Malice: A Mystery Read online

  “I have another request,” I said.

  Osamu Nonoguchi looked a little disappointed. “You are unusually persistent. Or does that happen to everyone when they become a detective?”

  I didn’t respond, instead showing him the photo of Hatsumi Hidaka we’d found in his dictionary.

  Osamu Nonoguchi’s face froze, his mouth twisted slightly askew. I could hear his breathing become labored.

  “Yes?” he croaked at last. I got the distinct impression that saying just that one word was all he could manage.

  “Why were you in possession of a photograph of Kunihiko Hidaka’s former wife? And why keep it in such an unusual place?”

  Osamu Nonoguchi looked out the window, thinking. I stared hard at his face in profile.

  “So what if I had a photo of Hatsumi?” he said at length, still gazing out the window. “It’s got nothing to do with your case, Detective.”

  “Again, that’s for us to decide.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Then please explain this photograph.”

  “It’s nothing. It doesn’t mean anything. I took a photo of her at some point and forgot to give it to Hidaka.”

  “And used it as a bookmark?”

  “It must have been lying around. I don’t know.”

  “When was this picture taken? And where? It looks like a roadside restaurant.”

  “I forget. I occasionally went out with the two of them—cherry-blossom viewing, or to see some festival. It was probably one of those trips.”

  “But the picture only shows her. I think it’s a little odd to go on a trip with a couple and only take a picture of the wife.”

  “It was a restaurant, maybe Hidaka was in the bathroom when I took it.”

  “Do you have any other pictures from that trip?”

  “How can I tell you that if I don’t know when it was taken? They might be in an album, or I might’ve thrown them away by mistake. Either way, I don’t remember.”

  Osamu Nonoguchi’s distress was obvious.

  I pulled out two more photos and placed them in front of him. Both prominently featured Mount Fuji. “You remember these, don’t you?”

  He looked at the photographs, and I caught him swallowing.

  “We found them in your photo album. I’m sure you haven’t forgotten these.”

  He shook his head. “I wonder when those were taken,” he said, his voice weak.

  “Both were taken in the same place. You don’t remember where?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Fuji River. To be precise, the Fuji River highway rest area. The same place as the other photo we just showed you. Notice the staircase in the back—it’s the same one.”

  Osamu Nonoguchi was silent.

  Several of the investigators on my team had recognized the rest area from the photo of Hatsumi. Armed with that knowledge, and with the help of the police department in Shizuoka Prefecture, where the rest area was located, we identified two other photos taken there.

  “If you can’t remember when you took the photo of Hatsumi, perhaps you can tell me about these photos you took of Mount Fuji? Why is it that they were in your album, but Hatsumi’s photo wasn’t?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t even remember I had those.” Apparently he had made up his mind to play dumb to the very last.

  “I have one last photograph.” I pulled a single photo out of my jacket pocket. This was the photo we’d borrowed from Hatsumi’s mother. “Something in this one must look very familiar to you.”

  I watched him as he looked at the photo, which was a picture of three women standing together. It was slight, but I saw his eyes widen.

  “Well?”

  “I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re getting at.” His voice was hoarse.

  “Really? You recognize the woman in the middle, though, don’t you? Hatsumi Hidaka?”

  I took Nonoguchi’s silence as a yes.

  “How about the apron she’s wearing? The yellow-and-white-checkered pattern? It’s the same as the one that we found in your apartment.”

  “So what?”

  “So you can try to explain away keeping a photo of Hatsumi however you like, but how do you intend to explain her apron being in your possession? Did you or did you not have a relationship with Hatsumi Hidaka?”

  Osamu Nonoguchi moaned softly.

  “Please, tell us the truth. I’ve said this before, but the more you hide from us, the deeper we have to dig. It’s only a matter of time before the press catches on and somebody writes an article filled with conjectures. I guarantee that is something that you wouldn’t want to see in print. Tell us everything now, and we can help prevent that.”

  I wasn’t sure how much of an effect my words had made on him. The only thing I could pick up from Nonoguchi’s expression was painful indecision.

  At last he said, “What happened between me and Hatsumi has nothing to do with this. I want to be clear about that.”

  Finally, we were getting somewhere. “So you do admit to having a relationship with her?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a relationship. It was just a moment when our feelings might have moved toward each other. But it faded quickly, for both of us.”

  “When did this start?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. Maybe five or six months after I started visiting Hidaka. I caught a bad cold and was bedridden for a while, and she came to check on me every now and then. That’s how it started.”

  “How long did it last?”

  “Two, three months? Like I said, it wasn’t long before the heat went out of it entirely. We just went crazy for a little while, that’s all. It happens.”

  “But you continued seeing the Hidakas after that. Most people would stay away after something like that happened.”

  “It’s not like we parted on bad terms. We talked about it and agreed we should stop seeing each other. I can’t say that we entirely succeeded, that there wasn’t a meaningful glance or two when I would visit. But for the most part whenever I dropped in, she would be out. I think she was avoiding it. Avoiding us. I believe that if she hadn’t had that accident, I would have stopped seeing either of them before long.”

