Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  Recently appointed public prosecutor Mikine Murata is also keen to question several members of the Police Fund Auditing Board. While she refused to comment directly on ongoing cases, on Monday morning Murata issued the following statement:

  “Through the valiant actions of a small number of police officers, a much-needed spotlight has been shone on Shibuya’s TMPD. What has become clear to me, and will soon become clear to the public, is that radical change is needed in our capital’s police force. Corruption is unacceptable in any facet of life, let alone in the very institution we rely on to protect us, fight crime on our behalf, and ultimately, to uphold our laws.”

  We at the Mainichi Shimbun echo these sentiments and, unfortunately, must also strongly criticize the current police system. It is a system that seemingly allows men and women with little actual experience of real police work to assume positions of considerable responsibility in the TMPD. “Career cops,” often handpicked by police executives straight out of university based on family wealth and prestige, can be elevated to positions of power without a single arrest or any investigative experience. If these young professionals, already recruited so whimsically, develop in a corrupt environment where the law does not apply, how can we expect future generations to break free of this avarice?

  There seems to be little to distinguish the police career ladder from the hierarchies found in yakuza gangs—these being nothing more than differing orthodoxies. The evidence is clear and irrefutable: corruption was not a cancer in Shibuya TMPD. It was, in fact, the very glue that held it together.

  The new prime minister has sworn to do whatever is necessary to ensure that Tokyo does not merely have the largest urban police force in the world, but also the cleanest and the best. We at the Mainichi Shimbun welcome that message, though we remain unconvinced that a handful of convictions can achieve such a sea change in institutional attitudes and cultures. The word Public Prosecutor Murata used was “radical.” And we believe radical change must indeed sweep through every echelon of the police force.

  Iwata let the newspaper fall to his lap as the TV caught his eye. Wincing, he sat up in his bed to watch. It was a feast on police corruption and bureaucratic incompetence. He turned up the volume and reached for an apple. The news footage showed Horibe, Tatsuno, and Moroto, among others, being bundled into police vans. They all tried in vain to cover their faces from the snapping photographers. With a mouth full of apple flesh, Iwata waved at the screen.

  “You have a real productive day now.”

  The footage switched to the recently dismissed Public Prosecutor Shiratori. Journalists and cameramen swarmed around him as he tried to get to his car. Instead of tears or bowing, the old man was indignant.

  “Mr. Shiratori, do you have any comment?”

  “None of the farcical charges against me have been proved, nor will they be. Time will show this whole affair to be nothing more than a ridiculous witch hunt. And frankly, what a worrying and disgusting waste of resources in the face of our country’s worst natural disaster in the modern age. But I’m an old man with a long career behind me. The ones who will really suffer are the young, valiant police officers who protect this city. Officers who are needed now more than ever. Yes, some are imperfect. But putting them all in jail is like smashing your own window because you see a smudge.”

  Iwata laughed, though pain gripped his stomach. His body felt alien, stitched together with foreign elements and held in place only by painkillers.

  This was his fifth day in JSDF Central Hospital, though he had stabilized within seventy-two hours of arriving. It would be a long road to healing but, according to the doctors, he was more or less out of the woods. Iwata wondered if that would ever be true.

  On the screen, a makeshift Division One stood in front of the Kaneshiros’ lonely, empty house. Surrounded by nothing, it had been unaffected by the quake. The policemen all performed the saikeirei bow, inclined at seventy degrees, their eyes locked regretfully on the mud at their feet. Flowers were placed outside the front door. He changed channels, but everything else was entirely dedicated to the earthquake and tsunami. The number of dead and missing grew with each passing day.

  Iwata switched off the TV and looked out of his window. To the west, he could see the green of Setagaya Park. The rain would keep visitors away today, but the trees and the flowers would be glad. Unhurried, scattered clouds drifted by. He glanced at the bouquet on the windowsill from Yumi Tachibana. The petals were beginning to wilt a little.

  The bedside phone rang.

  “Kos? It’s Dave. How are you doing?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Fucking typical monosyllabics there from Kosuke Iwata. How are you doing?”

  “Doctors think I’m going to have some pretty good scars, but I’m doing okay, more or less. Don’t sound too disappointed.”

  “Well, I was going to send you a fruit basket but how the fuck do you find a fruit basket in this country?”

  “In this country we tend to visit friends who are almost stabbed to death. Or have you been saving on the train fare?”

  There was a smiling pause before Schultz changed tone.

  “Listen, Kos, this whole fucking thing … it’s crazy. I mean, I haven’t seen your name in the press yet, the earthquake is obviously more … I guess what I’m saying is, if you, uh, need to go away for a while, my folks would love to have you.”

  “Don’t bother them, I’ll be fine. I might not win any popularity prizes any time soon but no horses’ heads in the bed yet.”

  “When do you get out?”

  Iwata ran his finger lightly along the apple core on the table next to him. It was already rusting.

  “Couple of days. When I’m back on my feet, I’ll come up and see you. It’d be good to get out of Tokyo for a while anyway.”

  “You should do that. Hey, listen, you remember Emi? Emi Hayashi?”

