Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

by Rising Sun [lit]

  The kid said, "Can I see it?"

  The teacher said, "You know, the Oriental woman? I think she was Oriental."

  "Yes," Connor said. "Thank you."

  "I want to see the gun."

  Another kid said, "Quiet, stupid. Don't you know anything? They're undercover."

  "I want to see the gun."

  Connor and I started walking away. The kids trailed after us, still asking to see our guns. Across the rink, the man with the newspaper looked up curiously. He watched us leave.

  "Nothing like an inconspicuous exit," Connor said.

  The men's locker room was deserted. I started going through the green metal lockers, one after another, looking for the tapes. Connor didn't bother. I heard him call to me, "Back here."

  He was in the rear by the showers. "You found the tapes?"

  "No."

  He was holding open a door.

  We went down a flight of concrete stairs to a landing. There were two doors. One opened onto a below-grade truck entrance. The other went into a dark hallway with wooden beams. "This way," Connor said.

  We went down this hallway, crouched over. We were underneath the rink again. We passed throbbing stainless-steel machinery, and then came to a series of doors.

  "Do you know where we're going?" I said.

  One of the doors was ajar. He pushed it open. The room lights were out, but I could see that we were in the lab. Off in a corner, I saw a faint monitor glow.

  We walked toward it.

  ☼

  Theresa Asakuma leaned back from the table, pushed her glasses up on her forehead, and rubbed her beautiful eyes. "It's okay as long as we don't make much noise," she said. "They had a guard outside the main door earlier. I don't know if he's still there."

  "A guard?"

  "Yeah. They were serious about shutting down the lab. It was spectacular, like a drug bust. It really surprised the Americans."

  "And you?"

  "I don't have the same expectations about this country."

  Connor pointed to the monitor in front of her. It showed a freeze-frame image of the couple, embracing as they moved toward the conference room. The same image, seen from other camera angles, was reproduced on other monitors on the desk. Some of the monitors had superimposed red lines, radiating out from the night lights. "What have you learned from the tapes?"

  Theresa pointed to the main screen. "I'm not certain," she said. "To be completely certain, I would have to run 3-D modeling sequences to match the dimensions of the room and keep track of all the light sources, and the shadows cast by all the sources. I haven't done that, and I probably can't with the equipment in this room. It would probably require an overnight run on a mini. Maybe I could get time next week from the astrophysics department. The way things are going, maybe not. But in the meantime, I have a strong feeling."

  "Which is?"

  "The shadows don't match."

  In the darkness, Connor nodded slowly. As if that made sense to him.

  I said, "Which shadows don't match?"

  She pointed to the screen. "As these people move around the floor, the shadows they cast don't line up exactly. They're in the wrong place, or the wrong shape. Often it's subtle. But I think it is there."

  "And the fact that the shadows don't match means . . ."

  She shrugged. "I'd say the tapes have been altered, Lieutenant."

  There was a silence. "Altered how?"

  "I'm not sure how much has been done. But it seems clear that there was another person in that room, at least part of the time."

  "Another person? You mean a third person?"

  "Yes. Someone watching. And that third person has been systematically erased."

  "No shit," I said.

  It was making my head spin. I looked at Connor. He was staring intently at the monitors. He seemed completely unsurprised. I said, "Did you already know this?"

  "I suspected something of the sort."

  "Why?"

  "Well, early in the investigation it seemed likely that the tapes were going to be altered."

  "Why?" I said.

  Connor smiled. "Details, kōhai. Those little things we forget." He glanced at Theresa, as if he was reluctant to talk too much in front of her.

  I said, "No, I want to hear this. When did you first know the tapes were altered?"

  "In the Nakamoto security room."

  "Why?"

  "Because of the missing tape."

  "What missing tape?" I said. He had mentioned it before.

  "Think back," Connor said. "In the security room, the guard told us that he changed the tapes when he came on duty, around nine o'clock."

  "Yes . . ."

