The Gate of Sorrows (38 page)

“Where is he now?” someone asked.

“With Seigo, talking to the police. I think her parents are coming up from Nagoya as we speak.”

Her
parents
. The room fell silent. Everyone was thinking the same thing. It was like a slap in the face.

“Where
was
Seigo this whole time?”

It was Kaname. She was standing straight and no longer hanging her head, but she wasn’t looking at anyone. She was staring into space.

“He of all people should’ve been protecting her. What on earth could he have been doing last night?” Her tone made the question sound like an incantation—or maybe a curse. Everyone on the team except Makoto and Maeda averted their eyes from her empty stare.

“Ashiya.” Maeda leaned toward her, hands flat on his desk. “I know how you feel. To lose Ayuko this way is devastating for all of us. But don’t talk that way. Seigo is suffering more, and feeling more grief and guilt, than anyone.” A few of the team members nodded.

“He was in the office all last night.” The senior woman on the team spoke up. Her voice had lost its edge. “I was here till four, so I know. He even told me not to work too hard.” Her voice faltered and she began to cry.

“My mother’s in the hospital. I need money. That’s why he told me not to work too hard, but he was up all night too. He said he had to catch up on the paperwork for the move to Sapporo, that he couldn’t focus on it in the daytime.” She glanced at Kaname and added reproachfully, “He was working all night. He wasn’t goofing off somewhere. He didn’t desert Ayuko.”

Kaname wailed in despair and started weeping.

Maeda looked down at his desk. His eyes were reddening again. “We still don’t know much about what happened. Let’s do what we do best and leave the police work to the professionals. We can’t let this affect our mission.

“We’re also calling for two volunteers from each island to patrol for information about the case. Are there any takers?”

Kotaro didn’t raise his hand. Makoto glanced sidelong at him and blinked in surprise as he raised his own.

The president of a company specializing in net-based risk management had been murdered. Soon—no, surely it was happening already—countless pieces of information about Kumar, useless and useful, harmless and harmful, would be flooding the web, along with thousands of comments from spectators and voyeurs.

“Can we assume this is the fifth murder by the Serial Amputator?” asked another team member.

“The police aren’t saying. In fact, they never officially said the other four killings were by the same person.”

“Yeah,” said another member, “but this one’s on Metro Police turf. It’s a whole new ballgame.”

The exchange of opinions grew more heated. Kotaro reached out and squeezed Kaname’s hand. She squeezed back.

I’m a machine.

I’m fast. I process of what’s in front of me. I have a mind but no heart. I don’t feel doubt, I don’t cry, and I don’t get angry.

That is what Kotaro told himself. He fulfilled his regular tasks in the regular way. He monitored it all: people looking to sell drugs, inviting others to use drugs, whining endlessly that drugs were destroying them psychologically, that they wanted to quit but couldn’t.

Ayuko Yamashina was dead.

Someone had stolen her life and left her body sprawled among the weeds of a vacant lot.

For Kotaro, Ayuko would have always been out of reach. Yet she possessed something wonderful. The simple fact of her existence had been enough for him to believe that life had meaning and value.

They may as well have killed an angel.

I’m a machine. I don’t feel. At least not yet. I don’t feel and I don’t think. Otherwise there’s no way I could be here.

Kumar was besieged by journalists and reporters. Kotaro could hear the commotion beyond the glass. Maeda had conferred with Kumar’s corporate communications rep in Nagoya on Skype and worked out how to deal with them. Someone from headquarters in a suit, with beads of sweat on his forehead, went into a closed-door meeting with the island chiefs.

“That guy’s a lawyer,” Kaname said.

Everyone’s phone was ringing. Family and friends called as soon as they heard the news. Kotaro got mails from his father and mother. Even Aunt Hanako sent him a message. Kotaro hadn’t the bandwidth to answer, so they kept sending them over and over.
“Ko-chan, are you all right?” “Kumar’s on the news. Are you safe?” “You work at Kumar, don’t you son? Or did I get that wrong?”

He didn’t see the mails until his break. As he gulped down a can of coffee from the vending machine, they brought tears to his eyes.

Kumar, Kumar, Kumar …

A gentle monster who loved the little town on the fjord, and the people in the town and the sound of the church bells ringing. A monster who quietly protected the town, though no one knew.

The angel who loved Kumar was gone.

Goodbye. May we meet again.

There would be no “again.”

Kotaro clutched his phone and sobbed.

Three days later, at ten in morning, Kotaro was dozing in a reclining chair in the lounge after an all-night shift when Maeda, the new chief of Drug Island, shook him awake.

“The killer’s made a statement.”

They rushed back to the office. Everyone’s eyes were glued to their monitors. Every monitor showed a TV channel.

So it had finally come to this. It was really happening.

“What’s it on? NHK?” Kotaro’s voice was shaking.

“Everywhere. All the networks.”

He sat down at his monitor. Maeda was right. Every channel had started a special news report. News sites on the web were taking their cues from the broadcasters.

“The killer sent a letter to all five networks.”

Snail mail
, Kotaro thought dully, still not fully awake. A letter.
Was the killer old? Or a child? Maybe a kid who wasn’t sophisticated enough to send an email?

“He’s a smart one.” Maeda watched over Kotaro’s shoulder, arms folded. He was drawn up to his full height with a fierce expression, like one of those huge statues of guardians that flank the gates of temples.

