by Meg Mezeske
“And you didn’t recognize this person at all? Was he your brother’s age? Older?”
“A-actually, I don’t know. I never saw the person’s face. I guess I don’t even know whether it was a man.” The girl’s nervousness ratcheted up at Jordan’s questions, her eyes growing wide. “I-I thought maybe it was because he was kind of tall. It was raining, so he was wearing a big coat with a hood. Hard to tell what he looked like…”
“Or she?”
“I guess so.” She bit her lip and concentrated. “It might have been one of Junichi’s friends. They never talk to me anyway. Or an NHK fee collector.”
“Do you remember anything else?” Jordan tried not to sound too eager.
“There was a car I didn’t recognize in the parking lot. A little yellow car.”
Jordan nodded. Many people in Ogawa—and probably Sagae—didn’t have cars, so it was easy to remember who drove what. Jordan knew instantly which of her own neighbors were home by identifying their cars in the small dirt lot in front of the apartment building. Still, the vehicle Junichi’s sister saw could have belonged to a guest of their neighbors. All the same, Jordan felt a sort of nervous excitement and swept the crumbs of information into her memory as the girl spoke once again. “I’m sorry, Ms. Johnson, but I have to go back now.”
“Thank you for speaking with me. And for returning my pen.”
The girl nodded shyly and scurried up a few steps before pausing.
“Junichi didn’t kill himself,” she blurted out and left, leaping up the stairs two at a time.
Jordan thought of Nanami and Shun and their same declarations in the face of death. Beyond their shared words, they had all borne expressions of deep certainty woven with defiance, as though daring Jordan to think otherwise or to deny them. She wished to tell Junichi’s sister she was right. Instead, she stepped out to the gravel path leading away from the apartments, cinched up her coat, and headed for the train station.
It was nearing eight o’clock and the station was swelling with bodies, mostly salarymen leaving to begin the commute home or join their coworkers at an izakaya. Even these ostensibly social after-work gatherings were more like mandated work meetings: a time for the low-ranked employees to pour beers for their superiors and to take ribbings fueled by alcohol and the knowledge that no one would speak of it again.
The Japanese workday was like an octopus, stretching its tentacles far into the night and beyond the reach of the actual office. For all the people present in the station’s waiting area, there was little noise, most people tapping away at their cell phones or munching on onigiri from the corner store.
Jordan passed a vocal group of men in jacketed suits to wait at the platform. Unsurprisingly, they assumed she couldn’t understand Japanese—with her corn-silk hair and green eyes—and one made a lurid suggestion of what he and “Blondie” could do together. They laughed. Jordan ignored them and dropped some yen into a vending machine near the tracks.
With a thunk, the machine ejected a warm canned latte, which Jordan popped open gratefully. The backlight of the vending machine shone harshly and illuminated its wares like diamonds on a light table, from milk teas to lemon vitality drinks. The glare plunged everything else into pitch darkness. Except for the muzzy eyes of the incoming train, Jordan could see little else. She walked unhurriedly to where the front few cars were slowing to a stop and waited for the passengers to depart. As she raised the latte to her lips for another sip, she caught sight of a man making for the train’s exit and spluttered on her drink.
Inspector Toshihiko Sakurai adjusted his coat and began to disembark alongside the other passengers.
Jordan quickly pulled up her hood and looked away, keeping her eyes anchored to her feet. Of course, she had every right to be in Sagae, and if asked, she could say she was there to go to the gym, which was true. Still, she felt that Toshihiko would wheedle out her true purpose if she did so much as blink at the wrong moment. She kept still until she felt others brushing past her to board the train.
Head still tucked down, she hurried on board and fell into a window seat. As the train pulled away, she watched the inspector walk surely toward the Satos’ apartment.
Twenty
Ogawa bore all the bitter temperatures of winter without the thick layers of snow that had clung to the trees of Mount Zao. Still, Jordan felt frozen to the bone and didn’t bother to hide her chattering teeth. Bobbing from foot to foot hadn’t helped, so she merely stood there, shivering, arms and scarf tight around her like mummy wrappings, while she waited in line.
It was the day of Ogawa’s own modest Oden and Dongara-jiru Festival, one of many community get-togethers organized by the town’s Cultural Committee. As far as Jordan could tell, it seemed less of a long-held tradition and more of a stopgap celebration falling squarely between the Sweet Potato Imoni Festival and the Hanami Festival. Regardless, Jordan was not one to miss a sampling of local cuisine or any opportunity to meet with students and teachers outside of school. But she began to have second thoughts when the line crawled forward, bringing her only marginally closer to the covered stalls serving steaming pots of stew.
Like many community-sponsored events, the Oden Festival was held in front of the town hall, with its stalls spread out like playing cards. There was also a temporary stage for dancers and small bands to perform upon, but it stood empty for the moment.
The town hall was a few stories high—the largest building Jordan had seen in Ogawa, outside of the factories. On the opposite end of the town hall’s parking lot were the community center and a town museum, all of which perched on the crown of a large hill.
Looking behind her, Jordan could make out the line where the Mogami River met the land a few miles away, grey and hazy with atmosphere. After a few more minutes of letting her gaze wander while waiting in line, Jordan gratefully received a plastic bowl sloshing with oden.
