“Not suspicious. Like a pro.”
“I’m over the hill, detective. I’m retired.”
“Are you, really?” Torisu leaned forward. His hand was on the rudder now. It was time to get down to cases.
“You were with the Metro Police, so I assume you know this even better than I do, but a gruesome killing brings a lot of different types out of the woodwork. Not only the media. Freelance journalists, so-called. Nonfiction authors, film producers, that sort.”
Shigenori smiled to show he was enjoying the ride. “Yes, yes. Definitely.”
“Just last week, this young kid, looks like a college boy, shows up at mom-and-pop Nakanome’s with a video camera. He’s badgering them at the door, trying to get an interview. So I invite myself to have a chat with him. He tells me he’s an Internet journalist. I couldn’t get a straight explanation of just what that meant.”
“It means he goes around with a camera visiting crime scenes and accidents,” Shigenori said in a helpful tone. “He shoots some footage, slaps a little commentary on it, uploads it to YouTube or wherever. Or maybe he has his own blog and fronts it there.”
For an instant, Torisu’s eyes opened almost to normal size. “That’s right. That’s what the kid told me. You know all about this stuff. Are you an expert on the Internet?”
To Shigenori, this detective on the cusp of middle age might as well be no older than his partner, but he enjoyed watching him play the clueless oldster.
“Every day is Sunday for me. I’ve got a lot of free time. Sometimes I fool around on the laptop, that’s all.”
“I see. I don’t put any stock in all that cyber-whatever stuff. I guess I’m just a hick.”
“So how did things end up with that journalist?”
“I got him to leave, finally, but only after a couple of hours getting tongue-lashed about press freedom and the citizen’s right to know and police secrecy.”
“You have my condolences.” Shigenori smiled ironically. “So is that what the two of you do all day? Shoo people away from the house?”
Torisu nodded dejectedly. “That’s exactly what we do. When I think about what his parents have gone through, I just can’t let them be bothered.”
“And then I showed up, and you decided you had a problem on your hands.”
“Well, to be honest, we thought maybe the Nakanomes had gone and hired themselves a private detective. You certainly look the part. This case has been dragging on too long with nothing to show. We’re losing credibility.”
Maybe that’s true, but you’re playing it up, mister. I can smell it.
“But this is much bigger than just the one murder. You’re dealing with the Serial Amputator,” Shigenori said insistently. “His victims are all over Japan—well, maybe that’s going too far. He hasn’t killed anyone east of Kanagawa. But he gets around.”
“He certainly does.” Torisu nodded vigorously. “Joint investigations, now those are hard. It’s not like law enforcement is always reaching out across jurisdictions. It’s hard to get people in sync. I don’t know how the guys upstairs see it, but to us foot soldiers on the front line, every local situation has its own logic.”
“I think you’re right.”
“If we didn’t have all this coordination to deal with, we’d go slow but steady, one step at a time. As it is, it’s like we gotta go three steps forward and two back just to get a step ahead. The victim’s relatives have a right to be frustrated.”
Shovel away, detective.
“If all we had were newspaper and television reporters up our noses, we’d be in clover. No, we have people calling themselves Internet reporters or investigative journalists—who knows if they’re the real deal or not—sniffing around all over the place, spreading their own theories about the case. Then we’re on the spot and we end up having to rebut all their nonsense. It might even turn out that their poking around gives the suspect—the Serial Amputator—an idea of where we are on the case. I shudder to think about it,” he growled.
“I understand completely,” Shigenori said. “It was careless of me to blunder around like I did. I’ve wasted too much of your valuable time. Please accept my deepest apologies.”
He straightened his spine, put both palms flat on the table, and bowed until his forehead touched the wood. Torisu was flustered, or at least pretended to be.
“No, we’re the ones who should apologize, for dragging you in here and treating you like a suspect,” he said, before pivoting casually. “Your wife isn’t with you on this trip, is she?”
