The first sharp words ever to come from the old man’s mouth stung. “Yeah, I’m a coward,” Masayuki admitted. “I know that. But what’s more cowardly is killing someone, leaving scars, and getting away with it,” he spat. He’d thought that for a while now.
Masayuki was crushing aluminum cans in front of his tent when Natsume came by. He had a shopping bag in one hand.
“Is Naka in his tent?” the detective called to Masayuki.
When he answered, “Yeah,” Natsume entered the old man’s abode.
Even after half an hour, the detective failed to reemerge. Wondering what was happening, Masayuki peeked inside.
“Masa, why don’t you join us?” invited Natsume, who was crouched in the tent. He was cooking a soup of meat, burdock, and carrots over the portable stove. Tearing off kneaded flour dough in thin pieces, he dropped them into the pot.
Pouring some in a large bowl, he handed it to Naka, who slurped the broth and ate with relish.
“Yum. Suiton, that takes me back.” Of late, Naka hadn’t had any appetite. It actually had to be delicious for him to be eating so wholeheartedly.
“It’s similar to suiton, but this is called hittsumi,” Natsume enlightened Naka.
“Huh, hittsumi. First I’ve heard of it,” the old man marveled.
Natsume had made three people’s worth, and he and Masayuki went to have theirs on a bench in the plaza.
What a strange man—that was Masayuki’s thought as he glanced at Natsume, who was holding his bowl and having a mouthful of hittsumi.
Knowing that he was a detective didn’t make him intimidating in the least. He was generous even to homeless people like them. The man was no doubt good-natured, but how did that work out for a cop? It was nice of him to treat them to a homemade meal, but was he actually investigating the case? Masayuki’s positive impression of Natsume as a person nestled next to countervailing doubts.
“About the office worker you mentioned the other day … whom Sho killed,” Masayuki began.
“Yes, what about it?”
“Do you think there’s a possibility that one of the bereaved killed Sho?”
“I could tell you were thinking that, too,” Natsume replied, looking straight at Masayuki.
“It’s a possibility, isn’t it.”
“The day before yesterday, I went to meet with that person’s father.”
So Natsume did suspect the family of the man who’d been killed by Sho.
“When his son passed away, he was living in Yokohama, but now he’s living alone in Shizuoka. We were able to confirm his alibi for when the case occurred.”
“And the victim’s mother?”
“It seems she succumbed to illness two years ago.”
“Oh …”
They were able to confirm an alibi for the father—this wasn’t Masayuki’s problem, but he was relieved to hear it. He felt surer that the culprits were the youths who had come by the park.
“There’s something I’d like you to see,” Natsume said, pulling a photo from his pocket. It was of a bottle of imported whiskey. “It’s the murder weapon from Mr. Aizawa’s case. We found it yesterday in a trash can at another park.”
Masayuki examined the photo. The bottle was covered in mud, and the bloodstains spattered on the label made it hard to read. But it said Macallan. “I don’t know if this is the same one, but Sho had this brand in his shack.”
“I see. I appreciate it,” Natsume thanked him.
Masayuki stood up from the bench. “Are we done? I need to work.”
“Just one more thing,” Natsume stopped him. “How old are you, Masa?”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“The same as me. This may not be any of my business, but how long do you intend to continue this lifestyle?”
Natsume’s words caught Masayuki off guard. “That really is none of your business,” he replied, chewing over his irritation.
“Just earlier, I spoke with Naka about you. I can’t begin to fathom the pain of losing your child. But—”
“You can’t!” flared up Masayuki. “How could you know what it’s like to grieve for your only son? It’s not just grief. After the grief comes the helpless emptiness. I’d been hanging in there to protect my dear family. But no matter how hard I tried, someone, some stranger, could just rob me of my happiness. What am I supposed to hang in there and live for now? Let folks who’re still happy bandy words like ‘hard work’ and ‘effort’!” Masayuki spouted before heading back to his tent, as though in flight.
