Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  Iwata left. The street was thicker with bodies now, and he had to shunt his way back to the car. Inside, he checked the dashboard clock. It was a little after midnight—1 A.M. in Tokyo. He scrolled through his phone book and stopped at Hatanaka, the young cop who had found Asako Ozaki.

  Iwata dialed.

  “Who is this?”

  “Up late jerking off?”

  “Who—?”

  “Iwata. Inspector Iwata.”

  Hatanaka sighed.

  “What do you need?”

  “Hey, look at that. You’re a fast learner. You got a pen?”

  “Go on.”

  “Write down this name: Ikuo. First thing tomorrow morning, you look that name up. Any kind of TMPD record, I’m interested. I’m looking for red flags here, kid.”

  “Just that name? You haven’t got anything else?”

  “Just that name. Second thing. I want you to get in touch with the Hong Kong Tourism Board—”

  “Hong Kong?”

  “You get them to go through records for all hotels and rental apartments over the year 2005 looking for a Japanese national—”

  “Let me guess. Somebody by the name of Ikuo.”

  “Good boy.”

  Iwata hung up and started the car.

  * * *

  On the second floor of the Cathay Pacific Medical Office, the beige lobby was empty except for wilting pot plants and an old vending machine. On one side, the windows looked on to the airport. On the other, Iwata could see the road leading to Discovery Bay—Jennifer’s childhood home.

  At precisely 8:30 A.M., the swing doors swooshed open and a young pathologist holding a slim, green folder greeted Iwata. Doctor Wai wasn’t yet thirty, with a slim build, an anxious face, and spectacles far too small for his face.

  “Inspector? I’m Wai. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Yes, thank you so much for seeing me at such short notice, and on a Saturday.”

  Wai leafed through pages as he led Iwata into a small office that smelled of pinecones.

  “Excuse the mess, Inspector. I recently took over and I’m still trying to get things in order. Some tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Wai took off his glasses and laid the pages out in front of him like puzzle pieces.

  “Before we begin I just want to state this isn’t my area of expertise. Ninety percent of what I do is mid-flight cardiac arrest. But this…”

  Wai glanced down at the pages.

  “Well, like I say, this isn’t my area of expertise.”

  “All right.”

  The pathologist put on his spectacles back on.

  “First off, you should probably just read the basic autopsy notes recorded by my predecessor, Doctor Pang.”

  Wai took out a single sheet and passed it over.

  FONG, JENNIFER.

  Subject: well-nourished female stated to be 18 to 19 years old. 73 kilograms. Eyes: normal, irises dark brown, pupils fixed and dilated. Sclera and conjunctive: unremarkable, no evidence of petechial hemorrhages. Upper and lower teeth: natural. No injury to gums, cheeks, or lips. No deformities, scarring, or amputations are present. Head is normocephalic. Nose and mouth: unremarkable. Neck and upper chest show no injury. Abdominal injury is described below. Genitalia: healthy with no evidence of injury. Sharp force injury is located 30cm below chin. Pathway found through skin, subcutaneous tissue, just below fifth rib. Wound seems that of a clean cut with parallel edges. Possible striking of propeller. Cause of death almost certainly consistent with drowning, probably by misadventure.

  Iwata looked up.

  “Misadventure—”

  “We’ll get there. Autopsy diagnosis of drowning can be tricky as findings are often minimal, or obscure. There are a few reliable signs of drowning but Jennifer had only one—water-logged lungs. That, to me, suggests death from syncope. An unconscious state.”

  Iwata nodded.

  “You think she was dead before she even hit the water?”

  Wai made an inconvenienced face.

  “Well, yes. In cases of syncopal death, signs will be slight. Now, the report does make it clear that high levels of lysergic acid diethylamide were found in her system, almost 200 milligrams, which is about twice the amount in a standard LSD tab. But that’s nowhere near fatal—certainly not what killed her.”

  “So, if she didn’t drown and she didn’t overdose, she died from the wound?”

  Wai hesitated for a moment. It seemed as if he were searching for something to say before passing the file across his desk.

