Blue Light Yokohama

by Nicolas Obregon

  “Can you access the system from your office?”

  “No, I’ll have to use one of the hot desks in Division One. Hopefully, nobody asks me what I’m doing up there.”

  “Go now. You need to find Midori Anzai. Tonight. Find her, and bring her here.”

  “I’ll try my best.” Yamada nodded solemnly.

  “Yoji, if you fail, she will die.”

  They saw a group of uniformed cops enter the car park, laughing as they walked. When they had passed, Yamada got out of the car, head down, and made for the main stairs. Iwata waited a few seconds before heading in the other direction. At the elevator, he jabbed at the call button and checked over his shoulder. The cops were looking in his direction, talking among themselves.

  The doors slid open and he stepped in. The posters hadn’t changed since Iwata first entered this elevator, over two weeks ago.

  1. STATE WHAT HAPPENED.

  • “THERE IS A ROBBER.” = “DOROBO DESU.”

  • THERE WAS A TRAFFIC ACCIDENT.” = “KOTSU JIKO DESU.”

  2. STATE YOUR LOCATION.

  3. STATE YOUR NAME & ADDRESS.

  Iwata closed his eyes. He knew he was close. But he also knew time was running out.

  The doors opened. The ninth floor was a warehouse of tall racks holding endless bags of evidence. Large blue plastic trays contained items yet to be processed—bloodstained chairs, bedsheets blackened from fire, and underwear to be swabbed for semen and pubic hair. All of it was to be bagged and tagged, a collection of criminal curios. The corridor narrowed, with large climate-controlled laboratories on both sides. Toxicologists and forensic investigators looked through microscopes and jotted down numbers dispassionately. It was a production line of case-building.

  At the back of the floor was Electronic Evidence. Video suite four was a sound-proofed cubicle hidden by a vending machine. Hatanaka was anxiously peering through the blinds. Seeing Iwata, he opened the door, relief spreading across his face. He let his superior in and locked the door. Then he sat down in front of a large computer monitor and cracked his knuckles as Iwata pulled over a spare chair.

  “You ready, boss?”

  “Play.”

  The footage had been paused. It showed the pedestrian walkway on Rainbow Bridge. Hatanaka pointed to the corner of the screen. The time stamp showed February 17, 00:35.

  “So?”

  Hatanaka hit the space bar on the keyboard and the CCTV footage began to play. A vehicle, dark in color, stopped on the hard shoulder of the bridge. The footage wasn’t crystal clear but there was no mistaking Hideo Akashi as he got out of the car. He hopped over the barrier and walked along the footpath. He passed nobody as he made his way, unhurried, along the path. After eleven minutes, he reached the first support tower. Inside, there were two doors. One for the elevator, the other a maintenance door. Akashi looked around. He picked up a fire extinguisher and broke the door down.

  “After that,” Hatanaka said, “he’s not seen again.”

  He pressed fast-forward. The tape sped up, showing a security guard discovering the broken door. This sparked a flurry of activity, until finally the police arrived. The tape ended around twenty-four hours after Akashi jumped. Iwata looked at Hatanaka impatiently.

  “We know all this. Hatanaka, you said you had him.”

  Hatanaka held up a finger and then pressed fast rewind. The tape shot back to February 14 at 03:00.

  “Okay, we’re now about seventy hours before Akashi jumped. Keep watching.”

  The same vehicle appeared on the bridge. Again, Hideo Akashi got out of the car.

  This time, he was not alone.

  Another man got out of the car.

  He was a wearing a black hood.

  He was tall.

  “Iwata, it’s him. This is the Black Sun Killer.”

  “How…?”

  “Just watch. He tries to keep his face hidden but I’ll zoom.”

  “Who—”

  “Watch.”

  When the man in the hood looked up the screen for a split second, Hatanaka hit pause.

  And there it was, clear as day.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, there came a violent knocking on the door of video suite four. Iwata was still sitting in his seat, stunned. But he had seen what he needed to see. The knocking at the door grew more intense.

