“Kid?” Iwata asked as he surveyed the house.
“He’s fifteen.”
“Does he have an alibi?” Sakai asked.
The sergeant flashed a wolfish smile, misreading her question for humor. He immediately realized his error and cleared his throat.
“He was home all night. With his parents.”
They reached the front door and Sakai waved the man away with curt thanks. His face darkened, but he left as instructed. Iwata sighed and ducked under the police tape. Large lamps illuminated a gloomy hallway full of dusty newspapers, phone books, and packaging from the convenience store. To the left, the shōji was open, revealing an empty room. Inside, there was only an ornate Butsudan shrine in the corner, presumably dedicated to the woman’s husband, Terai. Next to this was an old black-and-white photograph of a man with white hair and large bags beneath his eyes. He wore the black robes and white neckpiece of a judge. On his wrist, an expensive gold watch with a sapphire face.
Iwata could smell incense in the room but it was not the same odor from the Kaneshiros’ house. It was too flowery, too sweet. Sakai turned left into the kitchen and gagged. The room had been abandoned to the filth long ago.
“Sakai? You okay?”
She answered covering her mouth.
“Just rotting food, I think.”
Iwata hobbled up the stairs. Countless photographs of the old couple hung on the walls. There was a great variety in both the quality and the backgrounds of the photographs, as well as in the changing faces of the subjects as they aged.
Iwata saw the door of the master bedroom was open. It framed two bare legs. The skin was a translucent papyrus of purple veins and discolored splotches. Beyond the legs, silver light from the bay windows flooded in. Iwata could smell feces. Above that stench, now he did recognize the smoky, citric, earthen smell that had also lingered in the Kaneshiros’ house.
You again.
Standing in the doorway, Iwata saw the whole scene. The woman was spread-eagled in the middle of the floor, the sheets and blankets beneath her showing she had been dragged. Her eyes were fixed on the sea, two old marbles. She had the same gaping tunnel to her heart. The same black staining on the fingers of her left hand. On the wall behind her was another black sun symbol, as tall as Iwata.
Iwata heard the soft ticking of the gold watch he had seen in the photograph. Mrs. Ohba kept it on her bedside table.
“Oh this is very chic, I love what they’ve done with the wallpaper.” Sakai appeared beside Iwata and handed him rubber gloves. He avoided the blood spatter and crouched down over the body, steadying himself with his free hand. Peering into the cavity beneath the old woman’s ribs, he took out his flashlight and shone it into the bloody hole.
“No heart.”
Iwata stood and peered closely at the symbol on the wall.
“There are differences in size and shape—the old woman’s trembling could have affected it—but this is the same symbol as before.” He moved in closely and sniffed the air. “And he used charcoal?”
Sakai stood next to him and sniffed the symbol.
“… Something else,” she murmured.
They looked down at the floor. A funeral urn was upturned, its contents making a small, gray dune.
“What’s the betting that’s the late Mr. Ohba on the wall?” Iwata said.
Sakai wrinkled her nose and crouched down by the body. She delicately held up the old woman’s left index finger. It was the same gray as the pile of ash.
“He made her draw the symbol with her husband’s ashes.” Sakai chewed her bottom lip. “Then he took her heart. Same as Tsunemasa Kaneshiro. But why not the others?”
“He was there for the father—for his heart. The others had to die, but only because they were in the way.”
Sakai folded her arms.
“Okay so what’s the connection between Tsunemasa Kaneshiro and Mrs. Ohba?”
“Don’t forget Mr. Ohba.” Iwata smiled.
“Surely you can’t include a dead man on a list of murder victims?”
“I’m including him on a list of connected people. He’s part of the ritual too.”
Sakai patted her cheek with the butt of her pen. She clucked her tongue.
“I fucking hate this guy.”
“Sakai, you’re going to have to work your charms with the local PD and make sure they’ve combed her background thoroughly. The husband too—if he was a judge, there’s a nice ripe patch for revenge motives there.”
Sakai grinned.
