AT THE BACK OF CHIBA University library, Ayako Wakatsuki was hunched over textbooks. She was cute and plump with a short bob and large hoop earrings. As Iwata and Hatanaka approached her, she looked up. Curiosity first. Then anxiety.
Iwata held up his police ID.
“Are you Ayako Wakatsuki?”
Her eyes flicked from cop to cop.
“Why?”
“You’re in no trouble. You remember Hideo Akashi?”
She looked around.
“I’d rather talk elsewhere.”
Ayako Wakatsuki led them clear of the university grounds to a half-empty Freshness Burger a few blocks away. Despite the early hour, Hatanaka and Wakatsuki ordered cheeseburgers and lemonade, while Iwata stuck to coffee. Blushing, Hatanaka insisted on paying. They sat down in a corner booth.
“We just have a few questions,” Iwata said. “You have nothing to worry about, Ayako.”
Wakatsuki dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“Within an hour of examining that policeman’s body I was receiving threats. I was told that things could happen to me. Things could be arranged. I was followed. From my apartment, to class, even to my mother’s house—day and night. All of this by policemen, and all of this just because I did my job. So you’ll forgive me if I hold on to my worries for now.”
Iwata held up his hands.
“I know the way they operate. I do. But I need you to trust us now because we’re not the same as them.”
“So what are you, then? The good ones?”
“We’re investigating a series of murders, and we believe Akashi’s death may be linked. That’s all. If you talk to us, nobody will find out. You can rest assured. But we do need your help. People’s lives depend on this. On you, Ayako.”
“Great, so no pressure, then.” Wakatsuki sighed gently. “I mean, I figured you weren’t the same as them the second you asked about Akashi. Those other cops had no questions whatsoever.”
“They’re assholes,” Hatanaka blurted. “We don’t have any kind of agenda. We won’t force you to do anything.”
She looked at Hatanaka for a moment, then back at Iwata.
“Series of murders, huh? So you’re talking, like, a serial killer?”
He nodded and Wakatsuki wrinkled her nose.
“All right. Okay. I mean I can’t really say no to that.”
Iwata produced Akashi’s death certificate.
“Doctor Taniguchi said you found irregularities.” He unfolded the page. “But I can’t see anything irregular here.”
Wakatsuki took a sip of lemonade.
“Unsurprising.” She took out a scrapbook from her bag. “These are my original notes. I would always jot them down here first before writing them up officially. Whatever you were given was what Taniguchi filed after I left.”
Looking around the restaurant, she passed over her notes. Iwata and Hatanaka peered closely her small, scrawled text.
Severe maxillofacial injuries.
Iwata looked up.
“How severe?”
“Extensive trauma. Completely smashed in.”
“So he … had no face?”
“Correct.”
Hatanaka frowned.
“So Akashi was dead before he even hit the water?”
Wakatsuki nodded.
“Not particularly common in this type of death, but the damage could well have been on contact with one of the support struts or the iron outcroppings from the bridge.”
“But how? There’s only open space from the bridge to the water.”
“No, he jumped from the tower—the very top of the bridge—not road-level. That’s over one hundred meters.”
“So to clarify,” Iwata said, “Akashi was unrecognizable?”
Wakatsuki took a pen from her bag and sketched a cartoon face on a napkin. Then she took the bottle of ketchup and squeezed it until the face was covered completely.
“Like this.”
She tossed the pen into her bag, and, noticing a dollop of ketchup on her finger, sucked it clean.
Hatanaka blushed as Iwata carried on reading.
Small lacerations present on top of subject’s head.
“What are these lacerations?” Iwata asked. “From aquatic life?”
“Unlikely. He wasn’t in the water for long at all. If I had to guess, I’d say he had recently shaved his head. Just not very carefully.”
“To play devil’s advocate,” Iwata said, “just how ‘irregular’ might all this be?”
Wakatsuki slurped her drink through her straw before nodding to her notes.
“Finish reading.”