  "And the tape recorders all had timers, showing an elapsed time of about two hours. Each recorder started about ten or fifteen seconds later than the previous one. Because that was the time interval it took him to change each tape."

  "Right . . ." I remembered all that.

  "And I pointed out to him one tape recorder that didn't fit the sequence. Its tape was only running for half an hour. So I asked if it was broken."

  "And the guard seemed to think it was."

  "Yes. That's what he said. I was letting him off the hook. Actually, he knew perfectly well it was not broken."

  "It wasn't?"

  "No. It was one of the few mistakes that the Japanese have made. But they only made it because they were stuck — they couldn't get around it. They couldn't beat their own technology."

  I leaned back against the wall. I looked apologetically at Theresa. She looked beautiful in the semidarkness of the monitors. "I'm sorry. I'm lost."

  "That's because you are rejecting the obvious explanation, kōhai. Think back. If you saw a line of tape recorders, each one running a few seconds later than the one before, and you saw one recorder way out of sequence, what would you think?"

  "That someone had changed the tape in that one recorder at a later time."

  "Yes. And that's exactly what happened."

  "One tape was switched later?"

  "Yes."

  I frowned. "But why? All of the tapes were replaced at nine o'clock. So none of the replacements showed the murder, anyway."

  "Correct," Connor said.

  "Then why switch one tape after that?"

  "Good question. It's puzzling. I couldn't make sense of it for a long time. But now I know," Connor said. "You have to remember the timing. The tapes were all changed at nine. Then one tape was changed again at ten-fifteen. The obvious assumption was that something important happened between nine o'clock and ten-fifteen, that it was recorded on the tape, and the tape was therefore taken away for some reason. I asked myself: what could this important event be?"

  I thought back. I frowned. I couldn't think of anything.

  Theresa began to smile and nod, as if something had just amused her. I said, "You know?"

  "I can guess," she said, smiling.

  "Well," I said. "I'm glad everyone seems to know the answer except me. Because I can't think of anything important being recorded on that tape. By nine o'clock, the yellow barrier was up, isolating the crime scene. The girl's body was on the other side of the room. There were a lot of Japanese standing by the elevators, and Graham was calling me on the phone for help. But nobody actually began an investigation until I got there at about ten. Then we had a lot of back and forth with Ishiguro. I don't think anybody crossed the tape until almost ten-thirty. Say ten-fifteen at the earliest. So if somebody looked at a recording, all it would show is a deserted room, and a girl lying on the table. That's all."

  Connor said, "Very good. Except you have forgotten something."

  Theresa said, "Did anybody cross the room? Anybody at all?"

  "No," I said. "We had the yellow barrier up. Nobody was allowed on the other side of the tape. In fact— "

  And then I remembered. "Wait a minute! There was somebody! That little guy with the camera," I said. "He was on the other side of the barrier, taking pictures."
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  "That's right," Connor said.

  "What little guy?" she said.

  "A Japanese guy. He was taking pictures. We asked Ishiguro about him. He said his name was, ah . . ."

  "Mr. Tanaka," Connor said.

  "That's right, Mr. Tanaka. And you asked Ishiguro for the film from his camera." I frowned. "But we never got it."

  "No," Connor said. "And frankly, I never thought we would."

  Theresa said, "This man was taking pictures?"

  "I doubt that he was actually taking pictures," Connor said. "Perhaps he was, because he was using one of those little Canons— "

  "The ones that shoot video stills, instead of film?"

  "Right. Would there be any use for those, in retouching?"

  "There might be," she said. "The images might be used for texture mapping. They'd go in fast, because they were already digitized."

  Connor nodded. "Then perhaps he was taking pictures, after all. But it was clear to me that his picture-taking was just an excuse to allow him to walk on the other side of the yellow line."

  "Ah," Theresa said, nodding.

  I said, "How do you know that?"

  "Think back," Connor said.

  I had been standing facing Ishiguro when Graham yelled: Aw, Christ, what is this? And I looked back over my shoulder and saw a short Japanese man about ten meters beyond the yellow tape. The man's back was turned to me. He was taking pictures of the crime scene. The camera was very small. It fitted into the palm of his hand.