  “Who is it?” Hatanaka whispered.

  “Kid, whatever happens, you keep hold of this tape, you understand? I have to go but I’ll be calling you as soon as I can. Are you with me?”

  “I’m with you, boss.”

  Iwata opened the blinds. Horibe’s angry face came into view.

  “What do you want?”

  Horibe glanced at Hatanaka, then back to Iwata.

  “What the fuck is going on in here?”

  Iwata opened the door and stood in front of Horibe, blocking his view.

  “You already know I don’t enjoy repeating myself, Horibe. What do you want?”

  “You, actually. Fujimura wants a little chat. I’m headed that way. Shall we go together?”

  “Lead the way.”

  Iwata heard the door lock behind him and he followed Horibe toward the elevator. As the doors slid shut, Iwata braced himself, but Horibe kept his hands in his pockets and said nothing. They ascended to the twelfth floor in total silence.

  The doors opened and the usual hubbub of Division One washed in. Iwata got out alone, Horibe grinning at him as the doors slid shut. Yamada was sitting in the corner, cradling a telephone, face glued to a terminal. They made no eye contact. Heading for Fujimura’s office at the end of the floor, Iwata ignored the curious looks.

  Without knocking, he entered and sat across from the elderly superintendent. Fujimura linked his twiglike fingers together and smiled. He was a small, enfeebled man, well into his seventies. Dark purple splotches had hardened on his cranium like fossils and his gray mustache quivered involuntarily as he regarded his subordinate.

  “Kosuke Iwata.” He smiled. “Finally, we meet. Sit, please.”

  “Sir.”

  “Tell me something, Inspector. How are you doing?”

  “Fine. Horibe said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “You want to cut to the heart of the matter—I appreciate that.” Fujimura indicated the clock behind him. “Time is of the essence, after all.”

  Iwata said nothing.

  “How do you find working with Assistant Inspector Sakai?”

  “We’re not currently working together.”

  “She’s assigned to assist Inspector Moroto, I realize. But what’s she up to?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Where is she going, Inspector Iwata? She’s not clocking in. She’s not doing her paperwork. She’s not doing her job. She’s doing something else with her time. So. What do you know?”

  Iwata shifted in his seat.

  “I’m not sure what I’m being asked, sir. But it seems to me that all Sakai does is her job. Whether that’s in this building or not is irrelevant.”

  “Then tell me, what do you think of her?”

  “I respect her very much. She’s a talented investigator.”

  “Quite. And outside of work? You’re friends?”

  A quivering smile hid itself in Fujimura’s little mustache. Iwata began to tap his foot.

  “Why do you ask, sir?”

  “There’s been a lot of talk in this department surrounding you, Sakai, and your case. I’m sure that’s no surprise.”

  “Nor is it a concern.”

  “Mm, that’s good. Gossip doesn’t concern me either.”

  Fujimura regarded Iwata in silence. Behind him the city glimmered in the rain.

  “Forgive me, sir. Why did you summon me here?”

  “For your opinion.”

  “On?”

  “Yourself. Inspector Moroto regards you as a rogue officer. He tells me that you are unfit for duty. Of course, your forthcoming disciplinary hearing attests to tha
t. What is your view?”

  “With respect, Moroto can tell you whatever he pleases. I’m not the cop that charged an innocent man with murder for the sake of convenience.”

  “That was unfortunate. But off-topic…”

  Fujimura stood up, with some difficulty, and looked out of the window at the city. Iwata wondered if he saw order down there. He could see only shadow these days.

  Too many places to hide.

  “My problem, Inspector, is not what Moroto says about you. My problem is receiving complaints from Setagaya PD about misappropriation of resources. Notification from the Chinese authorities about illegal investigations in Hong Kong coming out of Division One. Less than favorable headlines in national newspapers regarding the work of my department. My problem, Inspector, is knowing that precious funds are being thrown at thirty men on overtime to guard a housewife just because, if I understand this correctly, she once appeared in a photograph.”

  Fujimura dropped the blinds and turned to face Iwata’s back.