  “Yeah, I remember her. She’s doing the psych evaluation for Hideo Akashi.”

  “Her students are all doing that Hannibal Lecter impression with the tongue. Emi being Emi, she laughs it off. Anyway, she asked me how you were doing the other day. You should say hello to her when you’re in town. I think she likes you. Must be crazy.”

  “Coming from the fat divorcé.”

  “Touché.”

  Iwata wondered why they had stayed friends all these years. Perhaps it wasn’t due to anything in particular. Perhaps it was simply both men accepting their friendship as an established fact after all the scars of change that they had accumulated over the years. After this long, perhaps it was nothing more than relying on each other not to change.

  “Well, I better jet. You hang tough.”

  “Take care, Dave.”

  Iwata hung up and leaned back in the bed.

  He had been dozing awhile when there was a knock at the door. A smiling nurse came in.

  “You look better today, Mr. Iwata.”

  “Your nose gets longer and longer.”

  The nurse laughed and held up a package.

  “This just came for you. From an Inspector Yamada. He said he’d visit tomorrow. Seemed like he was in a big rush.”

  Iwata chuckled.

  “All of a sudden he’s real police.”

  The nurse shut the door, and Iwata inspected the package. No marks, no details. He opened it and found an old Walkman, along with a small yellow envelope with his name written on it. He put the Walkman and the earphones to one side, then opened the envelope. A thin, gold butterfly necklace and a cassette tape dropped into his lap. It had no label but there was an address on the back of it.

  “Strange.”

  Iwata gingerly reached for the earphones, slipped in the tape and pressed play.

  “Iwata. It’s me, Sakai. If you’re listening to this, then I’m probably dead … I was going to call you but neither one of us is the sentimental type so … Look, I wanted to say sorry for lying to you. About who I am. You would have figured it out sooner or later anyway. I
didn’t want to lie, but then that’s what my whole life has been … And now I see that.”

  A long, hissing silence passed.

  “He’s coming for me … Just as he came for my mother on the cable car. You should know, Iwata. He was coming to kill her. He wanted her heart. But she beat him to it. And so he stole me. He raised me. Fed me lies like they were greens. He loved me. Some days. Beat me others. Raped me when I got older. Paid for the best schools. The finest clothes. Daddy’s little girl to the devil himself. And the whole time it was like I was caught in a dream. I could barely look at him for the hate … yet I loved him. Wanted to make him proud. I don’t quite understand my own version of it. I think I blocked out entire years. I spent so long soaking up his lies that they became my own, clouded what was real.”

  Her voice faltered now.

  “And then I met you. And together we walked into that house and I saw that symbol. Akashi’s symbol. Their fucking symbol—the Children … I started to shake, I was worried you could tell. And that’s when I knew, deep down. That I’d been so far down a well, I couldn’t remember anything from before. My mother’s own face. The compound. The cult. The road when we ran … I needed clarity. I asked a friend to help me. I knew, of course, who I really was. But I needed someone else to open the box, you know? And he led me to the truth. To my grandfather. To the answers I needed. I put the pieces together, I climbed out of that well…”

  Iwata heard her lighting a cigarette and blowing out smoke.

  “If you haven’t already looked, you’ll see that there are no real records for my mother—Keiko Shimizu. That’s because they were protected, Iwata. She was going to be a witness for the state. Indictments were being written up. The Children of the Black Sun didn’t want that to happen. So somewhere along the way, she ran. And now, like her, I’m running too. Because he’s coming for me, just as he was sent by Takashi Anzai to find my mother … Akashi is coming and he won’t stop until he finds me. I realize now he raised me like a pig for slaughter. Encouraged me to go into the force. Then he used me down the years. Hide this for me. Say we were drinking in such a bar at such a time. Look the other way, Noriko. And I did. I did it all for him … And all the while my career progressed. What a lie. What a waste of a life.”

  There was another long silence until Sakai stubbed out her cigarette.

  “Iwata, I don’t know if he’s alone, or if he’s still part of the Children. But you should know that this man won’t stop until he’s dead. If you cross Akashi’s path, don’t try and bring him in. Just kill him. Believe me, it’s the only thing you can do.”

  Sakai exhaled, a butterfly in the wind.

  “Hey, Iwata. If you manage to walk away from this, do me a favor. Do something else with your life. You’re better than this. Get out of the TMPD. And what I said about you having nothing to offer? That was bullshit. You’re a good man. You’re not so ugly. You don’t talk too much. So meet someone. Meet someone good. Have a kid … And remember something for me, Iwata. Something I could never put into practice. The whole ‘fuck you world’ thing? In the end, it won’t get you anywhere. Especially not you.”

  She laughed softly and then sniffed.

  “Okay. Okay. I’m done. My grandfather’s address is on the back of this tape. That’s where my ashes should go. Funny thing is, I’m not afraid. Not yet, anyway. Oh, and Iwata? One more thing … Don’t think about me after this, okay? No lilies or any of that shit. Take care of yourself, my friend. Stay out of trouble.”

