by Tobias Hill
The second extant portion of tattoo, on the deceased’s right thigh, is a floral design of chrysanthemum and almond blossom. The outline of the far-right blossom is executed in micro-calligraphy. The twenty-four characters are too small to be read with the naked eye, and were only noticed when the skin was forensically examined. Possibly the deceased was unaware of the script himself. Micro-calligraphy is particularly difficult to carry out with tattoo needles. This suggests that ‘Hori–’ is or was an exceptional artist. There is some probability that he is well-known in his field. I am currently making efforts to identify the tattoo artist’s work through other ‘skin-diggers’ in the northern isles and on the mainland. The microcalligraphy is a sutra, written in Sanskrit. The sutra translates as ‘God is just. God is all-seeing. God forgives.’ Efforts to identify the deceased through Yamaguchigumi contacts and interns over a period of nine months have revealed no relevent information.
The last surviving portion of the tattoo is a section of chest skin. The illustration is damaged, but the colouring is primarily red. According to Dr Tanigawa, until recent years Japanese red tattoo ink was made from cadmium. Toxic shock and fever from the ink were common, and occasionally victims would die. However, forensic tests, (see [4]), have shown that the deceased was in his late fifties or early sixties. Fading and corruption suggest that the tattoos are at least forty years old. If it had occurred, cadmium poisoning would have set in immediately after the tattoos were inscribed. No other useful portions of the body-tattoo have survived.
(2) Mr Kim Sugihara, witness. (Sugihara is a tenant farmer in Long Headland District, near Yoichi town, and rents 14 hectares rice paddy/barley field owned by Morinaga Ltd, land adjacent to the trailer home where he found the deceased on 2/9/1992.) Since confirming to police that the trailer home had been inhabited prior to the incident, Mr Sugihara has become less cooperative. He has implied (but will not state) that he has been visited by Yakuza employees since the incident. Mr Sugihara’s health has also deteriorated since the incident, and unfortunately (or coincidentally) he has now been diagnosed as suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Mr Sugihara has been unable to give any description of the occupant whom he never formally met. Most crucially, he has not been able to identify the deceased as the last occupant of the trailer. Other members of the Sugihara family have been unforthcoming. No other witnesses have come forward. House-to-house questioning has been attempted twice in a five-kilometre radius.
(3) Personal seal. (Used on land purchase documents for a cash transaction between Morinaga Ltd, the Seller, and Hikari Basho, the Buyer, signed and agreed on 8/2/1992; 1.2 hectares undeveloped land and contents, one General Motors trailer home.) Investigations last year showed that the name of the Buyer and his personal seal were not officially registered. Since then three leading Otaru City seal-makers and a professional calligrapher have confirmed our belief that the Buyer’s seal is not Japanese; that the two characters printed by the seal are Hong Kong Chinese; and that the design is archaic and abstract to the point of incomprehensibility. There is no consensus among the experts on the meaning of the characters. Two of the Sapporo seal-makers have suggested that the seal-mark is an amalgam of two characters, ‘Basho’ and one other.
Forensic studies suggest that the seal was made of a hard impermeable material such as onyx, agate, etc. The style of the characters is not attributable to any of the well-known Hong Kong seal-makers. The ink used was standard Japanese charcoal-based congealed ink, matched to samples from the Morinaga offices.
(4) Forensic identification of the deceased. As previously noted, acid damage to the upper head, face, hands, chest and upper back was extensive. It was also 12–13 days before the deceased was discovered by Mr Sugihara. Photographic files, dental records and fingerprinting have been less than accurate. DNA samples of hair and sperm have not matched any of those few available on record. The remaining molars and wisdom teeth, and a segment of print from the base of the left ring finger, have positively identified 32,455 convicted Yakuza, including 2,600 who are currently serving penal sentences. A majority of these criminals are affiliated with the Yamaguchigumi organisation.
Blood samples taken from the deceased’s clothes and body have tested as B Positive (moderately uncommon, 20 per cent of Oriental males). Overall physical condition suggests a large, muscular man in late middle-age. Unfortunately only a minority of convicted Yakuza in this age group were blood-tested when they were criminally active ‘on the streets’. Many have been promoted to honorary positions of authority within the criminal organisations, and it would be problematic to request they answer questions at this time. As noted above (1), other inquiries among Yakuza with Yamaguchigumi connections have produced no new information.