She took a seat at a cluster of benches and lunged at the boiled egg with her chopsticks. It bobbed away languidly in the brown dashi broth and rocked against floating islands of konnyaku, potato, radish, carrots, and tofu. For the moment, she was content to sip the steaming broth and feel its warmth suffuse her throat and stomach. As she sipped the stew, she saw someone approach over the white horizon of the bowl against her lips.
“Jordan-sensei!” It was Akira, also bundled up but not seeming to mind the cold. Jordan hadn’t seen him much since classes had resumed after the winter break and she smiled warmly as she greeted him. Without further pleasantries, he took a seat next to her and leaned in close. “Do you think it’s true that Yuki was…murdered?” Though his question was direct, Jordan wasn’t surprised by the lack of preamble—everyone was talking about the investigation, if more discreetly.
“I don’t know, Akira. Inspector Sakurai doesn’t have the same information for Yuki as he does for Ryusuke and Emi, but it seems to follow. You said yourself that you didn’t think he committed suicide,” Jordan said. “Don’t you feel the same way anymore?”
“I don’t know what to think,” Akira said, thrusting his hands into his pockets and staring at his feet stretched straight in front of him. “No, I guess I don’t think he killed himself. But he was really down right before he died. He was pretty ashamed about all that stolen lab stuff. I guess that was before you got here…”
“Ms. Tatsuya told me,” Jordan said and took another swallow of broth.
“Oh yeah? I still feel bad about ratting out Yuki, especially after everything that happened. But what else could I do when Vice Principal Nakamura asked me about it?”
“Ms. Nakamura came to you? I heard you confessed to the teachers yourself.”
“No, she called me into her office one day and accused me of stealing chemicals from the storeroom cabinet. I knew it was Yuki—who else could it be? I guess I shouldn’t have told.” He shook his head. “She’s a scary lady.”
Jordan was more intrigued than she let on. Since asking Ms. Nakamura about the incident was out of t
he question, she would have to unearth more information on her own. Jordan felt a surge of curiosity and decided to return to the storeroom the following school week. The dusty collection of curiosities housed there seemed old and forgotten, but apparently not to Ms. Nakamura. The thought of revealing whatever the vice principal had hidden made Jordan’s spine thrum with anticipation.
While she had Akira on the topic, Jordan asked if Yuki had made any new friends or hung out with any odd acquaintances shortly before his death. Akira answered “no” and changed the topic to the latest episode of his favorite anime before Jordan could ask more. Eventually, the boy was called away by his mother, and Jordan sat contemplating just how she could get into the storage room.
Twenty-One
Ms. Tatsuya was not at her desk, nor would she be for the next thirty minutes. Jordan knew the math instructor had a key to the storage room, which could be sitting unattended in her desk drawer just inches away. Or lying in the recesses of Ms. Tatsuya’s pockets, Jordan thought grimly.
Of the very few people present in the teachers’ room at that moment, Ms. Nakamura was among them. Jordan felt a chill trickle down her back at the thought of being caught swiping keys from Ms. Tatsuya’s desk—especially by Ms. Nakamura. Fortunately, as usual, the puckered woman didn’t spare Jordan a glance, as though even the sight of her was somehow distasteful.
With a deep, bolstering breath, Jordan reached to the nearest drawer and pulled. She almost laughed with relief at her luck. Atop a jumbled nest of pens and pencils sat Ms. Tatsuya’s key ring, sprouting more metal prongs than a jailer’s.
There was no choice but to take the whole thing and return it as soon as possible. Eyes straight ahead, Jordan grabbed the keys—muffling them with her palm—and maneuvered them into her pants pocket. A quick glance showed no one was looking her way, so she stood up to head for the door. Jordan was no more than a foot away when a man’s voice called out to her.
“Ms. Howard?”
She flinched and swallowed hard at the brassy jangle that whispered from her pocket. Jordan turned to see Inspector Sakurai and drew her lips into a polite smile.
“Yes, Inspector?”
“May I speak with you for a moment?”
“Well, actually, I was just about to—” She looked pointedly at the door.
“Please. It’s urgent.” There was an unfamiliar tightness in his voice, and he did seem perturbed—perhaps even worried. Jordan hesitated a moment longer before following him into the break lounge. He closed the door quickly behind her and launched in. “I wasn’t aware you moonlighted as an online journalist, Ms. Johnson.”
Jordan’s breath caught. She thought he might have seen her take the keys, but this was far worse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please do me the favor of at least pretending you respect my intelligence, even when you so clearly do not respect my position.”
“It’s not against the law in Japan to ask people questions, is it? Besides, I didn’t say a word about the homicide investigation,” Jordan said stubbornly. “If you’re looking for an apology, I’m afraid you won’t get one.”
“I don’t think you fully understand the situation, Jordan. There’s a murderer in Ogawa, likely in this very school.” His voice softened, and he looked pained. “Of course I don’t want interference in my investigation, but more than that, I can’t simply watch while you put yourself in danger.” The inspector took a step closer and his hand moved as though to reach out to her, but he let it fall back.