“Perp gets out after a thirty stretch and wants to take it out on the asshole that put him there—then he finds out the old crow died so he takes it out on the wife?”
“So how does the Kaneshiro family fit?”
“Witness testimony?”
Iwata nodded an open-ended nod.
“Get onto judicial administration in Tokyo—see if we can dig that sort of information up. Then you hit the records, Sakai.”
“What do you want?”
“Answers. Did the Kaneshiro family and the Ohbas ever live in the same neighborhood? The same town? Same car dealer? Doctor? Did they ever shop at the same supermarket? Bank? Cell phone record cross-checks. Anything.”
Sakai nodded.
“What’s wrong, Iwata? Why are you making that face?”
“Because this makes no sense. This woman hasn’t left her house in a decade—how did the killer know she was here? They can’t have been friends.”
Sakai shrugged.
“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he thought the place was empty and she winds up dead.”
Iwata shook his head.
“What does he want with this place, then?”
“Money.”
Iwata nodded to the bedside table.
“But he leaves the antique gold watch and ignores the huge house up the road? No, he knew she was here, just like he knew where the Kaneshiros were.”
Sakai nodded softly.
“Two secluded houses…”
“Both the father and Mrs. Ohba were forced to make a black sun. Both had their hearts removed. But why? If we connect them, we take our first step forward.”
Sakai looked out of the window. A crowd had formed.
“Oh shit.”
“What is it?”
“Shindo is here.”
“You go now, Sakai. I’ll call you later.”
She nodded once, searched for words, but left the room with just a sigh. Iwata heard her greet Shindo at the entrance of the house. There was no response. Heavy footfalls swallowed stairs. The two men came eye to eye in the gloomy corridor. There was only the noise of Shindo breathing through his nose.
“Is the victim in there?”
“Yes.”
Shindo passed the master bedroom and opened the door to a small, cramped room. The legal textbooks, academic papers, and newspaper clippings said this was Mr. Ohba’s old study. One corner had been taken over by his wife—sudoku magazines were arranged in neat piles and a half-knitted scarf lay in its own entrails on the crowded desk. There was an old leather seat that Shindo pointed to. Iwata sat as directed and Shindo closed the door. His words were quiet.
“You saw the local press are out there?”
“No.”
Shindo punched the wall above Iwata’s head and plaster showered down.
“They’re standing there with their dicks in their hands, going berserk for the first story to hit this fucking place since 1923. And let me tell you, they won’t stay local for long.”
“They won’t have any details yet.”
“Details?” Shindo started to pace the small room. “Let me tell you about details. Yesterday morning, some smug fuck from one of the nationals calls me, threatening to run with police ineptitude on tonight’s front page if I don’t give him a little more meat on his plate. Quite understandably, I tell him to get fucked and hang up, safe in the knowledge that the cerebral Inspector Iwata is on the case. But the call has left me a little flustered, it has
to be said. So just to make myself feel better, I go ahead and call the reliable Assistant Inspector Sakai anyway. Imagine my surprise, then, when Sakai tells me that instead of doing what I fucking told him to do—hitting the ground running and putting a fucking investigation together—Iwata has, in fact, visited an old buddy and managed to get himself involved in a fucking traffic accident. Well, I say to myself, there must be some reason for this odd behavior. And then I’m informed that one of my more senior inspectors has been physically assaulted over a misunderstanding—assaulted by none other than Inspector…”
Iwata shifted.
“Shindo, hold on—”
“So now I’m sitting there with serious doubts. I ask myself, what has the TMPD got to show for its trust? So I make a list: a retard pervert in bracelets, a missing drunk, and some fucking graffiti on a wall.”
Silence throbbed between the two men for a moment.
“I can’t close a case like this in a week. As for Moroto, he’s lying.”
“Fuck Moroto, he’s an asshole. But you … Well, Inspector, you deserve all the gold stars. Fucking bravo.”
“Boss, what do you want me to do?”
