Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  The foyer was carved out of cream marble with a large, split staircase. Off to the left, he cut another line to the information desk. The young man behind the counter began to protest but Iwata casually flashed his police credentials and asked for Professor Igarashi. He nodded and picked up the phone but Iwata halted him with a diluted smile.

  “Actually, we’re old friends. I’d prefer it if I could surprise him.”

  The man printed Iwata a temporary pass and directed him to the Aztec and Mayan exhibition—a temporary exhibit on the third floor.

  Iwata ignored the national treasures, Greco-Buddhist art, and long-dead civilizations. Today, he was looking for the living. He was searching for a tall, likely left-handed, and powerfully built man who wore a twenty-eight-centimeter shoe. The same man, Iwata felt, he had seen at Kyoto University, raining down blows on his opponent.

  He came to a door bearing a single word:

  CURATOR

  Beneath it, Igarashi’s business card had been affixed. Iwata steeled himself and ran a succession of images through his mind—the Kaneshiro children on the metal slabs, the widow’s pale legs, the black sun in the gloomy bedrooms. They were jumbled radio waves.

  They have to be coming from this room.

  Iwata knocked once, then turned the handle. It did not give. He heard heavy footfalls. The door tore open, and Igarashi peered down at Iwata.

  “Who are you?”

  Iwata held up his badge and watched for facial twitches. Igarashi gave off surprise, perhaps even interest, but Iwata smelled no fear on him. His eyes were far apart and his nose was long, but he had a pleasant enough face. His hair was mid-length and very recently styled. His thick eyelashes gave his face a gentleness that the inspector did not trust. Iwata smelled a subtle aftershave. It contained lemons, perhaps. Zest. Spices. Wealth.

  “Professor Yohei Igarashi?”

  A bemused smile surfaced on the man’s lips.

  “That’s right.”

  “May I come in?”

  Igarashi stepped aside and offered Iwata a seat on the bank of sofas in the corner. The office was spacious and light, wall-to-wall with books. The large window framed Ueno Park below. A sleek white desk held neat stacks of paper, a Spanish/Japanese dictionary, and photographs of Igarashi standing in a jungle somewhere. Beneath the desk, a small suitcase contained meticulously folded clothes and plastic folders.

  “Nice office,” Iwata remarked. “Sure beats my desk in Shibuya.”

  Igarashi laughed, seemingly without reaction to the mention of a police station.

  “I would offer you tea, but I’m in a bit of a rush I’m afraid. Forgive me.”

  He nodded toward his suitcase.

  “That’s quite all right, this shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Of course, I’m happy to help … Inspector, have I seen you somewhere before?”

  “Kyoto University, I believe. I was there recently, visiting an old friend.”

  Igarashi grinned.

  “Of course, I saw you walking with David.”

  “Actually, I saw you too. You were sparring. Quite a left you have on you under all that tweed, Professor.”

  Igarashi batted away the compliment.

  “Far weaker than my right.”

  Iwata took out his notebook, though he didn’t aim to note much down. Igarashi’s eyes rested on it for a second.

  “Not a natural southpaw, then?”

  “No.” Igarashi laughed. “I’m surprised that wasn’t obvious.”

  Iwata mirrored the laugh but noted the taut facial muscles on this man. To the casual glance there would be no hint of the power beneath the man’s English-cut suit.

  “Not in the least.”

  “You’re too kind. And what about you, Inspector? Do you box?”

  “Not since the academy.”

  “And those?”

  Igarashi gestured toward the black eye and the wounds on Iwata’s knuckles.

  “Work.”

  The men shared a smile. Birdsong lilted through the window.

  “Professor, I do have a few questions, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  “I’m sorry, I’ve been blathering. What can I help you with?”

  “Copal,” Iwata replied abruptly.

  Igarashi met his eyes and Iwata studied them. They were large eyes, with an intelligence about them. So far, however, Iwata could only register curiosity, not deception.

  “Copal?”

  “That’s right, Professor. I was looking into copal and I was given your name, actually.”

