Once the viscous film that had covered his retina thinned out, what Shiroyama saw first was a uniform blackness. The blackness then started to mottle, until gradually parting to reveal the ground, the shadows of trees, and the sky. Covered in lingering snow, the contours along the shoulders of the road appeared a shimmering indigo, while the surface of the road where there was no snow gave off a wet, black luster. The trees hanging over either side of the road were jet black, and the sky spread above them was a faintly brighter indigo. There were no guardrails or signposts along the road, and the overlapping trees stretched on without end.
His attaché case was indeed behind his heels. He picked it up first and by the time he raised himself again on unsteady legs, Shiroyama had regained a sense of composure. Suddenly remembering, he searched the interior pocket of his jacket and produced a photograph, which he held up to the light reflecting off the snow. Initially he could not make out the standard-size snapshot, but as he continued to gaze at it his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he was able to distinguish two small faces. Shiroyama held the photo closer and peered at the two faces, disbelieving his own eyes as he brought it even closer.
His niece, Yoshiko, and her little boy, Tetsushi, who had just turned two.
After confirming that much, Shiroyama tucked the photo back in his pocket and started walking. As his mind raced again, the incident from four and a half years ago came rushing back at him like a gust of wind, and then receded—Oh, is that what this is all about?
The blood was gradually pumping through his body, and he registered the cold again. His heart, instead of rupturing, diligently continued to pulse as his feet propelled him forward. Once he had walked a ways, Shiroyama stopped and took the photo out of his pocket again, then tore it into pieces with his hands. Taking care not to drop any of the shreds, he ripped it again and again into tiny fragments, then clutching them all in his palm, he ventured from the shoulder of the road into the grove of trees and, a few at a time, buried them in the grassy soil he dug up with the tip of his shoe.
Meanwhile, he carefully began to amend his previous thoughts about why he had been kidnapped. The criminals had not chosen him—the president of Hinode—because he would make their demands known most effectively. No, they’d chosen him because of his liability. They knew it would be impossible for him not to comply. Finally beginning to feel like himself again, Shiroyama understood his position all the more vividly. Now that a crime group had gotten hold of his family’s scandal, taken the three and a half million kiloliters of beer—the lifeblood of his company—as hostage, and demanded two billion yen from him, how and where would he go back? After his imminent safe return, weren’t the only choices left for him either to damage his company by making it pay an unwarranted sum of money, or to endanger the lives of his niece and her son?
No. What if I were to never return . . .
Shiroyama looked up at the naked tree branches jutting above his head, and as his heart suddenly began to throb unbearably fast, he asked himself, You would die? A part of him answered back that he had no other choice if he considered the extent of the suffering he would have to bear in the days ahead and the ruin he would bring upon others in his life, but his heart raged against the raw, unbridled terror of hanging himself. After struggling with that terrible tension for a few minutes, Shiroyama came to the conclusion that he did not have such courage in him. At the same time, another question arose, as if to serve as an excuse. Are you willing to die for the company?
It would be one thing if this were to cause the demise of the company and its eight thousand employees would be out in the cold, but was he really willing to die for a company to which, in reality, two billion in bribery money meant nothing? Did he truly see himself as so inseparable from the company? And if he were to kill himself and save the company from suffering the loss of two billion, would the company be grateful?
The answer to all of these questions was a definitive No.
After dismissing the necessity of his suicide, Shiroyama had drawn the vague conclusion that somehow he would have to make the company come up with two billion. Nothing was more important than the lives of Yoshiko and Tetsushi, of course, and even if he had dedicated thirty-six years of his life to it, the company was nothing more than a company. Why should I end my life for them? he went on muttering to himself.
Shiroyama then returned to the road and resumed walking. Although he had been released, this was only the beginning. The Kyosuke Shiroyama trying to convince himself of this fact was not the same Kyosuke Shiroyama as before he had been kidnapped—this was someone who was desperate to make the company pay out two billion in bribery money. And yet, that same someone was even now thinking about how best to alleviate the anxiety and turmoil of his employees as soon as possible and return the company to normal operations—that, for the time being, his duties were to make Hinode Meister a success and to strengthen the corporate foundation for the various reforms to come. Underneath such concerns, this new Shiroyama also raved with false bravado, Why should I die for the company? Uncertain which of these was his true self, Shiroyama’s mind soon shifted to consider the mountain of actual problems he faced between now and the deadline he had been given, “before Golden Week,” which began on April 29th. First of all, how would he handle the police? How would he explain it to the board? And how would he convince them to agree to two billion in illicit expenses?
While his mind had been spinning about such things, Shiroyama had forgotten to check his wristwatch and, as it were, he had no idea how far he had walked. Before he knew it, the dense shadows of the tree canopy over the road had thinned, and he saw a lonesome light in the distance. As he approached, he realized that the road he had been walking on met up with another road in a T-intersection, and on the corner to his right stood a small, concrete building. The compact fire truck parked in the garage, lit by the faint glow of dawn, appeared red as if it were blushing.
