by Meg Mezeske
With an additional thirty minutes of internet use already paid for, Jordan idly surfed. She sifted through a few news stories, and while waiting for one to load, let her eyes wander. They landed again on the comic series that had been Ryusuke and Kenji’s favorite, as though drawn to any whisper of a connection with the boys.
Jordan felt a caress of guilt when she realized she had not followed up with Kenji since the last failed phone call to his mother, but then, she had also been understandably distracted. Slowly, an idea rose up about how she could possibly contact Kenji.
Jordan typed mixi.jp into the browser’s URL bar and was greeted by a cheery website with a friendly orange word bubble. She knew from reading a recent article that Mixi was among Japan’s more popular social networks.
She had also heard it mentioned by Mrs. Okubo anytime she talked about her niece, who apparently spent “too much time online.” Mrs. Okubo had even given Jordan an invitation to the website and encouraged her to contact her niece, who was the same age as Jordan. She hadn’t really considered using the invitation before but was now very thankful to have it. She made an account and username under a pseudonym and searched for “Kenji Ito.”
The results were staggering and none of the profile pictures helped to narrow the search—there was an image of a duck for one user, Doraemon for another, a teapot, a plate of takoyaki, a smiling edamame bean, and on and on. The only image she found of an actual person was a popular singer in a J-Pop band.
Jordan sighed. There was no feasible way she could determine if any of those users were the Kenji she was looking for. It was unlikely that he even registered with his real name, as most people on Mixi didn’t. Not even she had, too worried about the repercussions of messaging a student online, even a former one.
A message popped up on her screen warning her that she only had two minutes of internet access remaining and would she like to pay for more? Feeling vindicated about the possibility of cyanide poisoning through fruit seeds, yet defeated in her search for Kenji, Jordan decided to call it a night and collected her things to leave.
She gulped at the fresh night air gratefully as she left the cafe. The streets were busy with pedestrians leaving the hanami, mostly couples and groups of men, their voices amplified by alcohol. Jordan wove herself into the crowd and made her way to the train station. Stray cherry blossom petals that had been carried on the breeze dotted the dark pavement, pressed and flattened underfoot by the steady flow of passersby.
Twenty-Nine
The morning air was perfumed with blossoming flowers uncoiling under the warm sunlight. The students who rushed past Jordan out the front entrance whispered excitedly, but she felt mired to the floor, reluctant to cross the walkway to the auditorium.
It was graduation day. Already, Jordan knew she would miss the graduating upperclassmen. She would miss the between-class times spent chatting. The quiet camaraderie in the classroom. The paper flowers given to her in moments when the older students’ practiced maturity was eclipsed by glimpses of eager adolescence.
Jordan told herself it was silly to be melancholy. She would soon have the pleasure of meeting new first-graders and watching the remaining students move forward. Still, emotion grabbed her as she remembered the parting messages left on chalkboards and the farewell notes that had piled on her desk.
She entered the full gym and realized it could very well be the last time she saw some of her pupils.
The students wore their usual school uniforms and were flanked by their teachers and parents. All of the adults were smartly dressed, and some held elegant bouquets. The blossoms flared with bright colors, visible through the plastic wrappers that encased them like ice. Jordan noticed that Toshihiko was seated in a corner among the parents, looking as neat and serious as ever.
Principal Kikuchi took the stage, his bald head and glasses shining. He began a speech praising the students’ hard work and commitment to education. It wasn’t so dissimilar from other presentations given throughout the school year, and Jordan allowed her thoughts and gaze to wander.
Near the front of the stage was Nanami, who had slowly begun to make new friends after Emi’s death five months before. Her hair was pulled back for once, held away from her round face by barrettes in the school’s colors. Nanami maintained a somber expression, like all the students, but her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying.
As Jordan took in the assembled crowd, a tall man standing among the students caught her eye and she felt all the air sucked from her lungs. The young man looked remarkably, impossibly like Ryusuke. He was older but bore the same tanned skin, strong nose, and small mouth that always seemed to be holding back a laugh. His face looked like it had been molded by someone trying to recreate Ryusuke from memory—uncannily similar and different at the same time.
