Tattoo Murder Case

by Akimitsu Takagi

  “Well, there’s a design called Akaeboshi that my husband is very partial to. He’s been bugging me forever to get that tattoo, and I always refused, but he finally just wore me down.” O-Kané gave an embarrassed laugh.

  “Actually,” said Chokatsu, “the way it happened was, someone told me that this guy Tsune had only been back in Tokyo for a month or so, and he was already so sought after that he was turning potential clients away. Apparently his house burned down in an air raid, and he wasn’t able to locate any of his relatives, so he’s staying with a friend—a comrade-in-arms, as they say—who was with him on the southern front. He started doing tattoos as soon as he got settled, and pretty soon the word spread that his talent was something special. I happened to see one of the tattoos he had done. It was really spectacular. So I dragged O-Kané to his studio and asked him to tattoo her, and he agreed.”

  “I suppose it could be a case of mistaken identity, yet the similarities just seem too uncanny,” Kenzo said. “In any case, I would be very grateful if you would take me to meet this man, this Tsune.” He bowed so low that his eyebrows brushed the tatami, thinking all the while, This is too good to be true.

  32

  Kenzo and O-Kané took an express train to Shibuya, where they changed to the electric line for Aoyama. Outside Aoyama Station they turned onto a charred street where hastily built barracks sat right on top of the bombed-out ruins of homes and apartment buildings. Amid these makeshift dwellings were five or six simple eating-and-drinking places, lined up side by side. In front of one of the shabby little restaurants was a hand-lettered sign reading PEONY.

  O-Kané stopped before the sign and whispered in Kenzo’s ear. “It’s in the rear of this building,” she said. “Please wait here for a moment, okay? I’ll go check out the situation.” She went into the building, and returned several minutes later. “It’s all right,” she said. “He’s working on a tattoo at the moment, but we can wait inside.”

  Nearly panting with excitement, Kenzo took a deep breath and ducked under the curtain of braided rope that hung above the entrance. Kenzo followed O-Kané through a small restaurant, crudely furnished with unmatched tables and chairs. Behind a muslin-curtained door at the rear was a step leading up to a dark, narrow hall. On one side were two medium-size sitting rooms, and on the other was a room with a closed door.

  “Please, come in.” A dark-complexioned woman who appeared to be the mistress of the house spoke to them in a friendly way, but Kenzo thought she cast a suspicious glance in his direction. He didn’t care. He was as nervous and elated as if he had been on his way to a marriage meeting with the woman of his dreams.

  Kenzo followed O-Kané into the larger of the two sitting rooms and sat down at the low table that was the room’s only furnishing, aside from a vase of flowering weeds stuck into a rough alcove in one corner. From the other side of the flimsy paper doors, he could hear the para-para percussion of sharp needles perforating tender human flesh. There was also a rhythmic haa-haa sound, which he recognized after a moment as the shallow breathing of the person who inhabited that unanaesthetized flesh.

  “He’s tattooing a young woman right now,” O-Kané said, leaning across the table to whisper in Kenzo’s ear. “Shall we take a peek?”

  “Wouldn’t that be an intrusion, especially since it’s a woman?”

  “No, she won’t mind. I know her quite well and believe me, she isn’t the modest type.” Laughing merrily at her little dig, O-Kané called into the closed room, “Sensei, hello! I’m going to peek in now, okay?”

  A deep, pleasant male voice came from behind the closed doors. “Ah, O-Kané, you’re early. I’m almost finished here. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  No sooner had the door slid open than Kenzo, in a state of extreme agitation, stuck his head through. As he had anticipated, the scene before him was so strange and wonderful that it nearly took his breath away.

  One wall was hung with dark oil paintings, ambiguous Western-style landscapes in shades of green and bronze and lacquer-black, and in front of that moody backdrop a large number of cushions had been piled up to make an impromptu operating table. Lying face down on the cushions was a young woman of twenty-five or twenty-six. There was an underlying design of fish scales on her arms and back, which gave her the look of a two-legged mermaid. The pattern for those background tattoos was fully sketched in, and the shading phase had just begun.

