at me!”

An unmistakable, grotesque impression.
Driven by an eerie premonition, the two quietly got out of the car.
They descended into the valley, crossed the dried-up river, and approached the cluster of rocks.
It wasn’t just the hand floating in mid-air.
Fated to shock the American public, terror and secrets lay in wait there for the two men.
Or rather, one could say the corpse had raised its hand to summon its discoverers.
Hand—it was the stark white hand of a young, beautiful woman.
Whether by mere chance or what one might call divine arrangement, the corpse had fallen between rocks and remained completely invisible from even a slight distance—yet the hand protruded atop a rock as though sprouted from the earth—thus seizing Tony’s attention, thereby summoning forth that sensational incident, and ultimately leading to the perpetrator’s arrest.

The victim's skin was white and soft.
Her face and hands were immaculately groomed, with nails recently manicured.
She must have lived at least a middle-class existence—quiet and indoor-oriented.
Dr. Sheridan conducted a meticulous coroner's inquest, yet found only minor facial abrasions presumed sustained from a twenty-foot fall off Half Moon Bay Highway—no other traumatic injuries suggesting cause of death.
No identifying items surfaced despite repeated examinations: no wallet, handbag, rings, or personal ornaments.
Thus the mystery multiplied—first question: who was this woman?
Suicide?
Murder?
Accident?
Whichever—why did she die? Why need she have died?
How? Where? And if murdered—by whom?
From that solitary hand erupted countless questions before police and citizens alike.
Yet while anticipating injuries, investigators found nothing—no gunshot wounds, knife marks, or strangulation traces.
Only those faint scratches mentioned earlier marred her face.
Dr. Sheridan's team moved the corpse to a nearby mortuary for deeper analysis, but found every laundry mark excised from undergarments—every identifying feature stripped away.
A terrifying degree of care had been applied to clothing details.
To determine exact cause and time of death, autopsy became imperative.
With Coroner W.A. Brook attending, Major W.C. Chidester—U.S. Marine Corps surgeon stationed at San Mateo—would wield the scalpel come dawn.

Then, San Mateo’s Officer John Lenock appeared with a report, drawing the attention of the investigative officers.
The body had been discovered on Saturday afternoon, but eighteen hours earlier on Friday night—as Officer Lenock was making his rounds—a gleaming luxury automobile approached from behind him, pulled alongside, and slowed down while the driver called out.

“Is there a hotel around here somewhere?”

Officer Lenock answered,

“If you go down this road, you’ll find the Hotel San Mateo.”

“Straight ahead?”

After nodding to the driver who had asked again, Officer Lenock peered into the back seat to find a man and woman sitting with weary expressions.
The woman seemed to avoid the officer’s gaze, letting out a low, stifled moan.
It was midnight.
It was a desolate country road.
Driven by that sixth sense which compels an officer to never overlook even trivial matters once deemed suspicious, Officer Lenock waved to the driver and swiftly leapt onto the automobile’s running board.

“That’s right. Keep going straight—the manager might be asleep, so I’ll come wake him with you.”

En route to the hotel, the driver volunteered that the engine needed repairs before their morning departure. Officer Lenock entered first and roused manager Robert Magi. Even after arriving, the woman kept gritting her teeth through apparent agony, her groans persisting. Seizing a moment when the man looked away, the officer edged closer to her. He tried questioning her circumstances and offered discreet help if she wished to accuse her companion, but she avoided his gaze, maintaining only stifled whimpers.

The man signed the register as “B. Hoy and wife, San Jose” before escorting her upstairs. With no further business there, Officer Lenock departed at precisely three a.m.

This report reached San Mateo’s investigative headquarters late Saturday night after the “Beckoning Hand” discovery, sparking urgent activity over the suspicious man. The hidden-faced woman’s described features matched the corpse perfectly.

Rushing to Hotel San Mateo, investigators learned from Magi that the couple’s room faced his across the hall. The woman had wept mournfully until five a.m., then fell silent—they’d already vanished by then. The manager couldn’t specify their departure time.

They never returned.

2

While investigators were searching for this automobile’s whereabouts, the results of the next morning’s autopsy became known, and the case took an unexpected turn.
Major Chidester had completed the autopsy by 9:00 AM on Sunday—a revelation that the woman had died from an illegal surgical procedure which ignited Calif.’s largest-ever investigation into feverish pursuit, throwing not just San Mateo County but police forces across neighboring cities into frenzied activity.
Moreover, it was concluded that the procedure had been performed by a seasoned obstetrician-gynecologist and that death had occurred shortly after surgery.
The military surgeon clearly stated that while the cause lay in a surgical error, administering immediate large-scale emergency treatment at that time could have easily preserved her life.

“She died from a slight error made by the physician during the procedure.”
“However, that error was of a nature that even the most experienced physician could not always avoid.”
“It might be more accurate to call it negligence rather than a mere error—but that only underscores how immense the shock and agony inflicted upon the woman must have been.”
“There was no question she died because of it.”
“Yet saving her would have been simple enough.”
“But that would have meant taking her to a hospital.”
“That physician knew this perfectly well—yet rather than risk exposure by trying to save his patient’s life, he chose to discard her and let her die.”

What inhumanity! What indifference to human life—the public's terror and fury reached a white heat anew, while simultaneously, the authorities commenced their investigation against this intelligent criminal with redoubled vigor.

According to Major Chidester’s autopsy findings, thirty-six hours had passed since death.
Therefore, it could be concluded that she had died on Friday night.

March 7th, Friday night.

Traces showed anesthetic had been administered during the procedure.
This conclusion stemmed from both the intestines being cleansed as if scrubbed and the inhumanly severe wounds inflicted on the woman's lower abdominal organs—injuries no one could have endured without being in a drug-induced coma.
The fact of anesthetic use was critical to remember.
This would later prove a pivotal point.