  “You asked me why I called you here. I called you here because I want to know why I should bother with a hearing at all. I want to know why I shouldn’t just take the case away from you this instant, inexplicably open as it still is, and have you immediately investigated. What is your view?”

  Iwata laughed and answered over his shoulder without looking at the old man.

  “I’m not interested in bravado, Fujimura. You would have done this already if you were going to do it. Either way, I’m on the brink of finding the killer. Something your entire Division One cannot do.”

  Fujimura wheezed out laughter and dropped himself back into his chair.

  “I can see why Shindo has a soft spot for you, son. Honestly, I can. Unfortunately, I don’t share your confidence.”

  “I know a dead Masaharu Ezawa is the perfect patsy for the Kaneshiro case. But there are too many other bodies left to explain. Sooner or later, the press will get a hold of that fact. They’re riding us hard enough as it is. Imagine what will happen if the Black Sun Killer strikes again. The papers will have a field day, whether I’ve been sacked or not.”

  “Inspector, are you making threats?”

  “I’m talking in realistic terms.”

  Fujimura chuckled, almost admiringly.

  “On the brink, eh? What evidence do you have?”

  “With respect, I’ll divulge that information after my disciplinary review.”

  “You’re refusing me?”

  “I’m absolutely refusing you.”

  Fujimura’s mustache quivered, and his small face turned pink.

  “Iwata, the only reason your transfer was approved is because we were a man down after Inspector Akashi’s death. You’re a chimp in a raincoat, boy. Now, I’m going to let you have your forty-eight hours because it would take just as long to effect your dismissal. But understand me. You will not survive your disciplinary. This is the end of any kind of career for you in law enforcement. And once you’re out, I’m going to look at criminal proceedings, either here, or in Hong Kong.”

  “Is that why you summoned me?”

  “I just wanted to tell you personally. Man-to-man.”

  Iwata stood.

  “Then you wasted my time.”

  At the door, he turned back to look at the superintendent, the highest power in Division One. Fujimura held life and death in his old, frail hands. He could click his fingers and Tokyo would fall in line. But he was, in the end, just another old man sitting behind a big desk.

  Iwata could find no words to change that.

  The door slammed shut and Chief Superintendent Fujimura was left alone. The old man glanced at the clock and gave a shuddering sigh.

  “Time to go.”

  * * *

  Beneath Rainbow Bridge, in the rotten yellow light of the Shibaura docks, Fujimura looked over his shoulder again. He had been waiting a long time. He stood in the usual place, behind the warehouse farthest from the street. Spring was due but the night still held a bitter chill. The old man stared at the restless black waters until an angry wind made him blink away tears.

  From the shadows between rusting sea containers, a figure emerged. Fujimura knew at once who it was. He tried not to cower as the man stood before him—almost twice his height. The man wore a black hood over his head, his face covered by a mask. His bright eyes swept over the docks for a long time. Then he spoke.

  “Why … are you … here?”

  “It’s this fucking Iwata. He’s looking into things he shouldn’t be.”

  “Things…”

  The man repeated the word as though it were a novel discovery. The voice unsettled Fujimura so deeply, he struggled not to tremble visibly.

  “Yes. Things like Takara Matsuu. And not only that. He says he’s close to finding you.”

  “Close.” The man looked up at the bridge, glowing green across the bay. “Yes … close.”

  “I just thought I should warn you.”

  The tall man turned his back on Fujimura.

  “There’s something else. Iwata and Sakai aren’t working together anymore … I think she’s alone. I think she’s conducting her own investigation. It could be to do with you.”

  “Sakai,” he whispered, no longer speaking to Fujimura.

  The man unhurriedly slipped out of sight. Fujimura, wheezing in the cold, waited a long time to make sure that he was no longer needed before he left.

  * * *

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, Iwata was speeding on the expressway. His whole body pulsed and fear rose up his throat like bile. Within a few minutes of returning to the video suite, Iwata had called Shindo down to the ninth floor and played him the footage from Rainbow Bridge. Blinking away his shock, Shindo had said he would contact a judge he trusted to put together the arrest warrant for the man they now believed to be the Black Sun Killer.

