Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me what you said to him.’

  ‘I just bumped into him, outside a supermarket car park. I asked him how he was doing, but he looked busy, so I didn’t say anything else.’

  ‘It won’t help you to lie, Mikami. I know you said something. Why else would he have bolted?’

  ‘You say he’s gone, but are you sure? He’s got a wife, a family.’

  ‘I’m asking the questions.’

  ‘I don’t understand this at all. What on earth could I say that would give him cause to run away?’

  ‘That’s, well, that’s . . .’ Urushibara faltered. ‘Whatever it was you were asking about on the phone. That nonsense about – what? – the Koda memo?’

  ‘If it was nonsense, why would Koda jump ship?’

  ‘You bastard . . .’

  Mikami felt sure it was Futawatari’s handiwork. He’d finally tracked Koda down, then pressured him for the truth behind the memo. But was that enough? Koda could have just pretended not to know. What would cause him to disappear in such a hurry? He’d suffered for so many years – was it just fear taking over? He’d hoped to protect the normal life he’d finally managed to obtain. He’d become terrified of Futawatari as the latter pried into his past, sought a temporary hiding place. It was certainly possible, but for him this kind of self-defence actually served to protect Criminal Investigations – Mikami couldn’t see how he could have disappeared in a way that threatened Urushibara or Kakinuma.

  ‘Go and see the director.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  The door opened as he was replying; Kuramae came into the room. His stiff expression made it clear there had been some kind of unexpected development. Mikami held up a hand to catch his attention, then wrapped it around the mouthpiece.

  He spoke under his breath.

  ‘I don’t think I heard you properly.’

  ‘I told you to report to the director.’

  He had heard correctly: Arakida intended to continue Urushibara’s interrogation.

  ‘Hey, Mikami, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Which director?’

  Mikami wanted to test the response. When Urushibara answered it was in an unnaturally quiet voice.

  ‘I don’t think that’s even a question, for people like you and me. Am I wrong?’

  ‘What am I reporting in for?’

  ‘You’ll find out when you get there. Just get yourself up to the fourth floor, right now.’

  ‘It’s unfortunate, but the directors are all engaged in a meeting with the press.’

  Urushibara slammed down the phone. Mikami put his down, feeling as if he were sealing off a demon. He glanced up to the clock before turning to face Kuramae. It was five to three.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Kuramae frowned, apparently in some difficulty. ‘The press are demanding we hold a press conference, in light of the morning’s news, and that Akama issues an official apology.’

  What?

  ‘Who was first to say it?’

  ‘Nonomura. The head of the Toyo’s local branch.’

  Toshikazu Nonomura. High-handed, he liked to think of himself as a star among the major players.

  ‘What was the reaction?’

  ‘They went along with it . . . but only I think because they lacked any good reason to block it. They want you to attend an emergency meeting in Akama’s office to get the preparations started.’

  Mikami caught his breath. It was like watching rocks emerge from a receding tide.

  Akikawa’s words.

  I’m going to attend the one here, in the headquarters.

  45

  Mikami was late to the meeting.

  Suwa got back just as he was leaving the office; they’d stood at the door and brought each other up to speed. The reporters had started to file in, back from Station F. Mikami had only spared them a glance as he’d hurried up the stairs, but by the time he reached Akama’s office the couches were already lined with frowning faces. Akama. Shirota. Ishii. And Division Chief Ikoma, from Internal Affairs. Mikami had half expected Futawatari to be there, too, but he was nowhere to be seen. That decided it. He was acting on Captain Tsujiuchi’s direct orders.

  Akama’s eyes were like arrows, targeted on Shirota.

  ‘What possessed you to agree like that? We’ll have to discuss the matter. All you had to do was say something along those lines.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Shirota had gone white. ‘I decided the number-one priority was to ensure the commissioner’s visit went smoothly; that it wouldn’t have been wise to argue in a press conference.’

  ‘And so you decided to offer me as a sacrifice?’

  ‘Sir, I would never . . .’

  Mikami had a notebook in his lap. It contained Kuramae’s notes from the round-table meeting. He had scanned them briefly before coming in.

  Nonomura: Without wishing to sound like I’m blowing our trumpet here – could I trouble Director Akama for his opinion on the news from Station F?

  Akama: It is a most unwelcome situation. I can assure you all that we are all treating this with the greatest—’

  Nonomura: Sorry, I didn’t mean here and now. If we could prevail on you to hold a press conference on the matter . . . I believe you had a suicide in another of your detention facilities, just a couple of years ago. At this point, I imagine it is necessary for Director Akama to offer a full and public explanation, detailing the system you have in place for managing detainees.

  ‘What’s happening with the press? Do they know about this?’

  Akama turned to look at Mikami. His gold-rimmed glasses seemed arched, mirroring his questioning eyes and raised eyebrows.

  ‘Most of the reporters just got back from Station F. Their bosses have already appraised them of what happened in the meeting; they’re apparently discussing when the conference will take place.’

  ‘I can’t believe this is really going to go ahead.’

  Graceless defeat. That was what it sounded like.

  ‘I’ve got Suwa looking into it.’

  ‘Get him on the phone.’

