Puppet Master vol.1

by Miyuki Miyabe

  　When Takegami had joined the squad five years ago, he'd been asked to write the sign because his handwriting was good. That case had been wrapped up within the week, and since it was such a good omen he was asked to write the sign for the next case too─and so it had become the custom. Just once, on another case when there had been another detective with similar experience but bad handwriting, the issue of which of them should write it had been solved by getting them both to do it, but that case had remained unsolved. “I guess you shouldn't split good luck,” Captain Kanzaki had said dourly.

  　Takegami sometimes wondered why Captain Kanzaki, who in all other respects was thoroughly rational with no time for superstition or omens or the like, placed so much importance on who wrote the sign, but he'd never directly asked him. Still, every time he wrote the signboard for a new case he felt responsible and just hoped his luck or whatever it was wouldn't fail him.

  　As soon as he entered the incident room Takegami would get on with the task allocated him. He was in charge of the desk. Of course this was just their nickname for it, not the official name for the job, but it was an essential role in any investigation, and each squad had a detective that specialized in it. In Squad Four, that was Takegami.

  　The desk's job was to keep all the burgeoning material, records, reports and so forth organized as the case progressed, as well as taking care of all the related legalities and documentation. These were all important tasks, but the former especially took experience and knowhow. The detective who had trained Takegami for the job had always said, “You need a meticulous character,” but Takegami himself didn't know about that. He was the first to admit he was unusually sloppy about himself and his immediate surroundings away from work, as his wife of twenty years could certainly attest.

  　Someone meticulous and neat might be good for compiling documents related to the judicial process, but keeping track of documents related to the investigation was something else altogether. An incident room would have at least eighty to a hundred people working for it, who would all be writing and submitting paperwork, borrowing files, returning files, wanting to see past statements and reports of on-the-scene inspections, and bringing them back again─that's what the job involved. The way they thought about and dealt with all these documents was random, so a meticulous person would be intent on keeping the documents well-organized and in proper order and would become irritable and nagging, constantly worried that files they had spent the day putting in order might be messed up again thirty minutes later.

  　Takegami wasn't like that. Rather than keeping things neat, his priority was efficiency. Whenever a special incident room was set up, he would take every opportunity to stress the importance of this to the detectives put in his charge. The best desk chiefs were as inconspicuous as a ninja. Ideally people would forget that they were there working away.

  　This time Bokuto Police Station had provided him with four people to work under him. Cases involving body parts tended to drag on for a long time, and the investigative area was usually bigger, so ideally he would have liked to have at least one more, but for the moment he would have to make do. Once he'd settled on the northeast corner of the room, by the window, for his desk, Takegami brought them together and, after getting them each to briefly introduce themselves, began his lecture.

  　“Have any of you ever been assigned to desk duty before?” he asked.

  　Of the four of them, two put up their hands. One had worked on an armed robbery incident room in the same police station, while the other had dealt with an attempted kidnapping for ransom case. Takegami asked them the name of the chief they had worked under. One had been under a lieutenant who had retired just as Takegami came in, while the other had worked for a sergeant who was drinking buddies with Takegami. Called Kimura, he too was a specialist in desk work, and was currently in Squad Two.

  　“Basically, my way of doing things is pretty much the same as Sergeant Kimura's. So you can put the knowhow you gained before to use as is,” Takegami told the detective that had put up his hand. “But I tend to use photocopies more than Kimura. I also make files of any miscopies. That's probably the biggest difference.”

  　Takegami briskly explained the basic work procedures. How to keep records, how to affix photographs in albums, the filing system, the telephone contacts book, press cuttings. Then he told them how to order the related documents according to the people concerned, the date, and all the facts, and to keep these on the desk.

  　“You can consult this for more details,” he said, pulling some stapled photocopies out of the battered old briefcase he carried everywhere. “This is my personal manual. It's handwritten, so if you can't read it please ask me. I omitted the official documents, since they're pretty much the same as those you deal with every day in the station, but in a homicide case there are some that are more complex. If you're not sure, feel free to ask. As long as the incident room is here, I'll hardly ever be away from my seat.”

