“Go ahead, Dad, I can wait here.”
Vasili nodded towards his son, then turned to face Mei.
“Guess I’m all yours, Detective.”
“First time here?” Mei asked Vasili innocently as she was setting up.
They were in one of the interrogation rooms at the Shibuya Police Department.
“No, I’ve been here a couple of times. A good boss checks in on his employees now and then.”
Mei gave him a sideways glance but didn’t respond to that. Maybe it was just her imagination, but he seemed more subdued than he usually was.
“We’ll do this in Japanese, if that’s quite alright with you.”
“And if you can stick to the matter at hand, I’d appreciate it. My son is waiting.”
Mei nodded and started the recorder.
“What can you tell me about the deceased?”
“Yukari Sato, she’s an … she was an actress. That’s public knowledge, you should be able to research most of her career online.”
“What else?”
“What do you want to know?”
“What can you tell us about your relationship?”
“We were together for about ten years starting—I don’t know, about twenty years ago. Never married, but living together on and off for most of that time. We have one son, Shoichi, who you just met.”
“Go on.”
“We got along well for most of it, but fought sometimes. Like all couples, I guess.”
“What did you fight about?”
“The usual. I was married to the job, but not to her. She got fed up and left. Part of that was she met some other guy. A producer on one of her movies. Yunokawa. They dated for a while after we split up.”
“Okay. What else can you tell me?”
“We’re still in contact. Last time I spoke to her was a few days ago. She asked to borrow money. That’s pretty much it.”
“Nothing else you can give me about your relationship with her?”
“What do you want to hear?” Vasili said without meeting her gaze. It was the first time she had seen him getting frustrated. “You want me to tell you that she was smart, and funny, and kind? How about how she was the first Japanese woman I was with who treated me like a person, and not just a gaijin? Is that what you want to hear? Do you want to hear how she gave birth to and mostly raised our son? That I was usually too busy working to get to know my son much when he was growing up? Do you want to hear me say that when my son asked why she was killed, I couldn’t give him an honest answer without my heart breaking?”
Mei’s countenance softened. One of her interrogation tactics with hardened criminals was to ask the same question over and over. She found that this often frustrated them, made them careless. Sometimes it would cause them to give up too much out of annoyance. But it occurred to her now that Vasili wasn’t just a hardened criminal, right now he was a man grieving.
“I’m sorry, perhaps I’m taking the wrong approach here. Let’s try—”
“Let’s try approaching this like I want to catch the killer. Let’s try entertaining the notion that maybe I’m not the killer, and that I want to see justice done just as much as you do. So maybe we could butt heads less and work together more.”
“I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention. I just—”
“Really? That’s not what you intended? Are you just careless, then? So you’re telling me in all honesty that this wasn’t a chance to humiliate me? To kick me when I’m down?”
“Is that what you think this is about? That I’m just sticking it to you? I honestly wouldn’t have thought a man like you was so easily bruised.”
“I just lost someone close to me, so if you could get on with it.”
Mei leaned back in her chair. “You want to know what I was thinking when I brought you in? The same thought I have every time we find a body. Just an image of a timer, set for five days. And it’s ticking down faster than I can stop it.”
“I don’t take your meaning,” Vasili said.
“That’s the average length of time between bodies. Sometimes it’s shorter, sometimes longer, but it’s averaged out to about five days. Well, five days, nine hours, and about fourteen minutes to be precise. That’s all the time we realistically have to catch the killers before they kill again.”
Vasili nodded. “I see.”
“Good, I’m glad you do. Because the clock is ticking again. So I need to know everything you know that might be useful to us. Not just for me, but for the next person on the killers’ list. Who—based on the pattern—will probably also be someone you know, maybe someone close to you. So it’s in your best interest all around to help us with this. Understood?”
Vasili looked at her for a long while, then slowly nodded his head. His anger had abated. “Alright. Ask your questions.”
“You still think it’s him?” Watanabe asked when Vasili was gone. He had been watching the proceedings from behind the one-way glass.
“I honestly don’t know at this point. If he is behind it, he’s an incredible actor.”
“Agreed. That man was hurting. Tell you one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“We better find this killer before he does. Because if he gets there first, I don’t think there’s going to be anything left when he’s done with him.”
Chapter Six
“So I gotta ask: how does it feel to be rooting around inside your lover’s ex?” Mei asked.
“Warm and squishy.” Kameko gave the organ in her hand a squeeze that sent a squirt of blood out of an open artery. “I’m actually pretty indifferent. I didn’t know him when they were together, so it’s not like I felt threatened by her or anything.”
“I don’t imagine there’s much that does threaten you.”
“Nope. But the word ‘lover’ kinda creeps me out.”
Suzuki had been far from pleased when Mei had shown up unannounced with “a friend from back at the police academy” who just “wanted to have a quick look at the body.” He’d seemed a bit offended more than anything, but Mei was finally able to convince him to let Kameko take a look. He pulled the body out of storage and set her up in the autopsy lab, complaining the entire time about how close he was cutting it with the scheduled release for the cremation. Then he left with a huff. The fact that Kameko smiled throughout and was overwhelmingly gracious and appreciative only seemed to piss him off more. But then, Mei thought, that’s probably why she did it.
