The Silent Dead

by Tetsuya Honda

  Is this a progress report or a sermon?

  During Chief of Homicide Wada’s overlong speech, Otsuka’s eyes wandered around the room.

  Katsumata was sitting in the front row with his arms crossed and his eyes closed. Was the man smiling? What the heck was there to smile about? Otsuka had a bad feeling. No one in the task force, Katsumata included, was keen on rolling over for the Saitama police.

  Let’s hope Katsumata isn’t cooking up a nasty surprise for our squad.

  Himekawa sat biting her lip and sighing loudly from time to time. Otsuka sympathized with her irritation. She’d hit the ground running on this case. She’d solved the riddle of the sliced-open abdomen, figured out that Yasuyuki Fukazawa was in charge of dumping the bodies in the water, and predicted where Namekawa’s body would be. Sure, Otsuka tracked down the Strawberry Night lead, but it needed Himekawa to connect the dots and tie it in with everything else. Their searches of empty buildings had yielded zip so far; nonetheless, Otsuka was pretty sure—scrub that, he was one hundred percent certain—that something would turn up soon. The lead he’d gotten hold of was golden. He wanted to follow it up and close this case personally.

  Now, the whole case was about to slip out of their hands. While there was no guarantee that the Saitama Prefectural Police would catch the perp, it was looking likely that the Himekawa squad would lose its monopoly on the murder show lead. The bodies found in the Toda Rowing Course all predated Namekawa. Given their state of decay, the autopsies had revealed little, and so much time had passed since the actual dumping of the bodies that the neighborhood canvass wasn’t yielding anything either. Nor had Forensics covered themselves in glory. Their failure to identify the bodies was preventing the investigation from moving on to the next stage—interviews with the family, colleagues, and friends of the deceased. All in all, the Saitama Prefectural Police had an investigation but almost nothing to investigate.

  That only increased the chances of their wanting to muscle in on the Strawberry Night lead. It looked promising, as leads go. With eleven victims in total, it was pretty clear that they were looking at something far beyond a “normal” murder investigation. When everyone was looking for a way to make sense of the whole freaky case, the concept of a murder show suddenly seemed a great deal more plausible.

  So that’s why he’s got that creepy smirk on his face!

  Katsumata was probably desperate to pursue the Strawberry Night lead himself. He probably recognized that it was the key to the entire case. The trouble was, it was their lead, and Katsumata had as good as burned his bridges with the Himekawa squad. It would have been too much of a retreat for him to express any interest in their lead.

  The discovery of nine more bodies had resulted in a collaborative investigation, which was going to force the Himekawa squad to be open and upfront about everything they knew—and give Katsumata access to all their intel without so much as lifting a finger. Katsumata being Katsumata, he might have some other malicious plot in the oven too. Otsuka knew one thing about Katsumata: you never knew what he was thinking.

  Otsuka was feeling nervous about his rendezvous with Tatsumi. The reason was simple: the job he had asked Tatsumi to do for him was illegal.

  This was Otsuka’s first descent into illegality. He had his reasons, though. Good ones. Strawberry Night was the first major lead he’d dug up himself since his transfer to TMPD Homicide. His squad was under pressure with Katsumata and his goons snapping at their heels. The threat of the joint investigation with the Saitama police only added fuel to the fire. He had to do something soon to drive the investigation forward.

  That didn’t keep him having cold feet about the meeting with Tatsumi. It was set for five p.m. tomorrow. He would hand over the cash and get the information in return. Otsuka was afraid—but he had to go.

  When had the murders been committed? Who had committed them? Why? How?

  Otsuka ran through what they knew. It wasn’t much: “When” was the second Sunday of the month. “How” was by slicing the carotid artery after public torture. If Otsuka’s suspicions were right and one of the eight contributors to the online forum had actually attended the show—and if Tatsumi managed to identify him, then they would finally discover the “who” and the “where.” It would be a great leap forward for the investigation.

