Gilmartin exposed the wounded leg and applied a fresh pressure dressing, while a nurse applied a direct manual pressure. The leg was unnaturally white, a sign that the femoral artery and vein were damaged. Further, the patient had clearly sustained a multiple fracture.
"What a bloody mess," he said. "Let's prep him for the theater."
The preparations continued. Fitzduane's blood pressure slowly improved to ninety to one hundred systolic and his heart rate had slowed to a hundred beats per minute.
He was now adequately resuscitated for surgery.
Thirty minutes had passed since his arrival at the hospital. It had been one hour and fifteen minutes since the shooting.
He was wheeled into the operating theater.
4
Tokyo, Japan
January 3
Chifune left sometime around dawn.
Adachi had opened one eye as she touched her lips to his but had not protested. She had never yet stayed a full night with him and refused to explain why, and what was just the way of it. In time things might change. Meanwhile, murder and kendo and lengthy lovemaking were exhausting. He drifted back to sleep.
He awoke officially when the alarm clock shrieked. The Japanese electronics industry was a great believer in innovation, and this ridiculous thing, which was a clock in the form of a parrot, had been bought for him one Sunday when they had been browsing around Akihabara. It looked horrible, the digital clock face that peered out of its stomach was obscene and sounded revolting, but it did wake him up and it had some sentimental value. Nonetheless, he was determined to shoot it one of these days. Which reminded him. Where was his gun?
He went hunting and found it under his socks. It was a .38 Nambu Model 60 with a five-chamber cylinder. It was not exactly state of the art compared to American personal firepower, but in peaceful Japan it looked like overkill. He buckled on the damn thing, and two speedloaders to balance out the weight, with regret. Orders were orders.
The thought came to him that the vast majority of Japanese had never handled a gun. Neither would Adachi if he had any choice in the matter, but weapons were not an option, even in the Japanese Defense Forces.
Adachi had had a good time in the paratroops but had never seriously associated the military life with the need to kill anyone. He just enjoyed the camaraderie and jumping out of airplanes. He regarded infantry badges and Purple Hearts that he had met at Atsugi during training. He just could not imagine deliberately killing another human being.
Adachi slurped a bowl of herb tea and ate some rice, a few pickles, and a little grilled fish. He bowed toward the ancestral shrine he kept in a niche of the living room and headed for the subway. He had looked a little hollow-eyed when he checked himself in the mirror earlier, but apart from a certain understandable fatigue — he had slept only about three hours — he felt great.
It was not yet seven in the morning, but the train was jammed with work-bound sararimen — male salaried employees in their uniforms of blue or gray business suits, white shirts, and conservative ties. Squeezed in between them were OLs — office ladies — the catchall title given to women office workers. Some OLs might have university degrees and other excellent qualifications, but even so, the serious work belonged to the men. An OL's job was to make the tea and dot he chores and bow prettily and get married. An OL was a second-class citizen.
Adachi thought of himself as moderately progressive, but he admitted to himself that he had more or less accepted the status quo until he had met Chifune. Now he found himself looking at OLs and other Japanese women with renewed interest. If Chifune was representative of the true nature of Japanese womanhood, Japan was in for some interesting times.
He slipped his folded copy of the Asahi Shibumi out of his pocket and scanned the news. There was another bribery scandal in the Diet, the Japanese Parliament, and the Americans were getting upset about the trade balance.
Nothing ever changed. He refolded the paper with some skill — it was an art form like origami to do such a thing in a subway car during rush hour, but you got good with practice — and checked the stock market. Nothing had changed there, either. The Nikkei was still going up. Day after day, that was all it did. Half of Japan seemed to be buying shares. Property values were going insane. Adachi was glad he had been a paratrooper. There was nothing like jumping out of a perfectly good aircraft to remind you that what goes up must come down. He invested, but cautiously.
The train swayed and Adachi looked up. Several feet away, a young and rather pretty OL was looking his way, an expression of subdued distress on her face. Then she looked directly at him, a silent cry for help in her eyes. The carriage was jammed. Pressed up directly behind her was a round-faced middle-aged sarariman, his face expressionless.
The practice was all too common. A man would press up against a woman in a crowded subway and grope her or otherwise excite himself sexually, confident that the woman would not complain. A Western woman would tear herself away from her assailant or otherwise protest. Japanese women were taught to be submissive. Other travelers, packed together but isolated in their own worlds, would not interfere.
Adachi sighed. Chifune would be the death of him. He squeezed toward the beleaguered OL until he stood beside her, then smiled at the sarariman. The man smiled back uncertainly. Adachi reached out and put his hand in a friendly manner on his shoulder and squeezed. He thought he had the place about right. The sarariman's face glazed over with pain and he went very white, and at the next station shot from the train as if rocket-propelled.
The girl looked at Adachi uncertainly. He had helped her, but this was not usual behavior. She was not sure what was coming next. Adachi winked at her and she blushed. He could not think of what else to do, and then he remembered that he had a bunch of these idiotic MPD public relation cards in his pocket. The cards featured the MPD mascot, a mouse called ‘Peopo,’ and promoted the emergency service 110 number and the name, rank, and telephone number of the officer concerned. It was the kind of thing you gave to a citizen and not to a yakuza, if you did not want to be laughed at. The girl looked reassured and gave a little bow of thanks. Adachi's station came up and he smiled briefly and left.
