To Ioka, who approached with a stiff expression, Kaise whispered, “The IDs are on the grounds of U Station."
"What?"
"I want to ask you to search for them. In the hedges. The parking lot. The garage. Make a full search."
Out of the corner of his eyes Ioka glanced toward Section Chief Kosuga. Kosuga was looking in Kaise's direction. Kaise pulled Ioka toward him.
"No matter what happens, I'll be leaving in the spring. It's my last request. Please do as I ask."
"But, but, Superintendent...” Ioka's face was distorted. He was not a bad human being. He was just timid.
"Will you do it for me?"
"I understand. I'll go.” Ioka flew out of the section room.
Twelve-fifteen.... Thirty.... Forty-five.
Nothing from Ioka yet...!
Department Head Kamoike walked into the section room. The press announcement was to be in fifteen minutes.
It won't be in time! Kaise grabbed the telephone receiver roughly.
He called U Station's internal line. —Owada's desk...
Yamazaki Tomoyo's bright voice came on the line. She said —Owada had gone to lunch.
"Crap!"
Kamoike glared at Kaise as he slammed the receiver down.
"I'm off to wipe up after your mess."
It's no good.
Kamoike turned his back on Kaise. It was then that the telephone rang. He snatched the phone. It was Ioka's voice.
"I found them! Behind the garage!"
Kaise stood up and shouted toward the section-room door. “Wait on the announcement! The IDs have been found!"
The section room broke out in an uproar. Kamoike and Kosuga stood, shocked looks on their faces.
Kaise yelled into the receiver, “Ioka, how many IDs are there?"
"I'm counting them. Let's see, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight ... There are twenty-eight!"
Twenty-eight?
"Count them again."
"There's no mistake. Twenty-eight. There are two missing."
"Whose are missing?"
"Um, Police Affairs Section Police Sergeant —Owada's ... and Police Affairs Section Police Officer Kamiya's IDs."
Kamiya's ID... ? Kaise's strength drained from him. He dropped into his seat and leaned back. Why...?
The section room was in turmoil. The press conference on the theft of the IDs was hastily replaced with an announcement of new police jackets. The young section staffer and female officer who were just now chosen to be models pulled on the prototype jackets and rushed out the door.
It was after the commotion was over that Kaise at last arrived at a conclusion. He wondered if it was what had actually transpired. He still couldn't believe it.
So that was it.
It had been officer Kamiya who had lost his ID. Receiving this report, —Owada had committed the theft to hide this fact. He had covered up for the younger man. The penalty for losing one's police ID was heavy. It would affect Kamiya in the future. It might even block his promotions....
He had covered for his subordinate.
That wasn't all, though. —Owada wouldn't stain his hands with a crime for such a simplistic motive. Most likely, —Owada's inner feelings complicated the situation.
—Owada had said, “Your father was a fine man, but you've become a fine police officer just like him."
His own three sons had chosen other paths in life. —Owada must have wanted them to follow in his footsteps. Hadn't he wished for sons who would take their father's way of life as their model and follow him?
He had placed his unfulfilled dream on Kamiya, who had just begun his way in the police force. On that fresh, young police officer.
"Season of the devil” ... that was the only explanation.
Kaise still had a hard time believing it.
But the fact that it was twenty-eight IDs that were returned told Kaise it was —Owada's crime after all. If it was only Kamiya's ID that wasn't returned, he would be the one under scrutiny. That was why —Owada got rid of his own ID as well. With the discovery of hatred toward the “Army Sergeant,” Internal Investigations wouldn't be able to see through to the core of the case.
It would remain an unsolved case. Along with —Owada's retirement....
Telling Kosuga that he was going to the hospital, Kaise left the Headquarters building.
He drove toward the highway. Just as he was about to leave the city, he felt his mobile phone vibrating in his chest pocket. Kaise slid his car into the gasoline stand at the corner.
"Dear, he seems fine. He had a bit of anemia.” The tone of Aiko's voice was like a song. He had forgotten what her true voice was like.