  “I used to burn it to give exhibitions a little authenticity. I don’t think the visitors ever cared—beyond wondering what the funny smell was, of course.”

  “Let me be honest with you, I’m investigating a series of murders where copal was burned at the scene.”

  Igarashi’s lips tightened. Iwata continued.

  “The hearts of the victims were removed. Turkey blood was found also. The lacerations were done with an incredibly sharp blade. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on copal use.”

  Igarashi looked out of the window for a moment and discomfort seemed to wash over him. His eyes were dark pools. He bared his teeth.

  “Are you all right, Professor?”

  After a few seconds, Igarashi nodded.

  “Quite all right, sorry. I just have some digestive problems, that’s all. Now, copal? Well, it was primarily used to cleanse in Mexica and pre-Colombian cultures. Sometimes it was used in a remedial way, or to make an offering suitable for sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice?”

  “Well, what you’ve described sounds like a crude sacrifice, yes. The turkey blood, the hearts, the copal—all of that sounds like an imitation of human sacrifice as per ancient South American cultures.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “Today? No idea. Historically speaking, human sacrifice was widespread for a long time. Broadly, it was often a blood debt to the gods in order for ancient peoples to avoid plagues and natural disasters. They sacrificed animals too. And, of course, let their own blood.”

  “So it was a form of atonement?”

  “You could say that. The Aztec legend of the Five Suns says that the gods sacrificed themselves so that mankind might live. In a way, life could only exist if fed by death. There was a central belief among the Mesoamerican peoples that a great, ongoing sacrifice sustains the entire universe. Everything is tonacayotl—a sort of ‘spiritual flesh-hood’ on earth. And earth, the crops, the moon, the stars, and all people—everything—all of it sprung from these sacrificed gods. Humanity itself is macehualli—‘those deserving and brought back to life through penance.’”

  “So they lived to repay their debt?”

  “Put simply. It was commonly used as a metaphor for human sacrifice—a sacrificial victim was someone who ‘gave his service.’”

  “And if the debt wasn’t paid?”

  “Then the sun would turn black and the world would end. But I’m not sure if any of this is relevant to your murder investigation, Insp—”

  “Funny thing is”—Iwata opened his bag and took out the crime scene photographs of the black sun—“it would seem it is relevant.”

  Igarashi squinted at the symbols.

  “Hmm, a black sun? Or some kind of eclipse, perhaps?”

  “They were drawn by the perpetrator.”

  “How strange.” Igarashi glanced at the clock. “Well, Inspector, I really must get going if I’m to make my flight.”

  “Of course. Are you going somewhere exotic?”

  “Beijing. It’s just a series of talks. I’ll only be gone for a few days. I’m sure we can meet again to discuss this further.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Driving to the airport?”

  “I have a taxi booked.”

  “I’ll walk you.”

  Igarashi finished packing his suitcase and then led Iwata out of the office. They walked side by side through the muse
um, weaving through school groups and tourists.

  “Professor, can you tell me what kind of blade was used in these rituals?”

  “Usually an obsidian blade.”

  “Obsidian?”

  “It cuts with incredible precision. Certain surgeons today are starting to use obsidian scalpels, in fact. The sharpness is, for want of a better word, perfect.”

  Iwata mused on this.

  “Sophisticated for such a primitive culture, wouldn’t you say?”

  Igarashi darkened for a split second, his eyes flickering like a bad signal.

  “Mesoamerican cultures were not primitive, Inspector.” He cleared his throat and regained his lightness. “In fact they were highly advanced in many aspects. Metallurgy, however, was not one of them. This is mostly down to the abundance of obsidian throughout Mexico and Guatemala. It was used in a whole range of life aspects: tools, warfare, decoration—”

  “And for ripping out hearts.”

  Igarashi grinned.

  “And that.”

  They paused at the marble stairs of the main entrance.

  “Professor, do you think the killer could have fashioned himself an obsidian knife? Would that be possible?”