Based on the young man’s age and resemblance to Ryusuke, Jordan could only assume he was his brother, accepting the honor of graduating on his younger sibling’s behalf. In his hands, he held a framed portrait of Ryusuke. A black ribbon slashed across one corner of the photo like a crack in the glass. The picture captured every familiar detail of Ryusuke, despite the thin-lipped expression that replaced his usual grin.
Jordan pried her eyes from the evocative photo to find Toshihiko, wondering whether he was any closer to uncovering Ryusuke’s killer. The principal concluded his speech, the students bowed, and all Jordan could think about was those who were conspicuously, painfully absent.
The graduation ceremony had ended a while ago, and Jordan was among the last few people still about. She had mingled and chatted, hoping to say goodbye to as many graduates as possible, until the crowd had finally thinned.
Just as she turned toward the school house to collect her belongings and leave, Jordan was once again arrested by the sight of Ryusuke’s brother as he walked past. A short, round woman—no doubt his mother—held Ryusuke’s framed photograph, cradling it gently against her chest. They exchanged no words as they both made their way toward the parking lot.
Jordan considered letting them go, but her affection for Ryusuke lassoed her to the mother and brother, pulling her along by an unseen rope until she closed the distance between them. At the sound of her brisk footsteps approaching, the young man paused and turned to greet her. He only looked at her for a moment, but his features softened as though he recognized her.
“Hello. Ms. Howard?” he said in clear English.
“Yes, I’m Jordan Howard. You must be Ryusuke’s brother,” she said and offered a quick bow.
“Yes, my name is Hisao Suzuki. Nice to meet you.” He returned her bow and she smiled at their instant recognition of each other despite never having met before. The warm, familiar look behind his eyes made her expression falter but she recovered herself before she replied.
“I wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss. I was very close to Ryusuke, and I…I miss him.” She took in Mrs. Suzuki as she spoke, offering a sympathetic look and repeating her sentiment in Japanese. The woman thanked her politely but then withdrew from the conversation, directing her sullen gaze to the ground.
“I’m glad to know that so many people will keep Ryusuke’s memory,” Hisao said and smiled with only a flicker of sadness, expression carefully controlled. “Ryusuke spoke a lot about you. He said you were his favorite teacher.”
“Well, he was certainly one of my favorite students,” Jordan said and wondered whether Ryusuke’s efforts in English class, though fruitless, had been spurred by his elder brother’s easy control of the language. “Ogawa High School isn’t the same without him—and without his friend Kenji. The two of them were really the heart of the class.”
“If only Kenji had left sooner,” Hisao said in a low voice, and his face darkened.
“I don’t—I thought Kenji and Ryusuke were good friends? They were practically inseparable…” Jordan shook her head in confusion.
“That’s certainly true.” Hisao snorted disapprovingly. “That boy was too close to Ryusuke.”
He cut himself off with a concerned look at his mother, but she was watching a bird peck at the ground and showed no regard for the conversation she clearly couldn’t understand. “Well, none of that matters now anyway. Thank you for speaking with me, Ms. Howard. It really was a pleasure to meet you.” He seemed suddenly anxious to go.
“You, too.” Jordan bowed in parting as Hisao said something quietly to his mother and they both turned to leave. As Jordan watched them depart, the slow-healing wound left by Ryusuke’s death reopened, allowing a fresh flow of melancholy to seep through.
Jordan sighed and frowned, replaying what Hisao had said about Kenji. She was baffled that Hisao had somehow disapproved of his little brother’s closest friend. Ryusuke had obviously cared deeply about Kenji—his worry over Kenji’s tussle with Tadao had been just one drop in the deep pool of their friendship.
And as far as Jordan could tell, Kenji had always reached back for the hand Ryusuke extended. The two had seldom been apart, but Jordan didn’t consider them “too close,” as Hisao apparently had. If anything, one added to and improved the other.
