“Mr. Kiyota was a very promising member of our organization. I thought he might go on to achieve great things. He had a talent for … getting people to listen to him. But in the end, it didn’t quite work out that way.”
Sakai stopped writing for a second and looked up at him. Onaga sighed and sat back in his seat.
“You’re here about the dead Korean family, I assume? Look, that family’s pigheaded stance over the housing project became somewhat of a thorny issue in the local area. The VIVUS project would bring jobs, infrastructure, and wealth to Setagaya. Yet this one family was too obstinate and selfish to care.”
Sakai waved this away.
“Get to the point. Where does Kiyota come into it?”
“Mr. Kiyota had only recently joined us and had achieved good results. He asked me if he could deal with the family personally. Of course, I made it clear that he could only talk with them peacefully and lawfully.”
“But the Kaneshiros wouldn’t budge.”
“They started legal proceedings which would be extremely costly for us. I then made it clear to Mr. Kiyota that we had to know when and where to pick our battles but he wouldn’t let it go. It created tension within the group. And it was at that time when trusted members pointed out to me his own … unsavory tastes.”
“Don’t be shy, go on.”
“His drinking was out of control and his criminal past was becoming irritating. It gave us all the wrong associations. Left-wing press had more and more mud to sling at us.”
“Kiyota, talk to me about Kiyota. So he was a drinker with a criminal record, what else? You said ‘unsavory tastes.’”
Onaga met Sakai’s eyes.
“There was also his girlfriend. But she was … very young.”
“Name?”
“She was also a Nippon Kumiai member. I can arrange for her details to be given to you when you leave.”
“I’d like those details now, please.”
There was a long pause before he picked up the phone and requested the necessary file.
“It won’t be a minute, Inspector.”
“Thank you.”
“You know, I must say, I have the utmost respect for you. Police, I mean. A noble undertaking. Not necessarily in this case, you understand. Here I think you are wasting your time, but generally speaking, a most commendable undertaking.”
“You don’t think a murdered Korean family merits investigation?”
He smiled.
“I didn’t say that. I mean a waste of your time by coming here. But then again, maybe it was providence that brought you here. Perhaps you might come again. For further discussion?”
“I deal in homicide, sir. That’s all. Frankly, I think the only one wasting their time is you.”
Onaga’s smile faded then twisted into a snarl.
“There are over a million of those cockroaches living in my country, Inspector. You say you deal in death? Well, let me be frank—Nippon Kumiai deals in hatred, nothing more. Nobody does anything about injustice. But for hatred? People have no limits for their hatred.”
“Very rousing. But I came here for Kodai Kiyota.”
“I cannot say where Kodai Kiyota is, nor what he did or didn’t do. If he is involved in those murders then, of course, I condemn it. But let me say this to you, Inspector Sakai. Whoever did kill that family must have had their reasons.”
The receptionist entered holding the file. Sakai plucked it from his hands and opened it. It contained a single typed page concerning a female named Asako Ozaki. In red ink, a word had been stamped across the page:
EXPELLED
Onaga shook his head gravely.
“Her father killed himself when she was very young after being forced out of his laundry business. Guess who moved in to clean up and steal customers at half the rate? Her mother married another man, and Asako was left, more or less, alone. She never forgot those Koreans who moved in. By the time she came to us, she was more vitriolic than many of our most hardened members. To be honest, she was a PR dream. I was sad to see her go. She was so dedicated. But what can I say? Love is blind and lovers cannot see.”
“Why was she expelled, Mr. Onaga?”
“She refused to follow our code of conduct. She was consistently in trouble with the authorities and then this relationship with Kiyota, well, we had to let her go.”
Sakai ran her finger down the page.
Are you Iwata’s girl?
“Inspector, you think that we’re simply racists, don’t you? I can see that. But this word, it does us a disservice—simple racism robs us of logic and integrity. It implies an irrational disgust or fear. But it’s not the right word. No, we choose, in all logic, to fight back against this small but powerful minority. And if that makes us racists, then so be it. If that leads to condemnation in the liberal media, so be it. We are already fighting greater, more insidious battles.”
Ignoring him, Sakai reached the bottom of the page. Asako Ozaki lived in Shin-Ōkubo. She was fourteen years old.
Sakai stood up.
“Mr. Onaga, I hope we cross paths again. I do.”
Smiling, Onaga stood and offered his hand.
“Oh yes, Inspector. It was a pleasure.”
“No, I think you misunderstand my meaning.”
She left the room.
CHAPTER 7: IN PRAISE OF SHADOWS
IWATA WANDERS AIMLESSLY THROUGH THE Californian dusk. People huddle in blankets on the beach beneath emerging stars. Slim palm trees rustle in the breeze. Orange and black waves lap at the glassy shore, blinking bubbles left behind in the shingle. In the distance, Santa Monica Pier twinkles on the water, its big wheel slowly revolving. Iwata hears music now, sad but defiant.
The lights of the city are so pretty.
He leaves the beach behind and follows the melody.
I’m happy with you.
On the corner, a little shop has its door propped open, music spilling out for the pleasure of all passing by.