久保晴久 Haruhisa Kubo
“Everyone, your attention, please!” The cries of a clerk from Public Information bounced along the hallway of the ninth floor of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Her footsteps and voice drew closer to the kisha nooks of the Nanashakai, then traveled up and down the aisles in front of each paper’s nook. “The CI director will hold a press conference! There will be a press conference!”
Haruhisa Kubo jumped off of his nook’s sofa, where he had been sleeping, as another announcement blared from the wall speaker above his head. “All media, please assemble in the press conference hall immediately! The CI director will hold a press conference starting at 7:05 a.m.!” The ones who had been asleep on the bunk bed as well as those with their heads buried in their arms on the desk also woke with a start. From a corner of the nook, Chief Sugano murmured, “If the CI director’s making an appearance, guess they found the president . . .” On the other side of the partition and in the aisles, brief speculations were exchanged. “Guess they found him,” followed by “Think they’ve caught the guys who did it?”
“Kubo, Kuriyama, get going! The rest of you get on the phone with the news room! Kondo, you page the beat reporters on stakeout!” Sugano shouted out orders.
Kubo grabbed his notebook and was about to rush off when he saw that the junior reporter Yuichi Kuriyama—who must have been sleeping somewhere else all this time—had beaten him to his feet. “Wonder if they’ll lift the embargo,” Kuriyama said, eyes glimmering.
Though Kubo’s body was heavy with exhaustion after all this time stuck in the kisha club without any news or developments, he still felt a reflexive tightening in his gut. This would be the twenty-ninth of the briefings that had been held every two hours since the incident occurred. The reporting battle would now commence. Had the president been found at last, without the demand for a ransom ever being delivered? Was he unharmed? Where was he found? What about the kidnappers?
The embedded newspaper and broadcast journ
alists, along with camera crews, flooded into the conference hall, everyone clamoring to get to the front. If the camera crews had been given the okay to shoot, then without a doubt the news was either that the president had been rescued or the situation had taken a turn for the worse. The Public Information director came striding into the hall, which was now packed with a phalanx of cameras and reporters from every media company. The director—the same character who just an hour ago had had bags under his eyes and whose voice had been full of gravel—had been resurrected. He called out at the top of his lungs, “Is everyone all set to start?” Then, instead of the director of Criminal Administration, who had taken over since the second briefing, CI Director Tsuyoshi Teraoka appeared again after a long absence. His expression remained inscrutable as always, but the tension in his shoulders was plain to see.
“We’ll begin!” announced the Public Information director.
Teraoka opened with the usual “Ah, yes . . .” with which he prefaced every major announcement. His utterance was quickly obscured by the flurry of shutter clicks issuing from the cameras. The jittery heat emanating off the reporters, all gripping their pens and pencils, formed an invisible tide that surged toward the director.
“Ah, yes . . . A short time ago, at 6:28 a.m., the MPD received contact from the Yamanashi Prefectural Police Headquarters that they have taken custody of the victim in the present case, Kyosuke Shiroyama, fifty-eight years old, and we are currently confirming the details. The information we received is as follows. At 5:50 a.m. today, March twenty-seventh, at the fire station in the village of Narusawa, in the district of Minamitsuru, in Yamanashi Prefecture, known officially as the western branch office of the Kawaguchiko Fire Department, a man came in alone requesting assistance . . .”
At this point, a reporter from each broadcasting company stormed out of the hall, with the hastily scribbled name of the location in hand. The time was now 7:07 a.m. They had to immediately interrupt the on-air news broadcast with a special news bulletin.
Kubo, for his part, felt his hand that was gripping the pen turn sticky with sweat. When he heard the place names Minamitsuru and Narusawa, the first thing that came to mind was the foot of Mt. Fuji covered in deep snow, but the thought was soon replaced with surprise at the unexpected words, “a man came in alone,” and he strained his ears to hear what came next.
“After receiving a call from the fire station, an employee from Fujiyoshida Police Department, part of Yamanashi Prefectural Police, arrived on the scene to confirm the individual’s name and address, and once it became clear that the individual was in fact Kyosuke Shiroyama, fifty-eight years old, the president of Hinode Beer, he was taken into custody at 6:20 a.m. We’ve received word that Mr. Shiroyama is suffering from severe exhaustion, but that he is relatively calm, able to speak clearly, and there is no apparent injury to his person. As of 6:55 a.m., Mr. Shiroyama has been taken to Fujiyoshida Police Department. Several officers from Investigation Headquarters are already on their way to the scene, expected to arrive around eight. That is all for now.”
Teraoka ended his remarks there. Even before he had read aloud the last line of his announcement, this time it was one reporter from each newspaper who stormed out of the hall. At Toho, Kuriyama was the one appointed this role. Whatever the circumstances, once the arena had been identified, the battle was to get their own reporter there even a minute before any of the other papers.
With sideways glances at the sea of reporters scrambling out of their seats, those remaining from each newspaper shifted promptly to questions. The PR director admonished the remaining camera crews, “Please refrain from shooting at this point!” but his cry was drowned out by the rush of reporters’ voices.