Finally, Major Chidester concluded,

“The corpse was transported no more than two or three miles from where the surgery took place.”
“This conclusion was reached based on the volume and state of coagulated blood found within the internal organs.”

Faced with this first major hurdle in their physical search, San Mateo County authorities requested active support from the San Francisco Police Department. Following consultations between Police Chief White and Judicial Director Matheson, Mr. White personally led a team of select detectives to San Mateo County.

Newspapers had already trained their spotlights on every angle of the case, with reporters scrambling to seize fragments of information for their articles. All persons, locations, and items connected to the investigation were photographed and splashed across front pages. The American public—ever eager for sensational scandals—remained poised on tiptoe, scrutinizing each development with rapt attention. Arguably, the woman’s complete anonymity—her origins and identity still shrouded in mystery—served as the primary catalyst fueling this intense fascination.

Post-autopsy, investigators dressed the corpse in the same clothes worn at discovery and photographed it anew. Newspaper illustrators retouched these photographic plates to restore lifelike qualities, publishing them daily alongside appeals for information. Concurrently, exhaustive descriptions of her garments and personal effects began appearing in print with equal regularity.

Hat — A black straw hat in the style of an Indian turban.
A blue braided cord ribbon was wrapped around it.
A multicolored shellwork decorative pin.

Coat — A navy blue Bolivia cloth garment with a long hem.
Raglan sleeves—a loose cut—with a belt of the same material.
On the back, two rows of cloth-covered buttons.
Lining of blue French silk.

Garments — A high-quality navy serge suit separated into a jacket and Western-style trousers. The skirt flared out in a morning glory shape at the bottom; the jacket had one pocket on each side. The collar was adorned with wisteria-colored felt; pleats ran down the front and back; the chest fastened with two long rows of buttons. Low collar. Generously cut overall; a belt wrapped around the lower part; a large black clasp attached at the front.

Physique and facial features — Height: 5 feet 4 inches. Weight: 120 pounds. Estimated age: Twenty-five years. Bright azure eyes; pale hawk-brown hair. Delicate and meticulously cared-for hands.

Distinguishing features: None in particular. If one were forced to name a distinguishing feature, would it not be these exquisitely shaped, beautiful hands? It was this “exquisitely shaped, beautiful hand” that emerged from the earth, lured Tony Fernandez, and thus dragged the case into society’s spotlight—a tale tinged with karmic irony. On March 12th, the corpse was transferred to San Francisco’s coroner facility and put on public display in hopes someone might recognize her. For establishing the investigation’s foundation, this remained their sole remaining hope. While San Mateo authorities had shown the body to potential informants, San Francisco saw thousands descend upon the morgue in clamoring droves.

It was the corpse of a young woman that became a major sensation.
Curious people clamored and crowded in, while all day long an unending river of gawkers flowed past the corpse.
Officers were deployed to strictly guard the area and manage the crowd.
It was an immense crowd.

Newspapers splashed the story.
“The Secret of the Woman with Beautiful Hands” was the name journalism bestowed upon this case; indeed, they claimed that even just these “hands” alone would allow someone who knew her to recognize whose they were at a glance.

It was said her fingers resembled those of a Chinese woman's.
What exactly defines Chinese women's fingers I cannot say—but regardless, hers tapered to slender tips, unnervingly long and artfully artificial in appearance.
Examining just the nails, they appeared as small as a child's, with fingertips refined like delicate craftwork.
The little finger measured thinner than an ordinary pencil, its nail so finely shaped it might have been ivory sculpture.
Her skin showed pale softness, while the nails bore evidence of meticulous grooming.
Traces of potent lacquer still clung to their surfaces.

Meanwhile, the San Francisco authorities—cooperating with the San Mateo Police and State Prosecutor’s Office—established an investigation headquarters led by Chief White and Judicial Director Duncan Matheson, mobilizing all their capabilities in a frenzied rush both to identify the female victim and to apprehend the criminal—said to be an obstetrician who had performed the illegal surgery.

A full mobilization of detectives.
An investigation into runaway women of corresponding age in California and adjacent states.
The days passed fruitlessly.

Centered on the Half Moon Bay Highway crime scene, they scoured the wilderness and dense woods within several miles—literally parting the grass and overturning stones—searching for any dropped evidence, but not a single clue could be found.
The woman’s Bolivia cloth coat was a considerably expensive item costing between $100 and $300—not something just anyone would wear. Therefore, whoever sold it would likely remember.
Moreover, since it was an item unavailable in rural shops and only handled by first- and second-tier stores even in San Francisco—making it easier to trace—the detectives carried that Bolivia cloth coat as they made the rounds of renowned women’s dress shops in San Francisco, Oakland, and other cities.
Meanwhile, they took X-ray photographs of the corpse’s teeth.
They broadcasted in detail over the radio the state of dental work and characteristics of the dentures, published them in every newspaper, and were now waiting for any dentist who remembered treating such a patient to come forward.
Needless to say, the pair of suspicious man and woman reported by Officer Lenock and confirmed by hotel manager Robert Magi—said to have appeared at the Hotel San Mateo late at night—had now become the primary targets of this major investigation.
The time they left the hotel roughly coincided with the estimated time of the victim woman’s death.
From the San Francisco Police, four detectives—Frank Maconell, Charles Gialivan, Michael Michel, and Jack Floyd, subordinates of Mr. White—had been dispatched and were devoting themselves to this front; then, when they went to inspect the room at Hotel San Mateo where the woman who had been moaning incessantly and her companion with suspicious behavior were said to have come at midnight and rested for two or three hours, Detective Frank Maconell found something shoved deep into a drawer of the mirrored dresser.
They were a blood-soaked armchair cushion cover and an equally bloodstained bedsheet.
With this evidence, they had effectively determined that the man and woman were undoubtedly victim and perpetrator—a young woman groaning in pain—blood—an unidentified man—three o'clock in the morning—the corpse beneath the cliff—and when these elements were laid out thus, the chain of events stood out in sharp relief. The newspapers now collectively directed public attention toward this man dubbed the "Night Companion" and his automobile.
From Officer Lenock, Manager Magi, and other hotel employees, they had largely ascertained what kind of man he was and what automobile he had been driving; based on this, a team of detectives desperately combed through garages and gas stations in search of the automobile man’s whereabouts.
However, after leaving the hotel at that time, their whereabouts had abruptly vanished into the predawn darkness as if the thread had been severed—though it seemed they had raced off toward San Francisco.
Neither Manager Magi nor Officer Lenock knew the type of automobile.
Only that it was "an expensive large limousine."
A limousine refers to a high-class automobile where the driver’s compartment and rear passenger area are completely separated—or divided by a partition—designed exclusively for urban, social, and foremost official purposes.
It was either a vehicle for upper-class individuals with elaborate tastes or one ridden by elderly people.
As for the facial features of the gentleman in question, he was described as having a tall stature with a long face—large, sturdy, and impressive.
His attire was proper: he wore a black soft hat and a long black overcoat.
Even from just this description alone, he seemed precisely the sort of man who would drive around in a limousine.
It could have been either before going to the hotel or after leaving it.