  The professor turned up his bottom lip and started down the stairs, his large moccasins singing out.

  “I suppose so. But the type of obsidian you’d need for working into a blade is restricted to deposits in Mexico, Guatemala, Armenia…”

  They stepped out into rain. On the main road, the coaches spilled their contents, a tide of polo shirts, cameras, and fat. Igarashi waved at his taxi and it pulled up on to the curb, its back door opening automatically. The professor paused before getting in.

  “Inspector, I have to say, I find it hard to believe there’s a psychopath running around the streets of Tokyo, ripping people’s hearts out with an obsidian blade.”

  One side of Iwata’s mouth curled up.

  “Safe journey, Professor.”

  Igarashi offered a large hand and they shook warmly. As the taxi dwindled into the red blur of rear lights, Iwata glanced up at the sooty sky. He felt something strange on his hand. He looked down. In the middle of Iwata’s palm was a large, black smudge.

  CHAPTER 14: STACKS OF PAPER

  LA FLEUR WAS A LARGE, high-end coffee house in Nishi-Azabu popular with wealthy housewives and gaijin. The crowd would usually be much thicker by 5 P.M., but the heavy rain had seen to that. Old French love songs played quietly in the background. Iwata and Sakai sat in the corner by the steamy window. He sipped his first cappuccino, she smoked her second cigarette.

  “I don’t get his logic.” She took a deep drag. “Why be so helpful to you if he’s the killer? To deflect suspicion?”

  “He knows we have nothing on him. Maybe he did it for fun.” Iwata sighed. “I don’t think I gave anything away, but it felt like he was trying to read me too.”

  “I wonder.” She looked out of the window. “Well, surveillance boys confirm he flew to Beijing. I’m still looking into his background but he’s clean so far.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “You’re not the easily surprised type, Iwata.”

  “Really. You know my type?”

  “You don’t want me reading you.”

  “No, go on. I’m curious.”

  “All right. Well, you’re divorced, right? You have to be, you’ve practically got it written on your forehead. What was it, another woman? No, another man, I bet. She left you, did she? Long hours, blood specks, emotional brick walls. And you obviously didn’t get the kids. You’ve isolated yourself even more by moving to Tokyo and it’s not like you’re in an industry where you’re taking your bosses out for drinks and karaoke. No, I’d say you’re completely alone. Dating is out of the question too. You have nothing to offer, nothing to give. I think you’re the type of person who will disappoint yourself before you let life disappoint you. And it’s not like you could just leave it all behind and work in an office, could you? You’re hardly the dull but dutiful type. No, you hate your job, but then you need it like the air you breathe. If I had to guess, I’d say whoever Iwata was before Homicide? He’s long gone now.”

  Iwata downed his cappuccino and nodded.

  “You see a lot with those eyes, don’t you?”

  “You asked.”

  “I asked. Are you always this nice to your partners?”

  “No.” She laughed. “I’m not usually so gregarious.”

  “I had a partner a long time ago, she was a bit like you. A great cop. Just a little more … I don’t know.”

  “No, go on. A little more what?”

  “Gregarious, I guess.”

  They smiled until the love song ended and Sakai stubbed out her cigarette.

  “So.” She changed the subject with a curt puff of smoke. “What do you want to do about Professor Igarashi?”

  “I want to get his whereabouts for both murders. He had the ability to do it, as well as some kind of connection to the ritualistic side of it.”

  “All right.”

  “And if I get a single shred of evidence, even just a vague link, I’m bringing him in.”

  Sakai opened her green leather handbag and took out her notebook.

  “Speaking of shreds, Kanagawa PD got back to me with financial disclosure. Turns out Mrs. Ohba was rich, more or less. She could have lived to three hundred on those take-out dinners. But unlike the Kaneshiros, no cash injections in her account. In terms of outgoings, nothing significant either.”

  “Hm. Perhaps the Black Sun knew that money wouldn’t interest Mrs. Ohba like it might have interested the Kaneshiros.”

  “One of life’s little mysteries, I guess. Iwata, why don’t you go home? You look like shit.”