The deceased suffered slightly from piles and stomach ulcers, suggesting an unhealthy diet and, possibly, stress. In his late teens the deceased contracted chicken-pox and shingles. Callouses on the hands and feet point to an active lifestyle. The head hair was long, though much of this growth may have occurred after death. The deceased had recently eaten a large meal of beef, fish, soya beans, rice and beer. There were no gunshot wounds on the deceased (see [5]).
(5) The trailer home. On 4/1/1993, the area of land on which the trailer home stood was leased freehold by Morinaga Ltd to StoneRiver Industrial Laboratories. The trailer was transported to Otaru Police Station, and was stored in a rented warehouse until August of this year. At that time Chief Constable Ezo Murasaki judged that no more could be achieved by continuing to store the vehicle and I arranged its sale as scrap on 28/8/93.
The trailer consisted of three rooms – a bedroom/lounge, a mini-kitchen and a bathroom. Initial fingerprinting of the vehicle last September produced limited results; those found in the bedroom and the mini-kitchen were extensively defaced by mildew and moisture. Blood samples found on the exterior of the wok above the cooking range matched those of the deceased, B Positive. In the rear wall of the mini-kitchen were two small bullet holes. The bullets had been fired from inside the trailer. One bullet has since been found embedded in a eucalyptus tree by Route 5, 120 metres from the trailer. The bullet is 9 mm and matches the exit holes in the mini-kitchen.
The trailer stood on four brick-pilings, and had moved slightly prior to the discovery of the body. This, and the internal destruction of fittings and furniture, may indicate a violent struggle.
The fragments of industrial ceramic in the mini-kitchen and outside the trailer bore traces of hydrochloric acid. A further two ceramic bottles marked HCl were found empty in the badly damaged front area of the mini-kitchen. All four bottles appear to be standard industrial acidware, made in Japan by Nikkei Laboratory Products. With the permission of Chief Constable Murasaki, I have kept the acidware (#42–50) and a sample of calligraphy found in the bedroom/lounge (#127) for further examination.
The tyre tracks found outside the trailer have been identified as all belonging to one car, probably a Mercedes (though in the 12–13 days before the deceased was discovered, it rained at least three times). The car was parked within 1 metre of the trailer door and damaged a crop of recently harvested soy bean plants as it reversed out of the enclosure. A shovel (#242), pruning saw (#243) and hoe (#244) have been tentatively identified by Mr Kim Sugihara as the property of a previous occupant of the trailer, a Korean farmworker called Kim Mori who lived in the trailer during the rice harvests of 1987–9 (this individual is not officially registered to work in Japan and has not been located). Along with the farming implements, a Toshiba microwave oven (#112), a Sanyo rice steamer (#113) and four fire-blankets (#114–17) were found stored under the trailer base.
The body of a large yellow, female dog was found beside the trailer, killed by a single blow to the neck with a hard object. Time of death matched that of the deceased to plus/minus 48 hours. The remains of the animal were incinerated on 20/9/1992 on the instructions of the Police Coroner.
RECOMMENDATIONS – I have been advised by Chief Constable Murasaki that the resources a
vailable to pursue this investigation are finite, and that an exhaustive study of previously convicted Yamaguchigumi-affiliated Yakuza is not practicable.
It is now a year since I began my investigation into the cause of death and the identity of the deceased in this case. In that time the case, and this officer, have been relocated from Otaru City Head Office to the Canal District Sub-Office. The case has consumed much of my time and there have been suggestions that my commitment has been excessive. I have been advised to close the case at this time.
I must recommend that this case remains open. This form may also be taken as a letter of resignation, although I would like to make clear that I hope to continue serving as an active police officer, and I submit my resignation only since I am disobeying an advisory order and it is my duty to do so.
The primary reason for my recommendation is that I believe the evidence suggests premeditated murder of a retired Yakuza by his organisation. ‘Washing the feet’ is the phrase used to describe a Yakuza who attempts to leave the organisation. This is punishable by death within the Companies, on the principle that a Yakuza may not withdraw from the blood oaths he has made, even in old age. Execution of this kind is a capital offence under Japanese law.
