Six Four

by Hideo Yokoyama

  Gunning for an early start.

  Mikami entered the building through the front entrance. It was less than ten steps along the corridor to Media Relations. Three nervous-looking faces looked up as he pushed open the door. Section Chief Suwa and Sub-chief Kuramae, both sitting at their desks facing the wall. Mikumo, at her desk nearest the door.

  The cramped space made for subdued greetings.

  The room was a little bigger than it had been before the spring, as they’d had the wall to the archive room torn down, but there was hardly room to breathe when the reporters decided all to barge in at once. Mikami had imagined such a situation before he came in, but the press were nowhere to be seen. Feeling as though he’d made a narrow escape, he took his seat by the windows. Suwa approached before he had the chance to call him over. He was unusually reticent when he spoke.

  ‘Sir. Umm . . . about yesterday’s . . .’

  Mikami hadn’t expected this; he’d been getting ready to ask about the press situation. Late last night Mikami had called his reporting officer, Division Chief Ishii of the Secretariat, and given a full account of what had happened during the ID. He had naturally assumed Ishii would pass the news on to his staff in Media Relations.

  ‘It wasn’t her. Thanks for asking.’

  The atmosphere seemed to brighten immediately. Suwa and Kuramae exchanged relieved glances and Mikumo seemed to reanimate; she jumped up and took Mikami’s mug off its place on the shelf.

  ‘More to the point, Suwa – the press are here?’

  Mikami jerked his chin towards one of the walls. The Press Room was on the other side, housing the Press Club, an informal grouping of thirteen news groups.

  Suwa’s expression darkened again.

  ‘Yes, they’re all in there. They were talking about stringing you up. They’ll be barging in soon enough.’

  Stringing him up? Mikami felt a sudden irritation.

  ‘Oh, and if you could also bear in mind – they think you left because you had a relative in a critical condition.’

  Mikami paused briefly before he nodded.

  The quick-witted spin doctor. That was Suwa to a tee. He was ranked Assistant Inspector, having come up through Administrative Affairs. With three years of experience in Media Relations and another two in the field as a police sergeant, he had already achieved a deep understanding of the modern-day ecology of the press. While his precociousness could be annoying from time to time, his ability to win the reporters over, transitioning seamlessly between the twin roles of diplomat and spin doctor, was genuinely astonishing. Now that he had further polished his skills during his second posting, the department held him in increasingly high regard.

  Mikami’s second posting to the office had been less fortuitous. He was forty-six, and the transfer had come after twenty years away. Until the spring, he had worked as the assistant chief of Second Division; prior to that, he had managed a team in the field, investigating corruption and election fraud as a section chief in Non-violent Crime.

  Mikami stood and turned towards the whiteboard next to his desk.

  Prefecture D, Police Headquarters. Press Release: Thursday, 5 December 2002.

  As press director, his first job of the morning was to run through all announcements to be made to the press.

  The office received a non-stop deluge of calls and faxes reporting accidents and crimes from within the jurisdiction of the prefecture’s nineteen district stations. The recent and widespread adoption of computers meant the same now applied to emails. Mikami’s staff would summarize the reports using a template, then attach copies to whiteboards in the office and the Press Room. At the same time, they would get in touch with the prefecture’s TV news. It was through activities like these that the force helped facilitate press coverage. Despite this, press releases often ended up becoming sources of friction.

  Mikami checked the clock on the wall. It was after eight thirty.

  What were they doing in there?

  ‘Sir, do you have a moment?’ Kuramae had come over to stand in front of Mikami’s desk. His willowy form contrasted with his hefty-sounding name, part of which translated as ‘storehouse’. His tone, as usual, was understated. ‘It’s . . . about the bid-rigging charges.’

  ‘Sure. Did you manage to find out anything?’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Kuramae faltered.

  ‘What is it? The CEO’s refusing to come clean?’

  ‘To be honest, I wasn’t able to—’

  ‘You weren’t able to . . . what?’

  Mikami’s eyes sharpened unconsciously. It was five days since Second Division had made a series of arrests for bid-rigging charges surrounding a project to build a prefectural art museum. They had raided six mid-tier construction companies and brought eight executives into custody, but the investigation was far from over. Their target was Hakkaku Construction, a regional contractor which they suspected had been behind the process. Mikami had heard whispers that the CEO had been quietly summoned to one of the district stations and that, for the last few days, he had submitted to voluntary questioning. If the police successfully brought in the ringleader, it would be big news for the regional papers.

  It was common in Second Division for statements – and the formal issuing of arrest warrants – to be delayed until late at night. Mikami had sent Kuramae to get an overview of the current situation, with the hope of avoiding any confusion that might arise should the timing clash with the cut-off point for the next day’s news.

  ‘Did you at least find out if the CEO has been brought in?’

  Kuramae looked downcast. ‘I asked the assistant chief. But he . . .’

  It wasn’t hard to work out what had happened. They had decided to treat Kuramae as a spy.

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll go and see them later.’