“Two hours ago I get the same journalist fuck calling me up to tell me that he’s heard there’s been a grisly homicide in Sagami Bay. Word gets around externally and internally. Do you know who Fujimura is?”
Iwata gestured upstairs with a forefinger.
“That’s right, Superintendent Fujimura. He calls me upstairs for a chat. He wonders how long it will take the press to connect this judge’s wife with the Korean family. He asks me what I think we should do to improve the situation, bearing in mind the Mina Fong murder is now hitting the international press, and we haven’t found a single fucking clue. So now I’m sitting there thinking how maybe this is all Inspector Iwata’s fault. I get to thinking maybe he’s not so fucking cerebral after all. And then the solution becomes obvious—I should just sack him.”
Iwata held up his hand, his head pounding, his airways blocked.
“I get there’s pressure, Shindo. I understand. But headlines will happen.”
The older man’s laugh was incredulous.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Iwata was shaking.
“Shindo, please listen to me. The Black Sun Killer has murdered five people in five days and left behind nothing that he didn’t intend to leave behind. He’s a great white shark, Shindo. He’s bigger than Mina Fong, or any press attention. You need to give me a chance to catch him.”
Shindo pointed to the bedroom next door.
“And get a couple more like that, you mean? No, fuck your glib remarks, Iwata. You talk to me about sharks, well, I’ve got an office full of them hungry for the work.”
“I can get him.”
Shindo sighed as he picked shards of plaster from his knuckles.
“If this asshole is so fucking special, give me one single reason to make me think you’re able to get him.”
Iwata pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried to contain the burning in his forehead and the churning in his empty stomach. Shindo jabbed a finger into his shoulder.
“One.”
“The killer works fast.” Iwata exhaled shakily; he knew he was on the ropes. “That means our trail stays warm. Also, he’s not afraid of us. That’s clear. And I think that’s a weakness we can use against him. Sooner or later he’ll slip. Shindo, I’m smart enough and I’m quick enough. Give me the chance.”
Shindo raked his stubble for a long while, then leaned back against the desk and shook his head.
“Kid, I came here to fire you.”
“Please.”
“There are no feelings here. Hard or otherwise.”
Iwata held his head in his hands.
“I need this.”
“What?”
“I need this,” he shouted.
Shindo regarded his subordinate. Struggling. Weak. But sharp. He exhaled, then cursed Iwata.
“All right. I’ll say only this. Find him, Inspector. You find him. I want day-to-day progress.”
“Thank you,” Iwata said quietly.
“I must be crazy.”
Shindo stood and blew the last of the plaster from his knuckles.
“Iwata, listen. There are certain people in the department who aren’t comfortable with your … approach.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just do me one favor.” He sighed. “Take care of yourself.”
“What are you saying?”
Shindo left the room and Iwata listened as the older man creaked down the stairs. He could hear it was raining outside. Above him there was a photograph of the Ohbas on holiday in Pompeii. They were smiling amid the ruins. Sakai appeared at the door.
“You okay?”
Iwata nodded.
“Well, chin up, some good news at last.” She grinned. “They’ve found our girl, they found Asako Ozaki.”
CHAPTER 11: THE WHIRLPOOL
TSUKUBA-KITA POLICE STATION SAT ON a lonely tract of State Road 125, in the shadow of the mountain. There was a large blue frog mascot by the parking lot. The Japanese flag fluttered on the roof. If it weren’t for the patrol cars outside, the building could easily be mistaken for a secondhand car dealership. Behind the station, green rice paddies stretched to the horizon, interrupted only by the occasional pylon.
Down in the guts of the holding cells, Kodai Kiyota cowered in a corner. He clutched his head between gnarled hands. His face was long and horselike, his cheekbones prominent. When he grimaced, he showed large, square teeth. On his temples, veins struggled to the surface like worms. Kiyota was too thin for a man of his frame.
This was his second night in the cell and he still didn’t know why. Gasping in pain, he stood, covering himself in the sodden blanket. From the barred window, he could see the roadside sign.
