At half past one in the morning, those who had been listening to the investigation radio looked up and murmured to one another, “Sounds like they got an eyewitness who saw a car . . .”
Goda, Dohi, and even those who had been dozing off pricked up their ears at once. “What’s the location?”
Someone spread open the map. “Number twenty-one at the cul-de-sac. Katsuichi Sasaki, seventy-six years old . . .”
“It’s here,” said someone near the map.
“Circle it in red and put it up on the board!” barked Dohi, and the residential map was promptly taped to the black board.
“Time witnessed, around 10 p.m. Witness saw the car from the second floor of his home. Color was either navy or black. A van or possibly an RV. Make and model unknown, license plate unknown . . .”
That was the extent of the information from the wireless, and the twenty-four officers, who had perked up somewhat, sunk back into their seats. Since the details from the car eyewitness were unknown, this seemed unlikely to lead to a clue. Nevertheless, number twenty-one bordered number sixteen to the north, and if there had been a car lurking on the cul-de-sac just before the incident occurred, the likelihood of it being connected was about fifty-fifty. Goda considered this, his partially deflated hope suspended in midair.
At the exact same moment, he again recalled the copy of the dispatch record from the police box in his pocket and felt convinced of the need, while the officer’s memory was still fresh, to calculate the precise, minute-by-minute route that the patrol car had taken before and after 10 p.m., but that thought too hung in midair.
The hands on the clock pointed to just before two in the morning. Goda turned back to the next heading on the profit and loss statement, details regarding sales costs and general administrative costs. Just as he registered the number twenty-five billion listed under advertising costs, a commercial for Hinode Lemon Sour flickered through his mind—a strange beast dancing along to a gamelan under a moonlit night.
久保晴久 Haruhisa Kubo
Two-oh-two a.m. Appearing in the press conference hall on the ninth floor of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, the director of Criminal Investigation, Tsuyoshi Teraoka, took a small silent bow in front of the more than sixty gathered reporters from seventeen media companies, then bent his head over the notebook in his hands.
“Unfortunately, as of 2 a.m., there has been no contact from the perpetrator. The situation remains the same.”
As those first words were uttered, the unspoken incredulity of the reporters pressed heavily into every corner of the hall.
“And I’d like to take this opportunity to express my gratitude for your cooperation with the media embargo,” Teraoka addressed them formulaically. “Currently, we’ve acknowledged the incident as abduction and unlawful confinement, but we consider the victim to be in an extremely precarious situation. It goes without saying that the entire police force will do all it can to conduct a thorough investigation, and in respect to the spirit of the embargo we will strive to respond to the media in good faith, so I ask for your continued cooperation.”
Director Teraoka’s voice sounded as stiff and monotonous as ever, at least to the ears of those in attendance, and without looking up to meet the eyes of the reporters, he solemnly continued to recite only the words in his notebook.
“The layout of the victim’s home is as you see it in the map we’ve distributed to each of you. The victim was captured in the location marked with an X and we believe he was taken out through the front gate. At this time, that’s the extent of what we know. The front gate, marked A, has an automatic lock manufactured by the company SECOM that can be opened from the outside with a passcode and from the inside with a switch. After arriving home, the victim manually turns on the nighttime alarm system himself, therefore, at the estimated time of the incident—10:05 p.m. on the twenty-fourth—the alarm system was turned off. We’ve detected several footwear impressions near the shrubbery as well as in numerous spots inside the exterior wall surrounding the property, and we are currently analyzing them. As for the note retrieved from the spot marked with a circle, we are working quickly to identify any fingerprints and the type of ink used. As of 2 a.m. right now, we have not managed to find any witnesses. That’s all.”
As soon as the director’s voice broke off, there was a barrage of questions from the assertive commercial broadcasting reporters. “Does that mean they jumped in over the wall and escaped through the gate?” “Do you have a profile of the suspect?”
Without missing a beat, the director of Public Information standing next to Teraoka replied sharply, “One question at a time, please,” and the voices died down. In the momentary silence, Haruhisa Kubo, encamped in the front row, clearly registered the beads of sweat running down Director Teraoka’s forehead, even though the room wasn’t the least bit warm.
The questions began immediately in the usual order by the usual suspects from the Nanashakai kisha club who were also installed in the front row. Each question was short, as was its reply, exchanged at rapid-fire speed. The reporters took notes while organizing everything in their heads, forced to decide what was important and what wasn’t on the spot. Kubo’s hand gripping his ballpoint pen quickly turned clammy with sweat.
“First, please name the family members who were home at the time of the incident.”
“The victim’s wife, Reiko Shiroyama, fifty-eight years old.”
“What was the wife doing last night around 10, and where was she exactly?”
“She told us she was in the living room on the first floor, reading.”
“Does she usually hear the front gate close?”
“She said it depends. Sometimes she hears it, sometimes she doesn’t.”
“Last night, did the driver take the same route home as usual?”
“He did.”
“Does the president always return home at a specific time?”
“It depends on the day, but she told us he most often returns around 10 p.m.”
