Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  “The past is the past,” she murmured.

  “So what brings you here?

  “I need your help, Oshino.”

  “Then I’m glad you thought of me. Anything you need. You know that.”

  “Are you still in contact with your friends?”

  “Ah. I haven’t had dealings with those people for years.…” He looked at her gravely. “But you tell me what you need and I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m searching for someone. I need her birth certificate, school records, that kind of thing. She’d probably be my age by now.”

  Sakai wrote down a name on his blotting pad in neat characters.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to look it up through police records?”

  “Those searches leave traces. Traces lead to questions. Plus, I doubt there’ll be anything criminal attached to that name anyway.”

  “Is this work or pleasure?” Oshino asked.

  “What’s the difference?”

  They shared a smile. Then Sakai took out a small wad of notes and her business card.

  “Will this be enough for your friends?”

  “That’s more than enough. I’ll call you when they come through.”

  “And what about you, Oshino. What do you want?”

  He licked his lips and looked down at the floor. “What are you asking me?”

  “I meant money.”

  “You said it yourself, I never was one for money.”

  Sakai laughed. “You were punching above your weight even back then, champ.”

  “With you, anyone would be.”

  “Here. That should be enough.” She unfolded another few bills and passed them across.

  “For what?”

  “What else?”

  He laughed as she stood. “But there’s no other woman like you.”

  “Ass is ass, Oshino.” She opened the door and winked at him. “Just make sure you find me what I want.”

  He looked down at the blotting pad.

  MIDORI ANZAI

  As Oshino rubbed his finger across the characters, the ink bled across the page.

  * * *

  Several uneventful days passed. Iwata spoke to distant acquaintances of the Kaneshiros and the Ohbas, hoping for some missed detail or angle, but was met with nothing more than pleasantries or sympathy—both currencies he could not convert. When Iwata turned his attention to Professor Igarashi, he could find nothing out of place, nor any connection to the victims. For her part, Sakai exhausted every public record and possible source of information but the search for a connection between victims proved absolutely fruitless.

  Looking over his shoulder, Iwata called her from a temporary desk in Division One.

  “There has to be something, Sakai. I refuse to believe the Black Sun Killer just chanced upon these people. Everything we know about him says he’s meticulous.”

  Sakai sounded tired.

  “The little we know about him, yes. But you’ve put me in a library and asked me to look for a pair of full stops of matching size, Iwata.”

  “Keep searching.” He slammed the receiver down and rubbed his eyes. When Iwata looked up, across the room he saw Moroto smirking.

  “Aw, Mickey Mouse looks sad,” he jeered. “Somebody get him a hot dog.”

  Sniggers broke out around Division One.

  * * *

  On the morning of March 2, two weeks after the first murders, Iwata drove to the garden city of Den-en-chōfu, thirty minutes south of Shibuya. He had nothing else to do and nowhere else to go. The tree-lined streets were quiet and the houses were large, in varying styles. Besides the bog-standard rich, the area was populated by expats, baseball stars, singers, manga artists, and politicians.

  The address the surveillance team had given Iwata was a quiet backstreet near Tamagawadai Park. He put on a baseball cap and sunglasses and bought himself a black coffee with agave syrup from a stall. In the car across from Igarashi’s house, Iwata immediately spotted two plainclothes cops in a gray saloon car—one reading the sports page, the other dozing. Under the merest scrutiny the setup would immediately seem suspicious, but Iwata was hoping Igarashi was not the observant type.

  He strolled past the house, sipping coffee casually, and glanced up. It was clearly empty. Sports Page looked at him for a moment, but registered nothing and went back to his paper.

  Iwata gave the house another few passes before returning to his car. Though he was not in mint condition, his ankle at least no longer throbbed. He glanced at the gray saloon and felt a vague affection for the two surveillance cops. They were part of a system that he commanded. Limited but loyal, they were his dogs—he just had to say fetch.