  The design was a magnificent rendition of the traditional pattern known as “The Mountain Road to Yoshino,” the most famous blossom-viewing area in Japan. The woman’s breasts, hips, and thighs were covered with delicate cherry blossoms. On her right shoulder the medieval dancer Shizuka Gozen was shown holding a small hand drum, while on the left shoulder was the folk hero Kitsune Tadanobu, “Tadanobu the Fox.” Both designs were drawn with exquisite precision, and Kenzo could tell that he was looking at an exceptional work of art in the making.

  This day’s tattooing session was concentrated on the area of the right buttock. The woman had a blue polka-dotted bandanna in her mouth, like a gag, and she was biting down on it to keep from crying out. She was hugging a tubular pillow, while another pillow had been placed under the lower part of her body to elevate the work surface. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep, and she didn’t seem to notice when Kenzo and O-Kané entered the room.

  The tattoo artist sat cross-legged on a single cushion on the floor, his back to the door. Kenzo couldn’t see the man’s face, but he was able to observe the subtle movements of his hands. The artist used his right thumb and index finger to stretch the skin taut, and he held the brushes with his left index finger, middle finger, and ring finger. Using the widest part of his thumb as a lever, he pumped the bunch of fine needles in his right hand like a piston. Up and down they went, penetrating the skin and then popping out again. The motions made an almost train-like sound: chaki-chaki, chaki-chaki, chaki-chaki.

  Each time the needles punctured her skin the woman would let out a strangulated gasp. Her entire body would twist and turn in pain, undulating from head to toe like a wave. The woman’s naked body glistened with sweat, and every few moments a groan of agony escaped through the gag in her mouth.

  Kenzo looked with interest at the tattooing tools. The bundle of thirty or so silk needles was held together by strips of pliable bamboo. Periodically the artist would dip the tips of the needles in ink and then continue tattooing without breaking the rhythm. He never went over the same spot twice, and it was clear even to an uneducated eye that to apply the shading so evenly required a phenomenal degree of technical skill and artistic finesse. Sometimes the excess ink overflowed the tiny perforations made by the needles and spread over the woman’s milk-white skin. The artist would reach for a nearby cloth and blot the ink.

  As the area injected with blue-black ink grew larger, the flesh around the perforated skin began to swell and turn red.

  Other parts of the woman’s body, where the tattoos had already been completed, were covered with thin scabs. After four or five days this tissuey layer would peel off, and when the process had been repeated several times, the colored pigment would finally settle into the skin. The newly drawn lines on the woman’s buttocks turned immediately into vivid red welts, while the entire shaded area was puffy and swollen. As a doctor, Kenzo knew that the woman would already be running a slight fever.

  For thirty minutes Kenzo watched in fascination, hardly daring to take a breath. Kinue went through this same process, he thought, and his breathing quickened as he pictured his lover squirming in agony under the invasive needles. Kenzo couldn’t help thinking that it was wasteful to expend so much effort on decorating one’s mortal skin, but at the same time he felt there was something sublime and even awe-inspiring about a woman who would voluntarily endure so much pain.

  Finally the tattooing session ended, and the young woman lay totally immobile, like a corpse. It wasn’t until the tattoo artist placed a hot, wet towel on her fresh tattoos that she finally scream
ed, softly. A head-to-toe shudder animated her beautiful flesh, but she remained prone.

  “That’s it for today,” said the tattoo master, as he smeared some soothing oil over the freshly tattooed area, which was about ten and a half centimeters, four inches square.

  “Oh,” said the woman limply. She raised her head for the first time and noticed that Kenzo was in the room. “O-Kané, you really are a rat sometimes,” she muttered in an embarrassed tone of voice, but still she lay as motionless as a lavishly painted sculpture.

  “We’re finished here,” the tattoo artist repeated. Slowly and painfully, the woman forced herself into a standing position. She was obviously not overjoyed to have an audience, but she bowed politely to Kenzo and O-Kané. Then, facing away from them, she pulled on a light kimono of blue-and-white cotton printed with a bamboo-leaf design. She sashed it loosely with a bright red obi, wincing as the crisp material brushed against her tender skin.