Please let me hear. Those words of love from you.
Iwata walks in and sees her.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hello,” he replies.
The woman smiles.
I walk and I walk, swaying, like a small boat in your arms.
“I know this song,” he says.
“It’s beautiful. Do you know what she’s saying?”
Iwata nods.
“So what’s she saying?”
“Sad things.”
They regard each other for a moment.
“I’m Cleo,” she says.
Her skin is a mellow tan, her woven friendship bracelets frayed.
I hear your footsteps coming. Give me one more tender kiss.
Soon they will be bare in her broken bed, surrounded by damp and freshly cut flowers and music. She will correct his English and make eggs most mornings. She will always sleep on her side. In the predawn, Iwata will run his hands down her ribs, a breeze over sand dunes.
How did I find you?
In the warm half-dream, he will only be able to answer that by whispering, “a miracle.”
Days will pass into years—car journeys, struggles, entire weekends in bed. Cleo will play records and burn toast. She will quietly encourage her old car in the mornings and shout at the news in the evenings. She is the only one allowed to break her own rules. Cleo becomes the only authority in Iwata’s life. Walks along the ocean, throwing sticks for an imaginary dog.
Hubris. Hubris. Hubris.
Cleo, ablaze in the setting sun, looks over her shoulder and smiles.
“It’s so pretty here.”
A different sun, a different country, and in brilliant white above her—the lighthouse. Casting never-ending shadow.
* * *
Iwata pulled over on the hard shoulder and swung open the car door. He jumped the expressway barrier, ran to the nearest tree and vomited. He blinked out tears, gasping.
“Fucking bitch. Fucking bitch. Fucking bitch.”
&
nbsp; Then he kicked and punched the tree and didn’t stop until he felt nothing in his bleeding hands. Stillborn cherry blossoms landed on his shoulders for a moment, then fluttered down to the dirt.
* * *
“Kyoto University is one of Asia’s oldest and most prestigious.” The elderly security guard led Iwata through the beautiful gates, hands behind his back, smiling proudly as though he had laid these bricks himself. “Eight Nobel Prize laureates, two Fields medalists, and one Gauss Prize. And some twenty-two thousand students in any given academic year.” He pointed to the information post. “There we are. You’ll be looking for the Department of Psychology.”
Iwata thanked him and crossed the campus green. It was a sunny afternoon and groups of students were sitting out on the grass. The old camphor tree, which was the university’s emblem, stood in the shadow of the redbrick clock tower of the Centennial Hall. The terrace café was packed with students enjoying iced tea and gossip in the sun.
Iwata skirted the skipping rope team’s practice and made his way to the eight-story building behind the old hall. He was about to enter when something caught his attention. A repeated dull thwacking and grunting could be heard nearby. Iwata followed the sound and glanced around the corner. On a shaded strip of grass behind the faculty building, two men were sparring. The younger man, muscular and squat, held up boxing pads. The other man was in his forties, powerful and tall. He rained down a flurry of blows with precision and economy. The younger man was struggling to keep the pads up, as though holding up a newspaper to a water cannon.
Iwata concentrated on the shots and saw that the older man was left-handed. The session was soon over.
The younger man laughed, his face red.
“Professor Igarashi,” he panted. “That jab cross is brutal.”
The professor looped a paternal arm around his shoulders.
“It’s not what it used to be.”
“I better not be late on your assignments!”
Igarashi laughed.
“Come on, I owe you a beer.”
Before he could be noticed, Iwata left his spot. Entering the building, he took the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door marked:
FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGY / SEMIOTICS
A woman answered.
“Come in.”
Iwata opened the door to a cramped room with four desks and dying pot plants. A woman roughly Iwata’s age looked up from her papers. Her hair was mid-length with a long fringe. Her face was heart-shaped with a strong jaw. She wore silver and turquoise stud earrings and a loose, green cardigan.
“Can I help you?” It was a warm, steady voice.
“I’m looking for Professor Schultz.”
“He should be back any minute. May I ask who you are?”
Iwata held up his ID. She raised her eyebrows.
“Whenever we get police here they’re usually looking for me, not David.”
“Oh?”
The woman pointed to the plaque at the end of her desk.
DR. EMI HAYASHI—CRIMINAL PSYCHOLOGY
“Maybe next time,” Iwata said.
“Please take a seat.”
As she gestured, Iwata noticed her Mickey Mouse watch. She caught his glance but he looked out of the window. The lawn where Igarashi had been sparring was now empty.
“Would you like a coffee while you wait, Inspector?”
“No thank you.”
“You’re sure? I happen to have a rather fancy espresso machine in the staff room.”
“I’m fine.”
“David should be back any moment.”
Iwata recognized his friend’s characteristic chaos of papers and books around the desk. A Pittsburgh Steelers flag was blue-tacked to his monitor. By the phone, there was a framed photograph of a slight woman with red hair. She was holding a small child in her arms.
The door swung open and David Schultz huffed into the room, struggling with a stack of papers. His red-and-white gingham shirt was dark with sweat and his jeans were two sizes too tight.
“Holy shit. Kosuke?”
The two men embraced.
