The Silent Dead (10 page)

Reiko gave an emphatic nod. “Usually, when a perpetrator inflicts postmortem injury on a body, it's about making the body disappear. Chopping up or burning a body are examples of what I mean. I think we're looking at the same thing here.”

“Except that making a slit in the abdomen isn't much of a vanishing trick.”

“You're right. Slicing the abdomen is just the preliminary stage. Like prepping the body for disposal.”

The men exchanged startled looks. Reiko could see they had no idea where she was going with this.

“What I'm about to suggest to you is just my own personal hypothesis.” She paused. “I am guessing that the perpetrator intended to dump Kanebara's body into the pond.”

The five men shifted uneasily in their seats. Behind her, Ioka swallowed audibly.

“You all know that gases accumulate inside dead bodies as they decompose. What does that mean? Dump them in the water and all they do is float right back up to the surface. There was a case where a body that had been crammed into a refrigerator and chucked into a lake floated back up to the surface, refrigerator and all. The buoyancy of these decomposition gases is amazing. The gas accumulates in the intestines, inflating them like a balloon. Now, what would happen if you took the precaution of pre-puncturing that balloon? It's obvious. The intestines wouldn't inflate, and your body wouldn't come up to the surface. That, I believe, is the purpose of the incision in the abdomen.”

Hashizume raised a hand to object. “In that case, why didn't the perpetrator dump the victim in the pond? There's nothing to be gained by leaving him sitting on top of the hedge.”

The question was a valid one.

“I agree. Clearly, the body being left out like that wasn't good for the perpetrator. I believe the perpetrator meant for the body to be dumped in the pond, but it wasn't. My hypothesis is that there were two people involved: one person to transport the body to the pond, and another to dump it in the pond. For some reason, however, the person responsible for dumping the body in the pond failed to do his job. He never even showed up. I am guessing that's because…” Again, she paused. “The person who was meant to dump the body in the pond was already dead.”

“What grounds have you got for this hypothesis of yours?” broke in Imaizumi.

“Let me explain, sir.”

Hashizume sighed ostentatiously and his shoulders sagged.

“This is a photocopy of the autopsy report of a man who died in suspicious circumstances one month ago. His name was Yasuyuki Fukazawa and he was twenty-one years old. He was infected with a parasitic amoeba called
Naegleria fowleri
. It's very rare, but is found in freshwater lakes and ponds during the summer months. The amoeba consumed his brain and killed him. The early symptoms of
Naegleria fowleri
are similar to meningitis, so your average doctor isn't likely to make the correct diagnosis. Fukazawa died on July 20. In the report, the coroner estimates that he was infected about one week earlier—so roughly July the thirteenth. That was the second Sunday in the month—the same day Kanebara made one of his mysterious disappearances. And the next second Sunday in the month is when he left his home for the last time.”

Reiko put the autopsy report down on the table.

“The next question we have to ask is where Yasuyuki Fukazawa got infected with
Naegleria fowleri
. It's not one hundred percent, but it looks almost certain to have been the fishing pond near Mizumoto Park. The Tokyo municipal authorities conducted checks on water quality throughout the city. The Mizumoto pond was the only place where they detected
Naegleria fowleri
. What does that suggest to you? And by the way, I should mention that Fukazawa was on parole and was forbidden to leave Tokyo without special permission. Of course, he could have violated parole and gotten infected somewhere else entirely, but Tokyo seems a whole lot more likely to me. Which all leads me to conclude that on or around July 13, Yasuyuki Fukazawa must have either accidentally fallen into, or deliberately gone swimming in, the fishing pond.”

Reiko picked up the water-quality test report from the table and opened it to the page about the Mizumoto pond. She then held it up for everyone to see.

“You've all seen the pond. You know it's not a place where people swim in the summer—or any other time of the year, for that matter. With a sluice gate on one side, two sides banked up with concrete, and on the fourth, a verandalike jetty thing for people to fish from, the place is clearly not designed for swimming. Despite all that, Fukazawa went swimming there. He went into the water and was infected with
Naegleria fowleri
around July the thirteenth. Which means—”

Captain Imaizumi sat in silence with his eyes closed. The top three guys from Kameari police station looked disgusted, as if they had bitten into a lemon. The only sound Reiko could hear was the breath going in and out of Ioka's nose.