Jordan recalled the only time the boys’ behavior had been strange: when she had stumbled upon them late after school in the washroom. They had acted almost guilty somehow, caught like a couple under the bleachers. She exhaled a sniff of a laugh at the image, but then her breath froze. She let the thought slowly approach, fearing that the idea would flee like a wild animal if she looked it in the eye.
The washroom. Tadao’s slur against Kenji. Ryusuke’s question to Jordan about concealed feelings. Kenji’s withdrawal after Ryusuke’s death. Hisao’s reservations over the boys’ relationship.
Were they…together?
As the idea finally assumed form, it seemed more possible than not. Her stomach plummeted. Had she really known Ryusuke at all?
A few moments passed, her thoughts simmering, before Jordan released a wobbly sigh. She would have to consider the revelation more, and what it meant to the investigation.
She had only just entered the school’s lobby, still ruminating, when raised voices and the echoing trod of footsteps diverted her attention. At the top of the stairs, several figures began to descend.
There, Ms. Nakamura was joined by two men at her sides, neither of whom Jordan recognized. As they came closer to Jordan, she saw that the men were guiding the vice principal—their grip tight on her arms, her wrists in handcuffs.
Jordan gasped at the procession. Surprise, vindication, and a strange mixture of disappointment and anger tumbled over one another like boiling water. She knew her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t be bothered to care as she took in Ms. Nakamura and her handlers.
The older woman was as stone-faced as ever, her features chiseled and unmoved. Her eyes remained straight ahead as though she were completely uncaring, or unaware, of the serious men pressing against her. Jordan thought Ms. Nakamura’s chin may have even been raised, in defiance or pride, and she looked more like a powerful woman being escorted by bodyguards than a criminal who needed to be corralled.
As though she could feel the intensity of Jordan’s gaze, Ms. Nakamura swiveled her head toward her. Their eyes locked, and Ms. Nakamura’s narrowed. Jordan anticipated the familiar chill of Ms. Nakamura’s icy, unfeeling stare, yet the coldness did not touch her. Jordan was too hot with triumph—burning with it. Her lips curled into a victorious smirk, which only broadened when Ms. Nakamura broke eye contact.
Then, she and the police officers swept through the bright, open doorway without a word.
Everything seemed to speed up after they passed from view, as though Jordan had been watching a recording of a long-past event replayed in silent slow motion. She heard animated voices from the top of the stairs and realized a conversation had been going on all along—she had been too shocked by the scene to pay attention before.
At the stairs’ peak, Toshihiko was joined by Principal Kikuchi, Mr. Mori, the school lunch lady, and the boys’ gym teacher. The principal looked confused, and his hands moved frantically as he spoke—clutching at his bald scalp, adjusting his glasses, pulling at his lapels. Toshihiko replied patiently and opened his palms in a sort of placating gesture. Mr. Mori nodded, arms crossed, and seemed to agree with whatever the inspector was saying.
Jordan had just made up her mind to join them, to sate the curiosity tripping along her every tingling nerve, when Toshihiko bowed and then descended the stairs. She had to draw upon all her willpower to resist running up as he walked toward her.
“I was right,” Jordan said in a low voice, suddenly without breath. “She did it.”
“Ms. Umiko Nakamura has been arrested under suspicion of murder in the deaths of Emi Hirata and Ryusuke Suzuki. Further evidence pending, more charges may be brought,” Toshihiko said, carefully professional. “It gives me little satisfaction to say so, but it appears you may have been correct.”
“Has she confessed to anything?” Jordan asked hurriedly, several more questions already piling up.
“Ms. Nakamura has not said a word, yet, but she’s being taken to the station for further questioning,” Toshihiko said flatly.
“I thought you’d be happier—closing the lid on your big case.” Jordan wanted to say more—about how her suspicions had been justified all along and how he should have accepted her help—but it felt wrong to gloat when, at the end of the day, there were still several people dead.