Determined to track the limousine’s movements, detectives went door-to-door along the Half Moon Bay Highway, questioning every household. The sole report they finally obtained led them to a roadside restaurant named Uncle Tom’s Cabin, located slightly downhill from the highway in the direction opposite the hotel.
Someone claimed to have seen a limousine believed to be that very one passing by shortly after midnight on the night of the crime.
The compartment light was dim, but they said a man and a woman were indeed riding.
Of course, that was undoubtedly the automobile, but this alone proved useless.

Six days had already passed since the discovery.

At the San Francisco coroner’s facility, hundreds of people daily—the majority of them women—would file from one entrance to the exit, peering at the dead woman’s face one after another, flowing like a conveyor belt.

Despite this public viewing merely attracting hordes of idle onlookers without yielding any clues that might help identify her—and with authorities having resolved to terminate the display—it was on the sixth day, Friday morning, March 14th, that a detective from the San Francisco Central Police Station named Clarence Bowmus joined the corpse-viewing line accompanied by his friend Nicholas Ogriff. When their turn came and they stood before the woman’s corpse laid in the glass coffin, Ogriff squatted down over the casket and gazed at the dead face for some time, then soon quietly tugged Detective Bowmus’s sleeve and spoke in a low voice.

“That’s right.”
“This is that woman.”
“It’s definitely her.”
“But just to be sure, let’s have her brother come take a look.”

3

Because it was whispered, no one around could hear it, and the crowd remained unaware—but it was at this moment that the first glimmer of resolution finally appeared in this notorious murder case.

Before long, Detectives Clarence Bowmus and Nicholas Ogriff returned to the coroner's office accompanied by the woman's brother.
The brother had been shown the corpse during the public viewing, but in that moment displayed no discernible signs of shock.
However, he immediately sought an audience with Dr. John Kennedy, the coroner,

“This is indeed my sister.”
“I cannot endure her being exhibited like this—a spectacle for gawking crowds.”
“Please shut down this public viewing at once.”
“And relinquish the body to me.”
“I intend to transfer it to a funeral establishment and commence burial arrangements immediately.”

At 2:00 PM, the crowd was expelled, the public viewing facility's doors were closed, and a large notice was posted.—

“No entrance. Thebodyhasbeen identitied.”

The old, faint scar on her forehead was said to be from falling off a swing in childhood. On her neck remained a scar where a minor growth had been removed during her girlhood years—testimonies from Nicholas Ogriff and her brother left no room for doubt whatsoever.

The woman's identity had been determined.
She was Inez Elizabeth Reed, a Red Cross nurse.

It was immediately after peace had been restored.
The fervor of the Great War still burned as crimson embers.
It blazed fiercely.
The streets overflowed with soldiers returning from across the ocean.
What awaited these homecoming troops was nothing but hollow honors and glorified unemployment.
This bore no resemblance to President Wilson's assurances when they had deployed.
Where had those guarantees vanished?
This wasn't the promised homecoming!
Thus daily riots erupted across America's major cities—returning soldiers replicating French frontline ferocity on hometown streets.
At this critical juncture, the shocking revelation that their beautiful victim had been an active Red Cross nurse in a government hospital unit intimately connected to the war effort doubled public fascination and stoked sensationalism to fever pitch.
With undiluted news value, newspapers fanned the flames.
Every casual conversation revolved around Inez Reed's murder.
Citizens deluged police stations with amateur theories, indignant lectures, and whispered tips—all offered as helpful contributions.
America's police system—institutional framework and public perception alike—had thoroughly entrenched itself as both servant and guardian of the people.
Unlike Japan's feared constabulary, here they were viewed merely as communal watchdogs funded by taxpayer dollars—prompting everyone to freely offer advice and encouragement.
Letters. Phone calls. Telegrams. Personal visits.
This relentless barrage left Chief White and Chief Matheson besieged—no moment's respite from managing public engagement.
Yet through this storm emerged comprehensive materials about Inez Reed—her past becoming nearly fully reconstructed within investigative files—and according to these findings—

