Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  Iwata shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, you expect us to believe that you murdered an entire family?”

  “Who said anything about murder? That’s what you’re talking about. I stabbed him, that’s all.”

  “So you mean to tell me you didn’t know the Kaneshiro family were murdered? Maybe you don’t read the papers.”

  Ozaki looked from Iwata to Sakai.

  “I didn’t know. I figured they had finally left the house.”

  “So where did you attack him? When?” Iwata pressed.

  “Outside his office. A few weeks ago. Sounds like you already know that much.”

  Sakai cut in.

  “You said Kiyota left. Where to?”

  Iwata bristled at Sakai’s shift in direction.

  “Ibaraki. His parents live near Mount Tsukuba. Go find him, I don’t care. I woke up. He’ll die realizing he shouldn’t have tossed me away so easily. Hey, you know what I realized the only difference between them and us is?” Ozaki jutted her chin toward Iwata.

  “We’re both assholes, it’s just that their kind spends less time feeling sorry for themselves. So fuck Kodai. I hope he falls down a well. But he didn’t kill anyone, I can tell you that much.”

  Sakai chewed away a smile as she knelt down and undid the girl’s handcuffs. As Ozaki adjusted her plastic wristbands to cover the red marks, Sakai stood over her.

  “If you’ve lied to me, I’ll be pissed off.”

  Ozaki grinned.

  “Something tells me I don’t think I’d want to see that.”

  “Go on, get out of here. And quit the dumb shit.”

  Asako Ozaki shuffled away as though she had just left one boring lecture, bound for another.

  Sakai sipped the untouched hot chocolate.

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Prioritizing.”

  “Not sentimentality?”

  “Fuck off, Iwata. She gave us what we needed.”

  “She admitted to a hatred of our victims. She admitted to trying to stab the father. She’s part of an ultranationalist group. Is graffiti the only threat she poses?”

  “Fine. You tell Shindo you suspect a child, I’ll go find Kiyota.”

  Iwata swore under his breath and stood up. He followed Sakai to his car, and got in on the passenger side. Ignoring Sakai’s whistling, he reclined the seat and was asleep within seconds.

  * * *

  After prayers, Kosuke has a free afternoon. It’s Sunday. The other boys are outside playing table tennis, or downstairs in the main hall betting on cards. Kosuke is in the dormitory, lying on his bunk, reading a book. He has been here for more than two years.

  Kei walks in, hands in his pockets, whistling.

  “Wanna see something?”

  “What?”

  “Well, do you, or not?”

  Kosuke hides his book under his pillow and follows. At the perimeter, they hop over the low brick wall and they dash for the forest.

  Once they get to the trees, they are safe. That’s what Kei says and Kosuke trusts him. The other boys don’t talk to Kei but it doesn’t matter to him.

  He watches Kei walk deftly along a fallen log, his arms out like a tightrope walker.

  “Why don’t they let you come to this forest?”

  “Me?” Kei smiles over his shoulder and hops down. “You mean us, Iwata.”

  “Okay, us.”

  “Because of the bear. That’s what they say, anyway.”

  “Bear?”

  Kei shows his incisors. The thin branches above them creak under the weight of last night’s snow. The hill is carpeted in brown leaves and rocks. White breath webs out over their shoulders. Their cheeks are bright, red mushrooms. A stream gurgles nearby.

  “Kei? You think there’s a bear?”

  “Maybe there is.” One shoulder skips up. “But that fuckin’ nun talks about it all the time just to keep us from acting up.”

  They reach the top of the hill and it’s a sheer drop down to the silver gush of the river. The height makes Kosuke feel like his legs are melting. He imagines how it would hurt to fall.

  They carry on along the ridge, following the river. Kei leads, sending avalanches of dead leaves hissing down the hill. Kosuke traces the footsteps, smelling the perfume beneath the mud. The sky darkens and a light rain begins to trickle through the leaves.

  “Maybe we should go back,” Kosuke calls.

  Kei spins round, his hands behind his back, and he strides around in a circle. The imitation of Mr. Uesugi is crude but undeniable.