  “You’d better see for yourself.”

  Iwata took out two photographs from the file. The first was a close-up of Jennifer Fong’s torso, which had been destroyed. It was a canvas of savage tears and welts. The second photograph was taken from farther away. The bottom half of her pale face was visible. Her skin was pale and waxy. There was a massive, gaping wound to the ribs below her left breast.

  “There’s no decomposition?”

  “None whatsoever. The body was found by fishermen only one day after death. Two max. Only a few oval lesions from aquatic life. Nothing major.”

  “A propeller injury.” Iwata tapped the second photograph. “Doctor, is that what we’re looking at here?”

  Wai took off his glasses and rubbed his naked eyes.

  “Propeller-related injuries don’t look … like this.”

  Iwata opened up his bag and frantically rifled through his documents until he found the right photographs: the destroyed corpses of Tsunemasa Kaneshiro and Yuko Ohba. The craters across their abdomens were almost identical. Iwata felt the rush of a hunch confirmed. He felt it before even asking.

  “Jennifer Fong, her body was missing the heart, yes?”

  Wai nodded.

  “It’s nowhere on the report. It never came into this office. All of her other organs did, but not the heart.”

  Iwata’s own heart began to pound. He stared at Jennifer’s body next to those of the other victims. The ages were all different, the genders inconsistent, and there was no easily conceivable way any of them could have met in life. But lying next to each other in death, they seemed like one broken family. Somehow, the Black Sun Killer had chosen them. The Kaneshiro family. The widow. And now Jennifer Fong.

  “She was murdered,” Iwata whispered. “She was the first.”

  Wai shook his head and pointed to Jennifer’s wound.

  “Look, this isn’t a propeller strike. And this isn’t from aquatic life. This type of sharp force injury should automatically go to the city coroner and a police investigation should have then followed.”

  “So why did it come here?”

  Wai took off his spectacles again and rubbed his eyes.

  “I don’t know. Everything about this is off. Doctor Pang, who conducted the autopsy, would have known that it would be unlikely for a propeller boat to be that far out to sea, for one thing.”

  “Go on,” Iwata pushed.

  “Look, finding bodies on the open water isn’t unheard of. But the victim was a few hours south of Xidan Dao, Inspector—that’s almost forty kilometers. We’re not talking about some leisurely cruise on the water.”

  “Any idea how long that would take by boat from here?”

  “Depends on the vessel, of course. But let’s say an average sailing speed of five-and-a-half knots on the open water? Most likely four or five hours’ sailing.”

  “So, whoever took her out there is experienced on the water?”

  Wai shrugged.

  “To a point. A day skipper would have the necessary proficiency to do that in fair weather and daylight. And to reach that level, you’d just be looking at a couple of five-day courses. Not necessarily what you’d call an expert.”

  “Doctor, the coroner in Tokyo suggested some kind of sword or machete used in my murders. Looking at the similarities in these photographs, what do you think?”

  Wai sighed.

  “I’m not sure what inflicted that wound. Sure as hell
not any knife I’ve seen. But I can tell you with certainty that it was applied by a person—not a propeller.”

  Iwata nodded.

  “So let me turn to the elephant in the room. Why wasn’t this treated as a murder? Doctor Pang refused to follow protocol?”

  Wai looked away, his gaze fixing on a photograph of his wife and young child.

  “I’m … really not sure. Doctor Pang was a good man who was respected in his field. He’s only recently passed away. I don’t know.”

  “So let me ask you this—what do you think happened to Jennifer Fong?”

  “I would invoke Occam’s razor, Inspector. I don’t know how she got there, why she got there, nor who would do this to her. But I do know that someone took her aboard their boat, plied her with LSD, ripped out her heart, then pushed her overboard. The explanation should make no more assumptions than necessary.”

  “Did you know Doctor Pang personally?”

  Wai stood up and gripped the frame of his window. It wasn’t much of a view.

  “He was my mentor.”

  “Why might he make a misleading report?”

  “I know he had some money problems. But to file this as a normal death … it’s just so hard to imagine. It makes no sense to me. Who benefits?”