Miss Inez Reed—twenty-eight years old.
Born in Antioch, Contra Costa County, California.
Antioch, Contra Costa County, California. She had an older sister and a younger brother, but after their mother died early and their father became overwhelmed with raising the boys, Inez was placed in the Fred Finch Orphanage in Oakland, California, where she grew up.
At eighteen, she moved into Merit Hospital in Oakland as a nurse trainee. With her quiet, endearing personality, always tasteful attire, and refined sensibilities, she possessed large, chestnut-brown eyes that captivated those around her.
She was cherished by everyone and became the favorite at the hospital.
She had even received bonuses and passed examinations to be certified as a fully qualified nurse.
When the United States entered the Great War, she volunteered alongside her cousin and was transferred to the Red Cross on January 23, 1918. On April 10, she was assigned to duty at Letterman General Hospital, an Army-affiliated facility in San Francisco. That autumn, when the Spanish influenza swept through the American Midwest, Inez was promoted and transferred to Fort Riley Army Base Hospital in Kansas. Eager to be one step closer to the French frontlines, she arrived at her new post on October 13.
She had continued working at the same hospital ever since, and on February 19, 1919, she left saying she would take a four- or five-day vacation to nearby Kansas City—since which time her whereabouts had remained unknown.

Therefore, let us trace Inez Reed’s movements after she left Fort Riley Army Hospital.

In Oakland there was a friend from her nursing training days named Agnes Watt. Inez had asked Agnes to send her money for the visit, and when Agnes wired the funds before her hospital vacation began, Inez used it to arrive at Agnes Watt’s Oakland home on February 22nd.
In other words, she had left the suburban hospital for Kansas City once, but did not remain there—instead immediately heading west.
And from Oakland, she telegraphed Fort Riley Army Hospital to request an additional two weeks’ leave, which was granted.

In Oakland, Inez spent her vacation visiting relatives and friends, but on March 3rd, she announced she was leaving to visit an acquaintance staying in San Mateo for two or three days.
On the evening of March 3rd, shortly before boarding the train to San Mateo, Inez went out to San Francisco and had supper at the home of her married brother Frank Reed.
Even at that gathering, Inez repeatedly said, "I'm going down to the peninsula now," though the phrase "go down to the peninsula" in this area meant "go to San Mateo."
Frank Reed's wife Elizabeth Reed was recounting this incident to Mr. Duncan Matheson,

“The last time my sister-in-law visited our home was on Monday a week ago, March 3rd.”
“We had a meal together, but since she was going to visit a friend on the peninsula tonight and wouldn’t be able to meet until the end of the week, she promised to return without fail by Saturday, March 8th, so we could have dinner together again.”
“About three weeks prior, she had come to Oakland on vacation and had been frequently visiting San Francisco as well. However, she mentioned that since her physical condition wasn’t quite right, she intended to rest as much as possible from the hospital work even if it meant pushing herself.”
“There seemed to be some circumstances, but my sister-in-law never told me the details, and I made sure not to ask.”
“My husband also said that my sister-in-law seemed different—that she appeared worried about something and wasn’t her usual lively self—but we as a couple didn’t pay it any particular mind.”

“She was supposed to depart for Fort Riley this Monday.”
“As the last day of her vacation period was approaching, she said departing Oakland on that day would just barely allow her to make it in time.”

“However, even when evening came on the Saturday we had agreed to have dinner, she did not show her face—so I concluded she must have suddenly changed her itinerary and returned straight to Fort Riley.”
“Her stay in San Mateo must have been prolonged beyond schedule, leaving no time to stop by San Francisco.”
“With that assumption—that a letter would eventually arrive from Fort Riley explaining matters—thoughts of my sister-in-law Inez naturally faded from my mind entirely.”

It was this Monday—the day Inez was supposed to return to Fort Riley. When I looked at the Examiner newspaper, there was an article about the horrific incident on Half Moon Bay Highway. “The clothing and appearance matched so closely that I couldn’t stop worrying,” she said, “but since my husband insisted such misfortune couldn’t have befallen his sister and that it must be someone else, I tried not to dwell on it. Yet my suspicions grew daily until by Friday, I resolved to visit the mortuary myself.”

“However,” she continued, “on Friday morning while we were discussing this very matter, Mr. Nicholas Ogliv—an acquaintance from Oakland who’d also read the article and become concerned—came calling.”

“We asked Mr. Ogliv to inspect the body alongside his detective friend.”

“When they confirmed it was indeed my sister-in-law and returned to fetch us, my husband and I rushed there immediately.”

Thus was the identity of Inez Elizabeth Reed, the woman with beautiful hands, ascertained.

During the war, American police had established a department—akin to a special investigation unit—primarily tasked with handling crimes by foreigners and coordinating with the Military Police to counter enemy espionage. Though lacking immediate assignments, this department served as a mobile reserve force that would become actively engaged in this case through resource mobilization. Furthermore, when the victim was identified as a Red Cross nurse, the Military Police intervened directly. Colonel Parkar of the Military Police would conduct a thorough investigation into Inez Reed's conduct and personal connections during her tenure at Oakland's Letterman Army Hospital, reporting his findings to Major General John F. Morrison. The Major General commanded the Ninth Regiment District encompassing San Francisco, Oakland, San Mateo, and surrounding areas.

The investigation headquarters, special investigation unit, and military police—these three were secretly cooperating, and their investigative efforts extended even to Fort Riley, Kansas, regarding Inez’s daily life.

At this time, San Francisco Police Chief Mr. White issued a statement,

“Should it become necessary, we are prepared to commit all personnel to this Reed case without hesitation. A case such as this—where an illegal surgical procedure was botched, where despite having every means to save her life through even minimal emergency measures, she was left to suffer in agony until death claimed her—not only demonstrates utter disregard for human life but also constitutes, given the perpetrator being a medical professional, what must be called the most inhumane and detestable crime unparalleled in this state’s history. I hereby solemnly swear to exert every effort to avenge the victim’s death.”