“No, she’s not. She’s busier than I am, making a home for us both. There’s no retirement from that job. She’s got a lot of women friends her age to keep up with too.”
“She sounds fully occupied.”
“I didn’t mention this, but I had an operation at the beginning of the year. Have you heard of spinal stenosis?”
Torisu looked up questioningly at his partner. For the first time, Matsuyama’s mask of irritation and discomfort changed. His new expression was derision.
“The lumbar spine presses on the nerves. Makes your legs hurt, or numbs them.”
“Really?” Torisu said. “How do you know that?”
“My mother has it. It’s a postmenopausal thing, sergeant. Men don’t get it.”
Tsuzuki looked him straight in the eye. “Orchestra conductors develop it quite often. It’s pretty common among athletes too, of both genders. People who engage in a lot of strenuous physical activity when they’re young develop it in middle age. If you’re into sports, you should be careful.”
Matsuyama retreated into glum silence, as if Shigenori had interrupted a private conversation he’d been having with his boss.
“Anyway, the operation was a success and I finally got the cast off. I’m so happy to be pain-free that I’ve been traveling all over Japan. My wife thinks I’m crazy. She says she can’t keep up with me.”
“Sounds great. I envy you,” Torisu said. The atmosphere was almost bubbly.
“I won’t be causing you any more trouble. As for Naka-chan, I’ll pay my respects after you catch the killer. I’m heading back to Tokyo tomorrow.”
“Sorry to spoil your trip, Mr. Tsuzuki.” Detective Torisu stood up. “You need your driver’s license. We don’t want to keep you.” He looked up at Matsuyama. The young detective strode out of the room. Even his footsteps sounded irritated.
“Detective, can I ask you something?” Shigenori leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I was just wondering …” He lifted two fingers to his lips.
“Sure, I got some.” Torisu fumbled in his jacket pocket and brought out a half-crushed packet of Caster Milds and a hundred-yen lighter. He held them out to Shigenori.
“Appreciate it. Out there?” He motioned to the balcony with his jaw. “I quit a long time ago. Almost forgot about them completely, but for some reason I’ve been dying for a smoke since I got here.”
“I’m cutting back, but I just can’t quit,” Torisu said. “Especially when I’m on edge, I end up reaching for a cigarette. Sorry about this. It’s because we’ve been keeping you cooped up here. Please tell your wife that Tomakomai South is to blame for your going back to smoking.”
“She won’t find out. I’ll just have one.”
“Oh, no.” Torisu shook his head. “They always find out.”
He got up and opened the sliding glass door to the balcony. “Let me get you a cup of tea. We should’ve brought you one earlier. Relax and enjoy that cigarette.”
He left the room. Shigenori went out on the balcony and closed the door. He leaned on the railing and lit a cigarette, took one pull and had a coughing fit. He hadn’t really wanted to smoke. He’d just wanted to go through the motions of smoking.
The police station was surrounded by a scattering small office buildings. Most of the windows in the buildings were da
rk. There were no pedestrians in the street below, and no cars. A traffic light diligently changed colors for an audience of none.
Shigenori sensed something in the darkness. He didn’t bother to turn around; he already knew.
“Well, this is a surprise.”
“What are you doing, old man?”
The cigarette glowed red. Shigenori turned slowly. Galla was perched on the railing, wings outspread. Her long hair flowed in the evening breeze.
“That’s right—you don’t need to spend money on airplanes. But I’m surprised you found me.”
“I can find you anywhere by following your words. Have you forgotten?”
“I’ve just been chatting with local law enforcement. Well, more like answering questions.”
Either way, it doesn’t matter. They told me what I needed to know.
The Tomakomai police didn’t have the Serial Amputator anywhere on their radar screen. They’d already decided that “their” murder was a one-off. They were searching for the killer of one man, Shiro Nakanome. And they already had a suspect.