  "Do you remember how he moved?" Connor said. "He moved in a distinctive way."

  I tried to recall it. I couldn't.

  Graham had gone forward to the tape, saying: For Christ's sake, you can't be in there. This is a goddamned crime scene. You can't take pictures! And there was a general uproar. Graham was yelling at Tanaka, but he continued to be entirely focused on his work, shooting the camera and backing toward us. Despite all the yelling, Tanaka didn't do what a normal person would do — turn around and walk toward the tape. Instead, he backed up to the yellow stripe and, still turned away, ducked his head and went under it.

  I said, "He never turned around. He backed up all the way."

  "Correct. That is the first mystery. Why would he back up? Now, I think, we know."

  "We do?"

  Theresa said, "He was repeating the walk of the girl and the killer in reverse, so it would be laid down on videotape and he would have a good record of where the shadows in the room were."

  "That's right," Connor said.

  I remembered that when I protested, Ishiguro had said to me: This is our employee. He works for Nakamoto Security.

  And I had said: This is outrageous. He can't take pictures.

  And Ishiguro had explained: But this is for our corporate use.

  And meanwhile the man had disappeared in the crowd, slipping through the knot of men at the elevator.

  But this is for our corporate use.

  "Damn it!" I said. "So Tanaka left us, went downstairs, and removed a single tape, because that tape had a record of his own walk across the room, and the shadows he cast?"

  "Correct."

  "And he needed that tape to make changes in the original tapes?"

  "Correct."

  I was finally beginning to understand. "But now, even if we can figure out how the tapes were altered, they won't stand up in a court of law, is that right?"

  "That's right," Theresa said. "Any good lawyer will make sure they're inadmissible."

  "So the only way to go forward is to get a witness who can testify to what was done. Sakamura might know, but he's dead. So we're stuck unless we can somehow get our hands on Mr. Tanaka. I think we better get him in custody right away."

  "I doubt that will ever happen," Connor said.

  "Why not? You think they'll keep him from us?"

  "No, I don't think they have to. It is very likely that Mr. Tanaka is already dead."

  Connor immediately turned to Theresa. "Are you good at your job?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "Very good?"

  "I think so."

  "We have little time left. Work with Peter. See what you can extract from the tape. Gambatte: try very hard. Trust me that your efforts will be rewarded. In the meantime, I have some calls to make."

  I said, "You're leaving?"

  "Yes. I'll need the car."

  I gave him the keys. "Where are you going?"

  "I'm not your wife."

  "I'm just asking," I said.

  "Don't worry about it. I need to see some people." He turned to go.

  "But why do you say Tanaka is dead?"

  "Well, perhaps he's not. We'll discuss it when there is more time. Right now, we have a lot to finish before four o'clock. That is our true deadline. I think you have surprises in store for you, kōhai. Just call it my chokkan, my intuition. Okay? You have trouble, or something unexpected, call me on the car phone. Good luck. Now work with this lovely lady. Urayamashii ne! "

  And he left. We heard the rear door close.

  I said to Theresa, "What did he say?"

  "He said he envies you." She smiled in the darkness. "Let's begin."

  She pressed buttons on the equipment in rapid succession. The tape rolled back to the beginning of the sequence.

  I said, "How are we going to do this?"

  "There are three basic approaches to learn how video has been doctored. The first is blur and color edges. The second is shadow lines. We can try to work with those elements, but I've been doing that for the last two hours, and I haven't gotten very far."

  "And the third method?"

  "Reflected elements. I haven't looked at them yet."

  I shook my head.

  "Basically, reflected elements — REs — are portions of the scene that are reflected within the image itself. Like when Sakamura walks out of the room, and his face is reflected in the mirror. There are almost certainly other reflections in that room. A desk lamp may be chrome, and it may show the people, distorted, as they pass. The walls of the conference room are glass. We may be able to pull a reflection off the glass. A silver paperweight on a desk, with a reflection in it. A glass vase of flowers. A plastic container. Anything shiny enough to make a reflection."