"Really?"
"He's sleeping in his bed now. He was awake when I came. When he saw me, he said, ‘Yah.’”
"Oh, that, it means he's happy."
"You knew that?"
"You knew that, too?"
"Of course, from a long time ago."
"Really..."
"I'll come from now on. I've become friendly with the nurse."
He thought of Yagi Akane's bright, smiling face.
Putting his mobile phone back into his chest pocket, Kaise turned his car onto the highway and stepped on the accelerator.
"Yah,” he said softly to himself.
It was then that a view of the sea—with a calmness that belied the winter season—opened up in front of him.
(c)2000 by Hideo Yokoyama; translation (c)2008 by Beth Cary
[Back to Table of Contents]
Special Feature: 2007 Readers Award
* * * *
David Dean
* * * *
Edward D. Hoch
* * * *
Kurt Sercu and Dale C. Andrews
* * * *
Doug Allyn
* * * *
He's a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America, a recipient of the Private Eye Writers of America's Lifetime Achievement Award, a winner of the Edgar Allan Poe Award and two AnthonyAwards, and now, for the first time, by a tie vote, Edward D. Hoch, a contributor to every issue of EQMM since 1973, is an EQMM Readers Award winner! The Rochester, New York, author has ten long-running series in EQMM, and the split of his votes among the many stories he has eligible has always previously prevented him from claiming the Readers Award's top spot. It took an entry in his most popular series, starring the inimitable thief Nick Velvet, “The Theft of the Ostracized Ostrich” (Sept./Oct.),to put him over the top. The Velvet stories were made into a series for French TV in the 1970s. Your votes this year show that Velvet continues to beguile, as does his creator, who has provided more hours of entertainment for our readers than anyone else in the magazine's long history!
Also in first place this year, in a tie with Edward D. Hoch, is David Dean, who broke into our Department of First Stories in 1989. That debut story was the first he had ever submitted to any publication and he followed up on his quick success with other memorable contributions to EQMM. A number of his tales have been anthologized, and his EQMM story “Trial by Fire” was nominated for the PWA's ShamusAward in 1995. His work has appeared in the top ten in the Readers Award voting on several occasions, but this is the first time he has made it to the top tier. His first-place story, “Ibrahim's Eyes” (June), draws on his military experience. Raised in Georgia, he served as a paratrooper in the 82nd Airborne Division. After leaving the military in 1987, he joined the police in New Jersey. He is now Chief of Police for Avalon, New Jersey, but finds time to send us one or two splendid new tales each year.
Second place this year (with only a point separating it from first!) goes to the co-authored Department of First Stories Ellery Queen pastiche “The Book Case” (May) by Dale C. Andrews (who is Deputy Assistant General Counsel for Litigation at the U.S. Department of Transportation) and Kurt Sercu (head nurse in an intensive care unit in Sijsele, Belgium). Both writers are lifelong Ellery Queen fans, so avid that Kurt Sercu created and is webmaster of “Ellery Queen: A Website
of Deduction.” Through his site he began a correspondence with Dale Andrews. They met in person for the first time when both attended the 2005 Ellery Queen Centenary Symposium. The idea for “The Book Case” had been germinating in Dale Andrews's mind for some time, and he and his co-author outlined the basic plot on a train ride following the event. Drafts were then exchanged by e-mail until the story was complete—to the delight of our readers!
Seven-time Readers Award winner Doug Allyn has claimed third place this year with the non-series tale “Stone Cold Christmas” (January). One of the most celebrated of short story writers, with an Edgar Allan Poe Award and an additional six Edgar Award nominations to his credit, the Michiganer has been a favorite of EQMM readers ever since he first began appearing in this magazine in 1988. This year only one point separated the Readers Award record-holder from a second place finish, and only two points stood between him and an eighth Readers Award. A photo finish, you might say. Hats off to them all!