  Once he got going, Osamu Nonoguchi spoke easily, the fear and hesitation he’d shown moments before now gone. I watched his expression, trying to determine how much of this I could believe. Though there were no telltale signs that he was lying, it was strange that he was suddenly so calm.

  “In addition to the apron, we found a necklace and travel documents.”

  He nodded. “We thought about taking a trip together. We went so far as the planning stage. But it never happened.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we called it off. Isn’t it obvious?”

  “And the necklace?”

  “As you suspect, I meant to give it to her. Of course, that got called off, too. Along with the rest of it.”

  “Did you keep anything else of Hatsumi Hidaka’s?”

  Osamu Nonoguchi thought a moment. “There’s a paisley necktie in one of my drawers. That was a present from her. That, and the Meissen teacup in the cupboard. She used it whenever she came to visit. We went to the shop together and picked it out.”

  “What was the name of that shop?”

  “Some place in Ginza, but I don’t remember the name or the exact location.”

  I made sure that Detective Makimura had made a note of that before asking, “Would it be safe to say that you still haven’t forgotten Hatsumi Hidaka even now?”

  “I haven’t forgotten her, but it was an awful long time ago.”

  “Then why store those mementos, those memories of her, so carefully?”

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘carefully.’ You’re overthinking things again. I just never threw them away, and time passed.”

  “The photos, too? You just forgot to throw out that picture of her you were using as a bookmark in your dictionary?”

  Nonoguchi had a difficult time answer
ing that one. Finally he managed, “Imagine what you will. Just … it’s not related to the murder.”

  “Not to sound like a broken record, but that’s for us to decide.”

  One more thing I needed to bring up before we left: the accident. I asked him what he thought about it.

  “What do you mean what I thought about it? It was sad. And a shock. That’s all.”

  “You must’ve been angry with Mr. Sekikawa?”

  “Sekikawa? Who’s that?”

  “Tatsuo Sekikawa. I’m sure you’ve at least heard the name.”

  “Nope. Never heard it.”

  I waited for that denial before telling him, “The truck driver. The man who hit Hatsumi.”

  Nonoguchi looked truly taken aback. “Oh. So that’s his name.”

  “Should we take the fact that you didn’t even know his name to mean that you weren’t upset with him?”

  “No, I just didn’t remember his name. Of course I’m upset with him. Not that me being angry will do anything to bring her back.”

  “Is the reason you’re not mad at the driver because, at the time, you thought it was suicide?”

  Nonoguchi’s eyes went wider. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because you told someone you thought it was.”

  Apparently I wasn’t vague enough, as he seemed to know immediately to whom I was referring.

  “Look … it wasn’t the most prudent thing to say, but you shouldn’t take it too seriously. It was just something that popped into my head.”

  “Even so, I’d like to know why.”

  “I forget. You try explaining every little thing you’ve said over the last five years—I doubt even you would be able to give clear answers!”

  With that, we wrapped up our conversation. I promised Nonoguchi that we would talk again soon, and we left the hospital room.

  Personally, I was elated. I had as good a confirmation as I could hope for that Osamu Nonoguchi did believe Hatsumi Hidaka’s death was a suicide.

  * * *

  No sooner had we returned to the office than a call came in from Rie Hidaka. Her things had arrived back from Canada, and she’d discovered several of Kunihiko Hidaka’s videotapes among them. We left immediately.

  “These are all the tapes I found.” She’d arranged seven 8 mm videotapes in a line on the table. Each of them represented an hour of recorded time. I picked up each tape in turn. The cases were numbered one through seven, with no other noticeable titles. Either Hidaka had some system for keeping them straight, or he just remembered their contents.

  I asked Rie if she had watched any of the tapes.

  She hadn’t. “It just didn’t feel right.”

  I asked if we could borrow the tapes for a while and she nodded in agreement.

  “There was one other thing I thought you should see. Here.” She laid a square paper box about the size of a lunchbox on the table. “It was in with my husband’s clothes. I’ve never seen it before, so he must have been the one who put it in there.”

  I pulled the box toward me and removed the lid. Inside was a knife wrapped in plastic. It had a sturdy-looking handle, and the blade was at least twenty centimeters long. I picked it up without taking it out of the bag. It was heavy in my hand.

  I asked Rie if she knew what the knife had been used for. She shook her head. “I’ve no idea, that’s why I wanted you to see it. Kunihiko never mentioned it to me.”

  I examined the surface of the knife through the bag. It was not considerably worn, but it definitely wasn’t new. I asked if Kunihiko Hidaka ever went mountain climbing, but she replied that, to her knowledge, he hadn’t.

  I took the knife back with us to Homicide, along with the tapes. We split the videotapes up between us and began watching. The one I got showed some traditional arts in Kyoto, in particular the production of Nishijin textiles: endless footage of craftsmen weaving, their ancient techniques, and snippets of their daily lives. Occasionally a hushed voice would whisper commentary over the image—a voice I assumed to be that of the late Kunihiko Hidaka himself. Roughly 80 percent of my hour-long tape contained footage. The remainder was blank.