  Mikami watched Kuramae move away with slumped shoulders, then let out a bitter sigh. Kuramae had previously worked in an office job at Second Division in one of the district stations. Mikami had asked him to go in the hope that he would be able to use the contacts he’d made there to extract some new information, but he’d been over-optimistic. Anything you gave Media Relations went straight to the press, who would then use it as a bargaining tool. Many detectives still swore by this belief.

  Mikami had been no exception.

  Back when he was a rookie detective, Media Relations had been nothing but a department to distrust. A pawn of the press. A guard dog for Administrative Affairs. A place to brush up for exams. He had no doubt said as much himself, mimicking the behaviour of his fault-finding superiors. Even from a distance he had found their intimacy with the press distasteful. They would spend night after night drinking, plying the reporters with compliments. At crime scenes they stood aloof, bystanders as they chatted to the press.

  Mikami had never considered them to be fellow officers.

  Because of this, he had become despondent when, in his third year as a detective, he had received his first transfer to Media Relations. He thought he’d been branded a failure. He took to the work in despair, fully aware of his inability to live up to the task. Then, after only a year, and before he’d even had a chance to learn the ropes, he had received a transfer back to Criminal Investigations.

  He had been thrilled by the reinstatement, but had also found himself unable to write off the year-long gap in his detective’s career as simply a whim of Personnel. He began to develop a festering mistrust of the system and, with it, an even more potent sense of fear. He buried himself in his work with newfound urgency, all the time wary of the next round of transfers. Even five or ten years later, he still felt on edge. It was true to say that his fear had served to heighten his fierce commitment to the job. He refused to let himself grow lazy, to submit to any form of temptation, to relax in any way – and this brought results. During his time in First Division he was decorated with commendation after commendation, regardless of whether he’d been working in Theft, Violent Crime or Special Investigations.

  Even then, it was
n’t until his transfer to Second Division that Mikami truly came into his own as a detective. Specializing in non-violent crime, he forged himself an indisputable niche within Criminal Investigations, in both district and the Prefectural HQ.

  He still hesitated to call himself a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool detective. And those around him wouldn’t let him forget what had happened, even if he’d wanted to. Whenever sensitive case information leaked to the papers, his colleagues and superiors would resist making eye contact. There was a limit to how much he could dismiss as paranoia. The chill horror as the invisible feelers of the witch hunt drew closer was something only those who had experienced it first-hand could understand. Mikami had never been asked to join the hunt for the source of the leaks, no matter how much he’d impressed his superiors with his work, and regardless of his promotion from assistant inspector to inspector. In this respect, the time he had served in Media Relations had been akin to having a ‘criminal record’.

  You’re going to be our new press director.

  Mikami’s mind had gone blank when Akama, the director of Administrative Affairs, had given him unofficial notification of his transfer earlier in the spring. The only words to enter his mind had been ‘criminal record’.

  Akama had gone on to lay out the rationale behind the appointment:

  ‘I will not stand back and do nothing while the press continues to chastise us for every mistake we make; they lack integrity, along with any understanding of social justice. It’s as though their only goal is to undermine our authority. We’ve been soft, and now they seek to abuse our trust. That’s why we need someone like you, Mikami. A tough press director, someone fierce, someone ready and able to stare them down.’

  Mikami had found it hard to accept these words. The police had a tough-guy culture and placed a premium on strength, meaning there was no scarcity of fierce-looking men either in Criminal Investigations or outside it. How did Personnel benefit from taking an inspector at the top of his game, one whose head was filled with the strict application of the criminal code, and assigning him to be protective gatekeeper in a role divorced from the force’s original mission?

  Akama had spoken of the transfer as though it were an opportunity. It was true that the post was director grade, usually beyond officers of Mikami’s rank, and that it guaranteed his promotion to superintendent. Yet, even if he’d stayed in Criminal Investigations, Mikami had expected to be promoted in two or three years, and he disliked having the carrot dangled before him when the promotion was in some other area of expertise.

  He had been certain that his ‘criminal record’ had influenced the selection. When multiple candidates were considered for a single position, it was Personnel’s standard policy, as a kind of insurance, to go with the person who had the most experience in the chosen field. So Mikami’s issue hadn’t been with the fact that he’d been chosen, but rather with Criminal Investigations having put him forward in the first place.

  Mikami had steeled himself and visited Arakida, the director of Criminal Investigations, at his home that same evening. ‘The decision’s been made’ was all the director had said. Exactly as he had twenty years earlier. It had felt to Mikami as if the man had simply dismissed his talent for the job. His disappointment and feelings of dejection were made all the worse for the long years he’d devoted to being a detective.

  He was to return to Criminal Investigations in a couple of years. In the meantime, Mikami had taken on the role of press director with a single pledge: to keep his various emotions in check and prevent the rot from setting in. He would not repeat his previous mistakes, nor would he let himself become negligent, or squander the time. More than anything else, his long years of hard work had resulted in a physical and mental routine that ensured he couldn’t bear to leave any problem unattended.

  Reforming Media Relations. He knew he had to make this his first task.