  Mikami nodded. He excused himself and flipped open his mobile. Suwa answered immediately.

  ‘How’s it looking down there?’

  ‘They want us to hold the conference at 4 p.m.’

  ‘Do they have a venue in mind?’

  ‘The Press Room should be fine.’

  ‘Four o’clock, in the Press Room.’ Mikami repeated the details for the benefit of everyone there.

  He checked his watch: three twenty-five.

  ‘Are they putting their questions together?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The only paper really behind this is the Toyo, so I think they’ll be happy if they get a picture of Akama lowering his head and apologizing.’

  Wary of Suwa’s voice being heard, Mikami pressed the phone harder against his ear.

  ‘So it’s unlikely the club will put forward any official questions.’ Mikami repeated this out loud, summarizing Suwa’s meaning.

  Akama’s head came forwards, looking impatient. ‘What about TV?’

  ‘Will the TV have cameras there?’

  ‘Yes. The association just called in the request.’

  Mikami nodded in silent confirmation. Probably having pictured himself on the news, Akama put a fist to his forehead and threw his head back.

  ‘This is a joke. We’re playing right into their hands.’

  Criminal Investigations’ hands.

  Akama let out a heavy sigh, the gesture conveying both resentment and resignation.

  ‘We don’t have time for this. We should begin preparing. Ikoma, the suicide took place before I assumed my post. According to my predecessor, we were not at fault. May I assume this understanding is correct?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ikoma looked up, his eyes curiously tranquil for an inspector from Internal Affairs. ‘In view of the exceptional circumstances, we decided the suicide didn’t suggest there was anything
at fault in the facilities or with their management. No dismissals were made. The press were mostly happy with the decision, and no articles were printed condemning our treatment of the case.’

  Ikoma was right. Mikami had read the article at his desk in Second Division. A middle-aged man detained for trying to skip a restaurant bill had killed himself during the night in one of Station T’s cells. The method had been unprecedented – he’d been lying with his back to the guard on duty and choked himself on his vest, having pulled it through the cuff of his shirt and then forced it – and his fist – down his throat. Thinking the man was asleep, it had taken the guard more than three hours to realize something was wrong. Charges of negligence had seemed inevitable, but the focus of the investigation shifted after a number of detainees who had shared the man’s cell came forward to give evidence, testifying they hadn’t noticed anything wrong or heard a single groan. Internal Affairs had been confident in its press release stating that circumstances had made the man’s suicide extremely difficult to detect. It was also discovered that the man had stolen funds from work and spent the money on women in hostess bars. When his transgressions had come to light he’d run away, abandoning his family; his death had been a final, selfish act. Some of the reporters had even come forward, sympathizing with the police for the whole situation.

  But . . .

  A short while later, Mikami began to hear rumours.

  That the guard had failed to keep an eye on the monitors showing the cells. That the guard had been asleep as the man lost consciousness, his legs kicking in agony. Most of what he’d heard had been like that. Had Station T been behind the cover-up, or had Internal Affairs decided to lead the whitewash in the interest of protecting the organization as a whole? It wasn’t hard to guess the tricks they might have used to secure the testimonies of the man’s fellow detainees. He doubted they would have taken the risk of openly pressuring them into giving false statements, but they could perhaps have suggested it was up to the detainees themselves if they wanted to draw certain conclusions. Making a good impression meant getting out of detention sooner. Rather than calculated strategy, it would have been desperate prayer. The truth, no doubt, was that the detainees had picked up on what was happening and volunteered to play nice, and that Station F and Internal Affairs had opted to accept the ‘harmless’ deception.

  Mikami watched Ikoma from the side.

  His eyes hadn’t wavered when he’d said it wasn’t a problem, but Mikami couldn’t know whether the man’s faith was as unyielding on the inside. He’d only been transferred from Security Second Division in the spring, so there was the possibility he didn’t know. Either that, or he was simply avoiding mention of the rumours so he could argue impunity later on.

  Akama glanced around the people gathered there.

  ‘All right, then. The Toyo is hoping to build up the theme of negligence and repeated misconduct, to make more of this than there is. I can’t imagine much worse than them running that as a headline in the papers tomorrow morning.’

  Mikami felt a sudden chill. An even worse possibility had just occurred to him. What if the Toyo knew for a fact that the guard had dozed off?

  ‘We will issue a statement committing ourselves to a severe tightening-up of discipline in the captain’s name,’ Akama announced. ‘The statement will be enough for the papers; it will make the headlines and prevent the Toyo from achieving its aim. Always assuming there are no other problems regarding the suicide, we still have to address the misconduct at Station F. I will inform the press that we are taking disciplinary action, and that the officer in question has been dismissed. Ishii, I assume this has already been done?’

  ‘Yes, earlier this morning.’

  ‘Good. I will then make a formal apology to the citizens of the prefecture. After this I will move on to my second statement – announcing that the captain has sent notices to all stations in the prefecture that they are to work to the standards laid out in the regulations governing the facilities. After this, I will move to questions. The Toyo will no doubt ask about Station T. I will emphasize that the suicide did not result from negligence and dispel any ideas of repeated misconduct.’

