It didn’t take long to find out what had happened to Megu Osakabe.
The next morning Futawatari had paid a visit to the detention facility in the basement of the north building. Shori Sasaki had been marking numbers on a blackboard, checking as he did a note in his hand. His first job every morning was to call around the various district stations and tally up the number of detainees in the prefecture. His desk was covered in papers and the loose sheets of a questionnaire from a human rights organisation demanding information on the nutritional value of the lunches being served in the facility. Judging by the mess, it seemed fair to assume that Sasaki was busy drafting a response.
Futawatari had dragged him to the kiosk in Welfare. There was a recreation area with some round tables towards the back. Futawatari had tried to exercise restraint when raising the subject, but when Sasaki responded he didn’t even try to lower his voice.
‘That was a case of forcible violation.’
Futawatari was at a loss as to how to respond. Forcible violation. He didn’t have to be a detective to know immediately what the term signified.
Megu Osakabe had been raped, five years ago, at a campsite in the north of the prefecture. The attack had come when she’d been out gathering wood for a fire. Her fiancé had been at the campsite with her. It was hard to imagine what the two must have gone through after such an event. In the end, the engagement had been called off. This was what Maejima had meant when he’d referred to ‘all that other shit’.
Fucking hell.
Futawatari let out a deep sigh. It wasn’t that he hadn’t considered rape as a possibility, but to have it confirmed like this felt like taking a bullet in the chest.
‘Was the offender arrested?’ Futawatari asked, trying to maintain his composure.
Sasaki shook his head. ‘Nah, the guy wore a stocking on his head. We know he was getting on a bit, but that’s about all. Never got any evidence. He didn’t even ejaculate.’
Futawatari was starting to feel sick.
If the man had left any fluids, they could have got his blood type, maybe performed a DNA test to bring him in. Futawatari remembered Osakabe’s words, relayed to him by Maejima the previous night. Here was a man with the know-how necessary to circumvent current investigative methods and forensics technology, one willing to commit a crime yet keep his most powerful urge in check to evade arrest.
‘What did Osakabe do? I can’t imagine how he—’ Futawatari began, but Sasaki just looked away, snorting as though to say, How the hell should I know?
The man had spent a long time working in the prestigious world of Violent Crime. He’d been proud of the work, calling it the key function of Criminal Investigations. He’d been ranked assistant inspector, two levels below his contemporary Futawatari, but he’d worn it as a badge of honour. Then, four years ago, he’d received an abrupt transfer out. To this day he remained convinced that Osakabe had been the man behind the change in his fate.
Sasaki was silent now, sipping at his coffee, his expression that of a man who had, at some point, abandoned any hope for advancement in the force. There were a few like him in every department, men who showed no signs of apprehension during transfer season.
The sound of laughter prompted Futawatari to glance out of the window. A group of officers from Transport walked by, cracking up at something.
Futawatari couldn’t stop himself from trying to imagine Osakabe’s feelings. His beloved daughter had been raped and the predator was still at large, and this despite the fact that he had himself led the investigation to hunt the bastard down.
Futawatari thought of something, recalling a detail from Osakabe’s file. Five years ago. That was the year of Osakabe’s promotion to director. Which made it the same year as the murder of the female office worker.
Sasaki was getting ready to leave but Futawatari raised a hand to stop him. ‘Five years ago. Wasn’t that the same year as the murder of the female office worker?’
‘Yep. Not that I worked on that one. That was Maejima’s team.’
‘So Osakabe’s daughter was attacked in the same year . . .’
‘There were seven cases like it.’
‘Seven?’
‘Seven cases of rape with no ejaculation. The last one ended in murder.’
‘Were they all the same man?’
‘No one knows. The perpetrators all wore stockings, so that’s a match, but we never got any hard evidence.’
‘But it’s probable, right? Considering the last one was when the woman was killed. Perhaps she’d seen his face and he ended up killing her. That would have scared him off, convinced him he had to stop.’
‘Sure, maybe. But cases are never that simple.’
Futawatari bid the man farewell at the entrance to the north building. Sasaki returned down the stairs towards the dimly lit basement, moving his neck in lethargic circles. He’d discussed the case, showing glimpses of his past as an investigator, yet he’d failed to consider the first question any real detective would have asked: why was someone from Administrative Affairs showing an interest?
Futawatari’s mind was racing as he made his way upstairs. He took slow steps, as though putting the brakes on the obvious conclusion.
A case Osakabe had failed to close. A perpetrator who had probably raped his own daughter. Having failed to bring the man to justice, what would someone like Osakabe, with his forty years of experience in Criminal Investigations, seek to do?
The answer had been there right from the start.
Track him down.
Osakabe was still on the case. He was continuing his work as a detective. He would bring the offender in and he would do so before his daughter’s wedding in June.
It was clear now why he was refusing to step down. He was making full use of his position in the foundation. His home had been surrounded by photinia, leaving no space to park. Meaning – he didn’t own a car. Maybe it was more than that. As a veteran of an age when detectives traditionally used bicycles and motorbikes to get their work done, it was possible he didn’t even hold a licence. He couldn’t give up the car and chauffeur. He needed them for his investigation, to enable him to spend his days moving unchecked around the prefecture.
Futawatari brought to mind the enormous map from the office of the foundation. The lines and lines and lines of red pencil, all interwoven like capillaries. Was it possible that, instead of representing the work of the foundation, they were actually a record of Osakabe’s own private investigation?
Wait . . .
Futawatari came to a stop on the landing. What, specifically, was Osakabe doing? Futawatari’s lack of investigative experience made it hard for him to iron out the details. Was he using the pretext of the site inspections to visit the areas where the assaults had taken place? Futawatari was aware that detectives usually made repeated visits to any given crime scene, but it seemed unlikely that such an approach would help Osakabe find anything new, especially now five years had passed. Was he, then, making the rounds between his inspections with a view to gathering more information? Futawatari suspected that this, too, would be a waste of time. A team of over a hundred detectives had worked day and night on each of the cases. And Osakabe had led the investigations in person.
Despite this, they had failed to make an arrest.
What could one man hope to accomplish now?
A pitch-black trail in the mountains. An image of Osakabe, standing alone.
Futawatari climbed the remainder of the stairs, certain that he had now grasped the reason behind the man’s refusal to step down. It felt like an overwhelming weight bearing down on his shoulders.