  Iwata took off the hat and sunglasses before dialing Igarashi’s number on a whim.

  “Yes?” It was the same impatient tone he had opened his office door with.

  “Professor, it’s Inspector Iwata.”

  “Ah, good timing. I’ve just passed through passport control at Narita.”

  It was strangely exhilarating to hear Igarashi’s low, calm voice again.

  “How was your trip?”

  “Not as productive as I would have liked. Made any progress?”

  “About that. If you’re back at the museum tomorrow, could I come by and ask you a few more questions?”

  “I’ll be in after twelve.”

  “Until then, Professor.”

  “I’ll have some coffee ready this time.”

  Iwata jabbed the call out like a match burning too close to the finger. He looked at his phone.

  Coffee.

  “Until then, you smug bastard.”

  He looked up and saw something was wrong. Sports Page and Dozy were taking out their earpieces and packing up their cameras. The latter got out of the car with a bag of rubbish. Before he could reach the trash container, Iwata was grabbing at his collar from behind.

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?!”

  The cop wheeled round with a snarl.

  “You watch how you talk to—”

  Iwata thrust his credentials in Dozy’s face.

  “I gave you no orders! No orders! You get back in that car and you watch him, you hear me?”

  The cop was frowning at Iwata’s ID while trying to shake off the hobbling, pale man it belonged to.

  “What do you—”

  “Watch him.”

  Dozy blinked. The words on the police ID and the authority it carried surely could not apply to this frantic, sick man in front of him.

  “Calm down, sir.”

  “I’ll be calm when you do your fucking job.”

  “Division chief just called. The papers … Haven’t you seen?”

  Iwata blinked and a nearby sprinkler stifled its laughter.

  “What papers?”

  Sports Page, who was now halfway out of the car, tossed across his newspaper. It landed with a splat of reality at Iwata’s feet:

  MURDER FRENZY DESCENDS ON TOKYO: FIRST THE SUPERSTAR, NOW THE WIDOW.

  The intro spoke of crazed killers stalking the city streets and TMPD incompetence. The new justice minister was considering police budget cuts and streamlining. The main photograph was Mina Fong’s smiling face, full of love and warmth for her public. Below it, there was a grainy picture of Iwata entering Mrs. Ohba’s house.

  “I better go,” Dozy said.

  Iwata pointed to Igarashi’s house.

  “This man will kill again.”

  “They point and I follow. You know how it is.”

  The cop straightened his jacket and smoothed over his hair as he returned to the car.

  “He’s not finished!” Iwata called.

  The saloon started up and quietly sailed out of its space, leaving a small cloud of exhaust behind. Iwata’s voice was drained of anger.

  “Even if we are.”

  A clutch of pigeons cooed in the branches above him. Neighbors spied at him through expensive curtains and double glazing. Iwata got back into his car, breathin
g hard through his nose. He closed his eyes tightly and bit his lip hard, willing the fury to pass quickly. He needed silence but instead his phone began to buzz.

  “Iwata.” Shindo’s voice was slow and emotionless. “Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know why I’m calling.”

  Iwata pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to control his voice.

  “You promised me time.”

  “Nobody can promise that. I need you here in thirty minutes. Everything has been pulled.”

  Iwata hung up and tried to settle himself.

  You ever wonder if maybe some of those cities are good and some of them are bad?

  He pictured little Hana Kaneshiro’s colorless face.

  Snarling back his tears, Iwata punched the steering wheel repeatedly. The car horn bleated in the isolated gray of the peaceful backstreet. The cold morning drifted silently by.

  * * *

  Shindo’s office had the same sour stink but the world outside had shifted since then. He entered the room, stressed and sweating, and immediately held up his hand.

  “Not a fucking word, Iwata.”

  The door clattered shut and Shindo dropped himself behind his desk, his swivel chair creaking loudly. He held up the various newspapers, one after another. Homicide, hysteria, and horror in bold.