  “The killer.”

  Wai shook his head, clearly out of his depth. Iwata returned the photographs to his bag and, with Wai’s back turned, he took Jennifer Fong’s autopsy report too. If the pathologist noticed, he gave no sign. Iwata stood.

  “I’ve taken quite enough of your time, Doctor Wai. I should get going.”

  Wai turned and they shook hands. Iwata felt the cool, smooth palm in his own and it triggered another question.

  “Doctor, how common is a hand injury in sailing?”

  “Very. One of the most common, actually. Often resulting from accidents with winches or cleats. The scars are usually clean diagonals. Why?”

  “Around the time of her death, Jennifer was seeing a man who had some type of scar on his hand. A burn, perhaps.”

  “That kind of injury rarely heals well, Inspector. Something to keep an eye out for.”

  He bowed to the pathologist and left him with his view of the foggy skyline.

  As Iwata got into the rental car, he tried to picture the man calling himself Ikuo. The name—it meant ‘Fragrant Man’—was so ill-fitting, it was almost ridiculous.

  Who are you?

  Iwata went over what he knew. It wasn’t much.

  He knew he was looking for someone tall and physically imposing.

  Someone Japanese, though most likely using a false name.

  Someone with a taste for acid trips.

  Someone who could sail.

  Beyond that, he might as well have been hunting for a ghost.

  Whoever you are, you’re my killer.

  CHAPTER 23: PLAYING CHESS IN THE DARK

  On Tsing Ma Bridge, Iwata stopped his rental car and signed up to 2Chan using his phone’s Web browser. After a tedious period searching through dining and nightlife pages, he finally found a post from Coco La Croix:

  The unbelievable talent of DJ Mothra playing @ secret venue 03/07/11—set begins at 00:00. See you there! C

  Iwata wrote the following:

  My friend Charlie can’t say enough good things about Mothra! Can I get a head’s up on that venue? Flying over from Hong Kong especially!

  He got out of the car and stood on the hard shoulder, looking out over the ocean. Inchoate clouds moved quickly, their dark shadows blanketing the green hills below. Small lobster boats chugged out to sea.

  On a whim, he took out his phone and dialed Sakai’s number.

  “Iwata?”

  “Hello, Sakai.”

  “I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you again.”

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “Iwata, if it’s about the case file you stole from me, I don’t even—”

  “The Black Sun Killer murdered Mina Fong.”

  She fell silent.

  “Now I know what you’ll say, the Black Sun’s trademarks aren’t there. But I’m sure of it, Sakai. He also killed Fong’s sister, Jennifer. I have her autopsy report. He took the heart.”

  “But why risk that? Mina is so high profile, it would bring so much attention and—”

  “Exactly. Don’t you see? The stalker, the dog, the movie star. It all makes one hell of a diversion.”

  Logic fought with the truth. A beat. Then a moment of realization.

  “… Oh my God.” Her voice was soft. “He murdered the Kaneshiros less than twenty-four hours later.”

  “Meanwhile, half the TMPD are on the other side of Tokyo, rummaging through Mina Fong’s underwear drawer.”

  “Holy shit, Mina Fong was a diversion.”

  Iwata checked his watch.

  “I’ve got to go, Sakai. My time here is running out.”

  “Time where? Hang on—”

  “Forget it. Everything you said about me was right. I just thought you should know.”

  Iwata hung up and dialed Hatanaka’s number.

  “Iwata?”

  “How’s my favorite Boy Scout?” He found himself smiling.

  “I found your man, Inspector. Ikuo Uno. Strange name. It’s the only one that flags up on our system.”

  Iwata gripped the railing of the bridge and breathed deeply before asking.

  “So, where do I find him?”

  “You don’t. He’s dead. Gas leak in his apartment some years back. After that, his bank accounts were cleared and his credit cards were used abroad—South America, Hong Kong, all over Japan … It has to be your guy, right? Using a dead man’s ID?”

  Iwata mulled this over, shaking his head. He was playing chess in the dark.

