When Hiro and Father Mateo entered the alley, the three men standing around the corpse knelt and bowed their cloth-wrapped heads to the ground.
Hiro started toward the body without comment.
Father Mateo paused in front of the outcastes. “I am Father Mateo Ávila de Santos, a priest, from Portugal.”
The men didn’t move or speak. In fact, they didn’t acknowledge the words at all.
Hiro frowned at the priest and shook his head. Men of rank didn’t speak to outcastes, except to deliver orders.
Father Mateo waited for almost a minute. As Hiro expected, the outcastes didn’t answer and didn’t move. Finally, the shinobi took pity on the cowering men.
“Leave us,” he ordered. “We wish to examine the body without you present.”
The outcastes scrambled to their feet and fled the alley, bowing as they went.
“Why did you do that?” Father Mateo asked.
“They wouldn’t have answered you,” Hiro said. “I told you, it’s not permitted.”
“Why haven’t they moved the body?” the Jesuit asked.
“Probably waiting for a priest.” Hiro knelt beside the murdered man. “They believe a special blessing will keep the dead man’s ghost from seeking revenge on those who touch the corpse.”
Chikao’s outstretched arms gave Hiro pause. The position suggested the victim hadn’t tried to block his fall.
Hiro wondered whether a pair of assailants had cornered the man in the alley. While one distracted the victim, the other could have struck him from behind. Bandits sometimes did that, but the crushing blows to the skull seemed inconsistent with a robbery. Thieves took a victim’s money and escaped as fast as possible. They didn’t stick around to abuse the corpse.
“How does a man get a bruise on his eye and end up lying face down in the street?” Father Mateo asked. “Shouldn’t that blow have knocked him backward?”
Hiro examined the dead man’s face more closely.
Chikao’s left eye looked grossly distended, the skin swollen tight with bruising beneath the surface. That kind of swelling took at least an hour to develop, sometimes more.
“Yes,” Hiro said, “but I don’t believe that blow is the one that felled him. Look at the blood on his head and shoulders. What do you see?”
“There’s a lot of it,” Father Mateo said.
Hiro nodded. “True, but I meant the pattern. It’s all spatter. If the cut on his scalp had occurred before he died, blood would have flowed down over his neck and shoulders. This wound oozed but didn’t bleed, which means his heart stopped beating before it happened. All this blood was driven out when the murderer smashed the skull with a solid object, over and over again.”
Hiro pantomimed striking the corpse.
“I get the idea.” Father Mateo raised a hand in protest.
Hiro stopped the reenactment. “The force of the killer’s strikes sent blood all over the body, the wall, and the ground, but the lack of a bloody pool beneath Chikao reveals he didn’t bleed much after he hit the ground.
“A strike to the eye is rarely fatal. It probably wouldn’t even cause a fall. The blow that knocked him out came from behind.”
As Hiro finished, a voice shouted, “Do not disturb the dead!”
Hiro turned. A Buddhist monk, far younger and cleaner than Suke, stood at the alley entrance near the street.
“We haven’t touched him,” Father Mateo said.
The monk approached. When he reached the body, he asked, “Do you know what happened?”
Hiro opted for the yoriki’s explanation. “An accident. He died in a fight.”
The monk bent down and examined the wounds. “Crushing blows to the head. What cut his scalp?”
Hiro wondered how a cleric recognized the cause of death. However, he also enjoyed the reversal—usually, it was Hiro’s understanding that startled others.
“I don’t think it’s a cut,” he said. “The skin tore open under the force of the killer’s blows. The fractured skull created an edge that split the skin.”
“Interesting,” the monk replied. “He didn’t defend himself?”
Hiro debated the best response. The yoriki told them not to discuss the crime, but Hiro didn’t want the monk to become suspicious and question their authority to view the murder scene.
Before he could make a decision, Father Mateo said, “The first blow knocked him senseless. When he fell, his opponent beat him to death.”
The monk shook his head. “This killer had an angry soul.”
“How do you know that?” Father Mateo asked.
The monk gestured toward the bloody wall. “Only an angry man strikes so many times, or with such force.” After a pause he added, “Also, I would guess the killer was not samurai.”
The statement put Hiro’s curiosity over the edge. “What makes you say so?”
The monk smiled. “I was a physician before I renounced the world. I cannot forget the man I was, or the things I saw, when I lived that life. A samurai kills a man with a sword. He doesn’t use his hands.”
Though accurate, it wasn’t the reason Hiro would have given.
“Also,” the monk continued, “a samurai would have stopped when the man was dead.”
Hiro disagreed. Furious samurai rarely showed much self-control. The shinobi leaned forward and laid two fingers on the dead man’s neck.
“Why check for a heartbeat?” The monk inquired. “We already know he’s dead.”
“I’m feeling his temperature,” Hiro said. “His skin seems cool, but pliant. He died within the last few hours. Some time after midnight, before dawn.”
The monk nodded. “You are a physician also.”
It wasn’t a question, and Hiro saw no need to correct the error. He stood up and looked at Father Mateo. “We’ve seen what we need to see.”
The monk bowed. “I will care for his needs from here.”
* * *
Hiro and Father Mateo left the alley and headed north, but not toward home.
“I want to speak with Ginjiro before the hearing,” Hiro said. “That is, if we still have time.”
The magistrate’s compound lay north and west of the brewery, in the southern end of the administrative ward. Hiro and Father Mateo arrived to find the compound gates wide open.
Commoners filled the yard. They spoke in whispers as they waited for the magistrate.
Hiro bowed to the pair of stern-faced samurai guarding the compound gates. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m looking for a brewer named Ginjiro.”
“If you want a brewer, look in the sake district,” the taller samurai said with a grin.
His companion snickered at the joke, though neither Hiro nor Father Mateo smiled.
“The man I seek was arrested this morning,” Hiro said.
The samurai’s smile faded. “No one remembers a criminal’s name. The dōshin bring them in by the dozen.”
Father Mateo stepped forward. “This man is not a criminal. He was wrongfully accused. He has graying hair, and was wearing a blue kimono.”
The guard considered the Jesuit’s words. “I did see such a man. He’s accused of murder.”
“Wrongfully accused,” the priest repeated.
“I doubt it,” the guard replied, “but, innocent or not, he isn’t here. The dōshin brought him, briefly, to lodge his name and case with the magistrate, but his case will not be heard until this afternoon.”