根来史彰 Fumiaki Negoro
The Metro section of Toho News had been in an uproar all morning over the breaking story that three rival papers had scooped them on—the managing editor had come by personally to check with Toru Maeda, the Metro chief.
“Are you guys all right over here?”
“We’re fine, totally fine,” Maeda responded, his voice energetic as he quickly turned away and beckoned the slot editors over. “The meeting’s starting!”
On one of the sofas by the windows, Tetsuo Sugano, chief of the MPD beat, had suddenly materialized, and even though he was the one at the very center of this morning’s maelstrom, his face was stoic. After exchanging a few dry greetings with the others, he took out his habitual comb. Negoro took a seat toward the back. In contrast to Sugano, Negoro felt a little stifled, as if the words featured in the other papers—June 1947, a former Hinode employee, Hinode’s Kanagawa factory—were caught squirming around in the murky depths of his mind, making it hard for him to breathe.
“Everyone here? Well then, Sugano-kun, they tell me you knew about this business with the tape from 1990. Why didn’t you write about it?” Maeda demanded, unfurling his anxious tongue.
“We haven’t obtained the contents of the tape or determined its connection to the abduction.”
“But it has to do with Hinode. It also involves employment discrimination, plus a mysterious letter from right after the war. This is not the time to fret about its connection to the incident!”
“No, we can’t write anything until we confirm the contents of the tape. That’s the first point. Also this is not the kind of story that all three papers can have broken together by coincidence. In other words, their source is not the police. That would make the source of the leak a problem.”
“You’re saying it’s risky to write about it?”
“You could say that.”
“How are we going to follow up?”
“After we corroborate the facts. I’ll take responsibility for the front page.”
Maeda and Sugano were like oil and water. The pace of their approaches was as out of sync as the hare and the tortoise, and in their arguments, they never quite managed to find common ground. Even now, the impatient Maeda abandoned hope and shifted the brunt of his attack to Tabe, the slot editor on duty when the scoop occurred. “What should we do with the Metro page?”
Tabe contorted his face as if to say this was difficult. “We can’t consider that until we first determine whether Hinode discriminated in their hiring process, perhaps by asking around the family of the deceased student. But even if were to pursue this angle, I’m not sure whether a story about discrimination could stand on its own as an article related to the incident . . .”
Tabe then turned the spotlight on Negoro. “Negoro-kun, you’ll be able to back up the tip-off call from yesterday, won’t you?”
“I’m getting the sense that someone had Yoshinori Toda tip us off, but I’m still not sure how what he told me relates to the incident.”
“Send someone to Osaka to look for this Toda guy,” Maeda interrupted.
“In due time,” Negoro responded.
“So, are we in agreement that we will not aggressively pursue this story on the front page or the Metro page?” Maeda asked.
“The important thing is what moves the perpetrators will make now that they’ve demanded six hundred million to be delivered later.” The battle-hardened Tabe finally revealed his truth. “Speaking from previous experience, the developments with regard to a cash payment are hardly ever leaked. Even if it seems rather conservative for our coverage of the incident, for now perhaps we ought to keep our eyes peeled for any movements by the police and the Hinode executives so that we don’t miss the moment when the perpetrators take action. Chief Sugano, what do you think?”
“I agree that these guys, the perpetrators, will definitely make a move.” As always, Sugano’s response came a beat too late. “I’ve got my reporters staking out Hinode’s main office and the homes of executives in three shifts, but could you send a few more bodies from the main troops?”
“You got it.”
Maeda was quick at switching gears; he slapped his knee and the follow-up-strategy meeting was thus over in ten minutes. As Tabe and Sugano had pointed out, the perpetrators’ movements were crucial now—it was obvious that they should focus all their efforts on catching the moment when the cash payment was made, which was certain to happen. Especially in cases of corporate extortions, past precedent showed that unless the police made an official announcement, the movements of the parties concerned remained shrouded in darkness one hundred percent of the time.
Negoro was one person who understood this all too well, and his thoughts turned again to the flickering shadows lurking in the darkest corners and around the far fringes of this case—the tip-off caller, the stockbroker, and the crime syndicate—he had a hunch that this time, like before, these would soon become more indistinct as they receded underground. This was just as well. He couldn’t care less about any of the various subterranean tendrils that were to be found beneath every stratum of this country—yet here and now, who would take on the burden of identifying these foreign entities that kept appearing and disappearing?
Maeda had told him to search for the “Toda guy.” But if Negoro pulled at that thread and Takeshi Kikuchi’s name spilled out, he would need to dig more into Kikuchi’s background and the movements of his company GSC, Ltd., which would in turn make it necessary to probe around the Seiwakai to the Okada Association, and on to the politicians. The automatic sequence of motions that involved inching closer to the identity of such subjects—whom he couldn’t write about but nevertheless must be cognizant of—was part of a newsman’s peculiar sense of mission, though as a matter of course, this job was never taken on by the frontline reporters, who were much too busy chasing after stories that would occupy the pages of the daily paper. As for today’s edition, Negoro saw it as a natural conclusion that he—a side-story reporter who consistently veered off the main topics of the Metro section reporters—would have to play the martyr again. And although during the Ogura-Chunichi scandal Negoro had put out feelers in various arenas, searching high and low, he never did find any leads that tied into the main story.
