Tokyo Zangyo

by Michael Pronko

  Settling into the back seat, the chief said, “Department chiefs have their own car now. It’s another office.”

  Hiroshi listened politely.

  The chief said, “One of my classmates works at the Ministry of Health, Labor and Welfare. It’s good to know the right people. This will save us a lot of time.”

  Hiroshi hummed with feigned enthusiasm, but if there was a chance of finding out who had filed grievances at Senden Central over the years, then it wasn’t such a time drain.

  Hiroshi got a text message on LINE from Chizu, the young woman who worked in the HR office at Senden. She wanted to meet. He wrote back that he could talk with her in a couple of hours, and he’d be stopping by Senden later anyway.

  She wrote back, “Not at the office. Tomorrow. Around lunch.”

  Hiroshi responded, “Fine. Text me where.” He wondered if she was all right. Was she in the same snares as Mayu had been? He’d find out tomorrow.

  As he fingered the panel of switches on the car door, Hiroshi wondered how the chief could rise through the ranks but still know so little about investigations. “I think we need to ask them for any harassment claims against Senden, and Onizuka in particular. They can give us that at least.”

  “I’ll let you explain,” the chief said.

  So that was why the chief demanded Hiroshi accompany him.

  The ministry buildings sprawled along wide boulevards between the Imperial Palace, the Diet Building, and Hibiya Park, a nexus of power with the greatest of Tokyo luxuries—open land in the center of the city. The government buildings were spaced apart from each other, with open sky in between. The driver pulled up to the outside roadblock checkpoint and the chief leaned forward to show his credentials.

  The twenty-some-story building looked like genkouyoushi copybooks school kids used to practice kanji, all squares and blanks. A large, flat stone surrounded by well-trimmed bushes and carved into a massive stone with the ministry name was set back at an angle. Past the stone marker by the door, a guard in white gloves checked the chief’s badge and explained where the driver could park and how they could enter.

  Inside, past security, a receptionist checked their names and pointed them to the elevators. The upstairs hallway was wide and empty. At the office reception desk, two secretaries stood and one escorted them to a meeting room. The slightly run-down room was empty except for a table and chairs, a white board, and dingy windows that didn’t open.

  Hiroshi read the half-erased traces of notes on the white board until three ministry officials entered. The oldest was a man in his fifties with a touch of gray hair dressed in a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie. The second official, ten years younger, dressed exactly the same. The third had a bit longer hair, looked another decade younger, and sported a looser cut suit. The older two officials’ eyes radiated impatience. The youngest kept his eyes on the table.

  The head official, Suzuki, rushed through the introductions and Hiroshi wondered when the chief would say something, but he quickly had the feeling that the official didn’t really know who the chief was, that they had never met before. Suzuki and the other two waited for the chief to speak first with the entrapped forbearance of people who attend meetings non-stop. The chief turned to Hiroshi.

  Hiroshi sat up and cleared his throat. “We’re investigating the death of Shigeru Onizuka, a bucho at Senden Central Infinity. Because it is possibly a homicide, we need access to all filings about Onizuka and Senden. You’ll recall he was the bucho who harassed Mayu Yamase, the twenty-five-year-old girl who committed suicide on her birthday after a hundred hours of overtime—”

  Suzuki interrupted with his hand and pointed to the two younger officials. “They handled the case and were instrumental in ensuring that the case concluded successfully.”

  Hiroshi looked at him. “Successfully?”

  The chief’s head ping-ponged between them without adding a word.

  “Successful in sending the message that companies need to control overtime,” Suzuki said.

  “The overtime was a form of harassment.” Hiroshi prodded.

  “Technically, harassment is not a violation, though overtime is, of course.” Suzuki glanced at his two subordinates, who nodded accordingly.

  “The girl died.” Hiroshi was glad that Takamatsu was not there. He would have exploded.

  The older two officials glanced at their cellphones set neatly in front of them on the table.