“You said they made the hundred-ten call at 10:50 p.m. How did the family come to the decision that they needed to make an emergency call?”
“Around 10:28 p.m., there was a call from the office to the president’s home, and when the person from the company learned that he had not returned home, they contacted the driver and as a result determined that something was wrong.”
“What is the name of the individual who called from the company?”
“I’m not able to disclose that information.”
“How many different footwear impressions were collected from the crime scene?”
“I am not able to answer that as they are still under analysis.”
“So you’re saying there are several?”
“I’m not able to disclose that at this time.”
“There’s no way one guy can hold down a grown man and drag him off without making a sound. It has to be the work of a team, is that what you think?”
“We do not know that at this time.”
“So the perp breached the wall beforehand and was waiting in the bushes, correct?”
“At this time, we are not able to confirm either way.”
“Describe what the victim was wearing.”
“Navy suit, black wool vest, blue and silver necktie, black shoes.”
“What about a coat?”
“He wasn’t wearing one.”
“A briefcase?”
“An attaché case by Burberry. Brown in color.”
“It’s unlikely that they’d abduct a person without a car. Do you or do you not have any information about that?”
“At this time, we have not obtained accurate eyewitness information.”
“So you do have some information?”
“We have not received any reports of that nature.”
“Th
e note—what else was written besides the four words, ‘We have your president’?”
“Four words, that’s it.”
“Will the note be released?”
“We have not reached the stage to consider that.”
“You said the incident is being treated as abduction and unlawful confinement, but could it possibly develop into kidnapping for ransom?”
“We are not able to comment at this time.”
“What about corporate extortion?”
“At this point, we do not know anything about the perpetrators’ objective.”
“Before this incident, have there been any harassment or threats made against Hinode? Are there any matters that the police are aware of?”
“Not at this time, no.”
“Could this be considered part of a series of corporate terrorism incidents?”
“We are not able to comment at this time.”
“Is it possible that they’ve targeted the victim as an individual?”
“We are not able to determine that at this time.”
“What’s your understanding of the perpetrators’ profile?”
“At this time, I cannot say.”
“I think it’s impossible for an amateur to pull off a crime like this—have you considered that pros, like a crime syndicate, could be involved?”
“We have not come to such a conclusion at this time.”
“No way an amateur would sit and wait in the yard, a stone’s throw from the front door.”
“We can’t know that until we ask the perpetrator.”
“What’s your outlook for the investigation ahead?”
“We will make every effort. That’s all I can say about that.”
After responding to this point, with sweat glistening on his blue-veined forehead, Teraoka put away his notebook. Without waiting for the director of Public Information to announce, “That’s all for now. Next briefing at four,” Teraoka walked out quickly, looking straight ahead with an even more obstinate expression than when he had first appeared in the hall. The reporters also withdrew without a word, but since there wasn’t a single newsworthy item, all of them moved slowly. Whenever a significant incident occurred, invariably the press conference would be peppered with phrases such as, “We’re not able to say,” “We’re not sure,” and “We’re not aware,” but even the same “not” would be uttered with a subtly different nuance each time. Kubo felt that just now, in addition to appearing jittery and pained from beginning to end, Teraoka seemed abstracted as he repeated over and over that he didn’t know. Four and a half hours had already passed since the current president of Hinode Beer had been abducted. If the police didn’t have a clue at this point, Kubo thought—just as the Chief Reporter Sugano had predicted—it could take a while to crack this case.
合田雄一郎 Yuichiro Goda
At three in the morning, the announcement came in from the chief inspector of First Investigation at MPD that, with the exception of the ten members of the Criminal Investigation Division and another two from the Crime Prevention Division who were to be absorbed into Investigation Headquarters, the rest of the department was dismissed for the time being. Since the grounds for mobilizing a large group of investigators had never materialized, MPD decided that the perpetrators were unlikely to make any moves until dawn. The other officers who had been standing by at Omori Police Department since right after the incident occurred were left with nothing but a sense of regret and fatigue from lack of sleep. Although they had been released, it wasn’t as if there were any trains running at that hour to take them home, so a few of the unelected left the CI office to lie down until morning in the dojo on the fourth-floor, while others retreated elsewhere or nowhere in particular.
Remaining in the Omori CI office were four inspectors—Goda from Violent Crime, Noriaki Anzai from White Collar Crime, Takafumi Saito from Organized Crime, and Takuya Osanai from Burglary—as well as six police sergeants from these units, along with Deputy Chief Inspector Dohi acting as the self-proclaimed head of liaison and coordination, which came out to eleven men in total. Everyone but Dohi and Anzai went back to dozing while they waited for the investigation meeting, whose start time remained unknown.
Inspector Anzai, having perked up as soon as he realized he was likely to be called up to Investigation Headquarters, nudged Goda’s shoulder just as the latter had buried his face in his arms on the desk. Anzai whispered, “Think we’ll find out about Hinode’s financial standing?”
