The Silent Dead

by Tetsuya Honda

  Otsuka stepped out of the north exit of the station and made a beeline for the first “fashion health” establishment—as blowjob parlors were euphemistically known—that caught his eye. It was in the basement of a rather seedy building that housed an array of business tenants. The staircase was stuffy and humid and reeked of mold. Sweat oozed out of their pores as they walked down. When they pushed open the rickety, gaudily painted door at the foot of the stairs, a blast of cold air rushed over them. It was like walking into a refrigerator.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  A woman, on the wrong side of fifty and caked in makeup, greeted them in a bored voice. She looked like an evil-tempered toad. She was sitting at a narrow counter with the photographs of around fifteen girls displayed on the wall behind her. A long hard look at each of the pictures revealed that none of the girls were that good-looking. Compared to the woman at the front desk, however, they were without exception ravishing.

  “These girls are available right now.” The woman swiveled around and pointed at a number of the photographs.

  “That’s not why we’re here.” Otsuka showed his badge. “We’re police.”

  The woman gulped and her body tensed. She was clearly up to something dodgy that she didn’t want the police to find out about. Reluctantly, Otsuka let it go. That wasn’t what they were there for. They needed information.

  “And we’re not from Community Safety either. We’re working on a case, and we’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Uh-huh.” The woman continued to eye them suspiciously but shifted on her stool to sit a little more upright.

  “Have any strip clubs or similar establishments near here gone out of business recently?”

  “Strip clubs?”

  “Yes, or lap-dancing clubs. That kind of thing.”

  “And you’re interested in places that have closed down?”

  “Correct.”

  “That’s a funny question.”

  The woman tilted her blubber-encircled neck to one side and had a think. Unfortunately, she came up with nothing. It’s the luck of the draw, thought Otsuka. He hadn’t expected much.

  “I’d like to ask a small favor.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Have you got any old sex magazines? Can we have them?”

  “Old magazines?”

  “Yes, from the last year or so.”

  “You really are a funny pair.”

  This time they’d hit the jackpot. The old woman brought out around twenty copies of the sort of sex magazines that you’d see on convenience stores shelves. They stretched back to the end of the previous year. It was a bumper crop.

  “They’re a bit grubby, sorry. You can have ’em all. Saves me chucking ’em out.”

  Otsuka thanked her. They left, with Kitami carrying the stash of magazines.

  We’re going to have to look through this lot, but a good strong bag would be helpful.

  The two detectives walked around to the west side of the station and settled down in the upper floor of a well-air-conditioned fast-food joint. They went through all the magazines, comparing the data on Ikebukuro sex clubs month by month. Strip clubs and burlesque clubs that had shut down or had a name change were their main focus.

  After a while, Otsuka noticed that a place called the Cherry Strip Club, which had both an advertisement and a write-up in the February issue of a magazine, had vanished by the March issue. He then checked to see if a new establishment had opened at the same address. There was nothing in March, or April, or May. The address was inside the cluster of love hotels near the north exit of the station. Otsuka could vaguely picture the area and even dimly remembered there being a strip club there. He made a note to visit the place.

  Kitami was looking through the more recent magazines. In the course of the case, he’d picked up the hang of basic fact checking, and Otsuka couldn’t fault his concentration or his ability. Kitami eventually delivered his verdict. Plenty of places seemed to be going out of business, perhaps due to the recession. The vast majority were blowjob parlors. In most cases, they were quickly replaced by another establishment offering the same service in the same location.

  Blowjob joints aren’t much use, thought Otsuka ruefully.

  After lunch they headed out into the field. They located the old Cherry Strip Club, which now lay empty. A sign on the front of the building included the address of a real estate agent, so they went to visit him. Otsuka’s hunch was right: the building had been vacant for six months now. With its distinctive layout, finding a new tenant was proving challenging.

  “The landlord might well renovate the interior so a different kind of business can move in. As you saw, the place is surrounded by love hotels, so there’s no point in opening another one of those. At the same time, no regular, respectable business would want to locate there. Frankly, the property’s a bit of a headache.”

  Otsuka asked the real estate agent for a tour, and he was happy to oblige. The three of them headed back to the narrow lane, wiping the sweat off their faces as they went. Since the front door of the building was an automatic door that wouldn’t work until the electricity was switched on, the agent took them in through the back.

  The interior was pitch black. The stale dank air was even more humid than outside and clung to their faces like dirty bathwater. The daylight coming through the open door revealed an officelike room with corridors snaking off on either side. The agent turned on the electricity, then led them through the building, switching on lights as he went.

  “This is the stage,” he explained.

  Otsuka was startled at the tiny size of the thing until he realized that most of the action must have taken place on the catwalk that stretched out into the auditorium.

  “Have you rented this place to anybody since the strip club closed?”

  “No.”

  “Not even for a short-term rental? A single night, say?”

  “No. See how all the fittings have been removed? The curtain’s gone, the stage lights don’t have bulbs, and the seating’s all been removed. The state this place is in, you couldn’t use it for anything.”

  You’re wrong there, pal. Looks good enough for a murder show to me.

