Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  “What was the third reason?”

  “Like I said, I have a lead.”

  Sakai went into her coat pocket and passed across a photograph. Yamada looked down at Keiko Shimizu and her black sun tattoo.

  “You ever seen anything like this on a person?”

  Yamada looked closely and nodded.

  “That’s the symbol of the Children of the Black Sun.” He looked up her. “Jesus, this is basically the same symbol the killer is leaving behind.”

  “Tell me about the cult.”

  “A pretty nasty one, but long defunct. It was active mostly through the sixties, seventies, and eighties. Died a death in the nineties. Though it had resources, it was relatively mediocre in scale, no more than a couple of thousand members at its peak. It was a pretty typical model—hidden meaning, charismatic guru, controlled truth, and so on.”

  “Which was?”

  “A combination of quasi-Buddhist teachings mixed with apocalypse narrative taken from ancient South American beliefs. Actually, pretty niche. Of course, those elements would only be revealed once you were part of the inner circle. But self-marking and self-harming were common in this particular sect.”

  “Well”—Sakai tapped the tattoo—“I for one don’t believe in fairy tales. There is a connection between that cult and these murders. Trust me, I know it.”

  She took out some papers from her handbag and handed them over.

  “This is her background and how it ties into the case. Read this.”

  Yamada looked up at the ceiling.

  “Say I agree. What would you need from me?”

  “First, I need to know where this cult would have been based.”

  “Easy enough. They had rep offices in Tokyo, Sapporo, and Osaka, I believe. But its HQ was a large compound up in the mountains near Gero. What else?”

  Sakai closed her eyes and suppressed a wave of nausea.

  “Gero?” she echoed softly.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “… Nothing.”

  Yamada eyed her until she rubbed her eyes and regained her composure.

  “You okay, Sakai?”

  “Fine.”

  “What else do you need?”

  “I need you to meet Iwata at Yoyogi-kōen Station in three hours. Are you in?”

  “Will you be there?”

  “No. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t.”

  Yamada nodded without really knowing why. But he found it hard to see pain across Sakai’s face.

  “So why Iwata?”

  Sakai looked down at the black suns, side by side.

  “Because he’s the only one who can stop this now.”

  “All right.” Yamada shook his head. “I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him. Though it was artificial, it still thrilled him. “Oh, one more thing?”

  She took out a small yellow envelope from her jacket and placed it on the desk. There was a single word scrawled across it:

  IWATA

  “What’s that?” Yamada asked.

  “Just a tape. When you get back from Gero, give it to him. Not before, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She stood and bowed. Yamada rushed after her. At the door they shared a look.

  “Where will you go?” he asked.

  “To prepare.”

  “For what?”

  “Whatever is coming.”

  She bit her lip and nodded for no particular reason.

  “Hey, Yamada?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t sleep well either.”

  Sakai smiled sadly and patted the door frame good-bye.

  * * *

  At 3:30 A.M., Yamada hurried across the slick road to the waiting Isuzu. Night trains slowly screeched past, the warning bells from the level crossing clanging in panic. Wet slushing sounds from the highway could be heard in the distance. Yamada sat in the passenger seat and set down a plastic bag between his feet.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Iwata reached for his gun, but Yamada held out a hand.

  “Yoji Yamada, Cults and Religious Groups. Remember me?”

  “Where’s Sakai?”

  “She’s not coming. She sent me.”

  Yamada held up the photograph of Keiko Shimizu’s tattoo.

  “She gave this to me to show you, Iwata. She asked me to work with you. She has a lead.”

  There was an uneasy silence.

  “Speak,” Iwata said.

  “In 1982, a woman called Keiko Shimizu left her home in Nagasaki on a camping trip and never came back. She sent letters and called home a few times, speaking about her ‘new life’ and ‘finding herself.’ In 1996, she ended up on a ropeway where she murdered a man before killing herself.”

