Prefecture D: Four Novellas

by Hideo Yokoyama

  He got out of his car and walked to the threshold of the houses, concentrating on the road the sedan had gone down.

  He’ll have the answers.

  Presumably the tires had been changed again, as it took a full twenty minutes for the car to reappear. Futawatari stepped out into the road, bringing the car to a halt. Having seen Futawatari only a day earlier, the driver seemed to recognize him immediately. He wound down his window and cocked his head in Futawatari’s direction.

  “Something the matter?”

  Futawatari put on a pained expression and pointed at the road behind him. “My car died. Look, I’m really sorry, but I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a lift to the station?”

  The driver glanced in the direction Futawatari had pointed and offered to take a look. Futawatari replied that he was in a bit of a hurry. The driver nodded and motioned toward the back seat.

  Good.

  The towering stack of road maps was the first thing to catch his attention. There had to be at least twenty. There were urban maps with residential markings, standard road maps, even maps charting mountain areas resembling the type park rangers might use. Futawatari flicked casually through a few of them.

  He let out an almost audible groan.

  The pages were covered with red. The lines were everywhere, running in all directions, just as they were on the map in the foundation. There were more lines, if anything, covering more detail and more routes.

  Futawatari was tempted to study them further, but something caused him to look up. His eyes caught the driver’s in the rearview mirror. The man didn’t look bothered, but it was clear he wasn’t happy. He had timid features. His gray-speckled hair had given Futawatari the initial impression of a man considerably advanced in years, but it was possible he was little more than fifty. The man would know Osakabe’s routine inside out. Futawatari had the fifteen minutes it would take for them to reach the Prefectural HQ.

  Indicating he was ready to go, Futawatari struck up a conversation.

  The driver introduced himself as Aoki and told Futawatari he’d been doing the job for almost a year. He’d been a taxi driver, but at his age the night shift had begun to take its toll. He’d had a spell driving for Director Miyagi after the man had broken his arm, and following this had been invited to drive full-time for the foundation. His daughter’s fiancé owned a yakitori bar, and he’d been thinking about helping out there for a while but had decided in the end that driving was all he was good for.

  With this, Aoki gave a brief chuckle.

  “Surely this is harder work than driving a taxi? It’s the director you’re driving around, after all,” Futawatari said.

  Aoki disagreed, shaking his head. “It’s better. The daytime hours really help.”

  “But you have to drive through snow, down mountain roads.”

  “I guess.”

  “Does the director do anything else besides inspect the dumping sites?”

  “He has conferences, lectures. That sort of thing.”

  “That’s not what I…” Futawatari’s only experience of interrogation was from when he’d had to question people during his substation days. This wouldn’t be easy. He wondered what Maejima would do in a similar situation. Having considered his options, Futawatari opted to go for the direct approach. “Does he make any private trips between the inspections?”

  “Private trips?”

  “Does he meet with people? Perhaps do anything to suggest he’s looking into something other than the dumping?”

  “I…”

  It was hard to see Aoki’s expression. He’d dropped out of sight in the rearview mirror. “You know he used to work for the force, right?”

  “I found out not long after I started.”

  “Do you know what the red lines are for?”

  “They’re … the routes we take. To the dumping sites.”

  “The director draws them himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I mean, some of these go through residential areas, which I assume have nothing to do with dumping. Does he record the routes you take to the conferences, too?”

  “…”

  Aoki was silent. He reappeared in the rearview mirror, looking pale. He’s been warned not to say anything. Futawatari was convinced the man was hiding something, but he lacked the skills necessary to pry out the truth. He saw Maejima’s broad grin. The lights of the Prefectural HQ were already closing in beyond the windshield.

  9

  “Sir, we need to talk.”

  Futawatari intercepted Osakabe as he was leaving his house the next morning. His car had just arrived. Aoki seemed to stiffen as he caught sight of Futawatari, no doubt recalling the events of the previous day. Osakabe showed no reaction. He continued impassively toward the car, slipping into the back seat when Aoki smartly opened the door.

  Futawatari rushed over and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I think I understand what you’re trying to do.”

  Everything hung on the words. Futawatari knew he was close to understanding Osakabe’s motivations, yet he had nothing conclusive. He’d gained nothing from his conversation with Aoki and time was almost up. The deadline for notification of the transfers for officers ranked inspector and above was now only two days away.

  Please.

  For the first time, Osakabe reacted. He focused his gaze on Futawatari, looking like he was weighing things up. He held eye contact for some time.

  “Get in.”

  Futawatari bowed deeply, then hurried into the passenger seat.

  “What do you want to say?” Osakabe asked soon after they pulled out.

  Futawatari nodded in Aoki’s direction, so Osakabe would see. There was a pause before Osakabe spoke again: “It’s fine, go ahead.” Futawatari turned around. He had to choose his words carefully.

  “I know about the case from five years ago. I know how it affected you. But I want you to know, sir, that we have officers even now who are—”

  “Which case?” Osakabe said, cutting in.

  “Sir, five years ago. You must—”

  “Be specific.”