Once inside, so to speak, Kameko quickly and efficiently went about her examination. She didn’t talk, except to mumble comments or questions to herself based on what she saw. Mei, meanwhile, kept a careful watch on every move she made. If Kameko tried to tamper with the body, or add or remove anything, Mei would know.
But as she watched Vasili’s underling at work, she became increasingly convinced that she wasn’t trying to hinder the investigation. Given her diligence and focus, Mei started to question whether her doubts about Kameko were founded or not. Maybe she was just trying to help. And Vasili had certainly seemed sincere the other day when she’d discussed the case with him.
“So, find anything I missed?” Suzuki asked haughtily as he strolled back into the autopsy room.
“I have,” Kameko said gravely. “It seems that the killer left an inscription on her left kidney. Why, it’s a map leading right to his hideout!” So saying, Kameko held up one of the victim’s kidneys, clearly smiling behind her surgical mask.
Suzuki and Mei greeted this with stony faces.
Kameko turned serious again. “Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood a little. But I do have some questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
“I do. But if it will get you out of my lab faster, ask away.”
“Thanks. Is there a surefire way to tell if cannulation has occurred? I’m specifically thinking about the cystic duct, as well as the abdominal aorta and portal system.”
Suzuki nodded. “If the cannula had been carefully inserted
and removed, then no, there isn’t. But, yeah, I see where you’re going with this. It’s a dead end.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Hold on, what’s a dead end?” Mei asked.
“She’s asking about the possibility that this was a hepactectamy. An orthotic liver—”
“How about explaining it to me as if I don’t have a medical degree?” Mei interjected.
“Sorry. She’s asking whether the liver was removed for transplantation.” Suzuki turned back to Kameko. “It’s one of the first things I considered, but there’s a number of problems with that hypothesis. First off, these cuts weren’t made by surgical instruments, more like a rusty hacksaw. Just look at where the veins and arteries were severed. Jagged edges, some of which I’d wager had been torn out. Some of the other victims had bruising that indicated the killer had put a foot on them and simply pulled on the organs until the veins snapped. This is the work of a butcher, not a surgeon.”
“That’s not conclusive in itself,” Kameko replied. “And the fact that her gallbladder, part of her diaphragm, as well as large sections of the aortoiliac artery and iliac vein are missing seems to support the theory.”
“True. But look at the hepatic artery—it’s been absolutely shredded, which is inconsistent with the careful dissection required for transplant purposes. But the most convincing piece of evidence against it is the time frame. Dissection of the hepatic hilum for transplant purposes can take hours of meticulous surgery. Her last phone call to a friend was made at ten forty-nine. The call from her neighbor that tipped us off came at eleven thirty-seven, with time of death believed to have been at least twenty-five minutes prior. That’s not nearly enough time to perform such a delicate procedure.”
Kameko nodded. She didn’t seem entirely convinced.
“Besides, thoracic organs like the heart and lungs will only last about six hours outside the body, max. With the liver, you’ve got maybe eighteen hours. So unless the killer has a transplant table ready and waiting immediately, these organs wouldn’t make it long enough to be transplanted.”
“So what are your thoughts on this?”
“Well, given the force and violence with which these bodies were dismembered, my best guess is a thrill-killer. Someone who does it for the sport and collects the organs as mementos, or for purposes of cannibalism.”
“Yeah, I can see how he’d work up an appetite with all this killin’ and mutilatin’. I’m not buying it, though. Too targeted to be some random psycho thrill-killer.”
“Serial killers often hunt in a dedicated territory, somewhere they’re familiar with.”
“Not what I meant,” Kameko said without elaborating.
Suzuki shrugged. “Well, I’ve got other work. Just leave your lab coats and gloves on the bench when you’re done.” He turned and walked out of the room.
“By targeted, you mean surrounding Vasili, don’t you?” Mei asked when he was gone.
“Yes,” Kameko said, having already resumed her examination. “Too coincidental for this to be a random psycho just dumping bodies in Vasili’s territory. Especially two that are tied to him. Plus, that homeless guy said it was a professional-looking operation. That makes me think there’s more going on than meets the eye.”
“And you believe him enough to hang this theory of yours on it?”
“Well, he didn’t confess this under torture, so I have no reason to doubt him,” Kameko shot back. “Wait. Come here, take a look at this.”
Mei walked closer to the body. Kameko removed something from the chest cavity with forceps, which she held up for Mei to inspect.
“You’re going to have to help me out here. What am I looking at?”
“It’s the end of the hepatic artery, the one that was ‘absolutely shredded’ according to your fine colleague there.”
“Okay, so?”
“Look closely.”
Kameko rotated the loose piece of gristle held in her forceps. It took Mei a moment to catch on. One end had been severed by means of a rough hack job. But the other end had been cut cleanly, surgically.
“Something doesn’t add up about all of this,” Kameko said with a shake of her head.
“Hey! You! What’s your name?”