  “That symbol, Inspector Yamada, is the same symbol the killer is leaving behind in my crime scenes.”

  “It’s also the symbol of a doomsday cult. So fill me in. Come on, Iwata. I know you’re not the buddy-buddy type, but you also know that I could be able to help you here. I have expertise. Sakai gave me the basics, but I need to know the lay of the land.”

  Iwata tapped the wheel and nodded reluctantly.

  “If I tell you, you tell no one. Understand?”

  Yamada spread his hands.

  “Nobody listens to me anyway. You included, remember?”

  “All right. I believe the Black Sun Killer was one of the passengers on that same cable car.”

  Yamada pursed his lips.

  “Shit.”

  “For whatever reason, he’s killing everyone onboard that day. Now we know that Keiko is dead. That just leaves Yumi Tachibana—she’s already under police guard—and a little girl who was about ten years old at the time.”

  “You think the baby in the photo is the girl on the cable car?”

  “Could be, it would make sense. Tell me about this cult.”

  “Your symbol is almost a carbon copy of that belonging to a dead cult called the Children of the Black Sun. A few thousand strong. Doomsday narrative, apocalypse not arriving soon enough, let’s provoke it ourselves through mass murder, biological weapons, that kind of thing. Their compound was up in the mountains near Gero. Our killer was almost certainly a member.”

  Iwata looked at him.

  “Now I understand why Sakai called me and told me to bring all my case notes.” He pointed to the sports bag on the backseat.

  “Like I said, she wants us to work together. So. What do we have?”

  “Not much. A shaky MO. No solid suspects to speak of, no real evidence, and a boatload of question marks.”

  They sat in silence for a while, both of them watching the traffic lights change color.

  “Well.” Yamada grinned. “At least I’m out of the office.”

  “Where did Sakai say she was going?”

  “She didn’t. Just that she was going to prepare.”

  “For what?”

  Yamada shrugged and looked at the sports bag.

  “I suppose I’d better read while you drive.”

  Iwata started the engine and pulled away. Yamada took out a thermos from his plastic bag and poured coffee.

  “Iwata, drink this. It’s a long way, and from the looks of you, you’re going to fall asleep at the wheel.”

  Iwata took a sip and sputtered.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s a little Yoji special blend. Proper coffee.” Yamada winked.

  “Stick to cults.”

  Muttering, Yamada snatched the cup back.

  They left Tokyo behind, heading north at speed. The roads were empty except for delivery trucks heading for the city and waste trucks going the other way. Tomatoes, crayons, sex toys.

  Tokyo wanted it all.

  Tokyo was always hungry.

  Yamada splayed out a map and gave occasional directions. With the overhead light switched on, he went over Iwata’s mountain of notes and photographs.

  After a few hours, he turned out the light.


  “Well?” Iwata asked.

  “I get the picture, yeah.”

  “And?”

  “And I think we’re fucked. For one thing, your take on this case doesn’t look good for various people in positions of power. You must realize that?”

  “I realize that.”

  Yamada tugged on his mustache in thought.

  “Listen, Iwata. I know a guy. He works for a big newspaper. Why don’t you talk to him? Ridiculous as it sounds, something could conceivably … happen to us and it’d be nice to have a little insurance—”

  Iwata shook his head.

  “I’ve got no time for that. This time next week, speak to whomever you want. For now, I just want you to give me your thoughts on the case.”

  Yamada sighed.

  “All right. Well, first, I’m going on the assumption that Keiko Shimizu is part of the Black Sun cult. I’m also thinking that the little girl is her child. If she’s around ten or twelve in the cable car, then the dates would more or less match up. Now Keiko would have been very young to be a mother but rape is common in many cult environments.”

  “Wait, didn’t you say there were a few thousand people in this group? Wouldn’t someone have objected to young girls getting raped?”

  “Often those that are indoctrinated might sense that what is happening is wrong, but you have to realize that they might well have lost their ability to make their own decisions. ‘There is no good and bad.’”

