“I haven't introduced myself yet. Kumi Mizuno,” she said, gazing into Shinichi's face. “You at high school too?” Shinichi nodded, still unable to speak. Kumi's face clouded with worry. “Oh dear … are you okay? You look terrible.”
“I'm okay.”
“It was a shock.” Kumi's voice rose theatrically. “I feel like I'm in a dream.” Then she stuck out her tongue. “But it's exciting, too.”
Shinichi's self-control snapped. He pushed back his chair and abruptly stood up, then headed for the door.
Taken aback, Kumi half rose and said, “What's the matter? Where are you going? You can't just go walking around, you know.”
Shinichi marched out into the corridor to get away from her voice once and for all, and barreled right into a large, middle-aged detective on his way into the room. The detective recoiled in surprise. “Hey, where do you think you're going?”
“I'm sorry. I think I'm going to be sick,” said Shinichi shortly. “I want to get some fresh air. Is that okay?”
He'd asked for permission, but he headed straight for the stairs without waiting for a reply. The big detective hastily grabbed his arm. “Hang on a sec.”
“I'll be right back. Please.”
Another detective came along the corridor from the opposite direction. He looked a slob with his potbelly, sandaled feet, and open-neck shirt. “Oy, oy, what's going on?” he said as he approached.
“I won't go far,” Shinichi said, and dashed toward the stairs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the scruffy detective stopping his big colleague from coming after him.
The automatic doors opened as he stepped on the mat, and he went outside into the dazzling sunlight, bounding down the concrete staircase three at a time until he reached the bottom, where he sat down covering his eyes with his hands. He thought the guard might come over to him, but although he might have been keeping an eye on him, he didn't say anything.
Grateful for the silence, Shinichi immersed himself in all the sounds and images replaying in his head and surrendered himself to their torment. Once he began remembering, he was at their mercy until they'd run their course, as he knew only too well. He stayed still, hugging himself, for five or ten minutes until the storm of memories had passed. When he finally came to himself again, he realized he wasn't crying. He was trembling, but not shedding tears. They had dried up long ago.
He noticed it was a pleasantly crisp mid-autumn day. Several cars in either direction were driving along the four-lane avenue outside the police station. On the sidewalk just to his right there was a bus stop, where a lone man dressed in a suit was standing holding an open newspaper, absorbed in reading as the edges of his paper flapped in the breeze and dried leaves fluttered around his feet. The world was unchanged, peaceful in the golden light and clear air. Shinichi shook his head and rubbed his face with both hands.
Just then, a car─a white Corolla─pulled into the police station and, turning right in front of the building, parked in the visitors' lot. The door opened and some people got out. There were three of them. A middle-aged man in a suit, an older man with a gray checked jacket over a gray shirt─both of them were thickset, and walked in a similar way. They could be father and son. And the other was a woman, middle-aged─about the same as Aunt Yoshie. Or rather, about the same age as Shinichi's own mother.
She looked oddly drunk, staggering as she walked. The older man in gray took her arm and walked with her, as if he couldn't bear to watch her struggle. The woman shot him a smile as he adjusted his pace protectively. Her smile, too, seemed to have somehow lost its focus. Shinichi wondered who they could be. They were visiting the police so it couldn't be for anything cheerful. Maybe they were the family of a victim. Or a criminal.
As he stared at the three of them approaching, the older man suddenly caught his gaze. Shinichi looked at him. His face was dark, matching his gray shirt. The bright autumn sun shone on his forehead where his hairline was receding, but it had the same effect of the sun illuminating a room where something disastrous had happened. The man looked at Shinichi too. Suspicion showed in his eyes, mixed faintly─barely─with something like sympathy or concern. Or was he reading too much into it? The man's gaze flickered over Shinichi's face for a moment, then returned to the police station. The younger man in a suit had gone on ahead and was now talking with the policeman on guard outside. Fragments of their voices were blown by the strong wind and reached even Shinichi's ears.
“… maybe her daughter …”
Shinichi sat up in surprise. He twisted around and looked up at the guard's profile and the three of them lingering outside the automatic doors. They came here because that arm might have belonged to their daughter─the realization hit Shinichi with a jolt. He was suddenly wide-awake. So that was it─they had come because they wanted to know the identity of that arm.
There were bound to be other families coming here for the same reason, too. All would be shielding their faces from the glare of the sun, looking down, hoping that the answer awaiting them inside would not be the worst. Shinichi thought again about that arm with its fingers pointing straight at him. The owner of that arm had wanted to come home, and to those people coming here, Shinichi must have seemed like the Grim Reaper. As long as they hadn't known anything, they'd been able to believe their daughter wasn't dead, but he had found the evidence.
The man in the suit said something to the guard and went into the station. The older man, and the woman he was supporting, followed after him. Just before they disappeared inside, the older man suddenly turned around and looked at Shinichi as if something had just occurred to him. It had been a quick movement, and he immediately turned back and went through the door, but the questioning look in his eyes remained in Shinichi's heart.