Goda thought it was too soon for that but, detecting a whiff of expectation in Anzai’s loaded question, he replied vaguely, “Who knows?”
Anzai had spent the majority of his thirty-three years of service specializing in white collar crime, transferring from one precinct to another every five or six years, but Goda had heard that he had never had the opportunity to take part in a large-scale bribery case or commercial law violation. Goda didn’t know why Anzai, despite being a licensed CPA, had never been called in to work at MPD, but he could easily imagine the kind of work Anzai had toiled over for years: real estate transactions involving unlawful registration and sales contracts, fraudulent promissory notes, scams, a miscellany of complaints and charges that could hardly be distinguished from civil suits, petty election violations over the placement of flyers, and so on and so forth. Over the past year, even the cases occurring within Goda’s scope of vision were mostly along the lines of complaints against door-to-door sales, counterfeit calling cards, unauthorized use of credit cards and loan shark troubles, and creditors rushing in when their debtor had skipped town. Most of these never resulted in prosecution, or were resolved with a minor punishment or a dialogue among the parties involved, so all in all his job was not very different from that of a jack-of-all-trades consultant.
Sitting beside Goda, Anzai had started flipping through the Hinode financial report, which Goda had tossed aside. “You had better get some sleep,” Goda suggested.
“I doubt you’ll understand,” Anzai muttered and flashed him a small, crooked smile. “I’ve been counting money all this time, but the loot in the cases I’ve handled only went up to ten digits. Suddenly dangling thirteen digits in front of me, well, that’s like a monkey that sees a banana—there’s no chance I’m sleeping now.”
As he whispered this, Anzai hung his head over the report spread open on the desk. Given his age and experience, Anzai was likely to be promoted to chief inspector soon, but he must have been anxious—if he wanted to move up to MPD with distinction, this might be his last chance. Goda could relate to this, at least.
Even Goda had been relieved to be whisked up to Investigation Headquarters. If he were honest, he had had enough of lovers’ quarrels involving kitchen knives, drunken brawls, and the dead bodies of vagrants by the roadside. I’ve been desperate for a big case, doesn’t matter what it is, Goda thought as he closed his eyes atop the pillow of his arms. Just then, like a reflex springing from his selfish desire, the faces of the victim’s wife and son flashed through his mind. Deputy Chief Inspector Dohi, over at his desk, was on a call with a nearby 7-Eleven. “Get me thirty Makunouchi bento boxes. Make it out to the Omori Police Department, Police Affairs Division.”
The investigation radio didn’t make a peep. By four in the morning, the sound of rain beating down on the roof of the building and the asphalt of the highway had subsided as well, and the CI office filled with the silence of early dawn and a chill that numbed his hands and feet. Drawing up the collar of his down jacket, Goda fell into a brief but deep sleep. Just as he reached the brink of some dream, he was pulled back into consciousness by the abrupt ringing of the police phone, and his conditioned reflex was to peek at his wristwatch.
4:30 a.m. Dohi, who had answered the phone, replaced the receiver and announced, “The investigation meeting will convene at 7 a.m. The official name of the HQ is Hinode Beer President Abduction and Unlawful Confi
nement Special Investigation Headquarters.”
After hearing as much, Goda and the others went back to sleep. Dohi set himself to the silent task of taping together four sheets of B4 copy paper and, with a calligraphy brush, inking the solemn name that had just been bestowed upon the incident. Regardless of what his countenance might suggest, Dohi had beautiful penmanship, and all the cautionary postings on the walls of the department—Keep It Neat, Be Polite on the Phone, and Point & Check—were his handiwork.
It was before six when Goda was awakened again, this time by the sound of cars pulling into the back lot. The officer on duty from Police Affairs came in and asked for help setting up chairs. When he went down to the main conference room on the second floor, he saw that the Communications Bureau from MPD had arrived to install equipment and add police phone lines in preparation for the investigation command headquarters. They had been told that roughly one hundred members would be coming from MPD, so all department staff helped with gathering every available folding table and chair, and once these were all crammed into the conference room, it looked like they were ready for a meeting of creditors. Outside the door to the room, Dohi’s poster had already been put up.
Next, Goda and the other officers went back up to the third floor to wash their faces, shave, and eat the Makunouchi bentos from 7-Eleven. Goda had a tendency to become sleepy when full, so he threw away his bento half untouched, then started to write out the tasks he would be turning over to his subordinates in Violent Crime. The ones who would remain in his unit were a sergeant with a bad back named Hirai, along with the duo Konno and Izawa, neither of whom could write a decent case file.
Saito from Organized Crime, having scarfed down his entire bento, mumbled with a tooth pick in his mouth, “My head’s getting cold.” Back when he was with the Fourth Investigation Division at MPD, Saito got into a physical altercation with a member of the yakuza family Inagawa-kai and earned himself ten stitches on his now shaven head, which he rubbed as he walked all the way to the window. He raised the blinds only to cry out, “Oh, hell!” Outside, spring snow had turned everything the color of quartz.
Lady Joker, Volume 1 Page 34