  “The Lord is my light and my revelation! Whom shall I fear?’ He kicks his boots high up into the air, a crazed look on his face. “The Lord is the strength of my life! Of whom am I afraid?”

  Kosuke joins in now, laughing, marching in his own little circle of righteousness.

  “When the wicked came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and they fell,” he joins in gleefully.

  Kei climbs a rock and looks around the forest as though it were his chapel.

  “Let us not … fear the bear! For he who trusts in the Lord can never be eaten up by any heathen bear.”

  Kosuke falls against a tree trunk laughing, holding his ribs.

  Kei looks the proudest and highest he has ever seen someone look.

  Then they huddle under an outcropping and wait in silence for the rain to pass.

  By the time it’s finished, the day is almost gone.

  They carry on along the ridge, which has thinned to half its width now.

  Kei holds on to branches as he goes.

  This deep into the forest, it’s always cold and there is never much light.

  Kosuke can hear a strange sound getting louder now—a crashing sound with a murmuring underneath that.

  Ug.

  Ug.

  Ug.

  “Kei?” Kosuke calls.

  Kei doesn’t look back.

  “We’re almost there,” he says.

  The end of the ridge is very narrow, just wide enough for them to stand side by side.

  Kei stops. He points down and Kosuke looks over his shoulder.

  The eye of the whirlpool is blinking up at them.

  Iwata wants to run away and never come back.

  Kei stares down at it, enthralled.

  “Sometimes,” he whispers, “I dream about it.”

  It swirls.

  It swirls.

  It smiles.

  CHAPTER 12: ORANGE

  IWATA AND SAKAI ARRIVED AT Tsukuba-Kita Police Station at 6 P.M. The cop behind the front desk looked up from his manga.

  “Shibuya. Division One,” Iwata said. “We need an address for the parents of Kodai Kiyota.”

  “You won’t need to bother them. He’s downstairs. We pulled him for a domestic disturbance at his parents’ house.”

  Iwata and Sakai looked at each other, smiles spreading over their faces.

  In a tiny subterranean interrogation room, Kiyota was shivering badly. Small, gray jewels of sweat clung to his stubble. He was handcuffed. Sakai paced the room like a jaguar before feeding time. Iwata, the tired zookeeper, sat across from Kiyota and lit a cigarette. He pressed RECORD on the tape.

  “Friday, twenty-fifth of February 2011, 6:09 P.M. Interviewee is Kodai Kiyota, forty-five years of age. No counsel present.”

  Then there was only the tiny sound of paper crackling as Iwata smoked. Kiyota was hunched, his head in his hands.

  “You okay, mister?” Sakai asked.

  “Fine,” he bleated through gritted teeth.

  “It’s just that you look like total shit.”

  “Mr. Kiyota.” Iwata smiled glass. “What are you doing in Ibaraki?”

  “I’m from this town.”

  “You live in Tokyo.”

  “Seeing the folks, seeing the sights. Are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  Sakai kicked the back of Kiyota’s chair hard and he flinched.
r />   “Like he doesn’t fucking know,” she snorted.

  Kiyota turned to look at her, his eyes pink.

  Iwata snapped his fingers.

  “Don’t look at her, look at me.”

  “What’s her fucking problem?”

  “Kiyota, don’t make me repeat myself. Now, we were having a nice, respectful conversation. Tell me about Nippon Kumiai.”

  Kiyota waved the concept away.

  “I’m not part of that anymore. It’s bullshit, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “All talk, no action, everything needs agreement. Funding disappears down black holes. Fucking waste of time.”

  Sakai huffed.

  “They said the same thing about you. With the added detail that you’re a fucking useless drunk and a pervert.”

  Kiyota stiffened but didn’t reply.

  Iwata cleared his throat.

  “Do you know Yuko Ohba? Her husband, Terai Ohba?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know the Kaneshiro family?”

  “Yeah, the Zainichi family. So?”

  Sakai tossed her police ID on the table.

  “Read that out to me.”

  Kiyota opened the black wallet.

  “Noriko Sakai, Assistant Inspector. So?”