  The tattoo artist wiped the sweat from his forehead with a polka-dotted tenugui bandanna. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said to O-Kané. He turned around at last, and Kenzo couldn’t help gasping in amazement.

  33

  The tattoo artist was haggard from the suffering of war and internment, but Kenzo could see a clear genetic echo of Kinue’s lovely face in the still-handsome features of this weary survivor. There was absolutely no question about it, this was the man from the photographs, the man with the Jiraiya tattoo. Kenzo swallowed, hard. He could hardly believe that he was standing face to face with Tsunetaro Nomura, in the flesh.

  “This gentleman is Mr. Matsushita,” O-Kané said, by way of introduction. “He has been very kind to my husband on many occasions. When he mentioned that he would like to see a tattoo artist at work, I brought him along.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Tsunetaro brusquely. “Getting tattooed can be poison for a young person, you know.” He glared at Kenzo.

  “My name is Kenzo Matsushita,” Kenzo said, “and I’m not really a candidate for a tattoo. I’m a graduate student at the medical school of Tokyo University. I just thought that I would like to observe a tattooing session, from the point of view of a scientist.”

  “You don’t want to get too caught up in this world.” Tsunetaro’s voice was stern, but his facial expression had relaxed perceptibly. “I’ve seen it a hundred times. You may start off as an impartial observer, but tattooing is like narcotics. You become fascinated, then addicted, and the next thing you know you’re ruining your own skin with ink and dyes.” The tattoo artist’s voice was filled with self-contempt.

  “I’m certain I’ve seen your face before,” Kenzo said, pursuing his own agenda. “Are you by any chance the son of the Horiyasu who used to live in the Honjo area?”

  “That’s right,” said Tsunetaro warily. “I’m Horiyasu’s son. Why?”

  “You had a sister named Kinue, is that correct?”

  “Yes, I do. Do you know where Kinue is now?” Tsunetaro asked almost breathlessly, not seeming to notice Kenzo’s ominous use of the past tense.

  “You haven’t heard?” Kenzo said gently. “Kinue was murdered about two months ago, in Kitazawa.”

  Tsunetaro’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at Kenzo in shocked amazement. The stick of sumi ink he had been grinding fell into the inkstone, and his eyes were filled with fear and disbelief. “Murdered? Kinue? Is that really true?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of joking about something like that,” Kenzo replied.

  “I see,” said Tsunetaro slowly. “I’ve only been back in Tokyo for a month, and I haven’t read the newspapers at all. I’ve been searching for both my sisters in my spare time, but with no luck at all. If you know any details, please tell me.”

  Kenzo knew all the details, of course, but he tried to be brief as he told Tsunetaro what had happened so far. In keeping with his agreement with Chokatsu, he omitted the fact that his brother was a police chief. As Kenzo spoke, Tsunetaro’s face gradually clouded over with a curious expression of suspicion mixed with terror. “Those photographs that Kinue gave you—do you still have them, or were they confiscated by the police?” he asked when Kenzo had finished his narrative.

  “The police made copies,” said Kenzo. “I have the originals right here.” He opened his briefcase and handed the envelope to Tsunetaro. As the tattoo artist looked at the photographs, his face was once again contorted with strong emotions.

  “The three siblings of Jiraiya,” he murmured, as if to himself. “The three tattooed children.” After staring at the photographs for quite some time, Tsunetaro raised his bloodshot eyes. “Mr. Matsushita,” he said, “this is a truly terrible crime.”

  “I know. It’s so terrible that I sometimes think I can’t bear it.” Kenzo froze, hoping he hadn’t given away his private feelings about Kinue, but no one seemed to have noticed.

  “Still,” said Tsunetaro, “I have a feeling that what I mean by ‘terrible’ is considerably different from what you mean when you use the same word. There’s a lot more to this case than meets the eye. You people are only seeing what’s on the surface. To put it bluntly, you’ve been conned.”

  “By the murderer?”

  “Of course. In this case, there are layers upon layers of deception. If you persist in investigating only the apparent circumstances of the case, you’ll never get anywhere.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The problem is with the patterns of the tattoos on the three of us, my two sisters and me. If I’m right about what happened, it’s just too horrific to think about at this point. However, I will set you straight on one thing. Takezo Mogami didn’t commit suicide. He was killed by the same person who killed my sister. There’s absolutely no question in my mind about that.”