  This is when Iwata’s phone had rung.

  Seeing the dialing code had come from rural Nagano, he had started to apologize for the lateness of his payments to the Nakamura Institute.

  No, sir. It’s about your wife. She’s gone.

  It was 2:45 A.M. when Iwata reached the outskirts of town. He screeched around corners, shooting past the derelict factories and abandoned shops, then up into the Nojiri Hills. At the gates of the institute, two nurses were already waiting for him.

  “What happened?”

  “Mr. Iwata, it’s all right. We’ve found her.”

  He pushed past the nurses, through the disinfected corridors once again, out into the darkened garden. The papier-mâché flamingos stared on with their yellow eyes, the elephants’ trunks thrown back in delight.

  The lights of the city are so pretty.

  “Cleo!”

  She was slumped on a sun bed, her gown open. Her nightshirt beneath was soaked red. Iwata ripped the gown open and thrust up the nightshirt to see the wound.

  I’m happy with you. Please let me hear.

  “Mr. Iwata.” One nurse tried to restrain him, the other went for help.

  “Mr. Iwata, she’s fine!”

  Those words of love from you.

  There was no wound. Just Cleo’s pale, shrunken breasts, her small ribs and a message. In red marker pen, someone had written words across her chest:

  See you soon Inspector

  Iwata wheeled around and bellowed at the nurse.

  “Who did this?”

  Flinching, she took a step back.

  “W-we don’t know. Her door was open and she was gone. We found her here shortly after we called you.”

  Iwata clasped his skull with his hands, his crooked fingers screaming at him again. He looked down at his broken wife. Her eyes were half open and she was drooling from one side of her mouth. He saw her C-section scar and looked away, needing to vomit, needing to drink.

  The nurse put a tentative hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Did anyone come to visit her today?”

 
“Yes. A tall man. He didn’t give his name. He had a badge, he said he was your friend.”

  Iwata looked up at the sky and understood now.

  “It was them.” His voice was quiet. “They did it to waste my time.”

  Iwata sat down on the damp grass next to Cleo. He reached up and took her small, limp hand and ordered himself not to cry. Exhaustion, pain, and helplessness again. For Iwata, pain would never be new, it would always be there, waiting to be reborn.

  He looked at Cleo, her body slowly shrinking and dying, but her mind already dead to the fact—dead to everything. He envied her and resented her. Not just for what she had done to him, but for her perfect abandonment. For Cleo, there was only the bliss of nothingness. The ecstasy of surrender. The perfection of the abyss. No more suffering. No more sacrifice. No more reasons.

  Iwata’s head was swimming, the feeling of a falling dream. He pressed his eyes shut hard, realizing that even this hurt. He floundered, grasping desperately for a reason to stand. A reason to defy them. A reason to not take out his SIG and end it all there, on that very lawn. And then an image took Iwata like a small hand grasping his. He saw little Hana Kaneshiro and slipped his hand into his shirt to feel the wound between his ribs. He needed that pain. He needed it all.

  Because that’s what we do. That’s police …

  Iwata stood and wiped away a tear with a sleeve.

  “Please, take my wife back to her room.”

  Iwata left, trying not to look back at Cleo as the nurses prepared her to be moved. He got back into the Isuzu and saw that the tank was almost empty. He drove well clear of the town before he stopped to fill up. Iwata tried to steady his breathing. He listened to the pumps hum as his old car greedily swallowed down its juice. It was a warm, familiar noise. He closed his eyes and felt himself falling asleep. In just a few seconds he would be gone.

  Iwata hurried over to the vending machine and drank two energy drinks in a row. Slapping himself in the face, he started the car, shouting to himself as loudly as he could.

  “He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home!”

  He flicked on the turret light and was about to floor the accelerator when he looked down. His phone was ringing.

  “Yeah?” Iwata shouted over the siren. “Shindo, I can’t hear you.”