  “And what does it say underneath?”

  “Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.”

  “Correct. Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. Which, interestingly enough, is an anagram for KIYOTA GETS FUCKED IN THE ASS.”

  “Let me spell that out for you.” Iwata snatched the ID and quickly buffed it with his sleeve before handing it back to Sakai. “We can charge you with obstruction of justice, meaning another twenty-three days in here.”

  “I’m not obstructing—”

  “That’s in addition to the twenty-one days these guys have left with you for breaching the peace at your folks’ place. Now, even your average guy doesn’t want that, but you? With your shakes…”

  Kiyota kicked the table leg.

  “I’m not fucking obstructing anything! Just tell me what you need.”

  Sakai sat on the table.

  “Come on, Kiyota.” She grinned. “Just tell us.”

  “Tell you what?!”

  “You killed them, didn’t you?”

  Kiyota laughed out loud.

  “Who? That fucking family? Yeah, I cut them up in little pieces. Lock me up and throw away the key.”

  Iwata stubbed out his cigarette.

  “You don’t sound surprised to learn that they’re dead, Mr. Kiyota. I suppose you don’t read the papers?”

  “You’re Homicide, you’re asking about them—I’m not that fucking simple.”

  “You deny having anything to do with their murders?”

  “Of course I fucking deny it.”

  Sakai hopped off the table and began to circle him.

  “Let me tell you a little story, Kiyota. Sometimes, when we get liars, we suggest they take a polygraph test. Now these look very official, what with all the wires, the technician, and whatnot. But you know what gives the liars away?”

  Kiyota said nothing.

  “We lie to them. We tell them that sweat interferes with the test so we ask them to go wash their hands. Then we all rush into the CCTV room for a good laugh. The liar turns on the tap, stands by the hand dryer, you know—they make a big show of it. But of course, the liars never wash their hands. So what I’m saying to you is that we fucking know liars. We smell them out for a living. And you fucking stink.”

  A wave of hatred washed across Kiyota’s face. He struggled to keep his voice level.

  “You don’t know me.”

  “No?” Sakai’s smile was beautiful. “Aged nineteen, you are booked into this very station on petty delinquency charges. It would be the first of four occasions. On the last, the charge is rape. You serve an eight-year stretch, which seems a little harsh to me. When you come out, you move straight to Tokyo—a fucking bumpkin like you, and yet you manage to carve out a life in Shinjuku. And with your new gangster friends, you fall off the face of the earth for a decade. Next time you show your face, you’re wearing a suit and have a megaphone in your hand. You realize that with politics you can finally put your talents to good use and make a difference. Besides, you’ve always been a proud nationalist, why not do something about these foreign assholes? You jump from group to group until you end up with the comparatively respectable Nippon Kumiai. It’s around this time that the VIVUS mixed-use construction project is announced in Setagaya where you’re now living with your wife—sorry, ex-wife. The project will be good for local commerce, good for Setagaya—good for Japan. But, as usual, the fucking Zainichi element is getting in the way. The Kaneshiro family don’t want to sell up. Nippon Kumiai needs some firm action, so you say you’ll handle it. You stake your reputation on it. Good ole Kodai Kiyota can be relied on. He’ll be able to frighten those bastards out of Setagaya. Only, they don’t frighten. They don’t sell. In fact, you start to look like an asshole. So much for the ex-yakuza mystique, eh? Things get embarrassing in NK and things get ugly with the wife, don’t they? Especially when she finds out about that teenager you’ve been fucking, am I right?”

  Kiyota turned to Iwata.

  “I don’t have to listen to this—”

  Sakai continued. “Maybe that’s the moment you decide to take matters into your own hands, eh? Only that stubborn bastard Kaneshiro isn’t listening, is he? Maybe it’s then that all your helplessness and impotence finally erupts and you slaughter the guy just because he wants to protect his own home and his own family. What a fucking model citizen.”

  Kiyota shook his head incredulously.

  “She’s fucking crazy.”

  Iwata tapped on the table for concentration like a conductor.

