Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 12

Fushimi Shika laid out the information he had gathered, then explained, "The statute of limitations for homicide is fifteen years. Ishizuka Kazuo's daughter died sixteen years ago—almost to the day. Odds are he's after revenge, which is why he mailed that anonymous letter to Instructor Sakurai."

He unfolded the crumpled slips one by one. Scrawled on each: "Tortured to death," "Erotic asphyxiation," "Group assault..."

"It all happened sixteen years ago. Who the hell knows how the girl really died? We'll just have to bluff and hope we get lucky."

"B-bluff about what?" Tamako's voice cracked. She still had no idea how Fushimi could rattle off so many gruesome possibilities.

"To coax the truth out of Ishizuka, of course." He crumpled the slips back into a ball and lobbed it into the recycling bin. "If we scare him into talking, great."

Tamako collected herself. "But it's all guesswork! We don't have a shred of proof that Instructor Sakurai killed his daughter."

"If we had proof, the cops would already be on it. That twisted stalker would be eating prison chow by now."

Fushimi thought of the lunchtime fiasco and scowled. "Listen. Interrogation doesn't wait for evidence. If we decide you're guilty, you're guilty—no evidence, no justification required. When push comes to shove, you can always fabricate a little pressure."

"Isn't forging evidence illegal?"

"Not if you never hand it to the prosecutors."

"Why?"

"Why, why, why. Do you want to follow every rule in the book, or do you want the truth? Once you're a detective, you'll juggle a couple hundred cases a year. Follow protocol to the letter and you'd need to split yourself in half just to keep up."

"Oh—so you think I can actually become a detective?" Tamako brightened, clearly flattered.

Fushimi rolled his eyes. At barely one-sixty, she'd flunk the physical even if she aced the written. He'd long suspected she bribed her way into the academy...

"Cough—doesn't matter." He glanced at his watch. "It's getting late. We've got a narrow window for our little chat. Let's move."

Tamako stood. She wanted to suggest bringing a sympathy gift—wasn't it rude to face a victim's family empty-handed?—but swallowed the words, afraid Fushimi would mock her. Chin high, she followed him out, silently chanting, You can do this, Tamako! Victim interviews are part of the syllabus. Do not wimp out!

Dusk settled; the offices fell silent.

Once again, Ishizuka Kazuo had been ignored by his co-workers.

Custom dictated the last one out lock the door. While Ishizuka was still inside, two colleagues chatted their way out and clicked the bolt shut.

By the time he realized, it was too late—he was trapped.

It wasn't bullying; they simply hadn't noticed. Ishizuka never complained anyway. He'd simply borrowed the master key from administration and had a copy cut. Problem solved.

He finished copying the last memo and was ready to leave when knuckles rapped on the door.

"Excuse me, is Mr. Ishizuka here?"

Surprised, he opened the door to find a handsome young man.

After the usual pleasantries, the visitor introduced himself as Fushimi Shika, a police-academy cadet, and asked a favor: could Ishizuka transcribe a letter for him?

Ishizuka hesitated—he hated refusing—then agreed. Only when Fushimi stepped inside did Ishizuka notice the girl hovering behind him, timid yet with eyes sharp enough to slice bone.

"Have a seat." Ishizuka settled at his desk. "Do you have the letter?"

"I do."

Fushimi produced a sheet of stationery and unfolded it on the blotter.

Ishizuka's face drained of color.

The wording was identical to the anonymous letter Instructor Sakurai had received—only the handwriting and black ink were different.

"I'd like you to copy this out," Fushimi said. "Don't worry, it's just a prank. Try to make it look scary."

"Er..." Ishizuka swallowed. "All right."

He lifted his pen.

"With your left hand," Fushimi added.

"What?"

"Left hand," Fushimi repeated, smiling thinly. "And use this red ink."

Ishizuka stared at the scarlet bottle, then set the fountain pen aside with a heavy sigh.

"So you've figured it out," he said.

"We know everything: how your daughter died and what you're planning next." Fushimi spun the lie without blinking. "Relax—we're not here to turn you in. We admire your revenge plan and want to help."

Tamako's eyes bulged. She whipped toward Fushimi, aghast. Wasn't the script supposed to be "Trust the police; we'll get justice," followed by tears of gratitude? "We're not turning you in" sounded dangerously like accessory-after-the-fact.

"If you've really looked into it," Ishizuka said slowly, "you know how my daughter died?"

"Hit-and-run," Fushimi replied, glancing at the man's thinning hair. "Instructor Sakurai ran her over. You've never forgiven her."

Ishizuka's expression twisted. He nodded. "That's... true. But I don't have any grand revenge scheme. I'm just furious. I wanted to scare her, that's all."

Tamako clenched her fists, thrilled. I knew it! I'm a genius! No revenge plan? Lies, obviously.

"Please, the truth," Fushimi leaned in, eyes boring into Ishizuka's.

The older man looked away. "Fine. I intend to steal Sakurai Chizuru's diary. She writes everything—ugly secrets included..."

"And then?"

"I'll copy out a page every day and pin it to the academy bulletin board. Turn her into a laughingstock." Ishizuka exhaled. "That's it."