That was why they had Naka-chan and the Nakanome house under surveillance. When Tsuzuki showed up, looking as if he was there for a purpose, their suspicion was aroused and they tailed him. Maybe that talk about the Internet journalist and the rest wasn’t made up. But no police force worth its salt stakes out a location just to keep pests away from a bereaved family.
They were probably on the verge of making an arrest. That would explain why they’d had to bring Shigenori in for questioning, not just chase him away; why they had run an identity check, and why the results had put them on edge.
Torisu stumbled when he referred to “the suspect.” He’d quickly corrected himself and gone out of his way to make sure Shigenori thought he was talking about the Serial Amputator.
Because he wasn’t.
Killer and victim knew each other well. The problem from a police standpoint was motive. It wouldn’t be something straightforward, like money or a romantic conflict. That would’ve been easy to establish. It would be something under the surface, a problem that had been festering over years, something the killer and his victim might not even have recognized as a problem until just before the murder, when something pushed it over the edge.
Shigenori stepped over to the ashtray, stubbed out his cigarette and took a deep breath.
Shiro Nakanome’s murder wasn’t the beginning of anything. The Serial Amputator was never here.
But in that case, why couldn’t the police in Tomakomai crack the case during the nearly four months between the discovery of Nakanome’s body and the “second murder” in Akita on September 22? The anonymous victim had had the fourth toe on her right foot amputated, panicking the public into believing that a serial killer was at work, a killer dubbed Toe-Cutter Bill, a.k.a. the Serial Amputator. If the Nakanome case had been solved before then, things would have developed very differently.
Maybe they ran into a wall—a local wall, or a family wall, the bonds of silence connecting friends and relatives of victim and killer. Unraveling those bonds would take time and patience. It would be like draining a small, quiet marsh, cup by cup, until the tendrils of some poisonous plant hidden just below the surface came slowly into view.
If Shigenori was right, all of that buzz about the Serial Amputator was just a vexing wild card. The negative mania, the dark carnival that always follows in the wake of a series of shocking murders, would have had an alarming psychological effect, directly or indirectly, on the victim’s family, the killer, and the people around them, with their half-formed doubts and suspicions. Their understanding of the truth could change. Each person’s attitude toward the police and their response to the investigation could be influenced for the worse.
“Old man.”
Shigenori came out of his reverie and looked up. Galla was now a silhouette, darker than the night sky, only faintly visible.
“Your hand is stained with sin.”
Shigenori glanced at the hand that had just held a cigarette.
“You touched sin with that hand. Sin, embodied in words.”
Shigenori was nonplussed. He frowned. Galla flicked a finger toward his face, as if throwing something small and light. Shigenori shielded his face reflexively and took a step back.
“What was that? What did you do?”
The conference room door opened. Torisu was back. Galla merged with the darkness and disappeared. Shigenori stepped inside, trying hard to conceal his bewilderment.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll give you a lift to your hotel.” Torisu held out Shigenori’s license. The offer of a cup of tea was just for form’s sake, apparently. Torisu would’ve been making sure it was all right to let Shigenori leave, either with his bosses or the special investigations unit. Or both.
Shigenori was about to demur, but some intuition changed his mind. Torisu was alone. His partner Matsuyama hadn’t returned.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. It’s on the way home. I hope you won’t mind the car. It’s an old clunker.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
The car was parked in the big lot behind the station. Torisu was right; the white compact had seen a lot of years. Torisu likely used it to commute. When he wasn’t buried in work, he’d use it to go shopping with his wife or take the kids to and from school.
If Shigenori’s hunch was correct and the police were close to an arrest, Torisu’s story about going home would be another smoke screen. He had to make sure he delivered this troublesome piece of Metro Police baggage to the hotel. He couldn’t just see him to the sidewalk in front of the station and wave goodbye. He had to know that Shigenori wasn’t going to go strolling around the neighborhood again. Sending him back in a patrol car would be too heavy-handed; it had to look like a personal favor.