Send someone to Osaka to look for this Toda guy? It was out of the question to send a reserve reporter busy on the frontline on such a wild goose chase—there was no way of knowing what lay behind it, and even if they found something, they couldn’t write about it. Negoro had only two options: either join forces with a tabloid or go to Osaka himself.
Looking at his watch to confirm there was still a while before the second evening edition went to press, Negoro crossed the news room floor, went out into the hallway, and stood in front of the elevators.
“Where are you going?” Sugano called out to him.
“I was thinking about getting something cold to drink,” Negoro responded.
“Then maybe I will too.” Sugano mumbled, and so together they headed down to the café on the third floor.
The inside of the café was bathed in warm, springlike sunshine, so Negoro thought he had made the right choice in ordering chilled tomato juice. Sugano, after taking a sip of the juice that was brought out to him, abruptly took out a miniature bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket, poured it into the glass, and tucked the empty bottle back into his pocket.
Negoro pretended not to notice but, unable to contain his urge to laugh, he ultimately gave in.
“It’s stress,” Sugano explained, and chuckled himself.
For going on twenty years now, the two of them had chased stories together—one homing in on public safety and the other muckraking—and though they were neither close nor distant with each other, they were adept at measuring each other’s stress level. Sugano’s network in the public safety sector was rock solid—even reporters from rival pa
pers had to admit this—but on the flip side, it meant that Sugano was so fully assimilated into this web that he could no longer move a muscle. And whereas ostensibly the two men were quite different, the invisible ties that bound Negoro were not unlike the ones that held the other man in place within the police organization. And not only were their constraints similar, they were invariably connected within the larger sphere of society.
“Fumi, what were you doing in Shimbashi yesterday?”
“How’s your Bloody Mary?”
“Think the Hinode stock is going to move?”
“Depends on how the case develops. Incidentally, does the source of the tape from the nineties have anything to do with the Seiwakai?”
“Probably. I’m sure they’re the ones making trouble for Hinode.”
“We’d better keep a close watch on their stocks, too.”
“Yeah.”
Negoro refrained from mentioning Takeshi Kikuchi’s name, which had been on the tip of his tongue. He was all too familiar with how sharp Sugano’s ears were, and the fact that Sugano already knew he had been in Shimbashi yesterday convinced him to tighten his control valve. Negoro’s thoughts shifted as he stared at the light pink rose in a bud vase in front of him, and he again regretted having missed the chance to visit the rose show. The flower barely held its spindle shape, the tips of the petals curling slightly as they were beginning to unfurl. Negoro paused for a few seconds, expected to be at least a little stirred by this, but ultimately he gave up and looked away.
“Fumi, let me know when you make a move. I’ll gather as much information for you as I can.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Looks like we won’t be sleeping at home for a while.”
“I’d take it easy.”
Sugano tossed back his vodka-spiked tomato juice, and with a “See you later, then,” he took leave of Negoro.
城山恭介 Kyosuke Shiroyama
The police interview was scheduled to begin at nine-fifteen in the morning. Shiroyama wrapped up the morning assembly for executive staff in five minutes, simply reading aloud the speech he had written the night before, and was back in his office by 9:06 a.m. He took out his reading glasses before he even sat down and there, in the company of the managers of general affairs and of human resources, who had both been waiting for him, he scanned the array of documents that he had hastily demanded be assembled ahead of the noon press conference. Dismayed, Shiroyama looked up at the two executives.
“So what you’re saying is, there is no trace of Seiji Okamura’s letter in our records?”
“The Kanagawa factory was searched thoroughly as a result of the police’s request for documents. As for the main office, quite a lot of old paperwork was disposed of when we moved into the new building.”
“I see. Since we’re pressed for time, let’s move on. There are no materials pertaining to Hiroyuki Hatano’s recruitment exam, either?”
“Answer forms and interview materials of unsuccessful candidates are shredded and discarded at the end of each year.”
“Is there nothing else to prove that no discrimination took place? What about our hiring bylaws from the nineties?”
“We do have those.”
“Please bring them to me.”
After the human resources manager bowed and quickly left the room, Shiroyama turned his attention to the manager of general affairs, making sure to check the clock, which read 9:10 a.m.
“Were you able to contact him?”
“Yes, but it seems he’s suffering from dementia . . .” Ide replied. It had been discovered that a man named Kuwata, who back in June 1947 had held the same position as Ide—manager of general affairs—was still alive at the age of ninety-six, and Shiroyama had given instructions to contact him, but apparently they were too late. With the exception of Kuwata, all the other Hinode executives from forty-eight years ago had passed away. Shiroyama had kicked himself repeatedly for not taking care of the matter when it occurred back in 1990, but he hadn’t given up yet. He needed to know who had been the last person to handle Okamura’s letter in June of 1947. Once that became clear, so would the source of the leak.
“Please see if you can find someone who was relatively young at the time. There may be a chance someone still remembers what happened. How about the minutes from the board meetings back then?”