  “The Fong murder was never going to stay a secret for long, but the widow should have been contained. Honestly, I don’t know how that got out. Kanagawa PD swears it wasn’t from their end. Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

  Shindo pointed to the pile of newspapers as if indicating dog excrement to be avoided.

  “After a couple of weeks of those, Satsuki Eda called Superintendent Fujimura this morning. That’s Satsuki. Fucking. Eda. Minister of fucking Justice. Iwata, do you know what that means?”

  “Heat.” Iwata covered his eyes with a palm.

  “Correct. Heat. Which means problems. Which means people’s jobs.” He licked his teeth, searching for the right words. He came up empty-handed. “Look, Iwata, it doesn’t make any difference, but against my better judgment I asked for you to be given another chance on this case. I tried. But Fujimura—”

  “Spare me the Samaritan routine. Why did you call me here?”

  “All right. Here it is. There is an official complaint against you. This is a problem, Iwata. You’re still well within your probation period and your position is going to be reviewed very soon. In the meantime, you’re on holiday pay. Just so we’re clear, it’s your conduct that’s under review, not your case management. If you come through this, you’d still be clear to lead investigations.”

  “Shindo, what about my case?”

  “The Kaneshiro case has been solved and closed. Now, look, this review isn’t a one-way street, you are within your rights to—”

  “What?”

  Shindo exhaled and looked away. “Iwata, I can’t defend you. Not like this. There were already questions hanging over you when you came in. Your absence. Your background. You need to think about—”

  “What do you mean, solved?” Iwata’s heart was hammering.

  “That lame kid, Masaharu Ezawa … he’s been charged with the Kaneshiro murders.”

  “I don’t understand, how can we charge him for something he didn’t do?”

  “Iwata, you really need to focus on your own problems.”

  “On what fucking evidence has he been charged?”

  “The search of his domicile turned up various artifacts belonging to the victim. He also had recorded footage of her.”

  Iwata slapped that away.

  “He admitted to all that under recorded interview. That is incidental.”

  Shindo held up his hand.

  “Iwata, the kid confessed.”

  “… Bullshit.”

  “Yesterday morning. He confessed.”

  Iwata put his head between his legs as though his plane were falling from the sky. He closed his eyes and bunched his fists, the scabs on his knuckles reopening.

  “This is a sham. Shindo, he’s not even physically capable.”

  “It is what it is.”

  Iwata slammed his fist down on the bureau. Several silhouettes outside looked in their direction.

  “Kid, you’re not helping yourself.”

  “How do you explain Ezawa murdering Mrs. Ohba if he was in a Setagaya PD cell this whole time, then?”

  “That case has been severed from the Kaneshiro investigation. Inquiries are still pending.”

  “Who has it?”

  “Iwata—”

  “Who has that case!?”

  “Horibe has it.”

  Iwata stuffed his fists in his eye sockets and pushed till it hurt. He was shaking his head. He was losing control. He needed a bar. He needed the warmth. It had always been there and now there was no pretending otherwise.

  “Listen to me, Inspector, you should focus on yourself.”

  “No. I’ll speak to Ezawa. He can still retract that statement.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Watch me. You fucking know it wasn’t Ezawa. You know it.”

  “Knowing a thing makes no difference here, son. As far as Fujimura is concerned, you had your shot and you hit nothing.”

  “So the kid gets the noose? No, fuck you, Shindo. He might be crazy, but he’s not going to admit to something he didn’t do. Not in his right mind.”

  Shindo looked away.

  “Ezawa is dead. He hung himself in his apartment after being released on bail.”

  Iwata stood automatically, feeling winded. The truth flooded in. Ezawa was now the perfect perpetrator—a dead one. The system worked perfectly, crime followed by justice. The wind blew and the grass bent.

  Shaking his head, Iwata tore open the door and the sound of Division One flooded in.

  “Who interrogated him?”

  “You’re already hanging on a thread, kid. You need to let this go.”

