The Hunter

by Asa Nonami

  "What was wrong with the daughter?" asked Takizawa, not looking at Takako.

  "Don't know yet. They're still checking her out."

  "Rotten luck for her, getting dragged into this just when she goes home for a visit." He sounded despondent. The sound of Takizawa's daughter saying "hello" on the phone echoed in Takako's ears. It seemed forever ago, and yet it was only this morning. A father beaten up by his son and then awakened by his daughter: that was her partner.

  "Whaddaya think?" he asked abruptly, turning toward Takako. "If those are crimes of revenge, what's it all about?"

  His weird-looking face stared straight at her. Once they pieced together the past connection among the victims, detectives had surmised that these were crimes of revenge, an assessment which Takako had no quarrel with. But what connection could there be between a former cop and a bunch of playboys who'd frequented the same watering holes? Takako paced, trying to think. "The daughter in the mental hospital, hmm, not the same age as the other victims, but close enough—close enough to hang out with them. Young girls in their teens can be very impressionable."

  Takizawa's eyebrows lifted; his partner had seen a thread. Young daughter hangs out a bad crowd, goes off in a wrong direction, father seeks to level the score—not implausible. What had Emiko Takako been in the hospital for? If she was home for a week's visit, must have been long-term hospitalization. Had the father turned into a demon bent on revenge, all because of her?

  "Twelve years ago, she was fourteen. A middle school student." The word "rape" sprang into Takako's mind. But wait, one of the victims was a woman. Then what else could it have been?

  Again, Takizawa nodded. "They did something to her. What was it?" His thoughts seemed to be on the same track as hers, his expression bitter. What terrible thing happened to the cop's daughter?

  "Why didn't he take legal action?" she said. "It seems logical that a cop would do that before taking things into his own hands."

  "That's why I'm asking you. You went to college, right? You're a helluva lot smarter than me."

  There he goes again.

  Still trying to pick a fight, after all this time. She gave him a look—but found surprisingly little hostility in his eyes. Instead, somehow, he seemed pathetic and forlorn, the emanating loneliness not merely the effect of his facial injury.

  "I only went to junior college," she said. "Never liked to study."

  "Never liked to study but went to junior college anyway, eh? So, what'd you study?"

  "Child care. It was what my parents wanted."

  Takizawa expressed surprise. "What your parents wanted?" he repeated. "Huh. That's the way it goes." He took out another cigarette. "Parents always have their own ideas about their kids. If they wanted you to study child care I guess that means they never thought you'd end up a cop, huh?"

  "Especially my mother. She hated the idea," Takako said, her candor surprising herself. Somehow she felt the urge to mention it, didn't want to pretend otherwise. She was willing to meet him halfway. Yet she didn't want to discuss details of her private life either. If she didn't get the conversation off this personal stuff, soon she'd be telling him about her divorce and revealing her ex's last name. She cut back to the chase.

  "You think we'll catch the wolf-dog?"

  "We got no choice."

  "Takagi was a trained handler of police dogs. Someone like that has to love and respect dogs. How could he have used his own wolf-dog to carry out murder?"

  Takizawa crossed his arms over his paunch and said, "Who knows? No matter what case you're working, no matter how much one-on-one you do with a suspect, no matter how fair his story sounds, whether it's true or not is one thing you'll never know."

  Takako was silent.

  "Our only job is to do what we're told and nail the suspect. Isn't that right?"

  "Is it?"

  "Even if there is some other truth, it's not our job to go look for it."

  She'd heard this point made many times before. Each time, she was unconvinced.

  "We've got enough to do. There's no end of bad guys out there, and the crimes just keep coming. Our job is to get a reasonable explanation out of a perp and gather enough evidence so it'll hold up in court. Even if it's not the truth with a capital T, as long as it holds together, what else can we do? The prosecution and the defense sure as hell don't know what the truth is. Especially in a homicide. I mean, who's gonna say what the victim's truth was? Dead men tell no tales. Even if the perp swears he's telling the truth, and maybe it is the truth, it's only his version of the truth. The truth it suits him to tell. In other words, it's a waste of time to think about it."

  The more experience people had on the force, the more they sounded like this. Once Takako's boss said to her, "If you want to know the truth that much, go out and commit a crime yourself. That's the only way you'll ever know." That was probably true, she had to admit. How could one lone investigator hope to fathom the truth of a case, or the mind of the perpetrator behind it?

  Especially when they were dealing with a dog.

  She was aware that she was becoming too emotionally involved. Private feelings had no place in an official investigation. She knew this.

  It's a dog, for heaven's sake.

  A dumb, pathetic excuse.