Now, opinions at the investigation headquarters had split into two camps.
The first approach—what might be called the direct method—posed this question: Who was the one that performed the illegal operation on Inez Reed, coldly watched her die in agony from its consequences, then threw her corpse into a ravine of shrubs and rocks to conceal evidence before fleeing?
One faction sought to immediately identify this perpetrator—demanding to know “Which doctor from where?”—while another pursued an indirect method with the same ultimate goal: first track down the lover who had impregnated the unmarried woman, then use him to locate the responsible physician.
Yet as this latter investigation naturally progressed, military doctors who had interacted with Inez and hospitalized officers found themselves subjected to unwarranted scrutiny or targeted by outrageous rumors—with some suffering unexpected troubles.
At Letterman and Fort Riley, dozens of young military doctors and officers had their private lives examined, though strange byproducts emerged that left them scratching their heads with wry smiles.
One such case involved Major Smith stationed at Fort Riley.
When investigators examined belongings Inez had left at her relatives’ Oakland residence and discovered a slip bearing the Major’s name and address, they telegraphed Fort Riley requesting an investigation into Major Smith’s conduct by his regimental commander while simultaneously combing through Oakland Post Office records to determine whether crucial communications—telegrams, registered letters, or others—had been exchanged between Inez and the Major during her vacation. What surfaced was this telegram Major Smith had sent to Inez:

Camp Funston, Kansas, March 2nd, 1919. To Miss Inez Elizabeth Reed, Oakland California.

Amount wired younoon to-day. Advisetrain you arrive on. Smith.

“Sent the amount you requested by telegraphic transfer at noon today.”
“Notify me which train you will be taking.”

This fact was picked up by the newspapers and immediately became a public uproar.
An affair between a married officer and a Red Cross nurse.
Pregnancy.
Abortion, collapse of military discipline—through this narrative lens, Major Smith was nearly cast as Inez's lover and thereby made complicit in her death.
The sum sent amounted to seventy-five dollars; reporters retrieved transfer documents from the post office and published them as full-page photographs. Some claimed it represented an advance on his salary, others that it came from Inez's savings which the Major had been safeguarding.
Yet such explanations held no interest for the newspapers.
With every paper insisting suspicion must fall upon the Major regardless of truth, it was he who found himself cornered.
Even when flushing crimson and protesting It wasn't like that at all!, his words vanished beneath the public's furious outcry.
No—the more vehemently he struggled, the stranger matters grew, until his own superiors launched an inquiry.
When matters reach such a pass, wives everywhere do the same—she fled to her parents' home with their child.
He was finished.

4

“Charlie, I remained at the office late last night striving to grasp the core of this Reed case—”

It was the San Francisco Detective Bureau.

With Mr. Duncan Matheson at its center, it was an investigative meeting.
Currently renowned as San Francisco’s Traffic Department Director, Inspector Charles Goff was at that time still simply a detective under Mr. Matheson’s command, seated at this meeting.
Mr. Matheson turned to this Detective Goff and,

“I tried piecing together all reports to find one clear thoroughfare through them. Somehow I can’t shake this feeling—the Military Police and army lot have strayed onto some side path without realizing it. Listen well, Charlie. Simplifying and breaking down this case gives us three pillars.” He raised fingers methodically. “First: The corpse was found beneath a cliff along Half Moon Bay Highway, not far from San Mateo City. Second: Autopsy shows she was killed by a botched abortion, with the body transported from nearby for disposal. Third: When Inez left San Francisco, she told her brother’s family she’d ‘visit a peninsula friend for two-three days.’ From this vantage—what conclusion would you draw?”

“My analysis aligns with yours.”
“The mechanism lies concealed within San Mateo City.”
“We must begin our investigation from San Mateo City.”

“That’s right.”
“Gaff.”
“San Mateo City forms the core of this case—to put it bluntly, there must be a house somewhere in that town where Inez Reed received that illegal, reckless surgical procedure.”
“And there must be some irrefutable evidence in that house.”
“The doctor we’re hunting hides there!”
“There might even be a nurse—”

Yet if they were to initiate fresh investigations in San Mateo—what leads remained?
A high-class practitioner seeing patients only by referral in his quiet residential home?
A small-time doctor serving the poor from a back-alley apartment with an inconspicuous sign?
A corporate-run hospital of considerable scale?
A downtown clinic?
A charity infirmary?
A convalescent facility?

Detective Gaff looked up.

“I have a thought, but—”

But Chief Matheson continued,

“Furthermore, we mustn’t neglect to account for these facts.”
“Inez departed straight from her brother’s house to San Mateo.”
“What’s more, she traveled by night train.”
“From this we see she’d already arranged matters with the doctor by then.”
“They’d likely even coordinated someone meeting her at the station.”
“Yet from when she took leave to come west until that point, Inez hadn’t once visited San Mateo.”
“So what does that signify to you, Gaff?”

“It can be interpreted that prior to her final departure for San Mateo, everything had been arranged through a doctor in San Francisco.”

“Exactly! But just as it could involve two separate doctors, it doesn’t preclude the possibility of it being the same physician. In any case, we must focus on identifying San Francisco doctors who either reside in San Mateo, maintain a branch clinic there, operate a convalescent home, or have professional colleagues in San Mateo with whom they exchange patient referrals—in short, any physician from San Francisco bearing some connection to San Mateo becomes our critical target.”

However, even among San Francisco doctors commuting from San Mateo alone, there were quite a few.
Thereupon, Mr. Matheson and Detective Gaff decided to split into two teams—one for San Francisco and one for San Mateo—and approach from both ends.
That is, Detective Gaff would head out to San Mateo and scour hospitals and charity clinics.
Regarding socially reputable physicians in the city, he would compile a comprehensive list of doctors with questionable reputations.
Meanwhile, Mr. Matheson took charge of San Francisco, sifting through all disreputable practitioners citywide to unearth those linked to San Mateo.
By cross-referencing both investigations this way, they reasoned something must surface.
Precisely because this angle remained untouched, it stood undeniably as their sole promising method.