* * * *
Fourth “Snowbird” by Michael Bracken and Tom Sweeney
Fifth (tied) “Dead as a Dog” by Doug Allyn
"Blues in the Kabul Night” by Clark Howard
Sixth (tied)"Popping Round to the Post” by Peter Lovesey
"Death at Delphi” by Marilyn Todd
Seventh (tied)"Jangle” by Brynn Bonner
"Room for Improvement” by Marilyn Todd
Eighth (tied) “Dear Dr. Watson” by Steve Hockensmith
"The World Behind” by Chris F. Holm
Ninth “The Winning Ticket” by Bill Pronzini
Tenth (tied)"Road Gamble” by Scott William Carter
"The Royals of San Marco High” by Jodi Tamara Harrison
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: SUCHNESS by Rosemary M. Magee
Rosemary Magee is Vice President and Secretary of Emory University, but she still finds time to write short stories and critical essays. Her literary stories have appeared in Porcupine, SouthernHumanities Review, Atlanta Magazine, Iron Horse LiteraryReview, Sanskrit, and Eclipse. This is her first venture into the world of pop-ular fiction and her first crime story. We think you'll agree that it's a promising debut.
Tatum jotted down her thoughts on a notepad, just like the one her mother used to have on hand for shopping lists. She also kept a daily journal in her composition book, because she knew the truth: All feeling is really a memory. If you write down the feelings, the memories turn out to be true.
When the school security guard came to her room asking for details and a description of the strange man she'd reported on campus, Tatum pulled out her notes and read aloud: Tall and smart-looking. Shoulders rounded. His jacket, a windbreaker, dark green. In the library, at the computer near me, then in the coffee shop in town reading the New York Times. He looks alone, maybe even lonesome.
"I've also seen him outside the dorm window,” Tatum informed the security guard. “He looked right at me. After I closed the blinds, I peeked once more in between the slats, and he stood there as if searching for something he'd lost.” Tatum and the security guard both turned toward the still-darkened window.
"There have been other times,” Tatum added quietly.
The security guard, who shifted her gaze back to Tatum, wore large glasses that made her eyes big and blurry. She wasn't very old; it didn't seem quite right to Tatum to call her Officer Reynolds, which was written on the silver badge on her chest. Her first name was Cathy, but that didn't seem right either.
"You've seen him other times recently on campus?” Officer Cathy probed.
"Oh yes,” Tatum replied. She was named after Tatum O'Neal, the child star her mother liked to watch over and over again in a movie about a young girl and adventures with her father. “I see the man often when I'm alone. He's always by himself, too."
"Has he said anything to you, gotten in your path, or tried to touch you in any way?"
"Oh no. He just follows me around and stares."
Officer Cathy stared at her too, through those thick glasses. She was short, shorter than Tatum. Her shoulders were broad, like a boy's, and her shoes were black and heavy. Tatum wondered if she had to run fast sometimes, and if she knew how to use a gun, even though she didn't wear one. Tatum liked having her nearby.
"I may follow you around a bit on campus, so don't be alarmed,” Officer Cathy informed her. “That's just SOP.” When Tatum blinked blankly in response, Officer Cathy explained on her way out the door, “You know, ‘standard operating procedure.’”
Tatum lay back on her bed, satisfied. She didn't write in the same journal for this part. She pulled another one out from underneath the special satin pillow her mother had made for her.
What does it feel like to have the Secret Service around you all of the time, like presidents, their wives, and their children? SOP.
Officer Cathy asked me more questions. I think he has green eyes, or maybe blue, not brown. But no glasses, except for reading. He usually has a spiral notebook and the newspaper all folded up.
Going to class now felt more interesting to Tatum. She thought she might see the man, because she had written and talked about him, or she might run into Officer Cathy on her rounds. With the early, powdery pollen of springtime floating in the air, she felt lighter somehow. The pudgy weight she wanted to lose to make her mother happy didn't hold her back so much. Tatum felt less shy, too. Back at home, she'd worn black jeans with dark tops and had frowned intentionally at anyone who came her way. Now it was easier to smile—because she knew someone was watching her.
