Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 17

12 July – Clear

A small accident happened today; my mood is complicated.

While at the cinema this afternoon my date suddenly tried to kiss me. It was disgusting.

13 July – Cloudy

Shopping and window-shopping—walking around can be nice once in a while.

14 July – Clear

The back of my ankle is raw from the high heels. I have to apply ointment again. Feet are so much more delicate than hands; if you don't take care of them they develop calluses.

15 July – Rain

Stuck inside all day because of the rain—boring.

The empty classroom held only the two of them, each in their own seat.

Minamoto Tamako's eyes widened as she read the diary page from top to bottom, finding nothing that hinted at a crime.

Fushimi Shika pushed open the window and let the late-spring wind rush in, flipping the pages on the desk with a flutter.

Right now he could kill for a cigarette—an old habit from his previous life.

The night before, he had returned to the parade ground and found Kawai tied to the flagpole, soaked from head to toe like a drenched puppy.

He walked up and exchanged a few words with her.

Kawai warned him that Instructor Sakurai was watching from somewhere nearby, using her as bait to reel in any accomplice.

Fushimi shrugged; he was already on the radar anyway—more fleas, less itch; more debts, less worry.

Sakurai almost certainly wouldn't expel him. It didn't take a genius to figure she'd pocket the leverage and twist it until he broke.

Under cover of darkness, Kawai had motioned for him to take the diary page she'd hidden inside her underwear.

Water-stained but still legible once it dried, the sheet confirmed his hunch: the next morning Academic Affairs never called him in. Sakurai buried the incident and merely expelled Kawai.

Tamako lowered the diary, bewildered. "So... what does this tell us?"

Fushimi—toying with the idea that "the mist is wiser than the clear"—turned to answer.

"Nothing. Even if you stretch it into a theory that she committed a crime that day, it wouldn't hold up in front of a judge."

"Then... then Kawai was sacrificed for nothing?"

Tamako drooped, on the verge of tears again.

Fushimi suddenly asked, "Why do you think Kawai tore out this exact page?"

"You mean... there's hidden value here, and we just haven't spotted it?" Tamako bent over the sheet, scanning every line, terrified of missing a clue.

"I already told you," Fushimi said. "Even if we reason out a crime, we can't submit it as evidence. The case is basically unsolvable."

He paused. "Still, the page does contain another kind of clue."

He had a hunch, but he needed confirmation.

"What? I still don't see it!" Tamako pressed the diary so close to her face it almost touched her nose.

She studied it sideways, upside down—nothing.

When she opened her mouth to ask, she found Fushimi gone.

She dashed into the corridor and caught sight of his back just as he reached the stairs.

"Hey! You can't just walk off without a word!"

She tucked the diary away and trotted after him.

Without looking back, Fushimi said, "I'm going to check something..."

"I'm coming too!" Tamako cut in.

"You won't understand—ah, whatever, tag along if you like."

Her cheeks puffed; she looked ready to explode, so he relented.

"Yosh!"

Tamako pumped both fists.

Come on, Tamako! You carry Kawai's hopes, the victim's ghost, and the mission of justice on your shoulders—can't give up now! Double the effort!

Re-energized, she peppered Fushimi with questions about the hidden meaning.

"I'm not being mysterious on purpose," he replied, turning cryptic. "You'll have to dig it out yourself. I can't help."

"That's unfair! Aren't we partners? Tell me—"

He ignored her, quickened his pace, and crossed the side courtyard.

The sky had turned iron-gray, the campus dim and muggy. A pre-summer downpour loomed.

Inside the teaching building, Fushimi located the ever-overlooked Ishizuka Kazuo, eating his homemade bento alone in the office.

"Sorry to intrude." Fushimi dragged a chair and sat squarely opposite him. "May I borrow five minutes?"

"Er... could you wait until I finish eating—"

Fushimi cut in. "How did your daughter die?"

"Er, I already said—hit-and-run—"

"Did you see it happen?"

Ishizuka hesitated a second. "I did."

"Are you certain it was Instructor Sakurai behind the wheel?"

"Yes."

"Describe the scene," Fushimi said, eyes locked on the man, thumbs slowly circling.

Tamako winced—making a father relive his child's death seemed cruel—but for truth, for the victim, the sacrifice had to be made.

She set her jaw, pulled out a notepad and ballpoint, and prepared to transcribe every word.

"My daughter and I were walking along the curb, about to cross. The light was green.

I was carrying groceries, so I wasn't holding her hand. I was in a hurry; I didn't notice she'd lagged a few steps behind.

A red sedan shot out of nowhere and knocked her down. Blood splattered across the crosswalk. My mind went blank.

Before I could react, the car reversed and ran over her again and again—only speeding off once she stopped moving.

I was too shocked to think, eyes glued to my daughter's body. I never caught the license plate. The police asked later; I had nothing.

I only saw the driver's face—she rolled the window down, glanced at my daughter's corpse—but memory alone wasn't enough to identify the suspect.

You know the rest."

Ishizuka spoke evenly, stirring natto into his rice as he went.

Tamako's pen flew, her chest burning. This wasn't a hit-and-run; it was deliberate murder—repeated crushing to dodge liability. Unforgivable.

"Last question," Fushimi said, thumbs still. "How did you handle your daughter's body?"

Ishizuka's chopsticks froze. He adjusted his glasses, reassessing the cadet.

"Sent her to the temple," he said. "Buried her there."