“—Which means what?” Hashizume said, crossing his arms on his chest and throwing himself back in his chair.

“Which means that … there are probably more victims who were killed prior to Kanebara sitting at the bottom of that pond.”

The top brass stared at her flabbergasted.

It was exactly what she had been looking forward to.

Reiko savored the moment.

 

PART II

 

 

My life was gray. The same as it always was.

I never settled into the orphanage they put me in after I lost my parents. And I never felt comfortable in the hospital they sent me to from time to time. I never felt like I was properly
alive
.

It was like I was still trapped in that house. That house that was supposed to have burned down and disappeared off the face of the earth. For years that feeling of being trapped had made my life hell: the stink, the yelling, the cursing, the beatings, the insanity, the self-destructiveness.

“I wish you'd never been born.” That was always his favorite warm-up line. “Just fuckin' die, will ya? Life. It just goes around and around and around. You eat, you take a dump, and then you eat some more. Your mom, she squatted down and shat you out. You're a lump of shit. No, 'scuse my manners. You are one fine little piece of excrement.”

Excrement?

Maybe he'd been right.

My life meant nothing. I had no control. There was someone to take me to the orphanage. When I made trouble, there was someone else to take me to the mental hospital. When they decided I was “better,” they took me back to the orphanage. Then the next time I lost it, it was back to the hospital again. Like an endless loop: orphanage, hospital, orphanage, hospital, orphanage, hospital—eating me up and shitting me out, over and over and over again. My parents weren't the only ones to think I was shit; I was shit in the eyes of the whole goddamn world. That was the one thing I knew for sure.

Funnily enough, I didn't want to die. I guess I was looking for something. What, I don't know. My place in the world? That something that would make me feel alive? The ability to feel, to desire? Your guess is as good as mine. Whatever I was after, I started to wander the streets looking for it.

Shibuya was too flashy for me; Roppongi and Harajuku even worse. Ikebukuro was getting there, but it was Shinjuku that hit the spot. Shinjuku was perfect.

Incredibly filthy, incredibly noisy, incredibly crowded. As chaotic as the inside of my own head. At night, Kabukicho, the red light district in Shinjuku, was a blaze of neon, while its back alleys were sunk in darkness. There was light and there was dark. Plenty of both. Kabukicho was stark black and bright white, never gray. Nice and clear cut, how I liked it.

The district was crawling with yakuza. That gave me a buzz. My favorite place was this big park, because of the sense of hidden danger. It was crawling with homeless people. Occasionally I came across one like me there—standing at the roadside, yelling their heart out at the world. Shinjuku was the place where I could connect with my pain.

Even in that shithole—maybe
because
it was a shithole—I found people prepared to be nice to me. Like the old homeless guy.

“Look at you, kid, you're filthy. Why not try this on for size? I picked it up, but it's way too small for me. No point in chucking it. If you want it, go on, have it.”

The old fellow handed me a black leather bodysuit, the kind that motorcyclists wear. I was grateful because the weather was just turning cold. I've worn it ever since.

Experiences like that were few and far between. One cold morning the old man was cold and dead, and the cops came to the underpass and cleared away the whole cardboard village. I had to leave. That's when I decided to try my luck in Kabukicho. I was so filthy, everyone steered clear of me. It was straight back to feeling like a piece of shit again. The feeling got stronger, and before I knew it I must have done something, because I came to in some hospital. I quickly snuck out and headed back to Shinjuku. I changed out of my hospital clothes and back into the biker suit in a train station bathroom.

It was around then that I met Mako.

I was squatting on the curb, minding my own business, when she came up to me and hugged my head to her chest. “The world's a harsh place,” she cooed. “It just ain't fair. But I understand you, I know how you feel.” Mako had beautiful long platinum blonde hair and beautiful bright eyes. I put my head on her lap and cried my eyes out.