According to my study of police files, Yakuza attacks on retired members have never occurred in Otaru City – a surprising statistic. During the course of my investigations, I have been told repeatedly by fellow officers that the punishment of ‘washing the feet’ is a Yakuza duty, not police business. Among certain officers there is an element of respect towards the strong martial organisation and traditions of the Yakuza. I am disturbed to think that if this investigation is closed, a capital offence may be pardoned as capital punishment.
Additionally, I believe that there is sufficient evidence to warrant keeping the case open. It is unfortunate that due to the time-scale of the incident and acid damage, more than 90 per cent of the body-tattoo has been destroyed. However, what remains of the design is as unique as a fingerprint. More effort could be made to locate the tattoo artist since this would provide a direct lead to the deceased. Furthermore, and despite the premature decision to scrap the trailer, several dozen partial fingerprints remain on police files. Composite computer reconstructions could provide a more accurate shortlist of Yamaguchigumi criminals.
Also worth investigating further, in my opinion, are: the personal seal (#302); the sample of ‘grass-writing’ calligraphy (#127), which appears to be a haiku poem; and the dog (#9), which had distinctive coloration and markings. I also recommend door-to-door questioning over a wider area, specifically to determine where the inhabitant of the trailer bought food and supplies.
Report completed on 14 September 1993.
Please consider me favourably,
SIGNED: Constable Yasuhiro Abé.
3: Designs
‘Come on, before someone else gets it, stupid, don’t you see it? Catch me that one!’
She wore a small blue-and-white summer kimono and miniature wooden clogs. The summer kimono was belted over-tight and the clogs clacked against the asphalt as she wormed through the crowd, clutching an older boy in a Lower School uniform. ‘The one that looks like a little banana. Qui-ick!’ She had small, raised eyebrows and round eyes. Tomoyasu could see the boy adored her, but he was too indecisive with the rice-paper scoop, following one lithe goldfish as it swam along the cool bottom of the tub, dipping the scoop too often so that it became flabby. He sighed and the girl clicked her tongue against her teeth, her face comically dismayed. Finally the gunge of wet rice-paper dropped off into the pool with a plop. Bronze, black and gold minnows swarmed up towards it and were caught by a laughing man with a scoop in each hand and two grown daughters. ‘How’s that, eh?’ He pointed the scoops at Tomoyasu, fish jack-knifing languorously in their soft traps. ‘Fast, ain’t I? Too fast to see, weren’t I?’
Tomoyasu stuck his cigarette in his mouth and grinned back. He nodded, not answering anything in particular, just watching the girls. They were a year or two younger than Tomoyasu but that didn’t make so much of a difference anymore. One had a ponytail, like an American girl Tomoyasu had seen at a gambling nightclub in Tokyo. The other wore a summer kimono, brightly coloured for the Star Festival. They moved together to one side of their father, whispering, smiling at Tomoyasu and at each other. The smoke from the Lucky Strike was hot in his eyes and he concentrated on getting the man’s three fish into an oilpaper bag.
He filled it with spare water from a canister under the stall and shucked the fish in. They were metallic-skinned, lethargic in the heat. ‘Congratulations. Three golden treasures.’ He handed the bag to the girl in the summer kimono and watched them go until they were lost in the crowded festival market. The girl with the ponytail looked over her shoulder just once. He waited for it, smiled when she did it, bowed at her as he smiled. He imagined her face at the point of orgasm. It was the most beautiful thing in the world.
‘Tom. Hey! Tom!’ He looked up. Kozo was at the next stall, grilling ruddy tentacles of octopus on a broad iron skillet. Sweat sheened his tanned face, darkening his happi coat and pouched money-belt. ‘I’m sick of the smell of this junk food, Tom. Will you swap for a while? What time is it?’
He looked like a farmer, thought Tomoyasu, with his bandanna and red face. But below the short, wide sleeves of the happi coat, the skin was illuminated with pictures. On the left arm the tattoos were already almost complete. Cherry- and plum-blossoms discoloured the skin, symbols of courage and quick, beautiful death. Two months’ work for the tattoo artist and four months’ wages for Kozo, except that his father the bar keeper had paid half the fee. He’d introduced Kozo to the tattoo artist, too. Between the flora there were outlines in charcoal-blue, still scabbed and puckered.