  Otsuka had managed to negotiate Tatsumi’s fee down to ¥240,000 for all eight. Although still a hefty sum for Otsuka, it was not unmanageable.

  Tatsumi had imposed conditions in return for lowering his price. He would spend two days on the job, and Otsuka would have to pay whether or not he succeeded in identifying all eight people. Otsuka swallowed the terms, despite the risk.

  Everyone in the meeting room was delivering their progress reports in turn. The current speaker was Kikuta, who was sitting directly in front of Otsuka.

  Otsuka himself had nothing significant to share today. In his head he ran through what he was going to say—the vacant buildings they had visited and what they had found in them. Of course, they had found zero evidence that any of them had been used for the murder show. Getting to your feet to deliver a dud report was tough, but everyone else was in the same boat tonight—the neighborhood canvass, the interviews with next of kin, vacant properties in other parts of the city were all “nothing to reports.”

  I’ve got to do it. I’ve got to go and see what Tatsumi found out.

  Otsuka clenched his fists to bolster his courage.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 25

  Just as he had done two days earlier, Otsuka took Kitami aside to tell him that he needed time alone to take care of something. “This will be the last time I do this,” he added with an apologetic little bow.

  “Officer Otsuka, I don’t want you to feel that you have to treat me any different from anyone else. I’m a total greenhorn as a detective,” Kitami replied, with a relaxed smile. “You do what you think needs to be done.”

  The guy’s more on my wavelength than I thought.

  They agreed to meet an hour later in front of Rockman, a music club that had gone out of business. Kitami went off in one direction, and Otsuka headed back to the hole-in-the-wall bar where he had met Tatsumi.

  It was five fifty-five when he pushed open the front door.

  “Oh hello, Officer Otsuka.”

  The mama-san gave him a friendly smile.

  “Tatsumi hasn’t arrived yet. Please, have a seat.”

  “Thanks.”

  Otsuka sat on the same stool as last time. The mama-san asked him if he was still officially on the job, and when he said he was, she poured him a glass of oolong tea.

  “You’re probably wondering what sort of relationship me and Tatsumi have…,” the mama-san said as she finished pouring.

  “No, not really,” he replied noncommittally and took a swig of his tea.

  There was a brief silence.

  “Tatsumi … he helped me out when I was in trouble.”

  The mama-san was clearly determined to confide in him, with or without his encouragement. She just wanted to enlighten him about the “good side” of his character.

  Otsuka never got to hear that particular story. Before she got started, the cowbell on the door jangled.

  “Hi, Tatsumi. Officer Otsuka’s waiting for you.”

  “You saying I’m late, woman?” he snapped.

  Like last time, he was wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt. He sulkily swung himself up onto the stool beside Otsuka.

  “Sorry for putting you to the trouble.”

  Otsuka had no reason to apologize. Somehow, though, the words seemed to say themselves.

  “No worries. Shit, man, the job was tough.” Tatsumi sighed wearily. “I estimated what time the contributors were most likely to access the sites, added on an hour either side as a safety buffer, and ran three PCs at full throttle. God knows how many times the site reloaded.”

  “Ah,” gurgled Otsuka.

  “Not the sort of job you want to do in two days.”

  �
�Thanks a lot. I owe you big-time.”

  Despite being desperate to hear what Tatsumi had found out, Otsuka couldn’t bring himself to come out and say so. The mama-san poured Tatsumi a beer. After the usual display of indifference, he drank it down with obvious relish. Otsuka watched and fidgeted, aware that he wasn’t any closer to getting answers. Unable to feign patience any longer, he fished a sweaty envelope full of banknotes out of the inside pocket of his suit.

  “Here’s your money. Count it.”

  Tatsumi took the envelope in silence, pulled out the wad of notes, and counted them. Twenty-four ten-thousand–yen notes—precisely as promised. Otsuka jammed the notes back into the envelope and set it on the edge of the bar.

  “There’s something I want to ask you before I hand over the data.”

  Tatsumi looked at Otsuka searchingly.