“You really think I’m at risk?” Jordan felt a sudden thrill of worry and embarrassment at not seriously considering such a possibility earlier. Despite the pulse of initial surprise, she realized she was not terribly concerned for her own safety. The idea that someone would target her seemed almost too unbelievable to consider.
“I still know very little about the perpetrator. All the more reason to be cautious.” The inspector said nothing further and looked at her expectantly. Jordan suspected he wanted some sort of assurance that she would cease her personal investigation, but she was about as willing to wrench those words from her throat as she was to apologize. The silence continued and she felt the weight of the keys anchored in her pocket.
“Well, if there’s nothing else—”
“Why do you insist on involving yourself?” he asked, not seeming to hear her. “I know that your brother’s death left you with questions, but solving these murders won’t help you.”
“I get it—you think you know what’s best for me. You think you know what I want better than I do. At least I can do something this time.” She hardened her voice, and neither of them spoke for a while.
“Will you at least tell me if you uncovered anything about Junichi?” Toshihiko finally said with a sigh.
Jordan paused before answering, surprised by his request. She wondered if he was asking just to placate her. Then again, he was also focused enough on the investigation to welcome any bit of information, even if it came from her and her unendorsed sleuthing.
“Did his sister tell you about the person she saw the night Junichi died? And the car?”
“A tall person, gender uncertain but possibly male, wearing a hooded raincoat. A small yellow car of unknown make and model.”
“That’s all I got.”
“You’re not a bad inspector,” he said and gave a hint of a smile.
“And I got there before you.” Jordan smirked. “Listen, Inspector, I’m sorry but I really do have to go now.” She slid past him to open the door.
“At least…be careful.” He tried to sound stern but his hesitation held an air of uncertainty.
“I will,” Jordan said over her shoulder, already scurrying away. She cursed Toshihiko silently for interrupting her plans and hurried toward the lower floor as noiselessly as possible. A few students raised their heads as she passed their classrooms, but she was soon in the empty stairwell and the secluded hallway beyond.
The entryway to the storeroom was dark, as usual, and she was startled by the looming form of the haphazardly stacked chairs, feeling even more on edge. Jordan reminded herself that time was short and began to systematically try each key in the lock hanging from the door. Finally, one sank into the metal and the tumblers fell into place. Jordan gave one furtive look behind her before opening the door and pushing inside.
The single light sputtered to life and threw a jaundiced glow on the room’s specimen jars and taxidermy inhabitants. Faced with vials, bottles, beakers, test tubes, and every manner of unidentifiable substance, Jordan was suddenly struck with the realization that she had no idea what she was looking for.
All she knew was that Yuki had stolen something from that very room and died a mere week later. She knew these two instances could be unrelated, and any sort of connection wasn’t immediately obvious. Still, she thought it odd that Ms. Nakamura had confronted Akira about the theft—the vice principal had somehow known something was missing.
“What was she down here for?” Jordan said to the row of glass beakers in front of her nose. Her words deadened as they hit the thick, musty air. Except for the plastic jugs near the door that Ms. Tatsuya had rummaged through to look for vinegar, all the other items seemed undisturbed. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, making the room look like a freeze-frame from a grainy black-and-white film. Jordan’s and the math teacher’s footprints from a couple of months before were still visible, and there were faint signs of foot traffic all around—she couldn’t discern the scuff marks’ age beyond the fact that they were not fresh.
Jordan laughed a bit, feeling like an archaeologist trying to parse clues from the ruins of an ancient civilization. What eventually caught her eye—and she realized she had seen it before—was a hefty glass-doored cabinet on the shelf, secured with a new padlock. Ms. Tatsuya had said that the lock on the outside door had been added after Yuki’s theft. It seemed likely that the second lock had been installed at the same time, for the cabinet itself was very
old and its hinges rusty.
Jordan angled the lock toward her. It was shiny and untarnished. Only a few scratches radiated from the keyhole, suggesting it hadn’t been opened very often. Two minutes and a dozen keys later, Jordan had the cabinet open as well.
The inside shelves were lined with glass bottles hugged by yellowing labels, housing both recognizable and entirely foreign chemicals—from just a few drops to full. Huddled against these bottles were also a scale, crucibles, and a mortar and pestle that bore brown stains. Jordan yanked her cell phone from her pocket and snapped several photos of the bottles, labels, and the cabinet’s miscellaneous contents.
Once finished, Jordan felt a pull of disappointment. Somehow, she had felt sure that investigation of the storeroom would reveal something to her. But as she stood staring at the rows of bottled chemicals, their labels and formulas failed to coalesce into some secret message. Of course, she wouldn’t be so lucky as to find a half-empty vial of cyanide smattered with fresh fingerprints. She sighed and tapped a note to herself on her cell phone: Nakamura went to cabinet, noticed something missing, what was she after?
“She’d have to come down here a lot to notice something amiss,” Jordan mused aloud. She wondered if she was inventing a connection to the murders simply because of her dislike for the vice principal. She grimaced, not pleased to dwell on the thought.
With time running short, Jordan rearranged the bottles as close to their original positions as possible, locked the cabinet, and exited the room, securing the door behind her.