Satoshi glanced down at his name tag over his blue scrubs, then up at the angry orderly accosting him.
“Sorry, I’m new here. First day, actually. I’m Kasahara.”
“Okay, Kasahara, first lesson. This,” the orderly said, holding up a bag of bloody bandages and wipes, “is medical waste. It does not belong on the same level of your trolley here as the fresh bandages.”
“Sorry, boss, it won’t happen again.”
“Don’t they teach you kids anything in medical school anymore?”
“Must have forgot.”
The orderly shook his head in disgust. “If we didn’t need nurses so badly, I’d have you tossed for that. But as it is, I guess we should be grateful for whatever they send us.”
“That’s the spirit,” Satoshi said flatly. “Now can you help me navigate around here? I’m looking for a patient by the name of Kumagai. Older guy, dying of cancer.”
“Well, if he wasn’t, he probably wouldn’t be here.” He walked over to a nearby nurse’s station and looked at the schedule. “Room four forty-five. That way.”
“Thank you kindly,” Satoshi said as he began to wheel his cart away.
“Hey! One more thing!”
Oh fuck, Satoshi thought. He didn’t want this to turn ugly, not in a hospital.
“You might want to check with Administration about your uniform. Looks a little too … snug for comfort.”
Satoshi glanced down at the hospital scrubs he had borrowed from Hisoka. His shirt just barely made it to his waist, but any movement to either side exposed some midriff. The pants were loose-fitting enough, but only came halfway down his calf. Satoshi looked at the guy and nodded.
“Yeah, tell me about it. They said this is all they had at the moment. Guess we all just have to make do with what’s available.”
The orderly just walked away, muttering under his breath, as Satoshi wheeled his cart into Kumagai’s room. He locked the door before walking over to the bed to gaze at the sleeping man.
Kumagai had been an old-timer when Satoshi had begun walking the Path. In fact, he had even been part of his father’s crew back when he was still in the game. Satoshi gazed at the old man lying in bed and couldn’t help but think this was what his father would look like if he were still alive. The old man was frail. Breathing tubes fed him oxygen through his nostrils as other machines monitored his vitals. A few scraggly whiskers poked out from his lined, leathery face, and his slate-gray hair was receding.
Kumagai had been a survivor, jumping from one crew to the next as they fell apart when members went to jail or died off. He had worked on Osammy’s crew together with Satoshi and Masa right before retiring, back when he had fallen ill with cancer for the first time.
Satoshi tried several times to wake him, but the man wouldn’t budge. He really didn’t feel like making a second trip to the hospital, so he tried again, shaking him harder this time.
“Kumagai? Kumagai? Hey, wake up, Kumagai! I’m sorry, man, but I need to talk to you.”
Suddenly the old man’s bloodshot eyes snapped opened wide, and he lay there looking around frantically. His eyes alighted on Satoshi, looking at him first with concern, then recognition, then sheer terror. The bedridden man grabbed the sleeve of Satoshi’s orderly outfit with a strength that Satoshi wasn’t expecting and began pulling him down towards him as he tried to sit up. The breathing tubes hooked up to his nostrils came loose.
“Don’t do it! Don’t go, Tomio! They’re gonna kill you!”
“I’m not—” Satoshi was cut off by a vicious shake from Kumagai, who somehow freed his other hand and brought it around to grab Satoshi’s shirt from the front. The man had an insistent look in his eyes, and he pulled Satoshi down towards him with surprising stren
gth.
“You know it, Tomio! You know they’re going to kill you! Why would you even think about going? He won’t let you live! Not now!”
As suddenly as the fit came over the man, it passed, and the strength ebbed from his fingers. Kumagai’s iron grip relaxed and his hands slipped back down and draped over the bedside. The old man was out cold. Satoshi stood there, too shocked to move, too stunned to think.
“I’m Satoshi. Tomio …,” Satoshi said. He could barely bring himself to say it.
“Tomio was my father.”
Chapter Seven
“Dad, something I’ve wanted to ask you.”
“Go ahead.”
They were sitting in Vasili’s living room. Shoichi was putting away a bottle of sake he had found somewhere in the house, while Vasili had a tall vodka on the rocks in hand. He was already quite drunk from the funeral today, but still not as drunk as he would have liked.
The funeral had been odd. It was a strange mix of yakuza paying their respects on account of Vasili, and film industry types who were friends or former coworkers of the deceased. Vasili had been out of his element talking with the film people. It wasn’t a culture he knew well or really understood, despite his former exposure from when he was with Yukari. He had done his best to be civil, but the effort had worn him out.
“Did you ever … regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“Your decision to become yakuza, or gokudo, or whatever you call it.”
Vasili shook his head. “It wasn’t really a decision. Decisions are for people with options. I was born in Norilsk, which is about as close to hell on earth as you’re liable to find. Back then, it was eat or be eaten. By the time I got out of there, this life was the only one I knew.”
“But why not get out of it now? You’ve got straight businesses under your name. You could go legit if you wanted to.”
Tokyo Noir: The Complete First Season Page 37