  Wasn’t that just playing into the Toyo’s – no, Criminal Investigations’ – hands? They’d loaded their third arrow. They would wait for Akama to refute the claims of negligence, then shoot for his heart. They would bring up the talk of the guard having fallen asleep and request another investigation. Akama would hesitate. His panic would be broadcast all over the evening news. It would reach even the commissioner’s circles.

  Or maybe . . .

  A different scenario came to mind.

  They wouldn’t say anything. As with the cover-up during Six Four, the negligence would never come to light and, because of that, it would become an indispensable tool. Criminal Investigations had no reason to make open threats, even less to bring the public into the fray. What they wanted was a table in the shadows at which to hold their negotiations – and a sharp blade, to press up against the throat of the administrative faction. That was it. They would force Akama into committing himself during the conference. Then they would move in and attack from behind the curtains. Once he’d gone on public record about the lack of any negligence, they would whisper into his ear that, in fact, the guard had fallen asleep. That they could leak that factual tidbit to the press whenever they wanted.

  The third arrow was doused in flame.

  Would they really release it? Maybe it would end up as a game of chicken. Criminal Investigations was afraid of Administrative Affairs’ own arrows – also doused in flame. They were already suspicious that Kazuki Koda was in their hands.

  Go and see the director.

  You’ll find out when you get there.

  Urushibara’s words replayed themselves in his ear. How much of the truth would Arakida give him?

  ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes,’ Ishii said. Even now, he wanted to make something of the fact that he paid attention to detail.

  Akama dismissed everyone, but ordered Mikami to stay. It hadn’t come as a surprise.

  ‘Well? Come on, then.’

  No sooner had the door closed than Akama waved him closer. Mikami shifted to where Shirota had been sitting, so that he faced Akama directly. Immediately he saw the director’s blue veins and bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Did you find out who the source of the article was?’

  Mikami nodded, feeling no resistance to telling him. All he needed to do was confirm Akama’s suspicions.

  ‘The leak came from Director Arakida. I believe he gave the story to Akikawa directly.’

  ‘That bastard! I knew it.’

  Mikami felt himself tense. Akama resembled a wild animal, the way he’d bared his gums. After a while he spoke again, his voice back to normal as it filled the room.

  ‘I assume I have Arakida to thank for Nonomura’s speech, too?’

  ‘Most likely, yes.’

  ‘Just who the hell do they think they are? Do they have no shame?’

  Akama’s voice became a bark for the second time. He fell silent, then brought his foot up and kicked the desk. His anger seemed to come in waves, swelling, then pulling away again. He drew himself into a stooped position. Stared at a single point on the floor. His hand tensed into a fist, slowly unfolded again. He was trying to keep his anger in check.

  ‘I have lots of things I need to do, you know, when I go back to Tokyo. I didn’t want to waste a single calorie of my energy, not in a backwater station like this. I have things to do for the sake of the nation. Otherwise, what’s the point in all this? Why doesn’t anyone understand?’

  His anger peaked again. His face flashed bright red.

  ‘This is a fucking joke. They think they have me cornered, but this apology is a waste of time. Doesn’t mean a bloody thing.’

  It didn’t seem that way to Mikami. This was the worst-possible scenario for Akama. Tokyo’s intention had been to conceal the true purpose behind the commissioner’s v
isit until the day itself, then launch a lightning strike on the Prefectural HQ to relay the ‘word from above’. That was why Akama had restricted access to the information. Instead of bringing Shirota or Futawatari into the fold, he had manipulated Mikami, savouring his success at having brought him into line. But the information had somehow got out. The first slip-up had been to let Criminal Investigations discover the NPA’s plan. The second had been to let the backlash escalate into an actual counter-attack. Akama had been forced into this predicament. A threatening article had been printed in the lead-up to the commissioner’s visit, incurring Tokyo’s wrath; Akama had failed in his attempt to fix the situation and now had to offer a public apology. His ability to function as one of the Tokyo elite would be cast into doubt. And his drop in estimation wouldn’t end there. The trap set by Criminal Investigations, waiting for him in the Press Room, would see to that.

  Should I warn him?

  Mikami had been pondering the question ever since the door had closed. It was only speculation. Yet the story of Criminal Investigations’ plot came together neatly in his mind, too plausible simply to dismiss. Was he going to do nothing, let his superior officer attend a press conference he was sure was a trap?

  Akama’s phone started to ring on his desk. It was Ishii.

  ‘Fine,’ Akama said. He put the phone down and got to his feet. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Still uncertain, Mikami got to his feet. He followed Akama out of the room and down the corridor. He had no reason to feel loyal to the man in front of him. Yet he felt the betrayal nonetheless. The dishonesty seemed to constrict his chest.

  He found himself unable to side with Criminal Investigations. He couldn’t think of a single reason to protect them. Was it because of the way they’d treated him as an exile? Was it because he’d caught a glimpse of the dark history behind Six Four? No. It was because he didn’t yet know what Tokyo was trying to do. He could tell himself he was still a detective at heart, but, as long as he was unable to imagine the danger Criminal Investigations faced, it was impossible to see things from their perspective.