Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 24

Fushimi Shika stood in the hospital corridor and watched the doctor hand his mother a consent form.

"Your son's legs are necrotic; amputation is the only option."

He looked down and found himself in a wheelchair, pant legs flapping empty.

Right... Dad and I were hit by a car.

His mother signed through her tears, dropped the pen, and fell to her knees in front of him, burying her face against his chest and whispering "I'm sorry" over and over.

He tried to comfort her, but the moment he reached out, the scene snapped like a film cut.

Now he wore a suit, standing in a courtroom facing his haggard mother and the boy in the wheelchair.

Oh. I remember. I'm the defense attorney for the driver who hit us...

Shika skimmed the file and spoke smoothly to the judge:

"The plaintiff's account contains numerous inaccuracies. My client respectfully contests the charges."

"The deceased had a history of cardiac calcification and multiple resuscitations for heart attacks. Forensics confirms minimal external bleeding. In other words, the victim likely collapsed from a heart attack. My client swerved to avoid him and accidentally ran over the family's legs."

"Under Japanese law, negligent damage to a corpse is not a criminal offense."

What the hell am I saying?

The woman was reading a novel while driving—she plowed straight into them.

Out of the corner of his eye Shika saw the defendant thumbing her phone under the table, texting a friend about her rotten luck and coaxing her rich parents into paying the legal fees.

"That's not true!" the boy screamed. "Dad was still alive!"

"Objection overruled!"

His mouth kept moving, as if someone else controlled it. "I must point out the plaintiff took out a sizeable life-insurance policy. Had the death been ruled cardiac, the insurer would refuse payment. The witness stands to gain, suggesting premeditated fraud—"

Stop.

Just stop.

He seized a fountain pen and drove it through both cheeks. Yet his tongue kept wagging, his voice crystal clear.

Goddamn it. Reality was worse. Rich high-school girl kills a man, walks free, heads to university abroad, laughs at the female judge.

The defendant's face morphed into Sakurai Chizuru's. She lifted her phone, filming his humiliation.

The judge raised the gavel and slammed it down like a boulder on his heart.

—Crack!

Shika jerked awake.

He gasped, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. The heart monitor beeped steadily; an IV bag hung beside the bed. He wore a hospital gown.

Right. After staging the scene I bashed my head on the desk—too hard.

He turned his head. A middle-aged detective dozed in the chair beside him, probably on guard duty.

A sharp sting bit his fingertip. Clenching his teeth, Shika eased a four-centimeter needle from the slit beneath his left index-fingernail.

"Hiss..."

Cold sweat dotted his forehead; his face contorted.

The needle came from Sakurai Chizuru's "Miao Miao Toolbox," probably meant for piercings or tattoos. He'd planted it as the decisive clue and now had to dispose of it.

Before mutilating himself he'd figured he might pass out, so he'd hidden the needle under the nail.

Once it was free, he licked the blood off, then pinched the nail to stop the bleeding.

"Mm..."

The detective stirred.

Shika's heart leapt. The man merely shifted, arms crossed, head drooping, mumbling in his sleep, "Honami, not here... it's embarrassing..."

Relieved, Shika eased upright, careful not to rattle the bed. The detective still snored. He leaned over and quietly pried open the small medical-waste bin.

Within seconds he produced a syringe, detached the barrel, and slid the needle inside. To the untrained eye it looked like any other used needle.

If you can't hide a tree, plant it in a forest.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked behind him.

Of course. Wake up now, why don't you...

He dropped the syringe, feigned nausea, and retched. "Gonna be sick—ugh." He bent over the bin, dry-heaving.

The detective rounded the bed. "You hiding something, punk?"

"What do you mean?" Shika widened his eyes.

Ignoring him, the detective rolled a newspaper into a makeshift poker and stirred the bin. After a minute of poking he found nothing and grunted.

"Behave. No tricks." He sat back down, thumbed his pager, and typed a message to his boss.

These days detectives were the biggest yakuza in Japan—all pompadours and gruff "kora-kora," rougher than the gangs. They certainly didn't coddle suspects.

Shika lay back, eyes closed, replaying every step of his staging.

Nothing left behind. And even if there were, it wouldn't matter.

Footsteps clattered outside; four people entered.

The detective glanced up, straightened. "Sir! I was just paging you..."

Shika opened his eyes. A white curtain slid aside. The attending physician led the way, followed by two grim-faced men—more detectives.

Minamoto Tamako's small head popped up. She knelt beside the bed, hands on the rail, eyes worried. "You're awake! How do you feel? Anything hurt?"

"Just a headache," Shika managed.

The doctor flipped through the chart. "Mild concussion. Observation for a day or two and you'll be fine."

Tamako exhaled, questions crowding her tongue—what had happened, had he seen the killer, why had Kawai returned to campus...

Before she could speak, Kazama Takusai said, "Everyone, clear the room for questioning."

Driver Watanabe sprang to obey, hauling Tamako up by the collar and herding the other detective out.

"Boss, area secured," he chirped, notebook ready.

"You too," Kazama said.

"Uh—sure." Watanabe Shun slunk out.

The door clicked shut. Kazama pulled a chair to the bedside and met Shika's eyes.

"Confess now and you still have a chance."

He sat. "You killed him, didn't you?"