  His first move had been to launch an offensive on Criminal Investigations. He needed case information, something he could use as a bargaining chip. In dealing with the press, he understood that raw intel was the only real weapon he had at his disposal. He would confront them armed. He would build a mature relationship where each side kept the other in check. Administrative Affairs would come to interfere less and less, and they could finally break free from that three-sided impasse. In this way, Mikami had outlined his schedule for reform.

  The wall which Criminal Investigations – the self-acknowledged bull of the field divisions – had erected to protect itself had been substantial. The same was true of Second Division, Mikami’s home for many years, but it was First Division’s unwillingness to talk that had, he had to admit, been the most formidable. He had taken to making a daily pilgrimage to each of the divisions during lunch, circling the axis of First Division, striking up conversations with managers to get a feel for any investigations in progress. Outside work he leveraged his personal network to make contact with mid-level detectives. He waited for public holidays and days off, then showed up outside their apartments bearing small gifts. He bypassed politics and gave it to them straight. As he made the rounds, he told them he needed intel so he could stand up to the press.

  He had kept his second motivation hidden. He’d been looking towards the future. If he was to return to Criminal Investigations in two years’ time, it would be with a ‘second offensive’. He had to make sure, during his time as press director, that no one in the department came to view him as an outsider. For better or for worse, he needed to keep them informed of what he was doing in Media Relations; it was a necessary preparation for his return.

  His ‘pilgrimages’ continued for two, three months. While he gained little of actual substance, a second and secretly hoped-for reaction began to surface. What he was doing was unusual for a press director and had caught the attention of the media; the effect was far from insignificant. They had started to pay attention. There were noticeable changes in the way they saw him. He was unique, working for now in Media Relations, but a man whose true home was in Second Division. In a few years he could be in a position of importance in Criminal Investigations, and for this reason the press had treated him with a certain deference from the outset, opting to wait and see. It was as true then as ever that Criminal Investigations was the most crucial source of information for the press. And Mikami’s pilgrimages emphasized the ‘proximity’ between Criminal Investigations and Media Relations. Reporters approached him in increasing numbers. It was the first time the press had voluntarily shown up without an explicit invitation.

  Mikami had seized the opportunity, and begun his plan of building up their expectations. He put to use what little information he had, plying it to maximum effect. Speaking to the papers individually, he used indirect phrasing and subtle changes in expression to lay down the scent of cases in progress. He made his presence known by keeping the press close, constructing a solid basis for their interaction, transforming the image of a weak press director. At the same time, he’d been careful not to let them get too comfortable around him. Whenever someone came in to kill time, he remained impassive and played up his stern image. He stood firm, and was quick to shut down superficial criticisms levelled against the police. At the same time, he displayed a willingness to listen to considered arguments. When they wanted to negotiate he gave them all the time they needed. He never sought to ingratiate himself with them, yet allowed for certain concessions when necessary. It had been going well. Mikami had eliminated the imbalance of power that had been to their absolute advantage, and yet they showed no signs of annoyance. They were always hungry for more information. The police were hungry only for good publicity. It was a relationship of convenience, with each side in a different corner, but it was possible nonetheless to find a common ground; all that was necessary was to bring a little trust to those face-to-face moments. The framework for Mikami’s vision for Media Relations had continued to come together until Mikami had become convinced his plan was working.

  His bête noire
turned out to be the director of Administrative Affairs. Mikami had expected an improved relationship with the press to result in less interference, but his prediction had been far from the mark. Akama had become annoyed with Mikami’s management of the office, and started to express his reservations at every opportunity. He began to criticize Mikami for his ‘defeatist’ compromises, bemoaning his liaisons with Criminal Investigations as a stubborn unwillingness to move on. Mikami couldn’t understand it. Akama had wanted a strong press director; Mikami had been sure Akama had taken into account his former connection to Criminal Investigations. He had used this leverage to the best of his ability. And it was bringing results. What problem could Akama have? His decision made, Mikami approached Akama directly. He argued the importance of using his access to case information as a tool for more diplomatic dealings with the press. He hadn’t been able to believe Akama’s response.

  ‘Just let it go, Mikami. If we allow you access to that kind of information there’s always a chance you could leak it to the press. You can hardly say anything if you don’t know anything. Right?’

  Mikami had been stunned. Akama had wanted a stone-faced scarecrow. Don’t act, don’t think. Just stare with that fierce look of yours. Akama might as well have told him that. Media Control, not Media Relations. A genuine hatred for the press. He’d been warped beyond anything Mikami had feared.

  Mikami had been unwilling just to give up. Blind obedience to Akama would set Media Relations back twenty years. His reforms were finally in motion – he just needed to push them forward. It was too late to let them come to nothing. The ferocity of his own reaction had amazed him. No doubt it was because he’d felt the breeze of the outside world on his skin. He had learned to see things he’d never even thought of as a detective. It was as if there were a towering wall separating the police from the general public and Media Relations was the only window even close to opening outwards. It didn’t matter how narrow-minded or self-important the press were: if that window was shut from the inside, the police would be completely disconnected from the other side.