  If anything, thought Otsuka, the bleak dinginess of the place made it an even better setting. He imagined the scene: Kanebara, bound, is carried out onto the catwalk; a sheet of plate glass is placed on his chest; then he’s pounded with something big and blunt—a bat, maybe. Drenched in blood and pinned at wrist and ankle, Kanebara tries to crawl away. He is squirming like a caterpillar when the perpetrator grabs him from behind—and slits his throat.

  How did the spectators feel as the show unfolded before their eyes? If they enjoyed it, they were simply inhuman. Otsuka would feel nothing for them, even if they ended up as the next victims. But if they felt sorry for Kanebara, then how come none of them had lifted a finger to help? Nobody had intervened when Kanebara and Namekawa were up there, being killed right in front of them.

  Guess a murder show audience is the wrong place to look for compassion.

  “Have you seen what you need?”

  Otsuka snapped back to himself.

  Despite the agent’s having told them that he hadn’t rented the place, it wasn’t hard to imagine someone sneaking in and using it without permission. Provided they could get through the locks, setting things up in an abandoned place like this was probably more convenient. Using the back door was good for the spectators, as it reduced their chances of being seen.

  Himekawa had needed nothing more than a few postings on online chat rooms to intuit that they should be looking for a place like this. The woman had a sort of sixth sense. This abandoned strip theater seemed to be crying out to host a murder show. Himekawa had also played her cards pretty smartly to make sure that the top brass gave this lead to her and her alone. She’d led Director Hashizume by the nose and done a great job of sidelining Katsumata too. You didn’t learn how to manipulate people that way fro
m hard work or experience. No, it was raw, God-given talent—and a talent that Otsuka didn’t have.

  I can’t change who I am. I’ll keep slogging on.

  Otsuka took a last look around the little auditorium.

  Wonder if it’s worth getting Forensics in to give this place the once over?

  Otsuka already had something interesting to report on at the evening meeting. He felt a warm glow of self-satisfaction.

  * * *

  They also visited a burlesque club and a transvestite bar, both of which were under new management and trading under different names.

  The burlesque club, they discovered, had only been empty for a couple of weeks between mid-March and early April before it secured a new tenant. That two-week window didn’t cover the second Sunday of either month so the probability that it was used for Strawberry Night was almost nil.

  They learned about the tranny bar from a second real estate agent. It had stood empty between March to May after the previous tenant did a runner. By coincidence, the new tenant opened another tranny bar. When Otsuka asked if the place had been let to anyone during the roughly three months it was unoccupied, the answer—just as with the Cherry Strip Club—was no.

  Otsuka got the real estate agent to show him around. It was more about his developing a feel for potential locations than anything else. The bar had been completely renovated, the agent explained, and now looked quite different, with a new floor, walls, and ceiling. Even if the place had hosted Strawberry Night, going over it now would turn up nothing. With all the old fittings gone, Forensics wouldn’t find traces of blood. Anyway, it was difficult to make the case for checking an establishment that was in day-to-day operation, based on nothing more than a hunch.

  At 4:50 p.m., Otsuka and Kitami were standing at the head of some steps that led down into Ikebukuro Station. Otsuka turned to face the other man. “I am very sorry, but…”

  “Yes?” Kitami frowned slightly. “What is it?”

  Otsuka finally got his courage up. “Uhm … How can I put this? I need you to give me an hour. There’s something I have to do—alone.”

  “You mean now?”

  “Yes. I’m very sorry to ask this of you.”

  Kitami’s frown deepened.

  Otsuka had an appointment, and given who he was going to meet, it was better for a fast-tracker like Kitami not to be involved. Otsuka didn’t dislike Kitami. That was why he’d told Kitami up front that this was something he needed take care of on his own.

  “Lieutenant Kitami, whenever I’m partnered with a local precinct detective, from time to time I chase down my own leads. It’s routine, really. All the detectives in Homicide … all the detectives in the Met do it. But you’re on the management track and, in the future, we’ll probably cross paths again under different circumstances. More importantly, you’ve treated me fair and square and been a good partner to me. That’s why I’m being frank. All I need is one hour. Just give me that.”

  Otsuka concluded his speech with a bow. Kitami pulled himself to his full height and said nothing. Otsuka couldn’t see Kitami’s face, but the silence was starting to feel uncomfortably long.

  “Officer Otsuka, that’s enough bowing.”

  Otsuka was surprised at the chilliness of Kitami’s tone. Was he pissed at being sidelined? Was he shocked to discover that everyone in the TMPD flew solo from time to time? Either way, it was a natural enough reaction, and Otsuka could not resent it.

  Sorry, Lieutenant, but the one thing I can’t tell you is the truth.

  Otsuka was about to launch his own rogue investigation, and Kitami would be better off left in the dark. This way Kitami would have complete deniability if things went pear-shaped.

  “I apologize,” said Otsuka, raising his head. “I can see you don’t like this.”

  “It’s all right. I understand.”

  The smile on Kitami’s face was so clearly forced that Otsuka couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.

  “I know what I signed up for. The station commander only let me join the task force because I begged him to. When he said yes, I promised I wouldn’t slow you guys down. Getting out of your way is the right thing to do.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  Kitami was busy examining his expensive-looking wristwatch.