  “Everyone looks like shit to you.”

  “I’ve got a good eye, remember?”

  Iwata noticed that Sakai was wearing a different perfume today—a floral, honeysuckle smell. Her lips were red for the first time that he had seen, and there was a purple shadow about her eyes. She wore jeans, faded and tight, and a loose black jumper that hung from one shoulder. A leather jacket was folded over the armrest of her chair.

  “I think I will go home, actually. What about you, Sakai?”

  “Just meeting a friend.”

  “Then get going if you want, I’ll get this.”

  Sakai wiggled her fingers good-bye and marched out of the café. Iwata watched her shake open an umbrella then stride out of view. He pushed his empty coffee mug away and took out his cigarettes before seeing the no smoking sign. He put them back in his pocket and felt a deep nothingness. Iwata wished Sakai had stayed, though he could not unravel what he felt for her—vague lust, curiosity, wariness perhaps. When considering Sakai, these impulses would surface in him, yet none of it would adhere reliably.

  Iwata’s inability to pinpoint his feelings for Sakai did not concern him. But the realization that he did not want to be alone shocked him. He thought of the people he had known in his life and searched for a name that he could reach for now, someone for whom he held the most minimal significance. He could think of no one.

  He paid and left.

  * * *

  On Waseda-Dori, running just behind Iidabashi Station, Sakai skirted the bare birch trees. She stopped outside a brown, multipurpose building. Above a FamilyMart, an old sign read:

  OSHINO BOXING GYM

  Climbing the stairs, Sakai could already hear the percussion of the heavy bags, a constant pounding on leather and nylon mesh. The gym was bright and there was a faint trace of ammonia in the air. Younger boys off to the left were skipping and stretching. In the center, the ring was occupied by two men sparring. Nobody paid Sakai much attention. There was a large, framed quote in English on the wall above the ring:

  NEVER QUIT. SUFFER NOW. LIVE THE REST OF YOUR LIFE AS A CHAMPION.

  At the back of the room, a door opened and a tall, muscular man with closely cropped hair and butterfly tattoos on his arms eme
rged. He greeted a few people warmly until he saw Sakai. He stopped dead in his tracks. Then a pure grin broke across his scarred lips.

  “Noriko?”

  One corner of her mouth turned up.

  “Oshino!” she shouted. “The champ is here!”

  Some of the younger boys laughed and applauded, others wolf-whistled. Oshino blushed and motioned for her to follow. Sakai admired his powerful frame from behind as he walked. Resisting the temptation to grasp his buttocks, she followed him into a small, neat office. Oshino had a view of Koraku Park to the east and the Kanda River to the south. They sat at his desk and smiled at each other for a while, fascinated by the compound of changes and constants—the passing of time in flesh. What was lost, what was gained.

  “Long time,” he said quietly, his voice deep.

  “You’ve done well for yourself, Oshino.”

  He looked away shyly. “Thank you.”

  “With your experience I bet you can charge whatever fee you like.”

  “I rarely charge these days. I have enough to get by.”

  “You never were one for money.”

  “And you? You graduated from the academy?”

  Sakai took out her police ID and handed it to him. Oshino took it respectfully, trying not to touch her skin.

  “Homicide?” He raised his eyebrows proudly.

  She laughed. “You’re surprised?”

  “No.”

  “You look it.”

  “Well, not by this. I knew you would go far.”

  “So surprised by what?”

  His smile faded. “I just … didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  Sakai immediately stood and faced away. She inspected the photographs of him hanging on the wall—young, slick with sweat, battered, but victorious. She wasn’t in the photos but she had been there on those nights. She remembered the fights, their smells and music, the warm spray of sweat in the front row. She remembered the swelling pride she felt.

  “National champion,” she said with awe.

  “National youth champion,” he corrected. “And half the kids out there are better than I ever was.”

  “You’ve gone modest in your old age.”

  “No, just honest. Anyway, the past is the past.”

  Sakai smiled sadly with her back to him.