The newspaper reporters, of course—and even within the investigation headquarters itself—promptly commenced operations under strict secrecy.

Detective Charles Gaff’s energy and patience were deemed worthy of trust.
It was this man who had made his name by swiftly resolving the Munei Incident in San Francisco’s Chinatown.
Indeed, Gaff’s activities in San Mateo proved remarkable.
Upon arrival, he immediately met with District Attorney General Swart and secured a letter of introduction to Dr. H. Stockman—a practicing physician in the city who served as an officer of the county medical association.
But before hastening to the doctor’s office, Gaff borrowed San Mateo’s professional telephone directory and copied down every physician’s name and address within and beyond city limits.
He brought this list to Dr. Stockman to obtain commentary on each individual’s character and reputation.
After marking five doctors whom Dr. Stockman endorsed as exemplary practitioners in both public and private spheres—while penciling annotations beside those who drew doubtful head-scratching—Gaff systematically visited these five upstanding physicians to gather assessments of their disreputable counterparts.
Through cross-referencing these five independent evaluations, they aimed to identify true villains from the suspects, ultimately narrowing focus to two or three individuals with the most incriminating marks.
Among these five reputable doctors stood a certain Dr. McKinton as third on the list.
Around three o’clock that afternoon, when Gaff appeared at Dr. McKinton’s examination room, stated his business, and unfurled the now-familiar physician list to solicit specific critiques of certain maligned practitioners—Dr. McKinton abruptly appeared to remember—

“Actually, I’ve heard a rather strange account.”
“Whether this will be helpful or not, I’ll tell you about it anyway.”
“My wife’s sister lives on Highland Street here in San Mateo.”
“She came to visit four or five days ago and said—”

At a building about a block down Highland Street from her sister’s house, there had recently been sightings of nurses in white uniforms.
The sister often passed by there, but having suddenly begun to notice nurses appearing now and then, she found it strange because the house seemed to have changed owners and had only recently become vacant.
“I wonder if a sanatorium had been established there”—this was what Dr. McKinton’s sister reportedly thought.

Dr. McKinton’s account ended there, but this must have been what they call the sixth sense of newspaper reporters and detectives.
Feeling something prick at him, Gaff immediately hailed a taxi to the house in question on Highland Avenue.
Dr. McKinton knew the address.
615 Highland Avenue.

It was a two-story, fairly large house. The downstairs windows had their sunshades fully drawn. At first glance, there was no sign anyone lived there. He pressed the doorbell and requested entry, but received no response. Thereupon, he knocked at neighboring No. 621 and inquired, whereupon a housewife named Mrs. L.C. Schweitzer emerged and stated that a certain Mr. Born had lived there until March 1st but had moved away early that morning. Then, that same day around four in the afternoon, two women came calling for Born.

After walking around the house and knocking on various doors and windows—all remaining locked—the pair finally approached Mrs. Schweitzer to ask for a ladder. But while she hesitated about lending it, one woman discovered an unfastened lock on a downstairs bathroom window, through which both crawled inside.

Though this account sounded suspicious, Mrs. Schweitzer's impression at the time was that the women appeared locked out of their own home due to some mishap, making a frustrated commotion over being unable to enter. Their noisy fuss seemed almost amused rather than distressed, so she paid little attention.

Mrs. Schweitzer reported noticing signs of occupancy at neighboring No. 615 for about a week afterward. Yet with downstairs windows and curtains kept tightly shut—as if shunning neighborhood interactions—they could only tell someone likely still lived there by the single second-floor window left slightly open. Beyond this, Mrs. Schweitzer knew nothing more about the neighboring house.

Yet something felt distinctly off about No. 615—Detective Charles Gaff, persistently sensing this intuition, had returned once more to examine the entrance when something suddenly caught his eye.

Under the entrance mat atop the stone steps was a gas company bill wedged in place.
The bill collector must have come when no one was home and pushed it in there; upon pulling it out, he found it was a gas bill addressed to Mrs. F. Frances—Mrs. F. Frances—demanding payment.
Elated, Detective Gaff immediately rushed from the scene to the gas company, where he indeed discovered an application dated March 3rd from a certain Mrs. F. Frances of 615 Highland Avenue, requesting gas supply to commence two days later on March 6th.

He met with H.W. Johnson, the company’s outside lineman.
Johnson confirmed he had gone to the house at 615 Highland Avenue on both March 5th and 7th to reactivate the gas line.
On his second visit that seventh day, a woman in a nurse’s white uniform answered the door—and the whole place stank of strong anesthetic, which struck Johnson as mighty peculiar.
“Like a hospital,” he told Detective Gaff about that clinical reek.

This was promising.
This thread was worth pursuing a bit further.
Feeling this way, Gaff borrowed the gas company application form signed by "Mrs. Francis" and immediately headed straight to the water company.

If someone would go so far as to move into a house that had previously been occupied and apply to have the shut-off gas turned on, they would naturally need to receive water service as well. As for the water company—in America, even water services were privately operated—he wondered what was going on there.

At the water company, when they heard it was a detective from the San Francisco Detective Bureau, Water Supply Supervisor Al Bader came out to receive him.

5

According to Al Bader’s account, water had been supplied to the house at 615 Highland Avenue starting March 5th.
There was indeed an application form as well, signed as “Mrs. F. Davis”—Mrs. F. Davis.
The previous gas application had been under “Mrs. F. Frances”—comparing the two showed handwriting identical to anyone’s eyes.
A thin, right-leaning script—the nervous penmanship of a woman.

With this, the investigative net tightened moment by moment.