  “I’ll need to kill time until six. Where shall we meet?”

  “I’m sorry, but let me call you,” Otsuka said, with a small bow. “We can go back to the station together. Will that be all right?”

  Kitami silently nodded his assent.

  * * *

  Otsuka’s contact, Keiichi Tatsumi, had arranged to meet him in a bar.

  The interior of the bar was narrow and deep, with room only for six people at the counter. Although it was the weekend, a customer showing up so early was obviously unusual, and the mama-san eyed him with suspicion.

  “Come on in,” she said warily.

  “I’m meeting someone here.”

  The woman grinned as the penny dropped.

  “Oh, you must be Keiichi’s friend.”

  With an elegant wave of the hand, she indicated a seat at the bar.

  Keiichi Tatsumi lived in a different world from Otsuka—the underworld, basically. His business was tailing people, doing stakeouts, wiretapping, photo surveillance, hacking. He dealt in information, and provided someone was footing the bill, he had no scruples about how he got his hands on it.

  His most important client was the Yamato-kai, Japan’s largest organized crime group. Back when Otsuka was working as a precinct detective, he had busted Tatsumi and got him prosecuted for B&E. The court sentenced Tatsumi to two years’ jail time suspended for three years. Tatsumi had the distinction of being the only criminal Otsuka had ever nailed himself. No surprise that he hated Otsuka’s guts. Ironically, Otsuka could think of no one better qualified for the job he had in mind.

  At five past five, the cowbell suspended on the front door of the bar jingled. A man in a garish Hawaiian shirt came in. It was Tatsumi.

  “Hi there, Kei-chan. This gentleman is wait—”

  Tatsumi sat down next to Otsuka without so much as a glance in her direction.

  “Why in the name of fuck did you get in touch?” Spitting out the words, he peeled off his black-framed sunglasses. A nauseating smell wafted over from the gel smothering his dyed blond hair. When he placed his hands on the counter, Otsuka noticed that the tips of the fingers of his right hand were black with grime.

  “I appreciate you taking the trouble.”

  Otsuka made no move to explain why he was there. He was unsure how to broach the matter. The mama-san broke the silence by asking Otsuka if he’d like a drink. He asked for “anything nonalcoholic,” and she poured him out a glass of oolong tea. Tatsumi opted for a beer. He made a show of indifference as he brought the bottle up to his lips but seemed happy enough to drink it. Looking at him out of the corner of his eye, Otsuka seized the moment.

  “There’s … uhm … this job I want you to do for me.”

  Tatsumi choked, spat his beer out, and went into a violent coughing fit. He pounded himself on the chest to get himself back under control, while the mama-san reached over to wipe the beer off the counter.

  “What the fuck?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Tatsumi put his beer bottle down on the counter. His jaw was tight as he stared at the shelves lined with whiskey bottles behind the bar. The mama-san looked at the two of them inquisitively but was tactful enough to say nothing. A tense, oppressive silence filled the small space. Otsuka was wondering if he should say something, when Tatsumi spoke.

  “You’ve got a heck of a nerve. First you get me banged up, then you come waltzing in and ask me to do a job for you? If a cop is coming to a guy like me, then it’s got to be something shady. Is it even legit for a cop to work with someone with priors?”

  “I know how you must feel,” Otsuka said, after thinking about
it for a while. “This is a big request. But you’re the only person who can do this. There’s no one else.”

  “This is crazy, man. Totally fucking crazy.”

  “I know.” Otsuka tucked his chin down apologetically. “At least hear me out, okay? My whole career, I’ve been a background guy, supporting other cops. Arresting you—that wasn’t my usual style. I’ve got almost no collars to my name. In fact, you were my first and only. Right now, though, I’m working this homicide case, and I’ve stumbled onto a really major lead—big and seriously weird. The crime was abnormal, unusually brutal and complicated too. We need to investigate the lead. It’s a good lead, but as regular cops, we can’t do anything with it.”

  “What are you talking about?” sneered Tatsumi. “You’re not making any sense.”

  Otsuka understood where the man was coming from, but he was in a bind. He couldn’t give away too much in case Tatsumi refused to take the job, and he certainly wasn’t going to explain the dynamics of his relationship with Himekawa.

  That leaves me no choice …

  Otsuka looked over at Tatsumi quickly, briefly meeting his eyes. He ducked his head and climbed off his bar stool. Otsuka squeezed himself into the narrow space by the wall and prostrated himself at Tatsumi’s feet.

  “Tatsumi, I’m begging you. Don’t ask any questions. Just take the job. Please.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Tatsumi sneered.

  Otsuka stayed flat on the floor.

  “That’s enough of that,” said the mama-san, coming out from behind the bar.

  Otsuka refused to get up. “I’m begging you,” he said, grinding his forehead into the worn crimson carpet. “Please take the job.”

  Otsuka didn’t feel that he was making a fool of himself. It was his only option, and if he persisted, he would eventually get what he was after. He was sure of it.

  After a while, Tatsumi exhaled heavily.