  Hiroshi took a breath. “We need to know who else filed grievances against Onizuka or the company, and whether you looked into the company’s budgets and financial activity. We believe there may have been irregularities.”

  Suzuki turned to the official next in age and spoke in a low voice. The forty-something official said, “Approval will take time.”

  “That’s what we don’t have,” Hiroshi said, forcing a smile.

  “Can’t you get that information from the company directly?” the second official suggested.

  Hiroshi nodded politely. “We tried that, but they didn’t cooperate. We suspect they are covering something up. Letting them know what we’re looking for is likely to cause more evidence to be hidden.”

  Suzuki squinted at Hiroshi.

  Hiroshi nodded politely before continuing. “Even with a history of workplace harassment, budgetary indiscretions, and a well-known suicide, the company remains uncooperative and evasive. So, whatever measures were taken in the past…”

  “Evasive?” Suzuki looked irritated. “Isn’t that what detectives do? Evade evasion? Why are you asking us to do your job?”

  Who was doing whose work? Hiroshi wondered, but calmed himself before he spoke in the politest Japanese he could muster. “We would like to know what the ministry found on this company.”

  The middle official spoke up. “Our concern with the Mayu Yamase suicide case was to show the world that Japan is addressing its workplace problems. We showed Japan has reformed workplaces and is ready for the next stage of globalization.”

  Suzuki looked directly into Hiroshi’s eyes. “Senden is set to become one of Japan’s premier media and advertising firms with a global presence. Any subsidiary that allies with them will also have a global presence. What happens to them affects many corporations large and small, and that affects the entire Japanese economy.”

  Hiroshi paused for a moment to let their momentum slow. In kendo, the best time to counterattack was after a strong attack. “That is precisely why we are coming to you for help. We need to be sure we don’t make any missteps at this crucial juncture.”

  The officials leaned back, a blue-suited wall, unyielding and inflexible.

  Suzuki straightened his tie. “Our goal is to assist companies with the right policies, regulations, and action plans.”

  Hiroshi could not believe they were putting assistance above oversight, and avoiding any responsibility for enforcement. “We worry that some tabloid will pick up this story and work it until even more embarrassing facts emerge. The best way through this is to finish quickly, and correctly, and let Senden get back to business as usual.”

  Suzuki checked his cellphone and the middle official folded his notepad shut. Suzuki pushed back and stood up, straightening his already straight tie.

  Hiroshi and the chief had no choice but to stand up, too. Hiroshi’s polite Japanese was straining him to the breaking point.“The harassment, the suicide, and the death of Onizuka are connected. We suspect financial improprieties are connected, too.”

  Suzuki hummed and straightened his tie again. “In that case, the Ministry of Finance knows more about this than we do. We’ll set up an appointment for you. It’s just around the corner. In case you don’t have a car.”

  Suzuki nodded to his number two, who picked up his cellphone and made a call.

  He spoke for a few minutes, hung up and said, “You’re all set. A classmate of mine works there.”

  Suzuki bowed to Hiroshi and the chief. The youngest official moved to hold the door open
for them to leave.

  The elevator was down the hall.

  Hiroshi and the chief rode down in silence, the chief’s face rigid, his jaw tight. He worked one hand around a tightly balled fist.

  As they headed through the lobby to the front door, the chief said, “The higher up they are, the less they do.”

  After calling his driver, the chief stood silently at the curb, rocking on his heels and mumbling to himself.

  Hiroshi stared in the distance, too frustrated to even check his cellphone for messages.

  When the car pulled up, the chief smashed his fist into his hand. “So that’s how they want to play it. They’ve been chewing my ass about this but don’t want to help? All they want is for us to deliver a tidy report, so they can be rid of this, and rid of us.”

  Hiroshi said, “So, on to the Ministry of Finance?”

  “We’re not wasting time with them. They’ll just pass us to another ministry. They barely listened to us here.”

  “I need to go to Marunouchi then,” Hiroshi said.

  “You get back to work and do it your way. Takamatsu too.” The chief reset his Borsalino, got in and slammed the door.