Ring finger on left hand badly broken. Small but clear ligature marks on wrist.
“… He was restrained.”
“And, from the shape of the marks, I’d say handcuffs,” Wakatsuki chirped.
“But wait, why just the one wrist?” Hatanaka said. “Akashi was a big guy, if you were going to restrain him—”
Iwata interrupted.
“Because someone handcuffed Akashi to something.”
They fell quiet for a moment as a family passed by with their breakfast specials.
“Then you were right, Iwata. Akashi didn’t kill himself. He had help.”
“Who identified the body?” Iwata asked her.
“It was a cop called…” Wakatsuki closed one eye to recall. “Suzuki? Yes, Suzuki I think.”
Iwata frowned.
“Suzuki? A cop?”
“Pretty certain. They were talking like he was Akashi’s partner. Tough break about your partner, that type of thing. But he didn’t look like a cop.”
“Why?”
“He was so drunk he could hardly stand. Honestly, he looked like he was homeless. In any case, Doctor Taniguchi would have his address.”
Wakatsuki checked her watch.
“Look, you can keep those notes. But I have class in forty minutes.”
“One last question, Ayako. What do you think happened here?”
She smirked darkly.
“The broken finger, the smashed face, the ligature marks … Inspector, if you’re asking me if Hideo Akashi was murdered, then my answer is yes. There’s no doubt in my mind that the injuries on his body were consistent with being restrained, assaulted, and then, most likely, thrown off Rainbow Bridge after death to simulate suicide.”
She chewed her lips for a second, then carried on.
“And not that I’m trying to do your job here, boys. But I’d have to wonder why your fellow policemen were so intent on ruling this out as murder.”
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Wakatsuki.”
“Good luck with this mess,” she said before turning to Hatanaka. “And thanks for lunch.”
When she was out of the door, Iwata turned to Hatanaka, who was still staring in her direction. Iwata snapped his fingers.
“Listen up, Romeo. I want you to go to Rainbow Bridge and get in touch with the Bureau of Port and Harbor. I want CCTV footage from the day of Akashi’s death. Get as much as possible on either side of the date too.”
“Got it.”
They left the restaurant and headed back toward the Chiba Hospital car park.
“Hey, Iwata, answer me something. If the Black Sun Killer murdered Akashi, why did he go to the trouble of making it look like a suicide? I mean, he didn’t bother going to those lengths with the others, right?”
Iwata smiled and pinched Hatanaka’s cheek.
“Now that’s the question, isn’t it?”
Hatanaka shrugged him off, trying not to laugh.
“Have you considered this probably had nothing to do the Black Sun case?”
Iwata smiled conspiratorially.
“What you really want to ask is: What if it was someone in the TMPD?”
“No.” Hatanaka kicked a pebble into a bush. “I don’t want to ask that question.”
“Then you’re not as stupid as you look. Now you answer me something, kid. Why don’t you ask Wakatsuki out?”
Hatanaka glared at him.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll wait outside her classroom, if you’ll give me the afternoon off.”
“I’m serious.”
The younger man snorted.
“Iwata, I don’t…”
“You don’t what? Like women?”
“I like women, I just don’t…”
“What?”
“Women don’t like me, all right?”
Iwata grinned up at the sky.
“Oh yeah, thanks for finding it so fucking hilarious, Iwata. I might suck with women but at least I have such a cool, understanding boss.”
Iwata held up his hand.
“I’m not laughing at you, kid. But I’m going to tell you something, the only reason women don’t like you is because you don’t like you. So bite the bullet. Ask this girl out. If she says yes, who knows? If she says no, what does that change?”
“Look, I can’t ask her out. ‘Hey, I’m investigating a murder, actually you’re cute, shall we go to the movies?’ Forget it. What have we even got in common?”
“Dead bodies, for one thing. She answered our questions and she had fun. Fuck, Hatanaka, you’ve already bought her a burger. Ask her out for a beer as well.”
They had reached the car.
