Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 22

Five hours later.

Strobing red and blue lights cut through the curtain of rain. Sirens wailed as a black sedan swept into the driveway, its high beams washing over the gates of the Hokkaido Police Academy.

Reporters huddled beside the movable barrier, raincoats flapping, cameras wrapped in plastic. They surged forward, shouting, trying to shove past the instructors holding them back.

The driver lowered the window and barked at them to clear the road. Instead, the crowd swarmed. Four or five pressed against the glass, firing questions in rapid succession.

"Is it true there was a shooting inside the academy?"

"Is this retaliation by a crime syndicate against the police?"

"How many fatalities? Has the investigation already begun?"

The first to force her way in was a woman in her twenties, wire-rim glasses fogged, press badge wedged between an eye-catching décolletage that pinned the driver's gaze for a full four seconds.

His eyes dropped to the badge: "Intern Reporter — Yazaki Momo."

"Miss Yazaki, please step back. You're obstructing official police business—"

She cut him off. "So you're detectives from Investigation Section One? Did you just get the call? Mind giving a quick statement?"

Times were tough; jobs were scarce. Yazaki Momo couldn't care less about obstruction. If she didn't land an exclusive this month, she'd be out on the street.

"Get lost!" The driver leaned on the horn, his pompadour bouncing with every blast. "I'll arrest the lot of you for obstruction!"

Momo simply shoved her microphone closer while using her free elbow to cram another reporter farther into the car.

A sharp metallic click from the back seat froze her.

She turned—and saw the middle-aged man who'd been sitting there all along.

Silver hair slicked into an American pompadour, deep laugh lines, brown translucent shades. Behind the lenses, his left eye was a milky white—blind.

Another click. Momo's gaze snapped to the pistol in his gloved hand.

"Eh?" she whispered.

The man lowered the rear window, raised the gun, and fired three warning shots into the sky. The thunderous cracks sent reporters scattering like startled birds.

He motioned the driver forward. The driver hesitated. "Sir, there are still people—"

"I said drive. I'll take responsibility if anyone gets hit."

The driver bit his lip, floored the accelerator, and the sedan lurched. Reporters scrambled clear; Momo slipped and landed on her backside, face flushed crimson.

"That's police brutality! I'll file a complaint!" she shouted after the taillights.

Her words reached the driver; he glanced at the rear-view mirror and muttered, "Boss, the chief said one more complaint this month and he'll transfer you to a koban..."

Kazama didn't answer. Through the narrow mirror, their eyes met. The driver felt a chill, lightly slapped his own cheek, and muttered, "My tongue itches—must be the rain talking... Sure is coming down."

Rain sluiced down the glass, warping the world beyond.

Four minutes later the sedan halted in front of the auditorium. Yellow tape fluttered in the wind. Forensics officers in rain slickers were already photographing every footprint.

The driver leapt out first, umbrella at the ready. "Sir, we're here—"

"Use respectful language in public," Kazama reminded him.

Gray suit immaculate despite the weather, he stepped onto the pavement.

"Yes, Section Chief Kazama!" The driver snapped a crisp salute.

The forensics team looked up at the name, offering respectful nods.

"Is that him? The ace with the highest clearance rate—and the highest complaint rate..."

"That's Kazama Takusai himself. Section Chief of Investigation One. Didn't expect him to come in person..."

"Keep it down; don't use his name..."

Kazama was used to the whispers. He lifted his gaze to the auditorium, then turned aside to survey the outer grounds instead of heading straight in.

The driver kept the umbrella aloft, his arm going numb. Is the boss posing for effect? he wondered.

"This way."

Kazama circled toward the rear of the building. A quarrel reached them over the rain. He glanced up at a second-floor window, then at the two figures below.

A petite girl, soaked to the bone, pleaded, "Please, just let me look—just one look. I won't disturb anything!"

"No means no. This isn't a playground." The officer on guard snapped to attention when he spotted Kazama. "Section Chief, sir!"

The driver stepped forward, tongue-clicking. "Hey, hey! Do we have to teach crowd control basics? Clear the civilians!"

"My apologies, sir! I'll escort her out immediately—"

Kazama took the umbrella from the driver and walked over, shielding the girl from the rain. "Carry on. Patrol elsewhere."

"Yes, sir!" The officer vanished.

The driver hovered, trying to duck under the umbrella. One glare from Kazama and he resigned himself to the downpour.

"You're from the academy?" Kazama asked.

"...Yes," the girl murmured.

"Name?"

"Minamoto Tamako."

"Relation to the victims?"

"One was my instructor. The other... my best friend."

"Why the back of the hall? The only authorized entrance is at the front."

"The north wall meets the school fence. An outsider jumping in would use the window and staircase inside, not risk a drop from the wall. I thought there might be evidence up there..."

Kazama's brows lifted; only now did he study her properly.

Her eyes were swollen—she'd been crying. Tears mixed with rain on her cheeks.

"Want to take a look together?" he asked.

"May I?" Tamako bowed deeply. "Thank you so much!"

They returned to the front entrance. Kazama kept a polite distance, yet tilted the umbrella so far that his own shoulder was drenched.

The heavy doors groaned open; the metallic stench of blood rolled out.

Tamako's eyes widened; she took an involuntary step back.

Center stage, beneath the solemn police crest, two women sat slumped against the wall. Above them, two crimson characters blazed:

"Heavenly Punishment."