  Chapter 21

  Takamatsu was waiting in the lobby of the Senden Central building flipping his lighter and staring at the banners that swept down from the ceiling. When Hiroshi came in, Takamatsu nodded to the lobby receptionist, who placed a call.

  In a minute, a retirement-age man in a bright blue uniform and brimmed cap emerged from a door beside the elevators and ambled toward them. His mottled pink face was pleasant and fleshy. “I’m Imasato, in charge of security for Senden. I worked at the koban police box in Roppongi for twenty years before retiring here.”

  Takamatsu smiled. “Most people transfer out of there after a few years.”

  “Not the stubborn ones. Follow me.” Imasato led them down the stairwell.

  Hiroshi said, “We received the footage you sent, but it’s not quite what we needed.”

  “It didn’t reveal much, did it?” Imasato said. “We put in for a new system last year, but, you know, budget cuts. With the overseas expansion.”

  “Some of the areas, especially on the roof, seem to have time lapses?” Hiroshi said.

  Imasato said, “A cost-cutting measure. Some cameras skip minutes.”

  “How many minutes?” Hiroshi asked.

  “Three, five, eight, they’re all different. A few are set for ten-minute intervals,” Imasato said.

  Takamatsu said, “Ten minutes can be a long time.”

  Hiroshi frowned. Ten minutes didn’t seem that long.

  They followed Imasato out of the stairwell and into a dimly lit room with a flickering, refocusing bank of gray images streamed in from corridors, elevators, emergency exits, reception desks, and the lobby. Green-tinged screens brought in the parking lot, fire escapes, and outside walls. Every centimeter of the Senden building was visible.

  Hiroshi turned to Imasato. “Could you walk us through the path from the parking area to the roof? We need to know how the camera could not have captured Onizuka getting to the roof.”

  “I’ve been trying to piece that together too. Let me get my keys.” Imasato opened a metal cabinet on the wall with several dozen sets of keys. He took a thick ring of keys and led them out of the room and down the hall.

  Hiroshi said, “Where are the video files stored?”

  Imasato opened the door to an underground tunnel. “HR gets them.”

  “HR?”

  Imasato said, “That’s how they want it. After that, the tech guys take all of the video files and compress them, or whatever they do, and after that, I’m not sure where they go.”

  Takamatsu frowned. “What’s your guess?”

  Imasato stopped, took a breath, and said, “I have no idea. A file storage security company comes twice a week. We can rewind the past twenty-four hours here, but that’s all we ever have.”

  Hiroshi walked toward the large parking garage door and Takamatsu turned to survey the high ceiling of dusty, car exhaust-stained concrete.

  Hiroshi walked up the sloped drive to the entrance, stopped and looked back. Every spot was marked by department and position, a parking hierarchy.

  Takamatsu nodded at the corner and Hiroshi followed his gaze up to a surveillance camera that hung too high for anyone to reach without a ladder. “OK. Let’s see the others.”

  Imasato led them into the hall and turned right and tapped on a large service elevator that stood across from an extra-tall, double-wide door out to the parking lot. “This door is kept locked except for large deliveries.”

  “Keys?” Takamatsu asked.

  Imasato jingled his keychain. “We get a call and come and unlock it. Stand there. And relock it.”

  Takamatsu walked down the hall and dragged back a hard plastic chair. He kicked off his shoes and stood on it, reaching up toward the security camera in the corner. He put his face close to the camera, followed where it looked, and then checked all sides of the camera, touching it here and there.

  Takamatsu got down, put the chair back, kicked at a cut of wood used as a doorstop and nodded to continue.

  The three men took the elevator up using a security card to activate the button panel. The large service elevator was covered in scratches, dents and skids.

  “When did you discover the fence being cut?” Takamatsu asked.

  Imasato sighed. “We check the roof in person once every two hours. You couldn’t see the fence on the video screens downstairs. You saw what shape they’re in.”

  Imasato looked at the number panel for the floors. “We’re strict with the checkpoints. There’s a card reader at each one.”