  Iwata shot him a doubtful glance.

  “Brainwashing. You’re for real?”

  “You’re skeptical?”

  “No, not at all. I just think you already have to be crazy to fall for crazy.”

  “Iwata, I’m not talking Star Trek–style mind control, but people are less sophisticated than they think they are. You would not believe how quickly and effectively a healthily pragmatic mind can be completely invaded. We’re designed to conform. These people are told, ‘You are God in your own universe—a universe that you caused. We love you.’ We call that love bombing and for many it’s massively addictive.”

  “Flattery.”

  Yamada rolled his eyes.

  “We’re wired to seek the approval and love of others. We’re social creatures. When you walk around as a god among men for two weeks and you’re showered with love and attention, that’s something you can get used to. And when it’s taken away, you want it back. People will go out of their way to get it back.”

  Iwata shook his head as he overtook a night bus.

  “I’m sorry, but being nice to people for a few days isn’t enough for them to throw away their entire lives and all their money. How is that even possible?”

  Yamada took out some bread rolls, passed one to Iwata, and answered with a full mouth.

  “Sometimes it can be as simple as depriving the individual of protein, or giving them only three or four hours of sleep a night over a period of time. Compliance is a relatively easy thing to achieve. Your skepticism is natural, Iwata. But trust me, it snares people.”

  Iwata stuffed half a roll in his mouth.

  “How then?”

  “There are any number of ways in. A common one is via workshops and seminars. They can go on for several days. Or say a university drop-out walks into a bookstore, gets talking to an attractive older woman. They have a common interest, say yoga, and she invites him to her class. There, he starts speaking with others—older, wiser people who show an interest in him. They get to encouraging his mistrust of society, even a little conspiracy is thrown in. By the time he realizes they are part of Cult X, he thinks ‘Mm, this is a little crazy but hey, these people are definitely not crazy—they seem nice enough, how mad can it be?’ Of course, by that point, having invested so much time, effort, and sometimes money, the young man is unlikely to want to see this as a cult. What I’m saying is, the kid who walks into that bookshop is unlikely to be the same one who walks out. As for the seminars and classes, they are well advertised. Dressed up as ordinary.”

  “So who goes to them?”

  “The lonely, the curious, the lost, the empty—there’s no typical profile. In more extreme cases, once at these seminars, they are insulted, demoralized, and repeatedly told, ‘There is nothing to strive for.’ This can trigger hysteria. Then they’re brought up on stage and insulted. They’re slapped. Sick bags are provided. Then they’re told that they’ll soon ‘wake up.’ A taste of elation and fulfilment is experienced. Things somehow begin to make sense to them and now they’re hooked. ‘Join us,’ they’re told. ‘Join us and be free.’ Who doesn’t want to be free? So they can end up leaving their jobs, their marriages, their kids—entire lives abandoned for this new way. And they come willingly.”

  Iwata looked at Yamada in the rearview mirror.

  “People seeking the truth?”

  “Hasn’t that always been man’s most common preoccupation? But you have to remember—Iwata, do you have to chew like that?—that in among all of these schemes, sooner or later the unquestionable leader is revealed. Charismatic, beguiling, funny, aggressive—it doesn’t matter, the point is they are the ultimate authority. The new member quickly realizes that the leader’s approval is the most powerful thing of all. And they begin to exist only for that.”

  The Chūō Expressway was quiet. To the northeast, the black fringe of Lake Suwa glimmered.

  “So this cult—the Children of the Black Sun. What was it, exactly?”

  Yamada passed Iwata another cup of coffee. Instead of sputtering, this time he just winced.

  “It was based on a pretty typical mix of mysticism and self-help psychobabble. I forget the exact premise but its central pillar was the ‘end sun,’ along with certain pre-Colombian creation myths. But instead of a purely religious angle, it also took in astrological and therapeutic aspects.”