  For a while she and Takizawa continued to stand in silence, watching the snow fall thick and fast. Time passed slowly, uselessly. Takizawa went back to sleep on the bench. Takako paced up and down the corridor and drank two cups of coffee to fill her empty stomach. Better not eat anything now; it would only make her sleepy. She watched the hands of the clock crawl and the snow pile up. It was just nearing 1:30 in the afternoon when she heard busy footsteps coming her way. Sawayama, the head nurse, reappeared.

  "Oh, here you are. The patient is starting to regain consciousness."

  Until then Takizawa had been snoring with almost arrogant loudness, but at this announcement he jumped to his feet. "Can he talk?"

  Caught by surprise, Sawayama mumbled, "Well..."

  "We can see him now, right?"

  He was on his way. Takako hastily got up and followed. From the corner of her eye, she could see the head nurse standing bolted to the floor, surprise still on her face.

  9

  The ex-cop was wearing an oxygen mask, with tubes up his nose and inserted into other parts of his anatomy. His head, arms, and torso were wrapped in bandages and he lay gasping for breath. Around him were the sounds of a compressor and the electronic beep of a heart monitor. The room was peculiarly inanimate, a world of machines—including, it seemed, the man stretched out on the bed.

  Wearing sterile gowns over their uniforms, Takizawa and Takako stood beside the man's bed. The attending physician viewed them somberly. "The patient is not fully conscious," he said. "With all the smoke inhalation, his trachea was severely burned. So even if he comes to fully, he won't be able to speak."

  Takizawa nodded absently and looked back toward the bed. Unlike earlier, when they had elicited testimony from people in the hospital, Takizawa wasn't wasting any effort on warm smiles. "We've gotta talk to him, one way or another. By writing is fine—that'd be OK, right?"

  The doctor gave a brief nod, and instructed the nurse to bring a board with hiragana symbols. "He can use this to communicate," the doctor said. Taking the board from the nurse, he handed it to Takako. Then he knelt beside the bed and took hold of the patient's hand; the upper arm was swathed in bandages. "Kasahara-san, Kasahara-san," he called out gently. "Can you hear me? Kasahara-san, if you can hear me, squeeze your right hand."

  The man in the oxygen mask moved his head from right to left in seeming pain. No other reaction. Takako stared at the gnarled hand, limp, half open.

  Then Takizawa, standing next to the doctor, thrust his face forward and spoke: "Takagi-san, Takagi-san. Can you hear me?"

  The doctor turned to Takizawa in surprise. Takako quickly transferred her gaze back to the man's right hand. Where at first it had just lain there, now i
t moved slightly, then slowly it squeezed the doctor's hand. Takizawa looked at Takako, who nodded back at him. Breathlessly they looked at the patient's face. The lower half was hidden by the oxygen mask, but she could see that his face was oval-shaped, with thick eyebrows. Deep wrinkles were etched into the forehead, and around his eyes were lines that could make him look merry when he laughed. There was white netting on his head, through which hair poked here and there; his hair was white. If this was Katsuhiro Takagi, he was fifty-two years old. He looked older.

  "Takagi-san, this is a hospital," the doctor spoke again. "Do you understand? You are Katsuhiro Takagi, is that right?"

  The man squeezed the doctor's hand again. Now the doctor said, "Open your eyes." The man's eyelids twitched; he seemed to summon all his strength, and opened his eyes. They were unfocused, swimming in space, and started to close again. He was able to resist the impulse, however; the lids trembled but remained half open. His lashes were sparse and wispy.

  "Remember?" whispered Takizawa. "There was a fire."

  The man's eyes opened wide. He looked around desperately. When his eyes locked onto Takako's, she was unsure what look to give him, and only managed a small reassuring nod.

  "It's OK, you're safe now," whispered Takizawa, taking the man's hand from the doctor and holding it in his own. The man turned pleading eyes on Takizawa, and then his gaze swam again. After a moment he pulled his hand away and shakily pointed up.

  "If you want to say something, here, use this," Takako said, holding out the hiragana board to Takagi. He blinked several times, moving his hand, pointing to different squares: e... mi... ko.

  "Emiko? Is that your daughter?" asked Takizawa. At these words, the hand that had fallen back on the sheet in exhaustion squeezed his hand again. Stronger, harder than before: Yes.

  "She was in a hospital in Saitama, right? She'd just come home for a visit?"

  Yes.

  "She's twenty-six."

  Yes.

  The man looked at Takizawa again, then motioned for the board. Bu . . . ji... ka. Is she safe? Takako looked at Takizawa. Takizawa pretended to stare at the board. What to do. Tell him the truth? What effect would that have on the interrogation? He could go into shock and that would be it. He'd never talk with them again. Yet they could not rightfully conceal the information from him either.

  "She's in critical condition," Takizawa answered. The man looked at him sideways, as if weighing the truth of these words, then closed his eyes. His chest swelled, he heaved a sigh. Of relief? Or despair?

  "You probably know this already, but we're police officers."

  Yes.