  “Who?!”

  Shindo sighed. “It was Moroto. Under Fujimura’s orders.”

  “And what did you do about it?” Iwata spat.

  “About what?”

  “Any of it.”

  “What could I do?”

  “Stacks of paper.” Iwata shook his head in disgust. “That’s all you are, Shindo. You’re just stacks of paper.”

  He left without looking back. As Iwata marched across Division One to the elevators, he glanced over at Fujimura’s office. Through a gap in the blinds, he saw old, watery eyes following him.

  CHAPTER 15: GAMES

  IWATA SCREECHED TO A HALT outside the Medical Examiner’s Office. He marched through reception, not bothering to identify himself despite the protests of the man behind the counter. He descended to the basement, his fury simple and silent—an electrified wire, absolutely still.

  The doors slid open and he saw Dr. Eguchi leaning over some papers in the office off to the right. Glancing up at him, she held up a finger—one moment please. Iwata ignored her and plowed through the doors to the left, into the disinfected gloom. The entire wall was lined with large, metal drawers—filing cabinets for the dead. Iwata began to slide them open. He ignored the bodies that did not belong to him.

  “Inspector!”

  “What?”

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Ezawa’s small, childlike face appeared in the blue-green dark.

  “Tell me what happened to him.” Iwata’s voice was thick.

  “Inspector, this is unacceptable, you can’t just come in here and—”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, his teeth bared.

  “Fucking tell me!”

  Eguchi gasped and Iwata let go. He blinked.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll be gone in two minutes if you just tell me.”

  Eguchi looked down at Ezawa’s pallid face and sighed. She left the room and returned a few seconds later wearing a scrub suit, face shield, surgical mask, and shoe covers. She flicked on the lights and slid
out the metal tray. The full extent of Ezawa’s small frame was revealed.

  With her little finger she pointed to the dark furrows around his throat and the burst capillaries.

  “Autoasphyxiation, clearly. You see the rope signatures? But there’s also this.”

  She pulled back the sheet, revealing Ezawa’s body to the waist. The small chest was badly discolored. Two of the fingers on his left hand were broken. Both wrists showed deep cuts from where he had squirmed in his bonds.

  “Not what killed him but he was severely beaten. He was definitely in a bad way before he hanged himself.”

  Eguchi shuffled around the body and pointed with her little finger again.

  “Obviously, the ligature marks explain the lack of defensive injuries that would typically be found here … and here. Oh, and he came in with these in his mouth.”

  Eguchi pointed to a large, clear plastic bag containing female underwear stiff with dried spittle. Iwata was already out of the room.

  “Inspector?”

  There was only the silence of the dead. Eguchi waited for a moment, then carefully covered Ezawa and slid him back into his darkness, never to be seen again.

  * * *

  Two blocks south of Shibuya TMPD headquarters, an old five-story arcade stood between a sex shop and a knockoff handbag stall. A neon sign above proclaimed a single word:

  GAMES

  The automatic doors slid open and Iwata scanned the room. He saw office workers, couples on dates, and teenagers with schoolbags at their feet. All of them were completely hooked in, devout worshippers at their chosen altars. A layer of cigarette smoke clung to the blue ceiling, and the pink carpet was a filthy expanse that stank of lost hours.

  Iwata stalked through the arcade, electronic jingles and frantic mashing of plastic ringing in his ears. On the top floor, lamps hung low over pool tables and salarymen reached to make their shots, chewing gum exposed on the soles of their shoes. Over the smacking of balls and the shrill electronic bleating, Iwata heard a group of men laughing. Iwata saw Horibe, Yoshida, and Tatsuno clustered around an electronic dartboard. Stressed waiters in pink uniforms and yellow caps hurried over with snacks and beer. Other men sat with them, dressed in gaudy satin suits and unbuttoned silk shirts. A small pile of ten-thousand-yen notes had been collected on a table between them. Moroto, in the center, was about to take his shot.