“When you say Mr. Shiroyama came in alone requesting assistance, does that mean he was released by the kidnappers or did he escape?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“But he must have at least given an explanation to the fireman when he dashed in there, no?!”
“At this point, we don’t have specific details.”
“That’s not a detail, it’s the most crucial point!” This protest was ignored as another reporter interposed his own question.
“Where did Mr. Shiroyama say he had been during the last fifty-six hours?”
“We don’t have an understanding of that at this time.”
“What was Mr. Shiroyama wearing when he requested assistance?”
“A dark navy suit. Leather shoes. No necktie. Reportedly carrying a brown Burberry attaché case.”
“What about what was inside the case or in his wallet? Was anything stolen?”
“We cannot confirm that.”
“What were Mr. Shiroyama’s first words when he dashed into the station?”
“We don’t have the exact information yet. According to the report we received from the prefectural police, Mr. Shiroyama gave his name to the fireman on duty at the station and asked him to contact the police.”
“And you’re saying he was calm at the time?”
“We have not confirmed the assessments made by the prefectural police at this time.”
“Did Mr. Shiroyama mention anything about whether the kidnappers made any demands of him?”
“At this time, we are not aware of such details.”
“Was the region around Lake Kawaguchi included in your area of investigation?”
“That is related to our ongoing investigation, so we are not able to comment.”
“Did Mr. Shiroyama himself say anything about the kidnappers? Appearance? Age?”
“We don’t have an understanding at this time.”
During this entire exchange, Director Teraoka kept his eyes downcast. Kubo sympathized with him—it was a natural reaction after suddenly learning that the victim had been rescued in another prefecture after all this time with barely any developments since the incident occurred—and yet, nothing of any import was yet clear. He couldn’t write an article with this.
“Will the fact that there has been no ransom demand impact the direction of the ongoing investigation?” Kubo threw out his question.
“At this time, we have not reached such a decision.” This was their brusque response.
“An abduction and unlawful confinement without a ransom makes no sense! You must be hiding something!”
“No, we are not. That’s all we can say.”
“When and where will you be interviewing Mr. Shiroyama about what happened?” came the angry shout from one of the reporters from a commercial broadcasting company.
“We haven’t decided. First Mr. Shiroyama will receive a medical examination at the Fujiyoshida Police Department, then after determining whether he is well enough to travel to Tokyo, we will decide on the place and time.”
“When will that be announced?!”
合田雄一郎 Yuichiro Goda
Half an hour earlier, at 6:28 a.m., the police phone in Special Investigation headquarters had rung and the switchboard had connected them with the Yamanashi Prefectural Police, who informed them that the victim had been located and taken into custody. The seventy or so investigators who had been dozing here and there assembled in the conference room at once for a verbal briefing on the contents of the report from the prefectural police. Then, six members from Crime Scene and from Search were swiftly redirected to the on-scene investigation, along with the four members from SIT, who had been ordered to rush to the scene. Meanwhile, those from the Victim Assistance Team busied themselves with contacting Hinode’s main office and the team on standby at the scene, but there were no new orders for the Evidence Investigation Squad. Now that the victim was in protective custody, there were still a few hours before they would be able to take his formal statement, and the emergence of evidence, if any, would come later.
As the conference room began buzzing all at once, Yuichiro Goda stepped out and went to the la
vatory on the third floor. The moment he heard that the victim had been found, his feet almost took off running without thinking, but the part of him that had instinctively reined himself back in had now taken control. Goda cleared his mind of all distractions as he carefully shaved with a disposable razor, and after washing his face twice with soap, he rolled his sleeves back down. He had gauchely been wearing the same shirt since Friday night, and the cuffs were a bit dirty.
As he left the lavatory, he ran into his colleague Inspector Anzai, whom he had not seen in three days and, with a bit of hesitation, Goda asked, “Find anything?” At the investigation meeting, there had been no mention whatsoever of corporate intrigue or extortion, and those on the fringes had no idea what was happening to the network surrounding Hinode. Frankly, Goda wanted to take anyone involved in investigating those areas, turn them upside down, and shake them until they gave up a clue.
“I’m looking into the National Tax Agency’s audit files,” Anzai whispered with a wry smile. “No doubt the MPD has a huge amount of information. Haven’t hit any jackpots so far, though.”
“You mean they haven’t found any problematic expenditures?”
“Hinode’s probably using some subsidiary or affiliate company that isn’t directly tied to them, or even an overseas corporation, to deal with their accounts. If that’s the case, we’ll never find anything.”
“I know there were a number of rumors about Hinode’s ties to the Okada Association during the incident with Ogura Transport and Chunichi Mutual Bank, and also back when Mainichi Beer was exposed.”
“There’re no leads on Hinode. I’ve heard that at their company, instead of going through their general affairs division, one of the executives is the personal point of contact with Okada. Of course the whole company’s in on it, but their finances check out completely, so as long as there are no internal leaks or whistle-blowers, nothing will come up.”
Lady Joker, Volume 1 Page 39
