Prefecture D: Four Novellas Read online

  Megu was Osakabe’s most cherished daughter. She’d suffered and was now finally on the verge of attaining happiness. Overwhelmed with emotion, Osakabe wanted to give her the best celebration possible. He would stand proud, in active service, as he guided her through her special day.

  Futawatari’s throat was dry. It was possible he was on the wrong track. Yet Osakabe had himself said the words almost two hours earlier. It’s none of your concern. Had he meant to say it didn’t concern the force? That it was, instead, a family matter? That—because she’d gone through hell—it was all for Megu?

  Could the wife of an officer ever be happy? The question was one Futawatari had decided to ignore. He lacked the courage to ask it of his wife, who lived under the constant scrutiny of those inside and outside the force, who had given her life to him and the closed-off community, where the claustrophobia could push you over the edge. That was why the wish was there: At least, for my daughter. She was in her fifth year of primary school, chest already developing. She would be asleep by now, breathing softly through her metal braces. Futawatari wished her a life free from such constraints, one in which she could explore the world as she saw fit, never knowing the smothering pressure the force had exerted on her parents. He wished for it with all his heart.

  “He’s a father, too,” Futawatari muttered to himself. For the first time, Osakabe came across as a flesh-and-blood human, as something more substantial than an ogre locked up in the confines of Criminal Investigations.

  “Of course,” Maejima said, speaking for the first time since his slip of the tongue, his voice freeing up, cracking a little.

  “Still, I’m pretty sure family wasn’t a major factor when he was in the force.”

  Maejima muttered another “Of course,” his tone darkening just a little.

  “What was he like when he was director?”

  “Glorious.”

  “How so?”

  “In every way.”

  “So, some kind of superman?”

  “Pretty much.” Maejima was kind enough to avoid saying, Not that anyone from Administrative Affairs would understand. Instead, he said, “Here’s something: criminals never return to the scene of the crime.”

  “What’s that? Something he said?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But they do, don’t they?”

  “Truth is, they don’t. I checked ten years of case history. Not once did the perpetrator go back to the scene of the crime.”

  “So he shares this revelation and stuns you all. That it?”

  “You’re missing the point,” Maejima said, sounding a little worked up. “You grow up watching detective shows and you’re conditioned, like you, to think it’s in a perp’s nature to return to the crime scene. Now, imagine you’ve just committed a crime. There’s no way in hell you’re going back. Why? ’Cause you’re scared shitless you’ll be caught. Make sense?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “What he was telling us was that, in our line of work, we can never take anything we know for granted. It’s hard to fathom just how much information is leaked to the outside these days. Investigative techniques. Forensics knowledge. There are people out there who have more know-how than us detectives. Osakabe was telling us that we had to let go of our pride, let go of our preconceptions. That only then could we truly call ourselves detectives.”

  Encouraged by the drink, Maejima became increasingly talkative. The anecdotes he gave concerning Osakabe were all fascinating. Futawatari realized, noting as he did a twinge of envy, that Maejima had in Osakabe a superior officer whom he adored without question, one whom he could talk about with nothing but respect.

  With the vague promise that he’d come again soon, though unsure as to when that might be, Futawatari left the apartment. His chest felt warm as he walked against the cold wind. Gone were the jagged sensations of anger and humiliation from his visit to Osakabe. He’d told himself he’d come here to gain leverage, but it was possible he’d simply wanted to catch up with a friend. Maybe that was the real reason he’d come.

  Cutting through the parking area, Futawatari came to a sudden halt. Under the glow of the mercury lamps, he saw a woman’s face in the window of an estate car he recognized by the gaudy strips on the side. He saw two small heads bobbing playfully alongside her. Maejima’s “little ones.” The engine was off, but there was no sign of anyone getting out. You sly bastard. Futawatari turned to face the light coming from Maejima’s apartment. The man had asked his family to wait outside. He’d set it up so that he could talk in private with Futawatari. It was transfer season. It was only natural that he would want to know what was in store for him. Would he be up for transfer? Would he be staying? Did he need to pack, get ready to move? Did he need to think about which school his kids would attend?

  Futawatari’s work had consequences.

  Perhaps the kids had been taken for a chocolate sundae.

  Futawatari put his foot on the accelerator and kept it there, holding his breath until the estate car had disappeared from the rearview mirror.

  6

  It didn’t take long to find out what had happened to Megu Osakabe.