  　This was no exaggeration. Unless he was specifically called up to the first emergency summons, he would not even visit the crime scene. His work came later. “This will be the same for you, too,” he pushed on quickly. He tended to be impatient, and anyway the desk job started from the moment the incident room was set up. There were a lot of documents to prepare in time for the investigation meeting to be held probably later tonight or in the early hours. He spoke as fast as he could.

  　It didn't matter which station he was sent to, Takegami could only maintain any semblance of formality at the beginning of his lecture, and soon lapsed into his regular form of speech. It was unlikely his subordinates were scared of his rough looks and husky voice, but many hesitated to ask questions when they didn't understand something so he made a point of stressing this. “If there's anything you're unsure of, however trivial, just ask. Teamwork is vital.” He kept hammering this point home.

  　“Until we get our suspect and have to attend court, you guys, too, will practically be nailed to the desk. You'll all have flat arses, I can tell you.” The youngest of the four detectives laughed. It wasn't an amused laugh, but rather self-mocking.

  　“When it comes to a big case, you'll be the office gofer providing plain old back-up support, and some people aren't happy with that. If you really think you can't stand it, you should tell me honestly. Not everyone's cut out for this role. And it's a problem if I get someone who isn't into it, so I'd rather know from the start and deal with it. Well then, shall we get on with it? First of all, pull up some desks and we'll decide on seating.”

  　Takegami looked each of the four in the face and, one by one, called their names and decided where they would sit. As he addressed them by name, each of them looked somewhat surprised─they weren't wearing name tags, but still he could already correctly match names to faces.

  　What made Takegami particularly suited to desk duty was in fact his exceptional memory. Rather than photographic it was typographic, and he could in a moment draw on any of the many facts stored compactly away in his head. This meant that often Squad Four officers would come and ask him something while he was on the desk. Didn't this word appear in so-and-so's statement? Was there a skylight in the kitchen of the house mentioned in the on-scene inspection report? Takegami could reply instantly. And from the great heap of files or the document shelves or his desk drawer, he could instantly produce the right record and turn to the page of the statement that had that word, or the page in the report with the sketch of the kitchen. By the time the surprised officer had started turning the pages of the file, Takegami was already on to the next job.

  　However, there were times when this prodigious memory was a burden. Today was one of those times. As he got down to work with his subordinates, suddenly Shinichi Tsukada's face popped into his mind; that dazed, anxious, little-boy-lost face. He was one unlucky kid, getting caught up in another murder case when the wound from his own family's murder was still raw. He'd said he was staying with a friend of his father'
s. Takegami wondered whether it was the kind of place where the boy could relax. How was he getting on at school? He hadn't been able to shake Shinichi from his mind and had poked his head into the meeting room again, but he had already gone home. He was slightly reassured to hear that someone had come to get him.

  　As he'd told Shinichi before, he had had something to do with the arrest of one of the murderers, albeit indirectly. He knew his name because he'd overheard the Chiba investigators talking about the case. Shinichi's name had been stored away in Takegami's head in the file labeled “victims.” It would be easy to find his contact details. If it wouldn't interfere with the present investigation, perhaps he should give him a call and find out how he was getting on, thought Takegami as he numbered the new files.

  　Then a new report came in.

  It was late afternoon by the time Yoshio took Machiko back to her house in Higashi-Nakano. She was lighthearted and cheerful all the way, and kept laughing over having worried unduly. Yoshio did his best to humor her.

  　But the news that Mariko's handbag had been found in Okawa Park was like an invisible hand holding his neck in a choke hold. If he didn't heave a big sigh from time to time, he found it hard to breathe. He didn't know how he should take this news, or how he should inform Machiko of it, which made it doubly hard. He was even more worried about her wild mood swings. Even if the arm that had been found wasn't Mariko's, and if he ignored the discovery of her handbag, the fact remained that Mariko was still missing. It was good that Machiko wasn't as hysterical as she'd been all morning, but it wasn't as if the situation was anything to smile about─but here she was, smiling and chipper.