The house had been closed up shortly before Inez's murder, then reverted to vacancy soon after the incident.
A hospital-like medicinal stench lingered; nurses in white uniforms came and went.
Mrs. F. Francis and Mrs. F. Davis—a woman bearing two aliases.

Upon Detective Gaff’s report, Chief Duncan Matheson and Adolph Jewel, head of the forensics department, rushed to San Mateo. The three men smashed a window and climbed into the house at 615 Highland Avenue.

The first impression was that traces suggesting the house had been vacated in haste could be seen everywhere. Everything lay scattered in disarray, revealing their considerable state of panic. In the living room fireplace, ashes and partially burned remnants of tattered rags and document-like items were piled high—traces suggesting someone had burned evidentiary materials before moving out. From within emerged half-burned masses of absorbent cotton saturated with blood; these were thought to most eloquently and vividly recount the facts that the walls of this house had silently witnessed.

Throughout the house, in every room, cigarette butts lay scattered everywhere.
Red Seal—a brand of cigarettes.
Ashtrays, plates, pen holders, cups—from the floor to inside the stove—every nook and cranny was littered with cigarettes.
There were hundreds of cigarette butts.
In addition, fresh burn marks from lit cigarettes left carelessly or dropped on desk edges, window frames, carpets, and other surfaces were scattered here and there.
Someone must have spent time driven by nervous anxiety and unease in this house recently.
In the corner of the corridor leading to the kitchen, a pair of women's shoes had been left abandoned.

Head of Forensics Jewel sought fingerprints on all smooth surfaces in the room—furniture, door handles, and the like—but while some partial prints appeared, none were sufficiently complete or clear enough to photograph. When they inspected the second-floor bedroom, one of a pair of beds was missing. This was because the illegal surgery in question had likely been performed upon it; thus, this missing bed—one of a pair that should have been present—now took on extraordinary significance as the "Blood Bed." However, it was easily discovered in the basement. It had been reduced to just the frame and leaned against the wall. While everything else was covered in dust, only this bed frame had apparently been thoroughly washed recently and remained clean. Moreover, precisely because it had been pushed too far back into the shadows, it drew their attention. When they carried it out into the light and examined it, they were able to identify slight dark reddish-brown stains on its inner surface. They were fresh blood clots, jelly-like in consistency. By now, there could be no doubt that this house was the scene of surgery—in this case, a crime—but the true monumental task lay ahead, for they still had absolutely no clue as to who the doctor was that had temporarily rented this house. Mr. Matheson and Chief Inspector Jewel then and there returned to San Francisco and shifted their focus back to Detective Gaff’s activities in San Mateo.

And Mr. Franklin K. Swart, the District Attorney who had briefly appeared earlier, came to assist Gaff.

According to precedents set by the California Supreme Court, a doctor whose abortion procedure results in a woman’s death is charged with second-degree murder—though legally speaking it was strangely worded—from a common-sense perspective.
The detectives needed only to hunt down this doctor simply as a murderer.

They examined the two women's signatures—Mrs. F. Francis and Mrs. F. Davis.
The handwriting was clearly identical.
Now, criminals using multiple aliases often develop a habit of repeating appellations.
Jim Black—Jim Brown—Jim Smith—in fact, it wasn't uncommon for "Jim" to be their actual given name.
The reason was simple.
Since aliases typically use common names, sticking to familiar ones proved both convenient and less risky.
They cross-checked the women's names.
Both used "Mrs." and began with "F."
Moreover, one surname was "Francis."
Could it be that this Frances wasn't a surname but an honorific?
"Mrs. Francis So-and-so"—was it truly far-fetched to think someone had taken the initial F and impulsively devised both "Mrs. F. Francis" and "Mrs. F. Davis"?
In any case, all nurses were registered in state directories.
Searching through these revealed three entries for "Mrs. Francis [something]."
Obtaining photographs of these three nurses, they showed them to Mrs. Schweitzer—the housewife next door at 621 Highland Avenue—who immediately identified one as the woman she'd seen at No. 615.
The nurse's name was Mrs. Frances Masen.
Mrs. Frances Masen.

The hunt narrowed.
The prey seemed to be hiding unexpectedly close at hand.

Then here in San Mateo, at 94 North First Street, lived a milk delivery boy named Paceecho.
From an empty milk bottle found in No.615's kitchen, Detective Gaff traced this boy and questioned him. Acting on mere possibility, he showed a photo of victim Inez Reed—whereupon Eddie Pacecho declared that "this woman" had indeed been in "that house," and that he'd sold milk to her.
But this lasted only two days; the bottle left at their usual backdoor spot on the third day remained untouched for days.
Detective Gaff—elated at securing unforeseen evidence—next located the hardware merchant who had occupied No.615. When shown photographs of Inez and Mrs.Frances Masen, though lacking clear recollection, they suggested these likely matched the two women and one man who'd briefly stayed there.
Here emerged for the first time a doctor's name—

“Was the man someone you didn’t know?”

When Gaff asked without much expectation,

“No, the man was Dr. Northcott—Doctor Northcott.”

Such was the reply.

Bolstered by this unexpected breakthrough, three officers from Mr. Matheson’s team in San Francisco—detectives Fred Ratsey and William Millikan, along with policewoman Kathleen O’Connor—rushed to San Mateo to reinforce Gaff.

Investigation reports detailing Dr. Northcott's professional skills, credibility, conduct, relationships with women, and other matters were promptly compiled in full without his knowledge.
Immediately, Dr. Northcott was placed under strict around-the-clock surveillance by Detective Millikan, and nurse Frances Masen by policewoman Kathleen O’Connor.
When the investigation had progressed this far, even the sluggish American police could manage administrative tasks with surprising efficiency.