“You got fat,” Iwata replied in English.
“Fuck you, man. Japanese diet.”
Dr. Hayashi collected her papers and stood.
“No, Emi. Stay. I’ll be back later,” Schultz said.
She smiled a neat smile then went back to her work. Schultz fished out his wallet from his desk drawer and led Iwata back to the terraced café by the clock tower. He greeted several students warmly in near faultless Japanese, then chose a secluded table away from the chatter. He ordered them two coffees and they quickly fell into discussion regarding Schultz’s career, recent divorce, and long-distance parenthood.
At the first lull in the conversation, Schultz looked up to the dusky sky and his face turned grave. A silence of birdsong and youthful laughter.
“Iwata, I know I haven’t seen you since, uh, what happened. I just wanted to say I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry. I know there’s nothing else to say.”
Schultz clapped a thick hand on his friend’s shoulder. Iwata looked away and saw golden pillars of sunlight through the branches of the camphor tree. A girl was reading a book beneath it, leisurely moving her bare feet in the breeze.
“We don’t have to talk about it, Dave.”
Schultz nodded vigorously.
“No, no. Of course. It’s just good to see you, Kos.”
Iwata opened his bag and laid a plastic folder on the table. He waited for the waitress to set down the coffees before opening it. Schultz looked aghast.
“Tell me you’re not working again.”
“I need to ask you a favor.”
“How did I know you hadn’t come all this way just to see an old friend?”
“Because you’re a very smart man.”
Schultz’s smile dimmed.
“Seriously, though, are you sure you’re ready for this? Maybe you should take a while to—”
Iwata held up the photograph and the black sun silenced Schultz. He saw the fascination swallow him whole.
“You bastard.”
Iwata grinned. The photograph framed the jagged smears of the black sun on the ceiling in a harsh flash, darkness at the contours.
“What was it drawn in?”
“Charcoal. The killer forced the victim to paint it with his finger before ripping out his heart. Killed the wife and two kids as well. I’ve got more photos I’d like to show you.”
Schultz sighed and looked up at the now bloodshot sky.
“What do you want to know?”
“One. Is it a symbol or a sign? Two. What does it mean?”
Schultz rolled his eyes.
“Kos, I’m a semiotician, not Hercule fucking Poirot.”
“I went out on a limb coming all the way out here on limited time. I need to go back with something, Dave.”
“That was on you.”
Schultz looked at the photo for a moment then shook his head in defeat.
“All right.”
“You’re a good man, David.”
“I’d call you a cruel bastard but that’s implicit in your race.”
* * *
High up in the green and red hills, Iwata and David Schultz sat on a bench. Far below, Kyoto shimmered like it gave off warmth.
The lights of the city are so pretty.
“Nice spot,” Iwata said.
“I come here when I need to clear my head.”
“Does it work for you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Beats Pittsburgh?”
Schultz laughed.
“Hey, you ever read any Jun’ichirō Tanizaki?”
Iwata nodded.
“Emi lent me one of his books and there’s this line I can’t get out of my head. ‘Beauty lies not in objects, but in the interaction between the shadow and light created by them.’”
“In Praise of Shadows,” Iwata said.
“Just keeps going round and round in my hea
d, I don’t know why.”
“I know what you mean.”
Schultz gave a wan smile and stuck out his hand.
“Go on, then. Show me the fucking photographs.”
Iwata opened his bag and passed over the plastic wallet. Schultz slowly shuffled through the images, his face revealing only the slightest of twitches. He was seeing the black sun fully now, from various angles, and its position in relation to the brutalized body of Tsunemasa Kaneshiro.
Schultz put the photographs in the plastic wallet and gingerly passed them back.
“How do you get used to seeing that sort of thing?”
“I just let my eyes sweep over it.”
“Kos, all this…” He gestured to the slaughter in the photographs. “Are you really sure you’re ready to handle it? I mean what happened to you is—”
Iwata held up a hand.
“Dave, please. Just, please.”
Schultz nodded.
“Okay.” He exhaled. “Okay.”
“Thank you.”
“You asked me if it’s a symbol or a sign. My guess is it’s a symbol.” Schultz pointed at the hazard sign in front of them before the drop to the rocks below.
“Now a sign means something—stop, go, walk, et cetera. The sign thinks for you. It commands you. A symbol, on the other hand, represents an idea, a process, or a physical entity. But the important word here is represents. The symbol represents something else, something beyond what you are looking at—whereas the sign means only this. The Christian cross doesn’t just mean a dead guy on a crucifix, it represents sacrifice, faith, hope, whatever—an entire religion. Where the sign thinks for you, the symbol asks you to do the thinking—abstract versus the literal, I guess.”
“So you don’t think the black sun is a direct command or a warning?”
“This is all guesswork but no, I would say that the killings themselves mean something. Whatever this person’s objective was, I think it’s possible that the death of the family was not the goal in and of itself. The symbol could mean that the murders are not the end product. They could mean something else.”
“You’re saying the murders are … somehow subordinate to the sun?”
“Kos, I think the murders belong to it. Maybe the killer does, too. You never know, man. Reality to survive, fantasy to live.”
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