  　When they entered the house, the faucet in the washroom was gushing water, the window in the living room was unlocked, and an ashtray had overturned and spread ash over the carpet. The state of things spoke volumes of Machiko's state of mind as she'd left home this morning, but she didn't seem to even notice it now. She just kept apologizing to Yoshio for having made such a big fuss, and asking if he was hungry, and if the shop was okay without him.

  　“Why don't you sit down for a moment? I'll get the tea.”

  　“No, no, don't worry. I'll do it.”

  　As Machiko stood in the kitchen, the front doorbell rang. Yoshio froze. It was probably the police. Without waiting to be told, he rushed to the front door and opened it to see a woman about the same age as Machiko. She peered around him as if trying to see how things were inside.

  　“Um, may I ask who you are?” she asked Yoshio.

  　“I'm Machiko's father.”

  　“Oh, that means you're Mariko's grandpa, right?” she said nodding emphatically, then lowered her voice. “Is Machiko all right?”

  　Yoshio didn't know what she was referring to and was at a loss how to answer.

  　“It was on the news …” the woman continued. “They said they found Mariko's purse.”

  　Yoshio hastily stepped out of the door, still in his socks, and the woman took a step back in surprise. “It's on the news, you say?”

  　“Yes, I heard it just now.”

  　Yoshio looked back over his shoulder. Machiko didn't seem to have noticed. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We just came back from the police station. The police are on their way now to inform Machiko about that.”

  　“Is that so?” The woman glanced around nervously. “If there's anything I can do to help, just let me know. I'm Mrs. Kobayashi, from the house diagonally across the street.”

  　Yoshio thanked her and, ushering her out, closed the door. She was apparently a local housewife, but he had no idea what terms she was on with Machiko and at this stage he didn't want to get a third party involved.

  　Machiko was humming to herself in the kitchen. A chill ran up his spine. The news! He mustn't allow her to put the TV or radio on. He tried to rush back to the living room, but his knee wouldn't move and he couldn't step back up into the hallway. Just like Machiko was trying to escape the reality by being weirdly cheerful, Yoshio wanted to escape too.

  　Machiko came out of the kitchen and into the living room and switched on the TV. Suddenly laughing voices spilled into the room. It sounded like some variety program. Yoshio closed his eyes briefly. He had to turn the TV off before the news came on. Just as he was heading back into the living room, Sakaki and the others turned up.

  Yoshio braced himself to greet the detectives, but Machiko welcomed them in cheerfully. “Detective Sakaki,” she said, coming out into the hallway. “I'm so sorry about today. Thank you for all your help.”

  　Yoshio's anxiety grew. Her emotion meter had been fluctuating so wildly in such a short space of time that the thermostat in her head had broken, and it simply hadn't occurred to her to wonder why Sakaki and the others had expressly come to her house, he realized. It hit him like a sharp stabbing pain in his stomach. Oh no, this is looking really bad.

  　Sakaki was with two others, an MPD detective in a suit and a woman police officer from Bokuto Police Station. Sakaki was clearly the eldest in the party. The detective, who gave his name as Torii, looked in his midthirties, while the uniformed policewoman was much about Mariko's age, and looked very nervous. They declined Machiko's offer of tea and cakes, but she busied herself getting some anyway and bringing clean ashtrays, as if nothing was amiss. All she could think was, That arm wasn't Mariko's, what a relief! It was as if she was embarrassed with herself for having made such a fuss. Yoshio went to turn the TV off, but she raised her voice and said harshly, “No, don't! I won't know when the news comes on if you turn it off.”

  　“Well, can I turn the volume down then?”

  　“Okay, if you must,” she said, returning to her cheerful mode.