That night in his tent, Masayuki drank for a change. Naka’s words, and Natsume’s, had pierced and lodged in his heart.
He’d thought that leaving that house behind might liberate him, if only a little, from the pain of mourning. If he kept living as a drifting weed, his heart might grow numb and easy; yet, the wound in his heart had only deepened. No matter where he ran, was there no way to run from his past in the end?
Suddenly, he couldn’t bear being alone. What a weak person he was. When he’d been with Saeko, her human presence had been so unbearable, but when he tried living alone, the inexorable loneliness of it nearly crushed him.
Masayuki took the bottle and headed to Naka’s tent.
“Naka, let’s drink together,” he called from outside.
There was no response. Was he already asleep?
Oh well—if he drank right next to him, the man might eventually wake up.
Masayuki turned over the tarp and went inside. He turned on the flashlight. He poured a drink into his cup and downed it.
“Naka … I respect you. You’ve been living like this for ten years. Alone … Might be beyond me … If I keep living like this, I might start not wanting to live at all … Because I’m weak … Hey, say something.”
Masayuki turned the light toward the sleeping bag.
He felt something was amiss and moved close to Naka’s face. The area around his mouth was stained red.
The moment Masayuki saw that, his heart started beating furiously. “Naka, Naka, what’s wrong!”
He shook Naka’s body. The old man let out an agonized moan. In an instant, Masayuki sobered up.
While he waited sitting on a bench in the hospital hallway, a doctor approached him. Masayuki stood and bowed.
“Are you family?” the doctor asked.
“No, I’m not,” Masayuki replied.
“Could you contact his relatives, then?”
“I don’t know them at all. Is Naka that sick?”
“It’s terminal lung cancer. How did he ever ignore it for so long? Unfortunately, there’s nothing that can be done at this point. All we can do now is take measures to reduce his suffering …” the doctor told Masayuki and left.
Masayuki weakly sank onto the bench and hung his head.
“You’re lucky. You can eat nutritious stuff while you’re here,” Masayuki said to Naka, who was in bed.
Two days after being brought to the hospital in an ambulance, Naka had regained consciousness. According to the doctor, however, he was still in an unpredictable state.
“Masa, I know you’ve got work to do, so don’t be visiting every day,” Naka said with a gentle smile.
“I’m getting it done all right. More importantly, I never asked till now but … do you have family?”
“Family … Nope, I was always alone,” Naka answered with a lonely little laugh.
“I see.”
What would happen when Naka died? With no one but Masayuki the wiser, would he be given a quiet pauper’s burial?
Masayuki almost sighed, but did his best to stifle it.
He heard a knock and turned around. The door opened and Natsume entered.
“How are you?” he asked, approaching Naka’s bed.
“Pretty good. When I’m discharged, make me hittsumi again.”
“I thought you’d say that, so I cooked some.” Natsume hoisted up the plastic bag in his hand. “I’ve checked with the nurse.”
“But
it’s probably cold. I can go microwave it somewhere,” Masayuki offered.
“No need. I know many people at this hospital, so I borrowed their kitchen and made this just now.”
So that was it—Masayuki understood when he heard Natsume’s explanation.
The homeless Naka had been treated quite cordially since being admitted. Perhaps Natsume had put in a word with the hospital.
Extracting a large plastic bowl from his bag, Natsume placed it in front of Naka. When he opened it, steam came rising out. Natsume pulled up a folding chair and sat next to Masayuki.
Natsume watched with delight as Naka ate the hittsumi. When the old man finished, the detective turned to Masayuki and said, “I’d like to speak with him, just the two of us.”
“In that case …” Masayuki stood up.
“It’s okay. Masa, stay,” Naka begged, exchanging looks with Natsume. “Please.”
Hearing this, the detective closed his eyes. He seemed to be thinking over something. When he opened his eyes, he looked at Naka and asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yup … Please.”
“I understand … We found out who murdered Mr. Aizawa—”
“Oh?! You mean … you caught those guys?” Masayuki, surprised, turned to look at Natsume, who sat down next to him.