“I do my job for duty, not for pleasure,” he said with a small quirk of his lips. Jordan thought she knew him well enough to detect pride gilding his voice. She almost smiled too, relieved.
“I think I know why she went after Ryusuke,” Jordan said but didn’t feel fully convinced, hoping the inspector would fill in the details.
“Even now, you are relentless.” Toshihiko gave her an appraising look over the top of his glasses. “His relationship with Kenji? Ryusuke kept a journal of sorts.” He supplied the last few words at Jordan’s questioning look.
“So you did establish motive as Ms. Nakamura’s twisted sense of vigilantism? Morality policing?”
“That’s still just a theory…” Toshihiko said and glanced toward the teachers mingling at the top of the stairway. He dropped his voice and led Jordan a few steps away. “Your theory. Not necessarily one my department shares.”
“You must have considerable evidence, then.” Jordan followed suit, speaking quietly.
“Traces of cyanide were found in her home. Hairs matched to her were also found at the scene of the last victim’s murder. There are other, more circumstantial, pieces of evidence of course. A tin of hibiscus tea in her cupboard, for one,” he said, and Jordan nodded with satisfaction.
“And you can compare that tea to what was put in my jacket!” She had wanted to ask about the tea and the yellow car earlier but had decided it would be too selfish to ask so soon. Now, though, she couldn’t hold back.
“Yes, we can.” Toshihiko actually smiled for a moment, pleased and a little caught off-guard at her reaction.
“Did you find anything in the school’s storeroom?”
“We recovered a pestle and mortar with residual cyanide. Of course, more people than just Ms. Nakamura had access to the storeroom, which is probably the exact reason why it was kept there—so she wouldn’t be found in possession of it.” Toshihiko slipped into his outdoor shoes as he spoke and retrieved his folded jacket from a cubby. “I apologize, but I really must be going now. We can talk more about this later.”
“Of course! Don’t let me keep you.” She was disappointed that her remaining questions would go unanswered in the meantime, but she was even more eager for Toshihiko to finally, completely close the case. Maybe even coax a confession from Ms. Nakamura.
“Goodbye,” Toshihiko said simply and bowed, to Jordan and to those still at the top of the stairs, before leaving in a rush.
Mr. Mori and Principal Kikuchi both gave Jordan a hard look, likely wondering what had passed between her and the inspector, and resumed talking
to each other in low voices. Jordan left then, too. She watched Toshihiko’s white sedan pull out of the parking lot, the back of Ms. Nakamura’s head visible through the rear windshield.
Thirty
They had already been in the cafe for a while, but Jordan was still getting used to the unreality of sitting with Toshihiko for a casual chat. Or, at least, as casual as discussing a murder investigation could be.
She had contacted him frequently from the time of Ms. Nakamura’s arrest, suggesting they meet. He had put her off, though with apologies, citing such pressing duties as Ms. Nakamura’s interviews, her arraignment, and even the introduction of new cases.
Jordan had waited, kept an ear out for any talk of the case, and read the papers, from which inky photos of Ms. Nakamura sneered up from the pages. The “Red Tea Murderer.”
Finally, weeks later, Toshihiko had agreed to meet her at a cafe in Yamagata City, where they had settled into opposite ends of a small booth.
“She still maintains her innocence,” Toshihiko was saying. “When she says anything at all. But she hasn’t even attempted to provide an alibi for the nights of any of the deaths.”
“The DNA evidence from the hairs at the crime scene—surely that will be enough to convict her, on top of everything else. Like the tea and traces of cyanide at her home.”
“That’s what the prosecution is hoping, yes.” He paused to sip at his coffee.
“I still can’t believe the tea didn’t match what was sent to me,” Jordan said, her anger and disbelief resurging once more. Toshihiko had broken that news to Jordan days before, but her ire felt as fresh as ever.
“It’s not that the teas are absolutely different, just that the results of the comparison were inconclusive. The tea from Ms. Nakamura’s home and what was in the envelope may very well be one and the same,” Toshihiko said in a placating tone.