  When I compared notes with the other detectives, I learned that all the other tapes were pretty much the same thing. Nothing was in them other than research footage for Hidaka’s writing. Just to be sure, we traded tapes and looked through each other’s on fast-forward, but our impressions remained the same.

  I had assumed that Osamu Nonoguchi wanted the videotapes from Kunihiko Hidaka because something on them was of particular importance, something he didn’t want us to see. Yet nothing on the seven tapes seemed to link them to Nonoguchi at all.

  A dark mood spread through the office: we had missed our mark. That was when word came from forensics that they had finished examining the knife.

  They reported, “Slight wear was found on the blade, showing it had been used at least a couple of times. No traces of anything resembling blood were found. There were several fingerprints found on the handle, which we have identified as belonging to Osamu Nonoguchi.”

  This was something. Why would Kunihiko Hidaka have a knife bearing Osamu Nonoguchi’s fingerprints tucked away like some valuable treasure? And why did he keep this a secret from his wife, Rie? A possible scenario occurred to me at once, but it was so outlandish, I hesitated to voice it without further evidence.

  I thought about asking Nonoguchi about the knife, but I rejected that summarily. Without anyone’s actually saying it aloud, we all thought this knife would be the trump card we needed to finally break him—we just had to be careful about how we played it.

  * * *

  The next day, we got another call from Rie Hidaka. She’d found another tape. We quickly went over to retrieve it.

  “Take a look at this.” She held a book out to me—a paperback copy of Sea Ghost, the same book she’d given me before.

  I gave her a curious look.

  “Open the cover.”

  I lifted the edge of the cover. Detective Makimura gasped. The inside of the book was hollowed out, creating a compartment in which a videotape was concealed. It was like something from an old spy novel.

  “This book was packed in a different box from the other books, which I thought was curious. So I took a closer look at it,” Rie Hidaka told us.

  I asked if she had a video player at the house. When she said yes, I decided to watch it there. Taking it back to the office felt like a waste of time.

  The first thing that appeared on the screen was a familiar-looking garden and window. It was the Hidakas’ backyard. The video had been taken at night, and it was dark, except for the bright square of the window in the middle.

  In the corner of the screen, numbers showed the date and time the video had been taken. It was December, seven years ago.

  I leaned forward with anticipation. But the camera only showed the same garden and window. Nothing happened. No one walked into the frame.

  “Shall I fast-forward it a bit?” Detective Makimura asked.

  Then a lone figure appeared on-screen.

  5

  CONFESSION

  OSAMU NONOGUCHI’S ACCOUNT

  For several days I’d had the feeling that the next time Detective Kaga paid a visit to my hospital bed, he’d bring with him all the answers he’d been looking for. Based on what I’d seen of his work so far, it seemed likely: he was precise, thorough, and startlingly fast. Whenever I closed my eyes, I could hear his footsteps’ swift approach. When he found out about Hatsumi, I resigned myself—at least partially—to what was to come. His eyes were far keener than I’d expected. I’m hardly qualified to pass judgment on others, but I think he made the right decision by getting out of teaching.

  When next he did come, Kaga was bearing two pieces of evidence. One was a knife, the other, a videotape. To my surprise, the tape was inside a hollowed-out copy of Sea Ghost. How like Hidaka’s sense of humor, I thought. Though one could also interpret it as a tactical move. Had it been a
ny other book, even Detective Kaga might not have arrived at the truth so quickly.

  “Please explain what we found on this tape. If you’d like to look at it, I’m sure the hospital has a player we can borrow.”

  That was all he needed to say to get the full story out of me because nothing less than the truth would explain the scene captured on that tape.

  Yes, I still offered some resistance—refusing to answer, even though I knew it was in vain and wouldn’t put him off. When he saw me clam up, Detective Kaga wasted no time and began relating his own theory. Clearly he’d expected this to happen, and with the exception of a few details, he nailed it.

  By way of an epilogue he added, “All I’ve said is pure conjecture at this point. However we feel this is enough to construct a viable motive for your crime. You told me that we were free to create our own motive? Well, I think this will do nicely.”

  It was true. If the only other option was confessing the real reason I killed Kunihiko Hidaka, I’d have been perfectly willing to let them make up something. Of course, I’d never dreamed that the story Detective Kaga would “make up” would be the truth.

  “It looks like I’ve lost,” I said after a few moments of stunned silence. I spoke calmly, in an attempt to mask my bewilderment. In this, too, I failed.

  “Will you talk?” he asked.

  “If I don’t, you’ll submit what you just told me to the court?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll talk. Since the cat’s out of the bag anyway, I’d feel better if all the details were correct.”

  “Did I get some of it wrong?”

  “Hardly anything. It’s quite impressive. Still, there are a few details that should be included. It’s a matter of honor.”

  “Your honor?”

  I shook my head. “Hatsumi Hidaka’s honor.”

  Detective Kaga nodded. He instructed the detective with him to take notes.

  “Hold on a moment,” I said. “Do we absolutely have to do it this way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just … it’s a long story, and there are parts of it I’d like to get straight in my head. I wouldn’t want things to get jumbled in the telling and detract from the story.”