* * * * *
Adachi's team worked in a large open office on the sixth floor.
The layout was designed so that everybody could see what everybody else was doing. It was not ideal for concentrated individual work, but it was excellent for supervising and integrating the group.
There were thirty detectives, including the superintendent himself, in Adachi's department. The layout in this case consisted of three islands of eight detectives headed by a sergeant — with the remaining three desks by the windows occupied by two inspectors and Adachi himself, when he was not using his private office. Down the corridor were individual interview rooms, and anybody who needed privacy or to concentrate went there for the period necessary.
However, being apart from the group for long was frowned on. The group system, the basis of Japanese social culture, had served them well. The most frequently heard saying in Japan was “The nail that protrudes gets hammered down.” The system did encourage individual initiative, but only in the sense that it contributed to the progress of the group.
Personally, Adachi was surprised how many nails were protruding these days, but thought it had probably always been so in reality. The trick was to avoid the hammer, and the best way to do that was not to be perceived as a nail. Alternatively, the nails could come together as a group. One way or another in Japan, it was hard to avoid the group.
Most of the desks were occupied when Adachi walked in. His detectives were hand-picked, and selection for the elite unit was regarded as a privilege, but the level of commitment demanded was high. Typically his detectives worked seventy to eighty hours a week on top of commuting up to three hours a day and attending the near-obligatory group drinking sessions after work.
Quite a number of his men were unshaven and bleary-eyed from having been up all
night. The killing of the kuromaku was a serious business, and its resolution demanded every effort. Also, it was well understood that the twenty-four hours after a murder were a particularly crucial time. Physical evidence quickly got lost. Human memory had a short shelf life. You had to search and interview as quickly as possible. That was the well-understood routine.
Adachi felt a pang of guilt for not having been up all night with his men as well, but then reflected that in his own way he had been making a contribution to the inquiry. Anyway, his right-hand man, Detective Inspector Jim Fujiwara, was about as reliable as another human being could be. They had worked together for the last three years and knew each other well. Fujiwara, a stocky powerful man in his late forties, had worked his way up through the ranks. He had more street experience than Adachi and an encyclopedic knowledge of the yakuza. Their respective skills were complimentary and they worked together well. Adachi felt fortunate.
Adachi sat down at his desk and Fujiwara sat down facing him. A detective brought tea. He was wearing house slippers. Most of the detectives were. In Japan, workers spent so much time in their offices that it was customary to make yourself comfortable and as much at home as you could. And, of course, no one wore shoes inside the home. They were removed as you entered and placed by the door. It was a barbaric idea to bring dirt from the street into the home, and, anyway, outside shoes were not comfortable to relax in.
There was a pile of reports on Adachi's desk. It stretched several inches high. He might have sneaked in a little relaxation last night, but such interludes would be scarce until Hodama's killers were found. There would be work, work, and more work. It was the Japanese way.
Adachi gestured at the reports. "Fujiwara-san, I see you have been busy."
Fujiwara acknowledged the implied compliment. Specific praise was uncommon. You were expected to do your work as well as you could and you did it. Nothing else would be appropriate. There was nothing exceptional about doing your duty.
"We have completed the house-to-house questioning and we have in all the reports from the kobans and mobiles in the area. In addition, we have the preliminary pathology reports and those of the Criminal Investigation Laboratory. There have been some developments."
"The case is solved?" said Adachi with a smile.
"Not exactly, boss," said Fujiwara with a grin. "I think on this one we are going to earn our pay."
Adachi became serious. Fujiwara continued. "We now have several reports of two black limousines in the area around seven in the morning — within the time window, anyway. The models were current-year Toyota Crown Royal Saloons. They were noticed because the two cars were in convoy and there was some speculation as to what dignitary was inside. Otherwise there was nothing suspicious. The windows were tinted, so the witnesses have no idea how many people were inside or who they were. Still, we now have sufficient evidence to indicate that the killers came in went in those cars."
Tokyo was wall to wall with shiny black executive limousines, thought Adachi, and tens of thousands of them would be current-model Toyotas. It did not seem a promising line of inquiry. It was a pity the killers had not favored Cadillacs or Mercedeses. Both makes were comparatively uncommon and were favored by the yakuza. At least he would have a pointer as to where to look. Also, the good thing about leaning on the yakuza was that you normally got a result. To get rid of police harassment, the yakuza had the useful custom of giving up a suspect. The suspect might well not be the guilty party, but he would plead guilty and confess and the police could mark the case closed. In return, the nominated perpetrator would receive a light sentence and when he came out would be greeted by the gang and feted. It was a common way for a gang member to establish himself with his gang. It was, so to speak, part of the apprenticeship system.