  Kenzo was flabbergasted and strangely excited, too. “How about it, Mr. Nomura, won’t you consider telling me what you know about this case? I’m not asking out of curiosity, or personal ambition. The truth is, I didn’t mention this earlier, but my brother is the chief of the investigative division of the Metropolitan Police. I can promise you that if you cooperate, nothing will happen to affect your business or your livelihood. I’ll take full responsibility for that. Even if you don’t get personally involved, the information you share with me could still result in the capture of your sister’s enemies. Surely that’s what you would want. Not only that, if you help us find the killer, then Kinue’s soul will be able to rest in peace at last.”

  “I’ll be glad to do what I can,” Tsunetaro said. “But first there are a couple of things I need to check, just to make sure I’m not on the wrong track. For the next few days, would you not tell your brother about me?”

  “I don’t mind doing that at all. I just hope you’ll keep in mind that you’re dealing with a fiendish killer. On second thought, I really think it’s too dangerous for you to do this alone. Won’t you please let me go with you, and help?”

  “No, I appreciate your offer, but please just leave this to me for a while. In return, I promise that the minute I’m able to confirm my suspicions, I’ll let you know.”

  “Will you really be all right by yourself?”

  “I just survived a major war,” Tsunetaro said “I’ll be fine.” His tone of voice made it clear that the discussion was at an end. Without saying another word he picked up his ink stick and continued grinding it on the wet, gleaming inkstone.

  O-Kané was slipping out of her green plaid kimono. Kenzo didn’t want to stare at her naked body, but out of the corner of his eye he could see that both arms were covered with stylized, shaded Chinese-style clouds, among which red-scaled dragons wound their way up and down her plump, rounded arms. Clearly she was nearing the end of the tattooing process. O-Kané lay down on her back and Tsunetaro bent intently over her, grasping his bundle of needles.

  The previous client hadn’t yet gone home. She stood off to one side, fully dressed, smoking a cigarette and staring at O-Kané’s tattoo-in-progress. Kenzo timidly started a conversation. “
Even though I’m a doctor, I can’t help thinking that even a small tattoo would be very painful,” he said. “I can’t even imagine what it must be like to get tattooed over your entire body!”

  “Mmm, the truth is, there are times when I just want to jump up and run away, it hurts so much. The first time I felt the ink going into my virgin skin I thought, ‘I simply can’t go on with this,’ but recently I’ve pretty much gotten used to it. In fact, I’ve felt more pain at the dentist’s when he drilled my teeth without an anaesthetic.” The woman made a face. She wasn’t a beauty by any means, with her moon-shaped face and stubby nose, but she had an engaging smile and an amiable, vivacious manner.

  “It must take a lot of time to get elaborate designs like these,” Kenzo said, gesturing vaguely around the room. He still felt a little shy about having seen this attractive stranger with all her clothes off.

  “You can say that again,” said the woman. “I had the lines drawn on during the war, but I had to quit halfway through. Everyone who saw my unfinished tattoo at the public bath said that it looked really ugly and pitiful, so recently I decided to start again. If I had stuck with it without interruption, the process would probably have taken about three months.”

  “Oh, really? It must be a big decision to choose the design, since it isn’t like a kimono that you can take off when you want a change. And you can’t see the major part of the design yourself, unless you look in a mirror.”

  “That’s true,” said the woman. “But the really crucial thing with a tattoo is to find a skilled and talented artist, like Tsune here, to do the work. How about it, as long as you’re here? Won’t you get a tattoo, too, just a teensy little one?”

  “Don’t be absurd!” Instinctively, Kenzo crossed his hands across his chest, as if to protect his unsullied skin from the dreaded needles.

  The woman burst out laughing, covering her open mouth with her hand. “I’m only joking,” she said. “That wasn’t in very good taste, was it? The truth is, I’m so fervent about tattoos that I want everyone to get one. When I see a woman with a beautiful body at the public bath, I can’t help thinking that she’d look even better if she were completely covered with tattoos. Isn’t that awful? As if it was any of my business.”