  “Kiyota, did you know Mr. and Mrs. Terai and Yuko Ohba?”

  “I told you, no!”

  From his inside pocket, Iwata produced an old local newspaper article.

  LOCAL BOY CONVICTED OF RAPE

  Flanking the article was a grainy picture of Judge Terai Ohba.

  Iwata leaned forward.

  “You do remember him now, don’t you?”

  “So I couldn’t remember the judge’s name. Big deal. You can’t keep me here without—”

  Sakai kicked Kiyota’s chair again and he flinched.

  “Stop that!”

  “I’ll stop when you talk to me.”

  “What do you want?!”

  “Eight years for rape … Probably seemed a little steep to you. Very steep. Time like that can really change a man.”

  Kiyota was practically in tears of anger.

  “What is this shit, man? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Everything, honey. Because maybe after you got done annihilating the Kaneshiro family, you got to thinking how different it all might have been if you had been treated more fairly from the start. And what have you got to lose at this point? You think you might as well get even, give back a little judgment of your own. Only then you realize that you waited too long and the old bastard has died. It’s just the old widow who’s there. But you’re angry. You’ve come all that way, after all. You’ll have your vengeance. Vengeance is all you have left, isn’t it, Kiyota?”

  “This is bullshit—”

  “You killed the Kaneshiro family. You killed them and you enjoyed it. Then, free of inhibition, you traveled to Sagami Bay and you killed Mrs. Ohba. A fucking rapist, a child molester, and a gangster. Now a murderer too. That’s why you ended up here, back at the start of things, drinking yourself into oblivion. That’s why you’re back to square one. Because you have nothing left, and nowhere to go. Isn’t that the truth?”

  Kiyota shouldered away a grubby, resentful tear. Rage trembled on his lips. Iwata glanced at Sakai.

  “So you see, Kiyota, you were wrong.” Finished, she leaned back against the wall. “I do know you. And it took me two minutes flat to comprehend the whole fucki
ng mess of your worthless little life.”

  Iwata spoke quietly now.

  “Where were you on the fourteenth and fifteenth of February?”

  Kiyota looked up.

  “I’m fucking glad! I’m fucking glad they’re dead!”

  He struggled with his handcuffs and spat on the floor.

  “Did you kill them?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “So why the little party, Kiyota?” Sakai sneered.

  “Because I’m dying, all right? You fucking bitch, I’m dying.”

  She looked at Iwata. Kiyota caught it.

  “Call my oncologist, see if I’m lying.”

  He turned to Iwata.

  “And, Inspector? Do me a favor when you find whoever did these murders? Make sure they get a fucking pat on the back from me.”

  Iwata stopped the tape and Sakai blinked, as though she had been snapped out of a hypnotic state.

  She called for the guard to open the door. He did so, then unshackled Kiyota from the table and led him away.

  * * *

  Night had come. Cold rain clouds enveloped the mountain like a gloomy Saturn. Only occasional cars lit up the long road, candles cupped by hands in a dark corridor.

  Beauty lies not in objects, but in the interaction between their shadow and light.

  Across from Tsukuba-Kita Police Station, Iwata and Sakai were sitting in a lonely ramen restaurant. They were hunched over their bowls at the counter, slurping soba in silence. The waitress topped up their plastic cups with green tea and returned to her game show on a flickering TV. Iwata drained his broth and looked around. He saw only policemen and drivers, all of them by themselves, all of them here transiently, none of them by choice.

  “For a moment,” Iwata said, “you almost had me convinced in there.”

  “Much of what I said fits.” She pushed away her bowl.

  “And a lot doesn’t. No trace evidence of Kiyota at either scene. And he’s right-handed.”

  “But he is physically capable of carrying out these murders and he’s got a history of violence. Trace evidence might yet still turn up at the scenes. And I’ll call that oncologist to confirm his story. Could be bullshit.”

  Sakai paid, pocketed the receipt, and they left. They hurried across the road to the police car park.

  “It needs a wash,” Sakai said, getting behind the wheel of the Isuzu. “Actually, you just need a new car. This is a piece of shit, Iwata.”