But not meeting his gaze, Natsume instead stared at Naka and continued, “The fingerprints we found on the bottle used as the murder weapon matched the ones from the cup and bowl in your tent. You’re the one who killed Mr. Aizawa, yes?”
Appalled, Masayuki looked back and forth at the two’s faces.
What was the man saying? There was no way Naka was the—
“Yes.”
Masayuki’s eyes widened at the reply. “Why? Why would you kill Sho?”
“Looking at that guy started to piss me off. You remember that night, don’t you? Calling me a geezer, talking big …”
“But, just for that … I don’t believe it,” Masayuki appealed to Naka.
“Masa, I told you the other day, didn’t I? Living this life lays waste to your soul over time. If you get that, hurry up and wash your hands of it,” Naka told Masayuki off with a cutting look. Then, staring at Natsume: “You’ve been good to me. I don’t want to cause you too much trouble. I’m ready to go to prison or anywhere.”
“Please, the truth,” Natsume demanded, meeting his gaze.
“The truth?” Naka knit his eyebrows.
“You aren’t Naka, or Yasutaro Nakajima, but rather Yukihiko Motoki, the father of Yukiya Motoki whom Mr. Aizawa killed, yes?”
Naka shook his head. “Motoki? Who’s that … I don’t even know anyone by that name.”
“You probably saw the documentary Mr. Aizawa appeared in half a year ago. Even though his face was blurred out, you knew it was him from the tattoo on the back of his hand. Having learned that Mr. Aizawa was living homeless in Ikebukuro, you cast everything aside and chose to be close to him. In Tokyo, you sought out a homeless man your age and appearance and asked him if he wanted to trade places. That person was Yasutaro Nakajima, who’d always lived in Aomori but had come to the capital recently.”
“On what evidence are you—”
“I have evidence,” Natsume interrupted Naka. “Yasutaro Nakajima has a past, a record of three cases of assault. Running the fingerprints is all it takes,” the detective shut down Naka, who looked dumbstruck.
“Naka. You became homeless on purpose to get revenge on Sho?” Masayuki asked plaintively.
Naka didn’t try to answer.
“I doubt it …” Natsume spoke instead. “You probably didn’t become homeless intending to kill him. You wanted to know how he was living now, how he’d come to terms with the guilt of having killed your son. Yes?”
Naka replied with a small nod. “Yeah … I didn’t start living this way in order to kill him. If I’d meant to … I’d have tracked him down sooner. How much easier that would’ve been. Since Yukiya was killed, my wife and I bore a pain like our hearts were being torn apart. Even then, we somehow propped each other up and went on living. Times like that, only family who’re sharing the same suffering can support one another.”
Naka glanced at Masayuki, and Saeko’s face flashed in his mind.
“But my wife’s been dead for two years now … and when I got sick half a year ago and went to the hospital, they told me that I had lung cancer,” Naka offered up with sagging shoulders.
Masayuki glanced at Natsume’s profile. The detective was gazing at the man as he told his story.
“The doctor didn’t tell me exactly how many months I had to live, but I sensed that it wasn’t for long. I’d already lost my wife, my son. I thought about going to a hospice and spending my remaining days there. That’s when, by chance, I found out about that guy from television. At first, I just wanted to witness, before I died, the miserable life of the man who’d killed Yukiya. I started living as a homeless in Ikebukuro and, while looking for that guy, met Yasutaro Nakajima. Maybe because we’re the same generation, he treated me kindly. Although he wanted to go on experiencing life, he was in a position where living wasn’t easy. I was going to die soon. Thinking about that, I made a decision. To be by that guy up until the brink of death. If, during that time, I saw even the slightest bit of humanity or conscience in him, it might save me a little …”
“And so you changed places with Nakajima.”
“I gave him conditions for the trade. I’d sell my house and hand him what was left of my assets. He’d go someplace else but offer proper memorial services for my wife and son’s graves going forward.”