  “Everyone has their own card?”

  Imasato nodded. “That record is saved in our files, if you want it.”

  “Was there anything out of the ordinary that night?”

  “No, but there should have been.” Imasato held the door open for them to get out on the eighteenth floor. The hallway looked the same as the ground floor, beige paint and fluorescent light. A stairwell opened to the floors below. The railings didn’t meet in the middle, so there was a clear fall to the bottom. Hiroshi edged away, closer to the wall.

  Takamatsu stopped in front of the surveillance camera and looked around for something to stand on. Seeing nothing, he motioned for Hiroshi to hoist him up so he could see the camera.

  Hiroshi glanced at the open shaft between the stairs and stayed where he was.

  Takamatsu pointed at the camera on the wall. Hiroshi cupped his hands and squatted to hold Takamatsu’s weight on his thigh. Takamatsu slipped off one shoe, put his foot in Hiroshi’s hands and clambered up.

  Takamatsu poked at the camera near the lens for a few seconds, Hiroshi balancing him like a circus acrobat. Finally, Takamatsu waved to be lowered down, his socked foot landing on his shoe. He slipped it on. “Next.”

  Imasato started up the stairs. “Next are some stairs. The service elevator stops here. Only the main elevator goes all the way to the roof.”

  Hiroshi followed Imasato up the stairs, being careful not to look down. “How long does it take usually from the garage to the roof?”

  Imasato thought about it. “With all the locks and key cards, fifteen minutes at most.”

  “How often do they change the locks and key cards?”

  “Never, as far as I know.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Who went up there first that night?”

  “I did,” Imasato said.

  “And there was no sign of anyone?”

  “It was quiet, cold, like always.”

  “You didn’t even feel like someone was up there?”

  Imasato stopped climbing. “Not even that, no.”

  “Did you see the cut in the fence?”

  Imasato paused. “I didn’t look over there, didn’t think to look. The only thing I’ve ever seen is someone working overnight tak
ing a cigarette break.”

  “Why don’t you use the regular elevator?” Takamatsu asked.

  “They don’t want customers to see us in the daytime,” Imasato said. “At night, we just go the same way out of habit. We have to tap the checkpoint here anyway. A couple of flights of stairs feels good after sitting in front of those monitors all day.”

  Takamatsu looked for a camera. Hiroshi couldn’t see one.

  Imasato walked them up the last few steep steps to the rooftop door, more of a hatchway, and put his hip and shoulder into it with a hard shove. It opened onto the roof on the opposite side from the smoker’s lounge and the cut fence. Yellow crime scene tape flapped loudly in the wind.

  Imasato buttoned his uniform and waited by the hatch door for the service entrance.

  Takamatsu looked around and walked to the smoker’s lounge. Above the cross beam that held the dividing wall was a camera. He walked back to the hatch door and started again, counting his steps. When he got right below the camera, he lit a cigarette.

  Hiroshi wished he’d added another layer, a sweater or something, but the night wind made him feel sober and alert for the first time that day.

  Takamatsu finished a few more puffs, the smoke disappearing in the wind, and then stood on the rim of a planter to get a closer look at the camera. He pulled out his pocket knife, scratched around the surface of the camera and hopped down. He dropped his knife into an evidence bag.

  Hiroshi walked over.

  Takamatsu held up his fingers to Hiroshi’s face. Even squinting, Hiroshi couldn’t see anything. Takamatsu pressed his finger onto the back of Hiroshi’s hand. Hiroshi shrugged.

  “It’s sticky,” Takamatsu said.

  “Meaning…?”

  “Tape.”

  Hiroshi thought about that and started to call Sakaguchi to get the crime scene crew back to the roof.

  “Don’t call Sakaguchi yet,” Takamatsu whispered. “What are the crime scene guys going to look for? Glue? We don’t want it cleaned up and we don’t want to let them know. They’ll destroy all the video files.”

  “They sent them to us.” Hiroshi could feel the glue getting stickier as he rubbed it between his fingers.