  “Hatanaka, I’m going to be landing at Haneda in twenty-four hours. Meet me in the car park with Ikuo Uno’s file.”

  “Uh, okay. Should I wear a hat or something?”

  “Funny. Now which hotel did Ikuo Uno stay in?”

  “He didn’t. The tourism board was kind enough to go through records for the entire city and found zip. But they did make it clear that their records didn’t include boat rental accommodation.”

  “Boat rentals…” Iwata slapped his forehead. “Of course.”

  “I made a list and got through to all but three of the rental companies listed on the tourism board’s database. None of them had ever heard the name Ikuo Uno. The three I couldn’t get through to were Seahorse Charters, HK Fun Yachting, and Ruby Rentals. You got that?”

  “Hatanaka, you’re a damn hero.”

  * * *

  South of Silverstrand, on a green limb facing Shelter Island, Iwata stopped outside Ruby Rentals Ltd. Seven boats of varying size were moored to a rotting jetty. The office was a single concrete cube with a broken window and missing letters.

  “Can I help you?” The accent was American; Kentucky, Iwata guessed.

  A tall white man with red stubble and sunburned skin stood outside the office. His Hawaiian shirt was open, and rivulets of sweat snaked down his large, freckled belly. Iwata held up his police ID but didn’t bother pointing out that it carried the legal authority of a video rental card in this city.

  “Maybe you can. I’m investigating a homicide and I have a few questions. Could I trouble you for a minute, sir?”

  The man spat out a mouthful of chewing tobacco and pointed toward the office. Inside, it was dim and stank of sweat. Maps and charts covered all available wall space. A laptop was transmitting an American football game, while a tin of tobacco lay open on the desk.

  “I’m Inspector Iwata.”

  “Boyd Botner.”

  The man grunted toward one of the plastic chairs across from his bureau and stuffed another pinch of tobacco inside his cheek.

  “I’m looking for a customer who may have rented a boat of yours a few years ago. Do you do long-term rental here?”

  “One of the few in town that does.”

&nbs
p; “What’s your limit?”

  “Seven-day limit. Practically all the other joints just do twenty-four hours.”

  “Can the customer then renew?”

  “Officially, no.”

  “I need you to search your records for a man called Ikuo Uno. Japanese.”

  Botner sighed and went into a back room. He returned several minutes later holding a crinkled sheet of paper.

  “This is him. Spent three weeks on the Midnight Viv and paid in cash. Last person to rent her, back in ’05. She’s not exactly a popular model. That’s his signature right there.”

  The Ruby Rentals letterhead was red and cheap. The signature at the bottom of the page was a large, spiraling sprawl in black.

  “This man, did he ask specifically for the Midnight Viv?”

  “Don’t recall, friend. But I did tell him she was a bit of a handful—sixty-nine feet of temperamental. He didn’t seem to give a shit.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Big guy, shaved head, built like a minder.”

  “Did he take anyone on board with him?”

  “I didn’t see anyone. We don’t keep passenger logs here. So long as the boat ain’t broken when it gets here, I don’t ask questions.”

  “Did you notice anything strange about the vessel after he returned it?”

  “Yeah, actually. I remember thinking how squeaky clean it was. Most rentals come back looking like they’ve sailed through a shit storm. But your guy had washed every nook. I guess that makes sense now—you’re Homicide, huh?”

  His grin was missing a tooth.

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Mi casa es su casa. She’s the Bermuda-rigged ketch, the fat one on the end. Just do me a favor, don’t take too long? I want to head off soon, and there’s one coming in off the books.”

  “One what?”

  “A typhoon. Just my fucking luck—cops and storms on the same day.”

  Outside, the sea was sullen. Foamy waves smashed against the jetty leaving blinking eyes on the dead wood. In the distance, loons dive-bombed for prey. Iwata smelled the sour air as he walked to the end of the jetty. It was a warm day, but he shivered with sickness.

  The Midnight Viv came into view. Iwata could tell, despite her graceful lines, she was no spring chicken. She swayed alone, almost imperceptibly, in the soft wind.