  Otsuka uttered a silent prayer. Don’t let Tatsumi confess that he failed to identify anyone. Was that the reason he was being all sullen? A wave of unease roiled Otsuka’s chest.

  Tatsumi set his jaw. “Are you investigating this Strawberry Night murder show? Seriously, are you?”

  His tone was disapproving.

  That was hardly a difficult conclusion to reach. The comments posted by the contributors on the list Otsuka had provided would have made that crystal clear. Trying to lie about it would be a waste of time. Still, Otsuka didn’t know why Tatsumi wanted to know. And the mama-san was a civilian with no involvement in the case. He had to be careful what he said in front of her.

  “Maybe I am.”

  That was as far as he was prepared to go.

  Tatsumi leaned toward him and lowered his voice. “My advice to you is to drop it. Don’t take it any further.”

  Now Otsuka was more mystified than ever.

  “It’s not like I’m doing this for fun. It’s part of an investigation. That’s why I asked for your help.”

  “My advice is the same—Don’t take it any further. The devil’s sitting right on your tail.”

  “Dammit, you lowlife. Just tell me what you damn well found out, okay?” exploded Otsuka. “It’s important.”

  “You go fuck yourself,” Tatsumi retorted. He swept his beer bottle off the bar and onto the floor. It landed with a thunk but did not break. White foam dribbled out onto the floor with a gentle gurgling sound.

  “Know why I hate you fucking cops? Because you’re all so damn stupid. These days information is a valuable commodity, something that’s bought and sold. You guys still think that flashing your badge is enough to get people to roll over and tell you whatever you want to know. You’ve got your heads up your asses.”

  Tatsumi pulled a small envelope out of his back pocket and smacked it down on the bar. He then grabbed Otsuka’s envelope of cash and headed for the door.

  “Tatsumi, wait!” Otsuka yelled at the retreating figure. For some reason his body refused to move off the stool.

  Tatsumi’s findings were sitting on the bar in front of him. Their deal was done, over. But what was all that stuff about the devil being on his tail? One thing was obvious: getting an answer would cost him. Tatsumi had made his position very clear.

  Tatsumi turned around at the door. “Listen, Otsuka. I have a conscience—and occasionally I even listen to it. I’m telling you this for your own good. Drop this case. Drop it right now. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  “I have one last thing to ask of you,” Otsuka said. “It’s clear that this Strawberry Night thing has you worried. And you believe it’s dangerous. If anything happens, call my boss, Lieutenant Reiko Himekawa. You can trust her. You have to promise me. Please.”

  Tatsumi stared at him with a look of annoyance and then turned away. With a jangle of the cowbell, Tatsumi disappeared without another word into the sweltering backstreets of Ikebukuro.

  The mama-san looked upset as she squatted down by Tatsumi’s stool and mopped the spilled beer off the floor. Otsuka noticed a small dent in the wall. The bottle must have hit it on its way down.

  Otsuka resettled himself on his stool and picked Tatsumi’s report up off the counter. It was in an ordinary long thin manila envelope. Inside were two sheets of paper. Otsuka wondered how many people Tatsumi had identified for his ¥240,000.

  He ran his eye over the two pages of text. All eight handle names were there! Tatsumi had managed to do the whole damn lot.

  Incredible! The guy actually did it!

  Otsuka struggled to keep a lid on his excitement as he ran down the list. It turned out that Tatsumi had not just provided the names and addresses of the eight people, but details about their jobs and bank accounts—even domain names and passwords in some cases. The report was a treasure trove of data.

  That Tatsumi’s quite a guy!

  Why then did he get so angry and storm out of the bar? Was it embarrassment at helping the cops? Was it that he didn’t want the mama-san to see that he was a good guy at heart? For whatever reason, Tatsumi had urged him to drop the case.

  Otsuka shrugged those thoughts off and gave his full attention to the report. He’d reached the sixth name in the list when a single word burst from his lips. “Him!”

  The name was a complete shock. At the same time, seeing it there in front of his eyes, in black and white, it made perfect sense. Otsuka had screwed up—badly.