  The next morning Futawatari paid a visit to the detention facility in the basement of the north building. Shori Sasaki was marking numbers on a blackboard, checking as he did a note in his hand. His first job every morning was to call around to 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 organization 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 dragged him to the kiosk in Welfare. There was a recreation area with some round tables toward the back. Futawatari 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 gotten 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 honor. 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 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 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, the female office worker, 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 bade the man farewell at the entrance to the north building. Sasaki returned down the stairs toward 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 Osakabe’s 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 license. 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 that 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.

  7

  “You’re working on it?” Oguro’s chair groaned under the director’s immense weight. He glared at Futawatari, who stood sharply to attention. “What do you mean, you’re working on it?”

  “Osakabe refuses to comment, sir. All that is clear is that he has no intention of changing his mind.”

  “Yes, well, that much is painfully obvious.”

  Oguro slammed the business cards he’d been fiddling with down onto the desk. Futawatari caught sight of names representing construction companies next to those of trustees from the foundation. Oguro had summoned them to his office just an hour earlier. Hold a board meeting, a general meeting, whatever. Force him out. Oguro had issued his demands, but the attendees had only bowed their heads in apology. They all feared Osakabe. Just three years ago he had stood as director of Criminal Investigations. He had access to all the information Second Division had gathered during his tenure, information that, in many cases, could be reasonably developed into criminal proceedings. Push him the wrong way, and the industry could once again be made a testing ground for investigations into corruption. They must have looked terrified.

  Division Chief Shirota had been out since noon, making the rounds of the prefecture’s major food-manufacturing companies. He had been tasked with finding a stopgap position for Kudo, should the worst happen and their attempts to remove Osakabe come to nothing. Consultant—something like that—just for a year. That was his pitch, but the bubble economy was over and it seemed unlikely that the companies would simply acquiesce. Even if he did manage to talk them into it, the press would probably notice the change. They had already covered the background to Kudo’s transfer. Someone would start sniffing around, ask why Kudo had been sent to the food industry rather than his previously agreed-upon role of managing director at the foundation. It would doubtless end in an article that highlighted discord within the force.

  “I want you to fix this,” Oguro wheezed, as though he were coughing up lead. “We have three more days. Threaten him if necessary. Find a weakness. You cling to him like a fucking squid until he gives in.”

  “…”

  Futawatari understood why it was that Osakabe had to step down. He did not know to whose assessments or referrals it was that he himself owed his current position, but he was under no doubt that he was, at forty-two, a staunch and loyal member of Administrative Affairs. There was more to the force than Criminal Investigations and Public Safety. Futawatari had nothing against the other departments per se, but he knew the organization needed people who could keep them in check, people who could build the organization’s resilience and ensure that it sustained itself through the generations.

  That was the mission of Administrative Affairs.

  If they stumbled, so, too, would the force. One of the absolute requirements behind the organization’s ability to maintain a monolithic front was Administrative Affairs’ continual reminder to those sections who dismissed it as a merely clerical function that they, too, were police. And their greatest weapon in this was Personnel. That was why they could not permit the insurrection.

  At the same time, Futawatari knew he had no intention of telling Oguro what he’d learned about Megu. Perhaps it was policemen’s honor; he couldn’t be sure. He had a daughter
of his own. That would be part of it. And there was his natural desire to resist. Oguro was the very embodiment of the career officer, the kind who considered his own self-interest above everything else. Osakabe was making trouble, but he was family. Oguro—a distant relative at best—had no right to interfere.

  This is our concern.

  Once Futawatari had been dismissed, his next move was to check in at the retreat. Uehara was busy at his keyboard, his look of misery gone. The captain had approved the redrafted transfer plans, and work had now shifted to phase two: the reshuffling of officers ranked assistant inspector and below.

  “Everything’s in order?”

  Uehara gave a cheerful nod, then frowned when he remembered something. “Sir, how is the other issue?”

  Show that kind of consideration in battle, and you’ll go far.

  Ignoring Uehara’s question, and with this thought in mind, Futawatari left the building and hurried toward the parking area. He would take Osakabe down.

  It would mean stripping the man of his armor and taking hold of his beating heart. But Futawatari had made up his mind, and he had a plan.

  8

  Futawatari waited for close to two hours, having parked on the same patch of open land next to the river.

  The black sedan approached, coming through the evening light with the sidelights on. The indicators blinked, and it turned into the residential area. The rear lights left a ghosted trail of red in Futawatari’s vision.