Adachi had once described the custom to a visiting police group from the West, and they had been horrified. Personally, Adachi thought the custom had a lot to recommend it. No yakuza operated on his own initiative anyway; actions were always dictated from the top, so the idea of a specific guilt or innocence was somewhat academic. Second, the custom incorporated a built-in check on the crime rate. A yakuza gang did not mind giving up a member now and then for a few years, but it did not help practical operations or morale if half the gang was behind bars. Finally, it made the job of both the police and courts a lot easier, which was good not just for them but for the taxpayer. Everyone gained.
"Nothing helpful like a license plate?" said Adachi helpfully.
"And a signed confession," replied Fujiwara. "Nothing so convenient at the scene. However, a policeman in a koban several blocks away saw a Toyota Crown Royal Saloon of the right year and color parked, and took its number as a matter of routine. The driver was fiddling in the trunk. When questioned, he said he had had a puncture and had just finished changing the tire. The beat cop expressed his sympathy and let the man go, and apart from making a record in his log, thought no more of it. But when he was questioned again, he said one thing struck him afterward — the driver's hands were clean and his uniform was immaculate. Of course, he could have been wearing gloves when he was changing the wheel."
"Did he look at the driver's ID?" asked Adachi. The thought occurred to him that the drive would certainly have had gloves. Even the cabdrivers wore gloves in Japan, and a conscientious chauffeur would certainly come prepared for such an eventuality as a puncture.
"No," said the inspector. "There was no apparent cause. It did not seem polite to question someone who had just had a puncture who was obviously in a hurry."
Adachi grunted. Treating the citizenry politely was all very well, but like most policemen he believed that an extra question or two seldom went amiss. The innocent should have nothing to hide. Of course, everybody really had something they would rather not be known. He thought of Chifune and her secrets and the discretion with which they conducted their sporadic affair.
"One car, not two?" he said.
"One car," said Fujiwara. "Though it could have linked up with a companion nearer its destination. But the make, model, description, and timing fit."
"Was there anyone else in the car?" said Adachi.
"The koban cop did not know," said Fujiwara. "The windows were tinted. He said he thought he saw someone else in the passenger seat, but hadn't a clue about the rear."
"Put that cop on my shit list," said Adachi sourly. "He seems to think he's a social worker, not a policeman. What's the point of having kobans all over the place if the cops stationed there don't keep their eyes open?"
"He got the number," said Fujiwara, in defense of the beat cop. Actually, he thought Adachi's criticism was justified, but he had sympathy for the cops in the field. And the inspector had spent considerably more time working out of a koban than Adachi. "And we have traced it."
"This is not a TV quiz show," said Adachi.
Fujiwara laughed. "You'll like this, boss," he said. "It's registered to the Namaka brothers. It is one of their personal vehicles."
Adachi just stared at him. "Well, I'm buggered," he said. "First a lapel pin, and now this."
The phone on Adachi's desk rang. He picked it up. "Moshi, moshi," he said — the Japanese equivalent of ‘Hello’. The caller was brief. Adachi put the phone down and stood up. He checked his appearance.
Fujiwara spoke. He knew the signs, and it was not unexpected. "The top floor?" he said.
Adachi nodded. He had a thought floating around he could not seem to be able to grab a hold of. He headed out the door.
* * * * *
The Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department was headed up by the Superintendent-General. Like Adachi, he was a graduate of TokyoUniversityLawSchool and a highflyer. This high flying kept him busy mixing with the movers and shaker of the Tokyo power structure and much too busy with his social obligations to spend a great deal of time on actual police work.
The man who really ran MPD was the Deputy Superintendent-General, the DSG. And everyone knew it.
Adachi headed fo
r the elevator. A group of policemen heading up to a training session were also waiting, and it was clear there would not be room for all of them and Adachi. He was bowed into the elevator and no one followed. The group would travel as a group.
The Deputy Superintendent-General, Saburo Enoke, was not a graduate of Todai. He had gone to a quite respectable provincial university, but owed his advancement to considerable ability and enormous political cunning. The apparently mild-mannered Enoke-san was a force to be feared.
Adachi bowed with deep respect. The Deputy Superintendent-General had always treated him politely, but he could not warm to the man. He had a gray personality that revealed nothing. The eyes behind the designer glasses were intelligent but enigmatic. Enoke-san was an extremely hard man to read.
The chain of command, as far as Adachi was concerned, was clear-cut enough but potentially politically fraught. He was a policeman and a member of the Tokyo MPD and reported ultimately to the Deputy Superintendent-General. However, the direction of specific investigations came from the prosecutor's office. Additionally, both the prosecutor's office and the Tokyo MPD were, in the final analysis, responsible to the Ministry of Justice. And the ministry was headed up by the Minister of Justice, who was a politician and a member of the Diet; and Adachi's little department specialized in investigating corruption of Diet members.
Effectively, Adachi was reporting to some of the very people he was investigating. It was, he thought, an interesting relationship.
The DSG, in addition to the offices of his secretariat, had a conference room of some size at his disposal, and an even larger private office with windows on two sides and an excellent view of central Tokyo. It was generally considered a good sign if he used his private office for an interview. Such was the case on this occasion.
Rules of The Hunt f-2 Page 6