  “The bastard!”

  The mama-san stared at him, shocked. Otsuka was past caring what she thought.

  That fucker! He was making a fool of me!

  Otsuka mumbled his thanks, punched the door open, and left.

  * * *

  Otsuka was in a bind. He needed to share his new information with Himekawa as fast as possible. The problem was how. He’d started a rogue investigation without consulting her. At least there was some time before the evening meeting kicked off. That was in his favor. For now, though, he needed to keep his appointment with Kitami. He headed for the music venue where they had agreed to meet.

  He went down into the underground concourse of Ikebukuro station and came out again at the east exit where he walked a short distance north, parallel to the railway tracks. The Rockman club, which had shut down two years ago, was located on the edge of a cluster of love hotels and sex clubs. The building’s once white walls were caked with grime and smoke stains and laced with cracks. Back in the day, the club had boasted its own colorful neon sign; now all that remained were seven rusting brown letters and a tangle of wiring. The skeletal sign looked as spectral and tragic as a rock star fallen on hard times, thought Otsuka—or was his imagination running away with him?

  There were still ten minutes until the rendezvous time, he thought—why not put the time to good use and do a quick reconnaissance?

  He noticed a gap between the club and the building to its right. It was an alleyway just wide enough for him to squeeze through. He followed it about ten meters to an open space behind the club. From the smoke and the strong smell of cooking, Otsuka guessed that the building behind it was probably a bar.

  There was a door in the back of the empty building. There was also a flight of stairs leading to the basement around the side, but the stairs were blocked by a fence with a locked gate. The back door looked like his best bet for breaking in.

  He put his hand on the knob and was startled when it turned easily—too easily, as it turned out. It went around and around without engaging. Probably stripped, he thought. He tried pulling the door toward him. There was an earsplitting metallic grinding noise as the door opened.

  That’s pretty damn sloppy.

  Inside, the club was pitch black.

  “Hello, anyone home?” called Otsuka, more out of habit than anything else, as he walked in.

  The stale, mold-tinged atmosphere was the same as in the Cherry Strip Club. Abandoned places all seemed to share the same sour smell. How many of them were there in central Tokyo?

  What with the long-drawn-out recession, the answer seemed to be: more and more all the time. Even in the bustling shopping and entertainment
districts, you didn’t need to venture much off the beaten track to encounter a rash of “To Let” signs. These vacant properties gave Otsuka the feeling that he was getting a backstage view of the city. He was privy to a secret that no one in the front of the house knew—that the whole gaudy, glittering metropolis was nothing more than a cheap papier-mâché façade. And out of sight, something incredible was happening—a murder show.

  A sharp squeal of metal interrupted Otsuka’s train of thought. Behind him, the door shut. He spun around but could see nothing. The little bit of daylight that had peeped through the half-open doorway had disappeared. Otsuka was trapped in the dark.

  Suddenly he sensed that someone else was there.

  Who?

  Before he could ask the question aloud, he was struck on the head by something hard. He felt dazed as strange colors flashed before his eyes.

  I’m screwed!

  Unable to stay upright, he sagged to his knees. A powerful light was directed at him from above.

  Gritting his teeth through the pain, he forced one eye open. His vision was blurred. He thought he could make out two sets of legs, one in jeans, the other in black leather pants.

  “Wait.”

  A young man’s voice? It seemed to come from Jeans. Leather Pants then passed Jeans the flashlight. Then—a deluge of blows.

  Someone was kicking him in the belly, the chest, the arms. A knee connected with his head. The assailant used his body weight to press him to the floor. Otsuka was unable offer any resistance as they went though his pockets.

  Who the hell are these people?

  His personal effects were tossed any which way onto the dusty concrete floor: his police badge, his wallet, his cell phone, his notebook, his handkerchief.

  Eventually, the young man found Tatsumi’s envelope in the inside pocket of Otsuka’s jacket. He pulled it out. Somewhere above his head, Otsuka heard the crackle of paper.