Dr. Northcott.
In 1894, he graduated from the University of Michigan Medical School.
Until 1915, he operated a private practice in Oakland, California, while independently managing a sanatorium in Calfax within the same state.
After this failure, he relocated to Placer County, and soon moved on to San Francisco where he practiced medicine in a room at the Whitcomb Hotel.
Before long, he came to reside at Santa Inez Avenue in San Mateo City while also serving as company physician for the Western Sugar Company in the same city.
He had been married twice; at the time of his arrest, his wife remained at the Whitcomb Hotel.

He had been performing illegal surgeries for some time, and facts such as how during his Oakland days he had similarly killed a woman named Anderson through a botched abortion procedure came to light through statements from Ellen Frazer, a nurse who had once been employed by Northcott, which served as direct evidence. Simultaneously, it became clear that Dr. Jackson of San Francisco—consulted by Northcott about Inez Reed’s condition but refusing his request to attend the surgery—had sealed Northcott’s fate.

Until now, they had left him unchecked and viewed him with contempt from afar, but indefinite mercy was no longer permissible.

While he was dining at the Wiskatchill Restaurant in San Mateo, the three detectives—Gaff, Ratsey, and Millikan—burst in and dragged him away from the table.

Having advanced their investigation covertly, just as the public had begun dismissing it as another unsolved mystery, came this sudden apprehension of the criminal.
It was the journalists who panicked.
They cascaded into Mr. Matheson’s chief’s office like rioters.
Pencils besieged, cameras assaulted—among that day’s special edition headlines blared one proclaiming “Red Cross Beauty Nurse’s Revenge Accomplished” in bold strokes, striking grandiose poses as though they themselves had made the collar.
One could imagine the commotion—and how bitterly resentful the military police and army must have been after ostensibly cooperating while secretly competing for credit, only to be thoroughly outwitted by the police now.

A dark-skinned, large-framed Northcott.
Height: five feet seven inches.
Weight: 170 pounds.
A clean-shaven, sharp face.
In photographs, he had a typical American appearance.
Wearing a rather worn-out black tweed suit and a black soft hat pulled down low, his eyes were red like a drunkard’s.
His bloodshot eyes revealed a wealth of worldly experience and a glimmer of conscience.
Eyes as dull and cold as those seen in gamblers, con artists, horse racing fanatics.
His features gave the faint impression that somewhere within him flowed a trace of Latin or Native American blood.

As a squad of photographers rushed to take pictures, Northcott raised his hand in a somewhat theatrical gesture to stop them.

“Wait.”
“Let me fix my hair first,” he said, pulling a pocket comb from his inner jacket and calmly smoothing his part. “This’ll be preserved for posterity—make sure you capture me at my most dashing.”

The camera shutter clicked.

“Where should we send the bill for these portraits?”

Northcott thrust his hand into the pocket of his Western-style trousers, pretended to take out money, and laughed.

“Please direct payment to the cashier.”
One of the photographers retorted.

“In due time—through whatever punishment the judge decides.”

This was the man called Northcott.

Prior to this, through the confession of nurse Mrs.Frances Masen, Northcott’s crimes had become fully clear.
Inez Elizabeth Reed, five months pregnant, had sought an illegal abortion.
He accepted, but since it would attract attention in San Francisco, he temporarily rented a house on Highland Street in San Mateo, hired Frances Masen, and made preparations.
On the promised day, Inez came.
However, having botched the surgery, Inez let out a loud scream.
Since they couldn’t risk nearby residents hearing, they deceived her by claiming they would take her to a hospital, put her in a car late at night, and drove around recklessly.
Inez could not bear it any longer.
Because she was suffering too much, they stopped briefly at Hotel San Mateo along the way to let her rest, but upon trying to intervene again there and realizing she was beyond saving, they left the hotel before dawn the next morning, seized every possession that might reveal her identity—even meticulously cutting away the labels from her undergarments—and then threw her from Half Moon Bay Highway into the ravine.
It turned out there had been this utterly reckless doctor involved; having returned, they urgently cleaned up, tidied away the blood-soaked bedding and bed, burned whatever needed burning to destroy evidence, then immediately vacated the house and slipped away nonchalantly.
They had been hiding equally in San Francisco and San Mateo.

He chewed on a cigar and settled before Mr. Matheson. No sooner had he done so than he suddenly rose from his chair and began pacing about the room. Though appearing somewhat nervous, he carried himself overall with the manner of an insurance salesman promoting policies—if anything maintaining a triumphant air rather than calmness.

He was engaged in a question-and-answer exchange with Mr. Matheson.

"What became of the house in San Mateo? What purpose did you have renting such a place there?"

“It is indeed I who rented that house.”
“As you know, the police make it too hot for me in San Francisco, you know—” he said, preserving the original interjection’s italicization and em dash— “but regarding Inez’s killing, I neither deny it.”
“Nor will I affirm it.”
“Please let me keep silent.”
“I’ll simply keep silent until the very end.”

“I have the confession document prepared here.”
“It would be in your best interest to sign this quickly, Mr. Northcott.”

“If I were to do such a thing, I’d get an earful from my lawyer.”
“I stand upon my legal rights.”
“If there’s anything to be said, my lawyer will say it.”

“Is there anything you wish to state—?”

“Feel free to write whatever you please.”
“I suppose my lawyer will present arguments during the trial.”

Through confrontation with Frances Masen, Northcott’s guilt became unshakable.
With the charge being clear second-degree murder, he was sentenced to fifteen years of imprisonment with labor at San Quentin Prison.

When the sentence was decided, he directed a guileless smile at Prosecutor Swart,

“I understand perfectly.”
“You merely fulfilled your legitimate duty.”
“I’m not in the least angry with you.”
“Please don’t misunderstand.”
“The two of us can remain friends with favorable impressions forever.”

He died in prison while serving his sentence at San Quentin.

It remains unknown who the man was that had been romantically involved with Inez.