What the old man had actually been thinking at that time was that Shinichi looked like a little boy that had just fallen off his bicycle and was looking for his mother to comfort him. But it was only much later that Shinichi heard this from the man himself.
Shinichi and the guard were left alone outside the entrance once more. It was getting a bit cold. He was just standing up to go back inside, when he heard a voice behind him.
“Shinichi Tsukada, isn't it?”
He turned to see the scruffy detective in the open-neck shirt standing there. “Yes … that's right.”
The detective came down the concrete stairs and sat down next to him. He smelled of pomade. Nodding hurriedly at Shinichi's answer, he took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket along with a cheap plastic lighter. Shielding the flame in his large hand he eventually managed to light his cigarette, then exhaled with a groan.
“You're the same Tsukada as in the Sawa murders, aren't you?”
Shinichi had watched absentmindedly as the detective battled to light his cigarette, but now stared at him in astonishment. Puffing on his cigarette, the detective looked aslant at him.
“I'm Takegami, from the Tokyo MPD. I had a minor role in the investigation, going around town checking up on the acquaintances of one of the murderers still on the loose. That's why I remembered your name.”
“Oh, right …” Shinichi finally said. Come to think of it, one of them had been caught in the metropolis, he remembered now.
Takegami gave another quick nod, then said, “It was a terrible pity about your mother, father, and little sister.”
Shinichi didn't know how to respond to this. It could hardly be summed up as “a terribly pity”─at least as far as he was concerned. But what would be the best way to answer? Yes, it was? Thank you? The guy was sympathizing with him, and he was a police officer─and apparently one of the people who had worked so hard to arrest the culprits.
While he was searching for the right words, Detective Takegami impatiently crushed his cigarette under his heel and said testily, “Sorry, I can't be of much comfort, even just saying how sorry I am.”
�
�No …”
“I never normally get the chance to talk to victims or family members. I'm not much good at expressing myself.” He paused, evidently ill at ease. “Are you living around here now?”
“Yes.” Shinichi nodded, thinking to himself that Death was following him around.
“Staying with relatives?”
“With a friend of my father's. They were childhood friends. He's a junior-high teacher, too.
“Is that so?” The detective narrowed his eyes against the chill breeze. “So you've been adopted?”
“Uh-uh, not formally. That's why my name is still Tsukada.”
Takegami nodded. He really did seem to be a bad conversationalist, letting their talk fill with unnatural gaps. But he didn't show any hurry to stand up.
“Are you here because of the incident in Okawa Park, Detective Takegami?” Shunichi asked.
“Mm.”
“Because it's a major case?”
“We don't know that yet,” he said, shaking his head. “Just because the arm's been severed, we don't know for sure that we are dealing with a murder. Could just be mutilation.” He gave a snort. “Nah, that's not likely. It stinks of murder, frankly.”
“Another one,” said Shinichi.
Takegami looked at him. “I couldn't believe my ears when I heard a high-school kid called Shinichi Tsukada had been the one to find it. You've had horrific bad luck in just one year, haven't you?”
“Something strange seems to be following me around.”
Takegami patted him on the back. “Don't say such silly things.”
Shinichi wanted to believe it was silly, but he couldn't rid himself of the image of Death's finger so easily.
“Are you comfortable where you're living now?”
“They're really good people, the Ishiis, both of them.”
“Any other kids?”
Shinichi shook his head. “Just me. And a dog.”
“A dog, huh? Dogs are great.” Takegami put his hands on his knees and made to stand up. “So, are you feeling a bit better now?”
“Yes. Sorry for the bother.”
“Well then, sorry to have to ask it of you, but please come and give a statement. You'll be able to go straight home straight afterwards, so you should be able to make your afternoon classes.”
Shinichi had a tendency to cut school and certainly didn't feel like going today─and he didn't think the Ishiis would expect him to go after this. He was about to say so, but Takegami headed back toward the entrance so he followed in silence. Just as they reached the automatic doors, Shinichi heard another car pull up and turned around to look. This time it was a taxi. Two women, probably mother and daughter, got out of the back seat. They looked so strung out that they would burst if you poked them.
“They must be here about that arm,” he said.
“Maybe so.”
“There was another family here before who looked the same,” he added, recalling the old man in a gray shirt he'd exchanged a glance with.
“There are a lot of terrible incidents involving young women,” said Takegami, his voice low. “You never used to see families who had someone missing respond like this when an unidentified body turned up, but that's been changing lately─probably due to greater awareness. Just recently there was that case in Osaka where bits of murdered women were turning up all over the place.”
Shinichi went into the building before the mother-daughter pair could catch up with them. On the way up the stairs, Takegami stopped as if he'd just remembered something. “Are you attending the trial about your family? It must have already started, hasn't it?”
The initial hearing had been held six months after the murders, in March this year. Shinichi hadn't attended, even just to observe the procedures. The question of whether or not he would be required to attend this time had been really bothering him, and he still didn't know. So he answered honestly, “The prosecutor in charge has told me he'll do everything he can to avoid summoning me.”
“I'm not surprised you don't want to attend.”
“In the sense that it'd be hard for me to sit in the witness box and relive it all?”