“They’re on your desk.”
“Have you read them? Are there any references to the letter?”
“The bigger issue is that the minutes from August are missing . . .”
“They’re supposed to be there?”
“I believe so. From what we can tell from the September meeting minutes, it seems two board meetings were held in August, and we can’t find the minutes from either of them.”
Distracted by the fact that the clock read 9:13 a.m., Shiroyama thanked Ide for his efforts and dismissed him. He was aware of the confusion within his own mind as he glanced at the black minutes log that had been set on his desk.
The forty-eight-year-old log smelled musty and its cover was so decayed that it looked as if it might peel away with a single touch. Perhaps right after the war they had not been able to hold board meetings as frequently—this log was much thinner than the ones they used nowadays. Shiroyama noticed a trace of discoloration near the knot on the binding string that held the log book together. He did not have to wonder what the mark signified—it was clear that someone had very recently retied the forty-eight-year-old knot.
Shiroyama opened the minutes log, confirmed that the date in July was followed by the date in September, and was just reaching for the intercom when Ms. Nozaki’s voice announced, “It’s time.” Shiroyama told her to summon Shirai at once and to ask the police to wait ten minutes.
Because Shiroyama had asked him to come “at once”—an uncharacteristically urgent emphasis—Shirai appeared within two minutes, looking distracted. “Nice day out, isn’t it? I’ll be leaving for Sendai now. Do you remember that cooperative industry-university project with Tohoku University? I think it’s better to involve the prefecture and make them pay the infrastructure maintenance fee—”
“Shirai-san. Figure out who removed the August minutes from this log. Let me know when you find him.”
Shirai was silent for a count of three, holding the minutes log that Shiroyama had passed to him in his hands. Then a mock smile appeared on his face. “So now you’re going to play the tyrant?”
“Does looking for the thief make me a tyrant?”
“I’ll look for your thief, but only if you let me deal with him. It’s better for you to appear not to know anything.”
Shiroyama felt a twinge of regret after Shirai breezed out of his office without another word. Shirai had taken pity on Shiroyama, who had burdened himself with yet another issue that could land him in trouble if anyone outside the company knew about it—not only that, Shirai had provoked in Shiroyama a sense of defeat for losing his composure, and then shrewdly displayed a sense of ease by promising to take care of the matter. During their short exchange, Shiroyama again felt his mindset relegated to that of the victim—the object. Shiroyama was highly resistant to this, but in the end he was forced to admit—with a bit of self-deprecation—that the theft of the meeting minutes and the indignity of losing his cool in front of a colleague were additional burdens befitting the man who had brought misfortune home to the company.
Aware that time was scarce, Shiroyama was hurriedly tidying the documents on his desk when Ms. Nozaki poked her head in and said, “It’s time for you to go, but Tamaru-san is on the line with an urgent call.”
He must want to negotiate directly about the land purchase in Gunma. With a fresh wave of panic, Shiroyama answered the outside line. “This is Shiroyama.”
“This is Tamaru. It’s been a long time.”
“Thank you for the telegram yesterday. I�
��m much obliged.”
“I’m sure you have a lot to worry about. And there’s no need to get into a serious discussion now.”
Two years ago, after the company had managed to sever ties with the Okada Association thanks to Kurata’s efforts, Shiroyama had met Zenzo Tamaru at a dinner party, for what he hoped would be the first and last time. Tamaru’s outward appearance could be described as nothing more than “a man in his seventies wearing a suit,” but for the entire hour Shiroyama was in his company he had been assailed by a disconcerting sensation, like a faint chill running up his spine. Later, when Kurata explained to him that an ultranationalist like Tamaru showed his mettle by a willingness to stab his opponent at any given moment, it finally seemed to make sense. Frankly, it was quite an experience for Shiroyama—a man who valued his life—to come face to face with one who did not, and to feel the chill of such decisive violence, which seemed to defy logic.
Over those drinks two years ago, Tamaru had regaled Shiroyama with the story of his success, from his roots in the coal-mining town of Chikuho to his rise as a postwar black market broker. Throughout their conversation he consistently implied how vastly different the world he belonged to was from that of Shiroyama’s, which thus made him immune to fear. Ultimately, there was nothing more to Tamaru than the brutality of a snake intimidating a frog, but it was something of a discovery for Shiroyama that what underpinned the life of a longtime fixer like Tamaru was a warped lust for subjugation.
If assessing calmly, however, Shiroyama could not deny Tamaru’s resourcefulness. Tamaru had apparently adopted his nationalistic tendencies under the influence of Karoku Tsuji, who had been a puppet master in prewar Japanese politics, but Tamaru said what moved him most was his realization immediately following the war that, even after the democratization of Japan, politicians and money could not be separated. Another lesson for Tamaru was the political donation scandal during the 1947 general election that ended Karoku Tsuji’s career, from which Tamaru had ascertained that the prewar era when ultranationalists wielded enormous power with their mere presence was over, that the dissolution of the zaibatsu conglomerates would alter the flow of money, and moreover, that these channels would shift underground from then on.
Lady Joker, Volume 1 Page 56