“Wait, if you did that, you wouldn’t be buried with your wife and son,” Masayuki pointed out.
“I was prepared for that. If I died, I’d already be with my wife and son,” Naka said with a mournful look. “But even after seventeen years, that guy hadn’t changed one bit. That night … Beating up the kids who launched fireworks at the tents, he said, ‘I wouldn’t give a shit if I beat you bloody and killed you’—then took their money. He talked like having nothing to lose was something to be proud of, like he didn’t even register or regret having robbed someone of something dear … At that point, the pent-up anger that I’d desperately held back exploded.”
“So you murdered Mr. Aizawa, who went back to his tent and to bed, by clubbing his head with a bottle.”
“Right … Considering the state my body is in, I might as well have confessed to the police. But … I wanted to be with Masa just a little longer … It almost feels like I’m hanging out with a grown-up version of my son …” Naka cast a lonely look at Masayuki. “Thank you for everything …”
Masayuki welled up with tears at the words.
“At any rate …” Naka sighed. “I thought we’d thoroughly gone over each other’s circumstances at the outset … To think that he had priors …”
Natsume stood up and placed a photo in front of Naka. It showed three people, who appeared to be Naka, his wife, and his son. “It was difficult to find. You must have disposed of all the photos you had.”
Naka held the photo and looked at it with longing. “When did you start suspecting me?” he asked.
“When we first met, I asked you your name and birthplace. Running your background check at the station afterwards, I had my doubts. Mr. Nakajima had priors for assault and battery, but you told me about yourself candidly and without hesitation. I thought someone with priors who’s questioned by the police should tend to demur, at least to some degree, loath to draw attention to his record.”
“I see …” Naka grinned wryly.
“It was after I made hittsumi in your tent that I felt certain.”
Naka looked at the empty bowl before him. “This dish?”
“Hittsumi is a famous local specialty in southern Aomori. If you lived in Hachinoe, then you should have known it.”
“You really got me there.”
“No, at the time, I really just wanted you to have a meal from back home and get bette
r,” Natsume clarified. “The one thing I couldn’t figure out is why we suddenly found the murder weapon. After the crime, you must have buried the bottle that served as the murder weapon. Why bother to dig it up and toss it in another park’s trash bin …”
“Even a fine detective can have one puzzle he can’t solve,” Naka said with an air of mystery.
But Masayuki knew the answer. What’s more cowardly is killing someone, leaving scars, and getting away with it—his words back then must have led Naka to that decision.
“Going so far for the murder of a mere homeless guy …” Naka said, turning to him. “Police aren’t anything to spit at, eh, Masa.”
“No person is a ‘mere’ anything,” chided Natsume.
“True …” Naka mouthed the word as though savoring it. “Maybe I didn’t just lose a house to live in back then, but also my heart. When I die, I wonder if I’ll go to the same place as my wife and son,” he asked Natsume.
“I hope you do.” Looking straight at the old man, the detective nodded slowly.
Masayuki headed to the elevator alongside Natsume.
“Oh, Mr. Natsume,” a passing nurse called out. “Are you visiting Emi?”
“No, not today,” Natsume answered, heading on to the elevator.
“Who’s this Emi?” Masayuki asked.
“My daughter is hospitalized here.”
“Why don’t you visit her, then?” Masayuki said.
Natsume thought about it for a bit, nodded, and replied, “Right.”
Deciding that he might as well also go, Masayuki followed after him.
They rode the elevator and walked down a hall; Natsume stopped in front of a room.
Natsume knocked and opened the door. A girl was sleeping on the bed. A whole bunch of dolls lay by her side.
“Emi, how are you doing?” Natsume approached the bed and affectionately stroked the girl’s hair. She didn’t react to his words at all. Masayuki wondered if she was asleep, but after watching for a bit, he sensed that that wasn’t the case. A tube protruded from the girl’s nose.
After talking to her about many things, Natsume came back towards Masayuki and told the completely unresponsive girl, “I’ll come again,” before quietly closing the door.
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