“Uh, yes.”
“No, it's not that.”
“Seriously?”
“I'm constantly reliving it without having people questioning me, so there's not much difference.”
Detective Takegami lowered his gaze and stared at a point on his big belly, as though he felt he'd just said something terribly rude.
“Sorry,” said Shinichi, “I shouldn't have said that.”
Takegami waved his thick hand. “No, I'm always putting my foot in it.”
Seeing him looking so painfully contrite, Shinichi suddenly felt incongruously as though he was about to cry and drew his chin sharply in. “In any case, the trial hasn't restarted yet, and probably won't for a while.”
“Why's that?”
“Because of issues surrounding whether or not they should be tried separately, and because they all requested a psychiatric evaluation.”
Takegami's eyes opened wide. “All three of them?”
“Yes, all three of them.”
“That's a surprise. Even that old man who was the ringleader─Higuchi, his name was, wasn't it?”
The ringleader face rose up in Shinichi's mind. The urge to cry was replaced by a deep throbbing pain in his chest. “Yes, Higuchi.”
“Anyone can see he's sane.”
“He's being evaluated, too.”
Takegami slapped himself on the forehead, and snorted angrily. “What are they claiming? Mental incapacity?”
“I heard it was diminished responsibility.”
“For a premeditated crime?”
Shinichi said nothing and just smiled. Or rather, he put on an expression that resembled a smile.
“Look, Shinichi,” Takegami said, looking up again. “Your family's murder was really terrible, and you're a victim of it too, even though you survived. Don't blame yourself for what happened, all right?”
Shinichi nodded politely. Detective Kasai and all the other detectives had said the same thing.
“You haven't done anything wrong,” Takegami said. “And you don't bear any responsibility for what happened. Be sure to remember that.”
He waited for Shinichi to nod again, then walked toward the meeting room. Shinichi followed him, staring at his feet as though he felt like he was the culprit.
Yoshio and Machiko had been quickly shown through to a small third floor room, thanks to Detective Sakaki. It appeared to be a lounge, furnished with a table and easy chairs, and an old-fashioned TV against one wall. Next to it, on a small chest of drawers, was an internal phone. Sasaki made sure they were seated then told them, “Wait here for a moment,” and left. As he went, Machiko gave him Mariko's comb and photo from her handbag.
They were left on their own. Machiko perched on the edge of an armchair, slightly stooping, staring at the floor with hollow eyes. She had been the same in the car, and Yoshio wondered apprehensively whether she even knew that this was the Bokuto Police Station.
“Machiko, are you all right?”
There was no answer. She was staring at a point on the floor, her dry lips slightly parted. Yoshio was beginning to regret having brought her here with him. Ever since she'd got it into her head that the arm found today in Okawa Park was Mariko's, she had been immersed in dark thoughts and slipping farther and farther from reality. Yoshio worried that she might never get over the shock, even if it turned out the arm wasn't Mariko's.
Unlike the busy first and second floors, the third floor was perfectly hushed. They had passed by quite a few closed doors as they walked to this room. It was probably usually out of bounds to outsiders, but Sakaki had requested a space where they could be left in peace and quiet. Sitting there in the silence, he heard Machiko's
irregular, shallow, fast breathing. She sounded like a child with a high fever, a small child lying in bed with a flushed face and closed eyes.
Yoshio recalled an incident from the past─yes, such a long time ago now. It must have been when Machiko was about four years old. That would have been 1955, only six months or so after he had opened his shop. Machiko had come down with a fever in the middle of the night and he'd rushed to the doctor carrying her in his arms. It had been pneumonia. Toshiko had burst into tears and berated him, telling him it was all his fault.
It was eight years since Toshiko had died. If she'd still been alive, she could probably have given Machiko better support than he could at a time like this, thought Yoshio. Or perhaps he should rather be happy that she'd been spared the torment of knowing that something tragic had possibly befallen their only granddaughter.
Suddenly Machiko let out a wail and a long, trembling sigh. “Dad, they're taking too long!”
Yoshio said nothing and, for the first time in decades─he hadn't even done it on her wedding day─took one of his daughter's hands from where it was resting on her knees and held it in his. Machiko squeezed it hard in return. The two of them waited like that.
After about an hour, Sakaki came rushing back into the room. Machiko abruptly let go of Yoshio's hand and stood up.
“Sorry to have left you on your own all this time,” said Sakaki, beads of sweat on his forehead. “Things are still a bit chaotic.”
“Is it going to take some time before we know anything definite?” Yoshio asked. Depending on the circumstances, it might be better to persuade Machiko to go home.
“They're still searching the park,” Sasaki said, sitting down diagonally across from Machiko. “As things stand right now, they don't seem to have turned up anything else. I'm an outsider here too, which makes things a bit difficult, but the sooner we know the identity of that arm the better.”
“Do they know anything yet?”
Sakaki looked at them in turn, then apparently deciding it was better to ask Machiko turned to her. “The arm they found this morning appears to be from a recently dead body.”
Puppet Master vol.1 Page 4