But there was also a chance that he wasn’t quite finished with Tsuzuki. Maybe there was something he wanted to talk about one-on-one. Shigenori decided to roll the dice. He wouldn’t risk losing anything.
Torisu pulled the car out into the quiet of the night. His speed was rock steady just below the speed limit. Safe driving. Shigenori broke the silence first.
“Naka-chan doesn’t seem to have any customers,” he said in an offhand way. “It looks like it won’t last long at this rate.”
Torisu kept his eyes on the road and nodded. “Shiro was popular with the customers. I’d guess they’re reluctant to go there now.” His eyebrows twitched nervously. “But it fills up later in the evening,” he added hastily. “You got there right after they opened.”
The car was oddly free of clutter and personal items. The only hint of ownership was a little carved-wood cat dangling from the rearview mirror. Its long tail was jointed to wave back and forth with the movement of the car.
“Listen, detective.” Shigenori kept his eyes on the cat’s tail. “The only reason I’m here was to say a prayer for the deceased. But when I saw how empty Naka-chan is, I got this feeling I can’t quite seem to shake.”
Torisu didn’t reply. Shigenori felt the car slow, almost imperceptibly.
“Maybe Shiro’s old customers feel it too. How should I put it? That there’s something behind all of this. Something very close.”
“And just what would that be?”
“I’m a civilian now. I don’t have the right to weigh in on these things. But I used to be a cop, and I still have some of that old sixth sense. That sense is buzzing now. Shiro Nakanome was murdered by someone he knew. In fact, I’d guess it was a relative. That’s why the investigation is complicated. This wasn’t the work of any Serial Amputator.”
Torisu hit the brakes. The light ahead was yellow, but he could’ve made it easily.
Shigenori shifted in his seat to face him. “I’m willing to bet you agree with me. Maybe there’s a different opinion at
the top, but who cares? You have the same instincts I do. You slipped back there, you know. You called him ‘the suspect.’ ”
That hit a nerve. Torisu’s eyes flickered with surprise.
“I don’t know,” he said tightly. “It’s hard to say.” His eyebrows jumped up and down. “I’m a foot soldier. I do what I’m told. The Prefectural Police—
“The light’s green, detective.”
Torisu punched the accelerator.
“Sorry to ramble on, detective. I’m not trying to make your life harder. I don’t want to stick my nose in your business. But you can’t shake your uneasiness about what I’m really thinking. That’s why you’re taking the time to deliver me to the hotel. So I decided to level with you.”
“Oh?” said Torisu quietly.
“A nice place like that with no customers. It’s a waste, isn’t it? It must make Shiro sad too. Maybe his cousin doesn’t have a head for business. Was he helping out there before the murder?”
That might have been where the trouble lay, under the surface. It was a shot in the dark, but the shooter was a veteran.
“My understanding,” Torisu said slowly, “is that Katsumi and Shiro got along just fine. They were more like brothers than cousins. Katsumi couldn’t bear to close the place down, so he’s keeping it going.”
“But for how long, I wonder? It’s a losing proposition. He’d make more money closed.”
Shigenori’s wheels were turning as he talked. The cousin’s name is Katsumi? Katsumi. That name is familiar. Why would that be? Wait—the bamboo, for the Star Festival. Strips of paper—
The lightbulb over his head finally went on. Shigenori understood. He almost shouted in triumph.
Your hand is stained with sin.
He had touched the paper strips with their wishes. Galla had been trying to tell him. One of them was left by the killer.
Torisu opened his mouth to speak, but Shigenori held up a hand. “Detective,” he said quickly, “I promise not to cause any more trouble. Please take me to Naka-chan. I won’t go inside. I want to check something outside. Please.”
Torisu must have seen a light in Shigenori’s eyes that was not of this world. He pulled the car over and set the brake.
The Gate of Sorrows Page 44