MOUNT TSUKUBA—IBARAKI’S MOST FAMOUS SON
He closed his eyes and tried to remember the myths his grandfather told him as a boy.
Thousands of years ago, a god descended from the heavens and asked Mount Fuji for a place to spend the night in return for blessings. With its great summit and almost perfect cone, proud Mount Fuji refused. The god then asked our own Mount Tsukuba, who humbly welcomed him as an honored guest, even offering food and water. Today, Mount Fuji is a lonely and barren place, while our mountain bursts with vegetation and the changing colors of the seasons.
Kiyota vomited violently in the toilet. Hearing this, the policemen outside slammed on his door with their nightsticks. When Kiyota was finished, he forced himself not to sob.
We told you you would end up here again.
Good to see you after all this time.
Welcome home.
* * *
The first of the day’s trams trilled through the Setagaya streets. Bakeries cast warm light on the rain-slick pavements. Umbrellas sprouted like sea anemones. Hatanaka was waiting outside Setagaya HQ, his face sullen. He caught sight of his own reflection in a puddle and looked away.
“Look who it is,” Iwata called.
Hatanaka greeted the detectives with his eyes on the floor.
“Where did you pick the girl up?” Sakai asked.
“Outside the Kaneshiro family house,” Hatanaka replied quietly. “She was spray-painting the walls. Racial insults, that kind of thing.”
Iwata and Sakai looked at each other.
“Did you get a call?” Iwata asked.
Hatanaka shook his head.
“I’ve been back to the house a few times. I was there on a whim. I guess I got lucky.”
“Where is she?” Sakai asked.
“The canteen. I didn’t want to put her in the holding cells.”
Sakai brushed past him but Iwata clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“You did good work, Hatanaka.”
Even at this early hour, the canteen was a rowdy din of clattering plates and guffawing, the ceiling blanketed in cigarette smoke. Soon to be on-duty off
icers drank coffee and read newspapers. None of them found it strange that a fourteen-year-old girl might be sitting among them.
In the corner, Asako Ozaki kept her eyes on the floor. She wore pink eye makeup, vivid green contact lenses, an oversized Babymetal T-shirt, and tartan knee socks. On her feet, she wore battered old Converse, the only thing about her that looked childlike and vulnerable. The rest of her was ironic cutesy. They sat on either side of her, Sakai placing a hot chocolate on the table.
“Asako.” She cleared her throat. “I know you don’t want to talk to us, so we can do one of two things. We can call your little stunt last night minimal juvenile delinquency and you can walk out of here in ten minutes. Or we can call it a ‘hate crime,’ which, as I’m sure you know, carries consequences. Up to you. But think about it. A cute, fourteen-year-old ultranationalist desecrates the home of a murdered family? If we go down that road, the news networks will be all over you. You will not enjoy it. Any secrets you ever had become public property. Believe me, Asako. I don’t want to go down that route. I want you to talk to us.”
Asako Ozaki blinked.
“About what?”
“Kodai Kiyota.”
The girl folded her arms.
“It is a risky matter to discuss a happiness that has no need of words.”
Iwata snorted.
“Quoting Mishima won’t impress us, kid. If you think shacking up with a man old enough to be your father is paradise, then fine, but you’re not protecting Kiyota by not speaking to us. You’re only hurting yourself.”
Sakai shot him a look.
“We just want to talk to him.” Sakai smiled. “Get things straight.”
Ozaki laughed bitterly.
“Sure you do. Look, I don’t know anything about any murdered family.”
“Really.” Iwata raised his eyebrows. “You don’t know the Kaneshiro family?”
“Yeah I know them. So?”
“You’re telling me you didn’t attack Tsunemasa Kaneshiro?”
Ozaki regarded Iwata scornfully.
“That fucking cockroach humiliated Kodai. That’s why he left Tokyo. Do you think I would let that go unpunished? I might not be much to look at but that Zainichi pig underestimated me. Kodai had nothing to do with it.”
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