  "Is Kasahara your real name?"

  Yes.

  "It was Takagi before?"

  Yes.

  "Divorced? You had your wife's name?"

  Yes.

  "Ah. Well, we'll call you Kasahara then. This morning we saw your house. Burned almost to the ground."

  Yes.

  "No sign of the dog."

  No response.

  "What happened to the dog?"

  No response.

  "The wolf-dog. The one that belongs to you."

  No response.

  "We knew about it. It was just a matter of time. If we'd gotten to your place a little faster, neither you nor your daughter would've ever been in that fire."

  Kasahara slowly opened his eyes. They looked troubled, as if trying again to weigh the truth of Takizawa's words. His eyelids trembled.

  Takizawa went on in the gentlest of voices, as if talking to a little child—a voice Takako had never heard before: "It's OK, Kasahara-san. I know you had your reasons. You had to have reasons, right? Once upon a time you were a cop like us."

  Yes.

  "So you know we have our job to do. When you're able to talk, you can take all the time you want and fill us in."

  No response.

  "Right now, tell us about that dog that meant so much to you. You let him go, didn't you? "

  Yes.

  "A wolf-dog, right?"

  Yes.

  "Male or female? What's its name?"

  The hand reached for the board. Takako held it out and watched intently as Kasahara's fingertip pointed in succession to ha ... ya ... te.

  "Hayate. Gale?" she said, interrupting. "Like the wind?"

  Takako's mouth tightened. Kasahara nodded weakly, then indicated the wolf-dog was male.

  "Where's Gale now?" asked Takizawa.

  No response.

  "No idea?"

  No response.

  Takako peered intently at Kasahara's face. He was shaking his head, the movement barely perceptible. It wasn't that he didn't want to answer, his eyes said that he did not know.

  "You don't know where he is, do you?" said Takako softly.

  Yes.

  "But you trained him, didn't you?" said Takizawa. "Trained him to attack people."

  Slowly Kasahara gripped Takizawa's hand and squeezed it: yes. Then he seemed to fall back, exhausted. The doctor, who had been watching wordlessly in the background, now stepped forward and said, "Better make this all for today."

  "All right. Just one more question." With his trademark persistence, Takizawa, called out to the former cop, who was drifting back to sleep: "Kasahara, Kasahara!" He had dropped the san. "Who burned down your house?"

  No response.

  Takizawa didn't give up: "Kasahara! Hey!" After a few moments, once again Kasahara's hand moved feebly.

  "You know something about that fire?"

  Yes.

  "Then tell us! A place, a name, anything!"

  Again, no response. Frustrated, Takizawa called Kasahara's name again and again.

  "That's it. He can't take any more of this," said the doctor, but Takizawa ignored him, bellowing, "Kasahara! You give me a name! Who burned down your house? You know, don't you?"

  Weakly, Kasahara's eyes opened. Sought the board. Takako, scarcely able to bear watching, held it out once more. The shaking hand struggled to find the letters it sought. From the corner of one eye a stream of tears fell. Was this pain, or remorse, or sadness?

  "That's the way, come on, give us a name!"

  A strange cheering section. Still, as if encouraged by Takizawa's voice, Kasahara's hand moved across the board: o ... ga ... wa.

  "Ogawa? Somebody you know?"

  No response.

  "I have to insist. That's all for today," said the doctor. "Tomorrow he'll be stronger."

  This time Takizawa meekly withdrew. Takako studied Kasahara, who lay as if dead, unmoving, eyes shut. Not knowing that his daughter had perished, he himself hovered between life and death. Using a wolf-dog named Gale, he had brought about the deaths of two people. Yet how weak and helpless he was now. Even for a burn victim, his eyes trembled with such sadness. The lines cut in his face, the white hair poking through the netting, all made him look at least ten years older than he was.

  "Call headquarters," Takizawa, taking out a cigarette, barked to Takako as they left the ICU. Takako pulled out her cellphone, imagining the wolf-dog flying across the snow like the wind which was his name.

  Gale.

  She had a feeling they would never catch him. Part of her even wished they wouldn't. But she was going to try.

  "Good work. Meeting starts at four. You'll be back by then, right?" Chief Wakita rattled off to her, even more rapidly than usual.

  After she hung up, Takako went back over and stood next to Takizawa, feeling so exhausted she could collapse. She had to get something to eat, had to get some rest.

  "With this weather," Takizawa said, "we'd better get an early start. Let's head back."

  The uniformed officers standing at every bend of the corridor had all been replaced by the next shift. Outside, the snow was falling a little less, but it was still coming down. Takako and Takizawa wandered around the parking lot before finding the unmarked police car Takako had driven over, now piled high with snow.

  She was opening the door to the driver's side, when Takiza
wa stopped her. "Forget it. With this much snow on the road, your driving would scare the hell out of me."