  I watched her reset the tapes, and prepare to run forward. Her one good hand moved quickly from one machine to the next as she talked. It was odd to stand next to a woman so beautiful, who was so unselfconscious of her beauty.

  "In most images, there is something reflective," Theresa said. "Outside, there are car bumpers, wet streets, glass windowpanes. And inside a room there are picture frames, mirrors, silver candlesticks, chrome table-legs . . . . There's always something."

  "But won't they fix the reflections, too?"

  "If they have time, yes. Because now there are computer programs to map an image onto any shape. You can map a picture onto a complicated, twisted surface. But it takes time. So. Let's hope they had no time."

  She started the tapes forward. The first portion was dark, as Cheryl Austin first appeared by the elevators. I looked at Theresa. I said, "How do you feel about this?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Helping us. The police."

  "You mean, because I am Japanese?" She glanced at me, and smiled. It was an odd, crooked smile. "I have no illusions about Japanese. Do you know where Sako is?"

  "No."

  "It is a city — a town, really — in the north. In Hokkaido. A provincial place. There is an American airfield there. I was born in Sako. My father was a kokujin mechanic. You know that word, kokujin? Niguro. A black man. My mother worked in a noodle shop where the air force personnel went. They married, but my father died in an accident when I was two years old. There was a small pension for the widow. So we had some money. But my grandfather took most of it, because he insisted he had been disgraced by my birth. I was ainoko and niguro. They are not nice words, what he called me. But my mother wanted to stay there, to stay in Japan. So I grew up in Sako. In thi
s . . . place . . ."

  I heard the bitterness in her voice.

  "You know what the burakumin are?" she said. "No? I am not surprised. In Japan, the land where everyone is supposedly equal, no one speaks of burakumin. But before a marriage, a young man's family will check the family history of the bride, to be sure there are no burakumin in the past. The bride's family will do the same. And if there is any doubt, the marriage will not occur. The burakumin are the untouchables of Japan. The outcasts, the lowest of the low. They are the descendants of tanners and leather workers, which in Buddhism is unclean."

  "I see."

  "And I was lower than burakumin, because I was deformed. To the Japanese, deformity is shameful. Not sad, or a burden. Shameful. It means you have done something wrong. Deformity shames you, and your family, and your community. The people around you wish you were dead. And if you are half black, the ainoko of an American big nose . . ." She shook her head. "Children are cruel. And this was a provincial place, a country town."

  She watched the tape go forward.

  "So I am glad to be here. You Americans do not know in what grace your land exists. What freedom you enjoy in your hearts. You cannot imagine the harshness of life in Japan, if you are excluded from the group. But I know it very well. And I do not mind if the Japanese suffer a little now, from my efforts with my one good hand."

  She glared at me. The intensity turned her face to a mask. "Does that answer your question, Lieutenant?"

  "Yes," I said. "It does."

  "When I come to America, I think the Americans are very foolish about the Japanese — but never mind. Here is the sequence now. You watch the top two monitors. I will watch the bottom three. Look carefully for objects that reflect. Look closely. Here it comes."

  ☼

  I watched the monitors in the darkness.

  Theresa Asakuma was feeling bitter about the Japanese, but so was I. The incident with Weasel Wilhelm had made me angry. Angry the way somebody who's scared can be angry. One sentence he had said kept coming back to my mind, again and again.

  Under the circumstances, don't you think the court made a mistake in granting you custody of your young daughter?

  I never wanted custody. In all the turmoil of the divorce, of Lauren moving out, packing up, this is yours, this is mine — in all that, the last thing I wanted was custody of a seven-month-old baby. Shelly was just starting to move around the living room, holding onto the furniture. She would say "Mama." Her first word. But Lauren didn't want the responsibility and kept saying, "I can't handle it, Peter. I just can't handle it." So I took custody. What else could I do?