“It's awful. You need to be homeless, out on the street, to feel just a little bit alive. It's the same for me. I understand. Go on, cry. Cry your little heart out. It's not your fault. You haven't done anything wrong. I know. I understand.” She paused, then said, “Come with me. I'll introduce you to some friends of mine.”

Her friends were a group of kids about her age. They called themselves the Gang. Shinjuku was their stomping ground. They fought turf wars with other gangs and even clashed with the yakuza and the cops. They were involved in a lot of heavy shit, but they weren't going anywhere.

Mako was the one I liked. The others I didn't care for much. Like Mako's elder brother. His nickname was Toki, and he was the leader, because he knew how to fight. I didn't like the way he looked at me. It reminded me of the class monitor at school. What do I know? He let me stay, so maybe he was a good guy after all. He fed me the same as everyone else and must've patched up my cuts and bruises a hundred times. Maybe he only eyed me like that because I stuck so close to Mako. She was beautiful. No wonder Toki worried about her.

The Gang was good to me, so I fought hard for them. Nothing frightened me. I was willing to kill anyone, including yakuza or cops. Those guys bleed the same as the rest of us, right? They act all high and mighty, but the blood in their veins is the same as mine—and the same as my burnt-to-a-cinder daddy.

Look at the blood coming out of this cut in my leg. It looks black on my black bodysuit, but stick your finger in it, and look, it's a lovely rich red. Your blood's the same, see? Red. Hardly gonna be blue, I guess! Which is the nicer red, yours or mine? Hey, I'm just kidding. They're the same color. That's how it should be. It soothes me. My blood is this beautiful red color, just the same as everyone else's. My blood, your blood—there's no difference between them. I like that.

But Mako cried all the time. Whenever she saw me drenched in beautiful red blood, she would go crazy. Her brother had to grab her and hold her until she calmed down. I know why she made such a scene. She told me she was worried about me getting hurt. I felt so guilty whenever I ended up all bandaged up after a rumble.

I really got off on listening to the rest of the boys telling me what a kick-ass street fighter I was. I started thinking that maybe I'd found my place, that maybe this was what I'd been looking for, that maybe life was worth living after all. I could tell that the others guys respected me. It had been years, but I felt that a little color was seeping into my miserable gray life. I loved to look at Mako's long blonde hair.

Everyone in the Gang had a nickname, the shorter the better: Mako, Toki, Kusu, L, Mochi, Taji. Mako wanted to give me one too. I never spoke, so I had to scratch my name into the dirt with a stick for her. “Great,” said Mako. “We'll call you F from now on.” It sounded nothing like my real name. I liked that. Felt like I'd changed into someone else.

I was always in the thick of any fight. I wasn't the strongest member of our gang, but I was relentless. No matter how bad I was hurting, I just fought on till the other guy begged me to stop. I got some nasty injuries, but I never, ever admitted I was beat. Perhaps I didn't know how. In the end it was always the other guy who ended up pleading for his life.

Just like my dear old dead dad, I suppose.

Word about me spread among the other youth gangs. They'd give me a wide berth when they saw me coming. It was quite nice, though it meant less fighting. Less fighting meant my world fading back to gray again. That I didn't like.

Then Mako was murdered.

Some guy from another gang found her body and brought us the news. She was stark naked and dead in a road tunnel near the Imperial Palace. It was harsh. It was ugly.

“The fucking bastards,” said Mochi, his voice breaking. “They gang-raped her, and then they killed her.”

Taji moaned and cursed as he pummeled the asphalt with his fists.

We were all slumped on the road, bawling. The guy who'd led us to the tunnel wasn't even part of our gang, and even he was crying his eyes out. The motorists were honking their horns at us, sounded like hundreds of them. We didn't budge. We just sat and cried around Toki and his dead sister.

“I'll deal with this,” I stammered. “Just tell me who did it.”

My gang-mates were utterly astonished. They couldn't figure out who had spoken. None of them had heard me speak before, not a word. The guy who'd taken us to the tunnel warned me it was better not to tangle with the guys who did it. Then we heard police sirens. They were getting closer. We split up and ran. We had no choice. We left Mako alone in that tunnel.