  “The rape and murder of the female officer worker … and the six other cases like it.”

  Osakabe fell silent. He seemed unflustered, but it was clear he was thinking. Perhaps he was trying to gauge the extent of Futawatari’s knowledge.

  Futawatari realized that raising the subject of Megu might be enough to get Osakabe to open up. Still, he hesitated. They weren’t the only ones in the car.

  “It’ll be over soon,” Osakabe said abruptly.

  “Sir?”

  “The detectives have what they need.”

  “Evidence?”

  “A hair. It’s all they need. They’ll close the case,” Osakabe said. It was as though he were talking to himself.

  Futawatari didn’t know how to respond. According to Sasaki, nothing had been left behind. Of course, he’d also said he hadn’t worked on the case, so it was possible that he simply hadn’t known about the hair.

  More confusing was the fact that Osakabe had suddenly dropped his guard. Why had he revealed case information? Wasn’t it in a detective’s DNA to maintain confidentiality? There would have to be a reason behind the casual revelation. I’m not on the case. It’s in capable hands. Was that what he’d wanted to say?

  “I assume headquarters will do?” Osakabe said, giving Aoki the instruction before Futawatari had a chance to respond.

  Futawatari turned to face the back of the car. “Sir, I implore you to consider the effect your actions will have on your successor.”

  “…”

  “It’s imperative that—”

  “…” Osakabe shut his eyes.

  Futawatari experienced a surge of anger. “Could you at least tell me how long it is you intend to stay on at the foundation?”

  “…”

  “Would it be until your daughter’s…” Futawatari swal
lowed the rest of the sentence. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  Osakabe’s eyes remained closed. Aoki’s hands, perhaps due to the tension in the car, were trembling on the wheel. It wasn’t long before they pulled up to the parking area outside the Prefectural HQ.

  Futawatari leaned in farther.

  “We need to—”

  “It’s like I already told you. There’s no need to worry.”

  “But you haven’t—”

  “We’re finished here. I have work to do.”

  The car pulled away, leaving Futawatari standing alone. The sense of defeat was absolute. As was the sense of exhaustion. The man was a rock. I can’t get him to budge. There would be one final opportunity, that evening, when Osakabe arrived home. Futawatari needed something with which to move the unmovable.

  He had to at least try.

  He turned away from the headquarters and started down the main road, pulling open the door to a public phone booth. He would place a direct call to the district chief of Criminal Investigations, avoiding the switchboard.

  “Futawatari. What is it?” Maejima sounded a little taken aback.

  “I wanted to ask you something regarding the case you mentioned, the murder of the female office worker.”

  Silence. “Are you in headquarters?”

  “I’m in a phone booth. No need to worry.”

  “Okay, go ahead. Bear in mind there’s some things I can’t talk about.”

  “Is it true you have evidence? A hair?”

  On the other end of the line, Futawatari heard Maejima take a sharp intake of breath. “Who told you about that?”

  “Osakabe.”

  Maejima sounded genuinely astonished. He asked repeatedly whether Osakabe had really said such a thing.

  “So, it’s true?”

  “Not really.”

  “Osakabe was lying?”

  “No, I mean, we did have a hair. But we don’t anymore.”

  “Not anymore? What do you mean?”

  “The sample was broken down. Atomized.” The effect of Osakabe’s endorsement was astounding. Maejima began to talk, almost whispering as he broke the detectives’ code of secrecy. It was a particular talent of the detective to come across clearly even when talking quietly.

  They had recovered a single hair from the woman’s clothes, one that belonged neither to her nor to her family. A year later, still lacking any leads as to the identity of the perpetrator, First Division had made a decision. They had sent their only evidence in for analysis. The testing required chemical processing, which would destroy the sample. That was what Maejima had been referring to. Following the test, the hair would be useless.

  The risks, then, had been significant. It was the only evidence they had, but the lack of progress—and the resulting lack of suspects—meant it wasn’t being put to use. Getting a blood type would at least allow them to tighten the investigative net. They might even get a lead. Those were the official reasons cited when they submitted the sample for testing.

  But there had been more to it than that.

  Osakabe’s retirement had been a contributing factor, albeit an invisible one. Prior to a senior officer’s retirement, detectives liked to do all they could to close any cases that were still open. It was all but tradition to make a special effort to mark the departure of a respected officer. Further complicating the matter in this case was the fact that they had believed the murderer was responsible for the rape of Osakabe’s daughter. Emotion had taken hold, and as a result, First Division had rushed too soon into the process.

  The results had been crushing.

  They had sacrificed their only sample and all they learned was that the offender was blood type A, which applied to four out of ten people. The hair was found to have fallen naturally from the man’s head. And so, it had lacked the pieces necessary for DNA processing. The analysis had yielded no further information.

  “Maybe it would have been too much to ask for something like Rh negative. But AB, at least, right?” Maejima’s voice sounded downcast in Futawatari’s ear.

  Why lie?