“Under that quiet, brooding shit, you’re actually a nosy bastard, you realize that, Iwata?”
“That’s why I’m good at what I do.”
“Yeah, sure. Where are you headed?”
“To find this Suzuki. Now remember, Bureau of Port and Harbor.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
Iwata started the engine and pulled away. Hatanaka followed the black Isuzu with his eyes and pictured Wakatsuki sucking her finger.
* * *
Despite the frantic banging at the door, Ryozo Suzuki did not open his eyes. He prayed for it to stop, but he knew it wouldn’t. Swearing, he saddled his usual collection of agonies and lifted his frail body out of bed. It wasn’t actually a bed, there was no futon or mattress, merely a corner in which he bundled his clothes to sleep on. The room was a squalid chaos. It stank so badly of cigarette smoke and sweat that it was hard not to cough when walking in. The single window had long been broken, and the masking tape did nothing to stop the cold.
Suzuki spat on the floor and grimaced as he forced his boots on.
“All right, all right!”
He collected the last of his things and opened the door. An emaciated shrew of a man wearing blackened clothes pushed past him. He slung his bags of tin cans and plastic bottles on the floor and kicked off his shoes.
“I should charge you the extra hour,” the man growled. “I’ve been standing out there like a damn snowman.”
From the doorway, Suzuki looked across the street at the car park. Above it, an old advertising board for car oil showed the time.
“More like ten minutes, you old fuck.”
“They were my ten minutes!”
The old man was still screeching, but Suzuki had already closed the door on him. He shifted his grubby pack but there was no position that wouldn’t hurt his back. He walked past an open kitchen window and caught a snatch of local radio.
“It’s just coming up to eleven in the morning, and what a beautiful morning it is in Taitō. Your top stories again. Police descended on Uguisudani early this morning following the suicide of a forty-four-year-old unemployed man at Uguisudani Station. It’s the second suicide in a month at this station and questions are already being asked in the local area about the cost of the anti-suicide blue lights on the Yamanote Line. No spokesperson from Japan Rail was available for comment…”
Suzuki gripped the railing of the narrow balcony and looked down at the street below. People sat in the café over the road, eating French tarts. A repairman worked on telephone wires. A delivery of water tanks for a small office had just arrived. Cherry trees had started to sprout their first tentative white petals. This slice of city had once been home to undertakers, butchers, and prostitutes. Now Taitō was like most other parts of Tokyo—being prepared for something else.
Suzuki’s breath shortened. He gripped the railing, waiting for it to come, and there, right on cue, the coughing started. It was like inhaling glass and hot water at the same time. Recently, it ended in blood. Suzuki knew he was dying. His had not been a particularly fulfilling existence. Even so, he didn’t have too many complaints. At least the weather couldn’t hurt him today.
Thirty minutes later, Suzuki was setting up his blue tarp in the usual place.
It was late morning and only joggers and dog-walkers came to the park at this time. Most of the regulars hadn’t turned up to pitch today, and Suzuki figured the good weather had given them high hopes. A shining sun made people more generous. Suzuki knew that, but he couldn’t face the crowds today. The blood was too thick in his throat, the pain in his limbs too sharp, the accumulated cold in his bones too burrowed.
Suzuki felt a rare twist of hunger deep in his belly, and he tried to remember when he had last eaten. He took out a can of lentils, cut it open with his knife, and drank the salty water. He allowed himself to swallow a few mouthfuls before he closed the tin and hid it in his bag. He closed his eyes to savor the juice, clasping fingers over his lips in pleasure. That’s when he felt a shadow fall across him.
“Ryozo Suzuki?”
A slender man in a crumpled raincoat stood over him. Though he clearly hadn’t slept in a while, his eyes were sharp.
“Who are you?”
He held up his police ID—Kosuke Iwata, TMPD.
“Figures. I had you pegged for a cop.”
“I need to ask you some questions.” His voice was tired.
Suzuki took out a flimsy wallet from his coat pocket and held it open in reply. It was empty.