The crowd were less rowdy by Kozo’s stall. The children stood behind their parents’ backs or held on to their legs, wide-eyed. The men used a respectful level of language. The other stallholders called Kozo by his family name, Ishikawa. Many of them knew the family. Tomoyasu felt his stomach tighten with envy.
He glanced at the cheap American watch on his own pale wrist. ‘Only three o’clock, we’ve hardly started. But of course, let’s change, eh? I’m hungry, anyway. Smells good.’ He moved to the octopus stall, took a square of red cotton from his apron and rolled it to make his own bandanna. The heat from the skillet seared his breath. He picked up a small curlicue of flesh and chewed, enjoying the sweetness. From here he could hear the mah-jong players in the park, the clatter of bamboo pieces loud as the plotch of frying meat. He concentrated on turning the octopus tendrils and allowing time to pass unnoticed. It was August and the shadows grew long and well defined between the street-trees and shopfronts.
Some time before midnight they packed up the stalls, washed the last of the canister water over their heads, scrubbed at the smoky grease on their faces and necks. After packing away, they sat with the other stall-holders on upturned crates, drinking chilled rice wine in the warm night air. There were few townspeople left in the streets, drunk men singing and lurching home. The stallholders collected in their takings and drank quietly. Besides Tomoyasu and Kozo, only two or three were local. Most spoke gruffly with the strong accents of Osaka and the southern island of Kyushu. One man came from the far northern prefecture of Aomori. He cursed in his rough dialect and scratched his tattooed chest.
‘Before was better. I mean it. People had money then.’ There was a beautiful woman tattooed across the man’s ribcage. Tomoyasu watched how the woman moved as the man scratched. Someone passed him his day’s wages and a bottle and he hung his head to listen.
‘Shit. Before was better, of course, but not because people had money. They had no money.’ That was the festival foreman, Kawai-san, one of the Osakans. ‘Because they were open-handed, it was better. Now it’s tight fists everywhere we go. Everything we do – Star Festival, New Year Festival, the whores and the gambling, damn it, even the hospitals we run bring in less than before. Maybe some of you y
oung men should go and break a few arms, no? How about you, Ishikawa-san?’ Kozo grinned, teeth white against his greasy, sunburned skin. ‘Then we’ll make a bit more money.’
‘Before what?’ Even as he said it, Tomoyasu knew he had lost face. He felt himself blush in the warm dark. The Aomori man swore and from the corner of his eye, Tomoyasu saw Kozo smile, eyebrows raised. Kozo understood Company talk. It wasn’t just that he knew names and faces. He understood what the other men left unsaid, the important things. Tomoyasu only followed conversations, puzzled, trying to learn.
‘Before the war, boy. Or aren’t you old enough to remember the war? Anyway,’ he stood up amidst the laughter, ‘it’s late and I have to deliver the takings. Goodnight to you all, mm? Long day tomorrow. Oh, and son’ – he pressed money into Tomoyasu’s hand – ‘cover your skin.’ He hawked and spat into the gutter. Tomoyasu watched him walk to where a black Chevrolet waited. He folded the money into his shirt pocket. Kozo offered him a cigarette. They shouldered their packs and walked home without speaking. Not enemies, but entirely different. Enjoying their solitudes.
It had been a hot year. Much of the rice had been cooked dry in the hard fields long before the Star Festival. The docks smelt of baked salt. Kozo had teased Tomoyasu about the farmland, how the rice would be dry as old birdshit. In May he had sold the fields and the house he’d lived in as a child. His mother had cried. The two paddy-fields had been clogged with rubble and shrapnel from the war, and the house sagged at its southern end where a bomb had dislodged the foundations. Five years after the Americans arrived, the last of the old farmworkers had been killed by an unexploded bomb while planting rice. Tomoyasu had sold it all and bought an uptown apartment for his mother. It was expensive but small, a bed where she could sweat and drowse, and a calm, quiet street, full of the sound of birds and cicadas. She spoke about her husband whenever Tomoyasu stayed with her, how he was missing, nobody could say he was dead yet. Only missing. He tried not to think of his father. He thought of the coin instead. Its hard edge and simple, bright design.