  Futawatari recalled what Osakabe had said on the way back to headquarters. Why claim to have evidence when none existed? Had it been some kind of bluff? Just another way to deflect Futawatari’s questions, more of the man’s signature smoke screen? Could the words have carried some other kind of meaning? As Futawatari thought about it now, much of what Osakabe had said didn’t seem to make sense. Futawatari couldn’t even tell if Osakabe had meant what he’d said. It was possible he’d only said whatever he thought necessary to get Futawatari to back off.

  Futawatari tipped his head in response to the duty officer’s salute as he walked into the Prefectural HQ. He felt physically and mentally heavy. I can’t see tonight going well. Not at this rate. He had braced himself for the director’s rancor upon entering Administration, but the office was almost eerily quiet.

  Shirota came over and whispered the words, “Director Kudo has announced he won’t be taking the position.”

  Futawatari opened his eyes and looked the man in the face. He was grinning.

  “Turns out he’s been having some health issues.”

  “Health issues?”

  “Right. Anyway, we’re in the clear.”

  “A job well done.” A deep voice sounded behind them. Oguro’s smile reached all the way to his eyes.

  Futawatari felt like he’d fallen into a well. The question of Osakabe’s refusal to step down had resolved itself. Just like that, with no harm done.

  Don’t you see what this means?

  He felt the urge to scream the words. Osakabe had intervened and Kudo had followed his bidding, removing Futawatari from the equation.

  Laughter came from inside the director’s office. Futawatari clenched his hands to extinguish the shame, which now burned more strongly than ever.

  10

  There’s no need to get flustered. Once this is done, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.

  It was as Osakabe had predicted. The calm in the office seemed to suggest that the whole debacle had never even taken place. Neither Oguro nor Shirota mentioned the subject again. The fruits of Uehara’s labor were officially announced and the transfer season quickly passed. The only event of note was when the disgraced captain of Station S came by, dipping his head in gratitude as he made the rounds to thank everyone for his new post as chief of Licensing.

  Administration had a transfer of its own. Officer Saito was reassigned to Criminal Investigations in Station W. She had a stubborn streak that belied her appearance, and Futawatari suspected she might give Maejima a run for his money. Futawatari, too, had started to move on. In the weeks and months that followed, the plans to rebuild the headquarters were beginning to come together. He was busy negotiating with the various departments, as well as laying the groundwork in the prefectural assembly, and the memories of Osakabe’s face and voice were beginning to fade.

  Yet every now and then, Futawatari still found himself asking the question.

  Is he out there now? Working on the case?

  Osakabe had been on his mind in June, too. Someone had told him that Megu had looked stunning in her dress. Maejima had gotten blind drunk and failed to notice whether Osakabe had actually shed tears. And, despite Futawatari’s suspicion that that would be the end, he continued to hear nothing of Osakabe stepping down.

  Had the whole thing even happened? As another three months went by, Futawatari could no longer be sure.

  He was in a bad mood on the day he found out.

  The various departments had been fighting over floor space, causing a delay in putting together the blueprints for the new building. The post-bubble economy was down, too, meaning lower tax revenues, which threw the whole existence of the project into doubt. On top of this, the NPA had made one-sided requests that the Department of Community Safety be renamed the Department of Public Safety and that the Patrol Unit be renamed the Community Unit. They had also suggested that t
he name of one of the prefecture’s dorms, Standby Hall, was too passive and asked that that be changed, too.

  And what the hell is wrong with “Standby Hall”? Isn’t that what the police do? Stand by until the shit hits the fan?

  Futawatari was venting his frustration on his memo pad, phone under his chin, when a familiar figure walked into his peripheral vision. He drew a sharp breath.

  Osakabe.

  The man glanced in Futawatari’s direction before disappearing into the director’s office with Shirota in tow.

  Had something happened?

  Futawatari’s heart was racing; he felt suddenly appre- hensive.

  Osakabe was in the office for no more than five minutes. When he emerged, he left without even sparing Futawatari a look. Oguro and Shirota watched him go from the side of the office door. Futawatari overheard a quiet, bitter-sounding voice.

  “He could have at least apologized for all the fucking trouble.”

  Had he agreed to step down?

  Futawatari jumped to his feet. He made a beeline through the office and started to jog down the corridor.

  Why?

  He picked up speed as he made his way down the stairs, leaving the building via the main entrance. Osakabe was already inside the black sedan, which was still in its parking space.

  “Sir!”

  Futawatari pressed his hands on the window. Osakabe turned to face him.

  “Sir. What changed your mind?”

  “…”

  Osakabe’s eyes appeared to cloud over. In the next moment he issued an instruction for his driver to pull out. Something seemed out of place.

  It … isn’t Aoki.

  In his place sat a young man wearing silver-rimmed glasses. The maps, too, were gone. The back of the car no longer held the towering stack he’d seen before. The car pulled sharply away, as though to emphasize the youth of the new driver.

  Futawatari remained where he was. His pulse was pounding in his ears. The clouded-over look. The new driver. The disappearance of the maps. The images flashed by in quick succession. The discrete facts began to come together, as though magnetized, joining to form clumps and eventually coalescing into a single realization that thumped against the inside of his skull.