On her daily walks, Tatum wore the long, striped, colorful scarf that belonged to her roommate. Jen, who was studying Eastern religions, had renounced materialism; she'd tossed the scarf in a pile of woolens after the last snowstorm. Tatum kept it wrapped around her neck. She liked recycled things. Her favorite store in town was the All Souls Thrift Shop. Expensive clothes that the other girls discarded cost just a few dollars there. She didn't care if her classmates recognized their designer clothing on her. It meant they had a bond. In the evenings, for dinner, she wore some of her mother's cast-off blouses, shiny ones bought for parties before she got too sick to go out anymore.
On Tuesday, Officer Cathy left a message that she had additional questions for Tatum. They met in her dorm room again. Tatum showed her what she had written in her journals, the main one. There was just one entry from the weekend.
Yesterday he sat on a bench by the pond. I think he knows my schedule, even weekends. His pants are khaki, and they look like someone ironed them. But his shoes are brown and scruffy.
Then on Monday, she had written:
He was not on the bench today, but I think I saw him in the hallway of the Hayes Building. He looks tired to me, as if he couldn't sleep.
"You saw him inside Hayes?” Officer Cathy probed.
"That's where my history course is,” Tatum explained. “I was working on my class project. Mine is on the British Museum, and whether or not the collectors stole ancient artifacts from Greece and Italy.” Tatum knew they did, which was not just a feeling; it was a fact.
"How close were you to him?” Officer Cathy asked in a tense voice.
Tatum's parents would not be pleased to learn that a tall man in a green jacket was following her around campus. They were counting on her staying safe while her mother had chemotherapy treatments. She was losing her hair, even her eyebrows.
"We brushed by each other in the corridor,” Tatum replied. Officer Cathy made a note on her small spiral pad in a red pen. Just talking about him gave Tatum stomach flutters.
* * * *
After curfew she told Jen about the man. Jen sat on the floor in a lotus position, wearing only bikini underwear and a tank top. Tatum lounged on the bed, her entire body covered by a long T-shirt, one that had been discarded by her father. Jen listened so quietly that Tatum thought she might have fallen asleep while meditating.
The next day a notice in Jen's cursive handwriting appeared on the hall bulletin
board: “Watch out for stalkers! Report anything suspicious to school security.” She decorated it with a border of peace symbols. Tatum liked the way it looked. When Sara from the school newspaper called her up and asked for a description, Tatum held her cell phone against her ear and closed her eyes. She lay back on the bed.
"Yes, he's about forty, I'd say. Not nearly as old as my father,” she guessed. “His hair hangs down in his eyes like somebody even younger, though. Somebody who doesn't think to comb it every day."
Sara assured Tatum that she would not identify her source in the story, but news travels fast in a small place. On Wednesday, when the paper came out, several people asked Tatum to sit with them at lunch. She hoped that Officer Cathy would notice all of her new friends. Tatum planned to bring her a cappuccino from the coffee shop in town, the one where the man watched her from behind his newspaper.
That afternoon Tatum worked on the British Museum project in the library. From the school computer, she downloaded images, cutting and pasting them with Superglue on a poster board. The pictures were of ancient artifacts taken from the Mediterranean. The British Museum is a thief, she wrote in the heading. In smaller print, she added: The English exploited other people in distant countries, even after they had given up colonization, stealing their history from them and claiming it as their own. Famous museums in America also knowingly took donations from rich people who bought stolen goods from Greece or Italy. They knew what they were doing. They couldn't help themselves. They let the facts of the situation get all tangled up with their desires.
Tatum wanted to tell the tall man about these illicit acts. Maybe he was someone who used to teach here, or the husband of one of her teachers who wasn't even aware that he came on campus, because he was supposed to be working at the Corner Bookstore or in City Hall, defending criminals. That was it. He defended criminals, and he needed to conduct research in the library on campus in order to understand the criminal mind.
Jen had started talking to Tatum about all kinds of things. That night she described her paper topic for the Eastern religions course.
EQMM, May 2008 Page 11