  Iwata looked out of the window as he cried. When he was done, he wiped his cheeks with a fist and kissed Sakai’s butterfly. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t dwell on anything in particular when he closed his eyes.

  * * *

  A long time had passed. It was dark. A silhouette stood in front of the window. Cold silver rivulets twined down the glass.

  “Who’s there?” Iwata’s voice was weak.

  Shindo stepped out of the darkness and sat down in the corner chair.

  “You look terminal, son.”

  “I’m fine, thanks for your concern. You?”

  “Tired. The division is half-empty now, as I’m sure you can imagine … I spoke to the Minister of Justice this morning.”

  “Satsuki-fucking-Eda?”

  Shindo smiled.

  “He’s very happy, despite everything. The budget cuts have been shelved. Apparently, we’re no longer a problem.”

  “What are we now?”

  “A platform.” He laughed.

  “You’re good at what you do, Shindo. If they have any sense, you’ll be heading up Division One now.”

  Shindo looked out of the window, his faced embossed with the shadows of raindrops. They were much larger in shadow.

  “You know they found Akashi’s cave of wonders? Turns out he was living in a sea container on the Shibaura docks.”

  “I imagine they turned up some interesting things.”

  “Stolen evidence, for starters. But also dirt. A lot of dirt—yakuza players, Fujimura, Moroto, and the others. This new Murata woman is all over it.”

  Iwata nodded.

  “I’ve seen the news. What about Akashi himself?”

  “Oh a judge will find him insane, no doubt. But the bastard was meticulous. Yamada has been looking into it, and it’s clear he was planning this for years. He was extorting big money from everyone with pockets to fund his little crusade. All kinds of people have turned up on his payroll, from the bottom to the top. Even as far as Hong Kong. And, of course, stolen identities.”

  “Ikuo Uno,” Iwata said.

  “And another one—Idane—possibly your ‘I’ from Kaneshiro’s calendar. Funny thing is, most of these identities line up with missing persons.”

  Iwata almost laughed.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “He created a win-win situation—killing Mina Fong didn’t just create a nationwide diversion, it also created money for Fujimura to skim, thereby keeping him in Akashi’s pocket.”

  “Fujimura and everyone else.”

  Something passed over Shindo’s face.

  “Iwata, just in case it crossed your mind, I never—”

  “It didn’t cross my mind.”

  They fell quiet for a time, unaccustomed to speaking with each other on matters beyond murder.

  The rain tapped on the glass gently.

  “All this time,” Shindo said. “That’s what gets me. All this time, and I saw nothing.”

  Both men stared at the rain, as if it could wash away the filth of the world.

  Shindo looked away, his gaze falling to the floor.

  “Sakai. Who was she?”

  Iwata shrugged.

  “Someone running from the past.”

  “She knew?”

  “See that tape on the table? Listen to it. It’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  The older man exhaled shakily.

  “You think she knew what was coming?”

  “I think she was ready. In the end, she fought him.”

  Shindo shook his head.

  “I knew her since she was twenty-two years old. She would never let anybody … see her. The real Sakai I mean.” His face reddened. “I asked her once if, you know, she and I might … but she said she loved someone else. When I think of the way she looked at him now, the awe in her eyes, I don’t know. And he just ignored her, Iwata. Never once looked in her direction. Fuck, I knew Akashi for years and—”

  “It’s over, Shindo. Don’t dwell on ghosts. That’s the only thing I can tell you.”

  They sat in the warm, silent darkness of the hospital room. Both men considered what had been done and what had been lost. Iwata felt little more than fatigue.

  Shindo noticed the watercolor painting on the wall depicting a forest. He pointed at the stag in the foreground, its head raised, nobly regarding the horizon.

  “When I was a kid my father took me hunting for deer once. We hid in this bush for hours and hours until o
ne eventually came along. My father took the shot but the deer bolted like the bullet just sailed straight past him. So I was crying and shouting, ‘You missed, you missed!’ But my father shook his head and pointed to the bloodstains in the earth. We followed those bloodstains, I don’t know how long for, but field after field. I didn’t know how much an animal could bleed until that day. Eventually, we found the body and my old man explained: a deer hears the shot and he bolts—the last message from the brain being run. And the body obeys, even though it’s already dead.”

  Shindo looked at his gnarled, yellowed hands for a moment.

  “I still think about that deer sometimes. Then I end up thinking that maybe we’re not so different. People, I mean. Running across field after field, even though we’re already dead. Unable to change.”

  Shindo stood, embarrassed by his rumination.

  “Well, anyway.” He laughed. “Better let you get your rest, kid.”

  He opened the door but Iwata called after him.

  “Hey, Shindo. Do me a favor? That kid from Setagaya—Hatanaka. I owe him. Request him as a full-time Assistant Inspector for me. He’ll work hard for you.”

  “All right.”

  “Another thing. I know that Yamada is filling in for me. I want him to take over permanently. They both belong in Division One.”

  “Done. But what about you? When are you back?”

  “I’m not coming back. I resign.”

  Shindo puffed out his cheeks and scratched the back of his head.

  “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know yet.”