  “I can’t believe I’m still drinking this coffee.” Iwata grimaced. “So, why therapy?”

  “Why not? After all, therapy is to be encouraged. Trusted. It was a smart angle for them to take. The members would work their way up, progress through the ranks, and sooner or later, the real truth would be revealed.”

  “Which was?”

  “Some sort of imminent apocalyptic narrative. In this case it was the death of the sun and the ascendancy of a darkness in its place. The Black Sun.”

  Iwata smiled.

  “Nothing ups the stakes like the end of the world, right?”

  “It’s a common narrative in most major religions. And, of course, by following the guru, all the children are now safe and everyone else is fucked.”

  “So who was this guru?”

  “Takashi Anzai. Born to a Japanese oil magnate. Grew up in the Central American jungles. Returned to Japan as an adolescent. First ping on the radar is yoga classes in Osaka. His classes grew, as did his fees. Then he moved on to seminars. Somewhere in the early seventies, he obviously decided to dream a little bigger and started his own spirituality group. His cult emerged out of his growing hatred of traditional Buddhism. He incorporated ancient pre-Colombian folklore into his own version and threw in some psychic-development techniques for good measure. He went from twenty to thirty members to some two hundred fifty or so by 1977. By the time of his arrest, the group had over two thousand members and Anzai had purchased land in the Philippines, East Africa, and Mexico.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, not much more is known. After his arrest, he barely said a word. It didn’t really get the coverage it might have done because Aum Shinrikyo had just been destroyed and the media were having a field day—indictments, bankruptcy, and death sentences. By then, the Children of the Black Sun were seen as just another fad. But they too were crushed in time. As for Anzai, by the time of his execution, he had fathered over thirty children. Mass graves were found at the compound.”

  Iwata mulled this over. They drove past a garden center, its car park empty. A roadside Mr. Donut had just turned on its lights for the day’s business. A neon cow above a clos
ed steakhouse was blinking red. Yamada rubbed his eyes.

  “Iwata, you know what I think? We cops tend to find a detail—in some natural, organic way we find the detail. And it confirms a suspicion. It makes sense. It feels right. It becomes our North Star. It’s what we build the rest around.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, your North Star is that black sun symbol. Along with the taken hearts, it’s the only consistent element in this case.”

  “It’s not present at Mina Fong’s apartment.”

  “Which you think was a distraction anyway. Mina Fong aside, we’ve got a black sun at every step of the way—leading all the way back to that cable car in 1996.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “So what if we’re wrong? What if there is no link between Keiko, the cult, and your killer? What if they’re just two symbols that happen to be similar?”

  Iwata glanced at Yamada.

  “Then we’ve got nothing.”

  Yamada shrugged.

  “Well, too late to turn back now anyway.”

  They shot past a sign—GERO 170KM.

  CHAPTER 33: GOD IS NEVER IN A HURRY

  A WEAK SUN HAD RISEN over Mount Ontake. The only sound in the forest came from snow falling from branches with soft thuds. Rocky bluffs to the east glistened in the dawn. Moss-strangled trees cowered below them, their branches withered in death. Pale scrub hunkered over the hills in supplication. Mist pressed low over the land. It was too cold for color here.

  Yamada led the way, following his compass. Iwata checked over his shoulder frequently. Both men trembled and wiped their streaming noses. They blew into their hands as they crossed black, dead fields. Seen from a distance, their clouds of breath formed a small train, huffing slowly across the land.

  They had been trekking for the better part of two hours when they found the road they were looking for. The tarmac was brittle and cracked by weeds as tall as a man. Between the bush and snow, it was barely visible. The road wound through the deep forest, wide enough for just a single vehicle.

  Yamada consulted an old map and held his compass over it while Iwata leaned against a tree to catch his breath. He could still hear a ringing from the blow he took to the head from the Black Sun Killer on the roof of the nightclub. The cold painted his breath on the air, smiling faces forming in the white. His broken fingers creaked with pain.