  　Yoshio was concerned about how Sakaki and the others would react to this behavior. He also wondered about the large paper bag Detective Torii had been carrying─it was plain, with plastic handles, and was now on the floor beside his knees where he was seated. It was just about the right size to hold a woman's handbag.

  　“Mrs. Furukawa, please don't put yourself out,” Sakaki called out to Machiko in the kitchen, then looked at Yoshio. “Has she been like this all the time?”

  　Yoshio nodded. “It's not like her at all.”

  　Sakaki's expression darkened. Torii brought his eyebrows together and glanced over at Machiko, then looked straight at Yoshio. He was good-looking, but the corners of his mouth were downturned and he looked moody.

  　“Mr. Arima, about Mariko's handbag─”

  　“I heard about it from Detective Sakaki.” He was about to add that in any case, it was already all over the news, but thought better of it.

  　“Are you able to identify your granddaughter's belongings?”

  　Machiko was in the kitchen pouring out the coffee. It smelled good.

  　Yoshio shook his head. “I'm sorry, but I really don't know.”

  　“Well, there's nothing else for it then,” he said decisively and, standing up, turned to Machiko in the kitchen and said stiffly, “Mrs. Furukawa, please leave the coffee. There is something we would like to ask you about, so please join us if you would.”

  　Hearing herself addressed so brusquely, Machiko blinked in surprise. Yoshio couldn't bear it any longer and went to the kitchen, took her by the arm, and led her into the living room.

  　“You want me to sit here?” Machiko suddenly looked fearful. “Dad, what's going on? It wasn't Mariko, right? Has something else happened, Detective Sakaki?”

  　Yoshio put his arms around Machiko and helped her sit down. Sakaki looked flustered, as though he were having trouble finding the right words.

  　“Actually, Mrs. Furukawa, I … er─”

  　“Mrs. Furukawa,” jumped in Torii, interrupting Sakaki. “It was after you'd already come home, but we found something else in Okawa Park.”

  　Machiko flinched, and edged closer to Yoshio.

  　“We found a handbag,” he went on, leaning down and picking up the paper b
ag. He took out the contents and plunked them down one by one onto the table next to the ashtray. A brown handbag with a scattered beige pattern─the shoulder straps were long, so strictly speaking it was a shoulder bag. A matching wallet. A plain pink handkerchief with lace trim. A much smaller bag─more a pouch, really─in pale pink and with a zip fastener. Alongside it, probably its contents: a round compact, brush, mirror, square compact, and an open pack of over-the-counter headache pills. Each item was in a separate plastic bag and individually labeled.

  　Machiko was staring at them, her eyes wide open. Yoshio, seated next to her, could feel her body was rigid with tension.

  　“Are these your daughter's belongings? Do you recognize them?” Torii asked, his voice calm and businesslike. Yoshio wondered if he was always like that.

  　Machiko sat rigid, staring at the items, her hands on her knees balled tightly into fists. She didn't say anything, just kept breathing.

  　“What do you think?” Yoshio asked her quietly. “Are they Mariko's?”

  　The young policewoman stole a glance at Torii's profile─he was staring unflinchingly at Mariko's face─then leaned gently forward. “If they don't ring any bells right away, then I'm sorry, but perhaps we could ask you to check in your daughter's room, her drawers, etc. I'll help you.”

  　Yoshio could feel his hands breaking into a sweat and his heart beating irregularly. He looked sideways at Torii and Sakaki. What about her commuter pass holder? Wasn't it there? Hadn't Sakaki mentioned it before? That they'd found it?

  　“Well then, there's this,” Torii said, pulling something else out of the paper bag. Yoshio held his breath. The commuter pass …

  　Just then, Machiko murmured, “It's my daughter's.”

  　“What?” Torii leaned closer to Machiko. “What did you just say?”

  　Machiko was still sitting rigidly staring at the handbag, her eyes so wide open her eyeballs looked as though they were about to pop out. With just her lips moving, she repeated, “It's hers.”