Father Mateo blinked in surprise. Even Hiro barely managed to keep his reaction covered. Neither man expected Mina to broach the topic of Kaoru’s guilt.
“That is what you came to ask me,” Mina said, “is it not?”
“I—we—” Father Mateo stammered.
“We did not expect you to guess it.” Hiro opted for the truth.
Mina smiled. “All too often, people assume detachment from the physical world derives from a lack of intelligence or perception. They are mistaken.
“I will answer your questions, but first, please tell me why you suspect my son.”
Hiro saw no point in pretense. “We have learned that Kaoru has a temper.”
Mina lifted the teapot and refilled the shinobi’s cup. “I do not doubt my son could kill a man when drunk and angry. But I do not think he killed Chikao, and that opinion doesn’t stem from a mother’s blinded love.
“Kaoru doesn’t consider his father’s death a benefit. They argued often, over money, but Chikao always conceded in the end. With his father dead, Kaoru will have to work—to support himself—which is the last thing he would ever wish to do.
“This is a terrible thing for a mother to say about her son, but Kaoru is far too selfish to kill his father.”
“But he does inherit the brewery,” Hiro said.
“Our half of it, yes, but that will not support his habits long.” Mina paused as if unwilling to finish her thoughts. At last she continued, “I’ve said this much, I will say the rest. My son is a coward. He lacks the courage to take his father’s life.”
“Perhaps,” Hiro said, “but we would prefer some evidence of his innocence. Do you know where Kaoru went last night?”
Mina considered the question. “He wasn’t here. If I had to guess, I would say the Sakura Teahouse, east of the Kamo River on Sanjō Road, or else at the Golden Buddha in Pontocho. Before you ask, I do not know what time Kaoru returned. He said he was here all night, and sleeping. I found him asleep and still too drunk to pay attention when Ren arrived this morning with the news of Chikao’s death. Kaoru claims he returned before the brewery closed last night. He may be telling the truth. He may be lying. I don’t know.”
“What about Ren?” Hiro asked. “Do you know where he was last night?”
“Ren worked here all evening with Chikao,” Mina said. “After the brewery closed, I cannot tell you, though I doubt that he went anywhere but home. Ren didn’t believe in wasting money on women or entertainment. He wanted to join the brewers’ guild and invest in a larger shop. To my knowledge, all his money went to savings.”
“That must have caused some conflict with your husband,” Hiro said.
“Not with Chikao.” Mina smiled. “But Ren and Kaoru didn’t get along.”
“Ren admitted to arguing with Chikao about the decision to pay off Kaoru’s debt,” Father Mateo said. “Did you know they argued?”
“The argument involved my son. Of course I knew about it.” Mina refilled the Jesuit’s cup. “Ren threatened to leave the partnership and join the brewers’ guild alone if Kaoru’s actions stopped the za from approving Chikao’s part of the petition.”
“Did that create bad blood between them?” Hiro asked.
Mina smiled sadly. “Chikao and I did not want Ren to bear the burden of Kaoru’s … disappointing choices.”
The monks’ chanting rose and fell.
Hiro considered Chikao’s body—so close, and yet impossible to reach. He wondered whether Mina would grant permission for a viewing. Doubtful, since the funeral prayers had started. Still, a request could do no harm.
“Would you grant us a favor?” Hiro asked.
“You want to see my husband’s body,” Mina said.
The comment left Hiro momentarily speechless. He forced his surprise away and said, “We believe a closer examination will help us find his killer.”
Mina nodded. “I wondered when you would get around to asking. I didn’t think the yoriki would let you view him at the murder scene. I will allow it, if you don’t abuse his body in the process.”
“We will treat him with respect,” the shinobi said.
Mina led Hiro and Father Mateo across the room to the shoji that separated the common room from the space beyond. The sound of chanting increased as they reached the door.
She laid a hand on the door frame. “Please wait here while I offer the monks some tea. I would prefer they leave the room before you enter.”
“You truly don’t mind?” Father Mateo asked.
“I do not,” Mina said. “The dead may defile the living, but we cannot harm the dead.”
An unusual attitude for a Japanese woman, but in character with Mina’s perceptive nature.
She drew open the door and stepped into the room beyond.
The chanting stopped. Moments later, a line of elderly priests filed out of the room, followed by two boys in saffron robes.
Mina paused in the doorway as she left. “If you touch my husband’s body, leave no sign.”
“May I ask why you chose to allow this?” Father Mateo seemed confused.
“I respect every living creature, including the man accused of my husband’s murder.” Mina glanced into the room where Chikao lay. “I wish to know, with certainty, that the person who dies for this crime is guilty of it.”
She gestured toward the room. “You have ten minutes.”
Hiro and Father Mateo entered the tiny room. Mina slid the shoji closed behind them.
A pattern of barrel-sized rings on the bare wooden floor suggested a former storage room converted to a far less pleasant purpose. The odors of sugi wood and straw still lingered beneath the incense in the air.
Chikao lay face-up on a narrow futon at the center of the room. A cone of incense smoldered in a ceramic burner near his head. One of his arms lay stiffly akimbo. The other reached out, as if grasping at something only the dead could see.
Father Mateo looked from the corpse to Hiro. “Is that normal?”
“You mean the arms?” Hiro asked.
The Jesuit nodded. “Why are they sticking out like that?”
“The body must have gone rigid before they retrieved it,” Hiro said. “The muscles will loosen tonight or tomorrow. After that, he will look more normal.”
Hiro stepped to the side of the futon.
Father Mateo followed. “Only half his face is purple. Did it look that way before?”
Purple mottling covered the right side of Chikao’s face from halfway across his nose to the side of his jaw. The left side of Chikao’s face was deathly pale, except where swollen bruises blossomed around his eye.
“How did the killer bruise an entire side of Chikao’s face?” the Jesuit asked. “And why is the right cheek bruised, and not the left one?”
Hiro gestured to the mottled purple color on the right. “The killer didn’t cause this part. The parts of the flesh that lie toward the ground will always discolor shortly after death.”
“Always?” Father Mateo asked.
Hiro nodded. “It takes a few hours, but yes, it always happens. The blood settles into those parts of the body, turning them purple, though the parts that actually touch the ground stay pale.” He indicated the strip of bloodless skin on Chikao’s right cheek and along the jawline. “See? That’s where he rested on the ground.”
“So, dead people bruise on the underside?” Father Mateo asked.
“It’s not exactly bruising,” Hiro said. “I think it has to do with the way the blood runs downward after the heart stops beating. That also explains why you see less discoloration when the victim dies from bleeding, because the blood ends up on the outside, rather than trapped beneath the skin.”
“I didn’t need to know that.” Father Mateo stared at the patch of waxy skin along Chikao’s jaw. “Why does the part that touches the ground stay pale?”
“That, I can’t explain,” Hiro said, “but it happens every time.”
“Interesting,” Father Mateo said, in a tone that actually meant “repulsive.” “The bruises around his eye look worse. Can that happen after death?”
“Not after his heart stops beating.” Hiro studied the dead man’s face, and agreed with the priest. The bruises did look darker. “This room is better lit than the alley. It might be an illusion.”
He laid his hands on Chikao’s outstretched arm. “Let’s turn him over.”