“Smart how?”

“Smart enough to know there’s no way to hide forever if you send something like that over the net.”

“He’s not that stupid,” someone chimed in.

“If he was one of those nut cases who ‘confess’ to crimes they didn’t commit, he wouldn’t have used the post office.”

People had started posting fake confessions just hours after the murder in Mishima, but they were clearly pranks or the work of unbalanced minds.

“The killer must’ve figured the networks were the best way to get attention,” Makoto said. He was peering over Kotaro’s shoulder now too. He looked exhausted. His hair was damp; he’d gone to wash up after working through the night. Kotaro nodded to him.

“Murder in Tokyo,” Makoto added with a venomous tone that was not at all like him. “It’s like he’s reached the big time, and TV’s the best way to make that big debut.”

“And this time he killed a celebrity.”

It was Seigo. He was standing in the door. He looked like a ghost. His shirt and trousers looked slept in. He face was covered with stubble.

“Seigo, you’re here!” Maeda rushed over to him, but Seigo waved him away impatiently.

“I’ve got to go back to the police station.”

“What, again?” Maeda was surprised.

“Keep monitoring the news. I have to be there when Ayuko’s mother arrives.” He turned and weaved unsteadily toward the restroom, like someone with a fever. “I have to show her her daughter, goddamn it!” His voice was tight with grief. Maeda hurried out after him.

Kotaro and Makoto sat side by side, monitoring the news. They split the work to cover all five networks. None of them had said anything specific about the killer’s statement. They wouldn’t even confirm whether each station had received the same letter, yet the announcers seemed to know more than they were letting on.

“It’s like they’ve got something stuck in their craws,” Makoto said.

It was true. Apparently the networks had received more than letters in the mail, but none of them would say what that might be. Maybe it was too shocking to disclose, or perhaps announcing it now would complicate the investigation. It was impossible to tell.

Noon came and regular programming was canceled. The picture was starting to come into sharper focus at last.

All five networks had received identical letters. The lettering was squared off, as if the writer had used a template. The text was a single sentence in the center of a small sheet of plain paper:

I’M ONLY TRYING TO PUT MY BODY BACK TOGETHER

The letters were all composed in the same script, on a brand of office stationery that was distributed throughout Japan. Forensics would be checking for prints and DNA as well as where each letter was posted, but Kotaro had no interest in these details. All he cared about was whether or not the letters were genuine.

They were. The sender had enclosed something extra with three of them.

One envelope held a platinum engagement ring with a three-quarter carat Russian diamond that Seigo had given to Ayuko the month before. Their initials and the date were engraved on the inside of the band. In another envelope was a single diamond earring that matched the one on Ayuko’s right ear when she was found. The third envelope contained her leather card case with her train pass and a single photograph of her with Seigo.

Other than the earring and her clothes, none of Ayuko’s belongings had been found with her body. Her handbag, smartphone and laptop had vanished, presumably taken by her killer.

Now some of her belongings had surfaced. It wasn’t surprising that the networks had held back the information at first. Only the killer could have sent them.

I’M ONLY TRYING TO PUT MY BODY BACK TOGETHER

Was this the killer’s real motive? The newscasters traced the history of the murders repeatedly.

Shiro Nakanome was the first victim. His left big toe was severed.

The second, unidentified victim was missing her right fourth toe.

“Mama” Masami Tono had had her right middle toe severed before being stuffed into a clothes trunk.

Pharmacist Saeko Komiya, the fourth victim, had lost her right leg below the knee.

And Ayuko Yamashina had had all ten fingers amputated.

I’M ONLY TRYING TO PUT MY BODY BACK TOGETHER

Kotaro wasn’t interested in TV’s analysis of the case. He wanted the killer’s words.

Late that afternoon the networks finally showed the letter, written on a single sheet of paper. Kotaro took a screenshot and printed out a copy. The situation in the office was so confused that no one noticed him doing it. The island chiefs were too busy putting out fires to ask what he was doing.

When he heard that a major newspaper was handing out a special edition in front of the train station, he ran to get one. There was a photo of the letter from the killer.

These were the words the killer had strung together.

Would an image of the letter be enough? Would he need to say the words aloud? Did he need one of the originals?

He didn’t know. All he could do was try.

Kaname arrived for her shift that evening. Because of the emergency, she had pulled the graveyard shift.

“I can’t concentrate. All I can do is cry. It doesn’t matter whether I’m in my room or in class. I feel better here.” She had dark shadows under her eyes. Even her cheeks had hollowed out over the last few days. “Ko-chan, you should get some rest.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

“Not just a nap. Go home.”

“I will. Not quite yet.”

In the lounge, Kotaro took a bite out of a sweet roll and booted up his laptop.

He would try again. He would throw another stone into the vast ocean of cyberspace and wait for the ripples to find their target.

His last attempt to reach Galla had found Yuriko Morisaki instead. What she had told him was very strange, especially the scolding she gave him for meddling in things he didn’t understand.

He hoped this time would be different. He didn’t need Yuriko now.
I’m not the person I was.

His fingers raced over the keys. He posted his summons again and again.

GALLA THE GUARDIAN! I HAVE SOMETHING I KNOW YOU WANT.

He didn’t care who saw his message. If they laughed, that was fine. If they wanted to think he was crazy, they were more than welcome.

I have what you want.

Show yourself, Galla.