NOVEL NEXT Ch. 25
Chapter 25
"I don't know what you're talking about," Fushimi said, perfectly calm.
"I'm not like other detectives," Kazama told him. "I'm no good at finding evidence. What I'm good at is making it."
He took off his glasses; his single eye glittered like a hawk's. "That's why my clearance rate is one hundred percent. Do you understand what that means?"
He leaned in until his shadow fell across Fushimi, tapped one finger against the cadet's chest. "Option one—I drag you in. You go down for two murders, get locked up for life. Option two—you confess to one. I write it up nicely, the judge shows leniency, and you do soft time."
It was Kazama Takusai's signature move: after walking the scene, pick one or two likely suspects, corner them alone, and scare a confession out of them.
Japanese law has a quirk: a suspect's signed statement can go to court as proof. Even if the hard evidence is thin, once the accused says "I did it," prosecutors stop looking.
Kazama had used the trick for years. Sharp instinct, sharper timing—he could spot the guilty one almost at a glance. Misreads were rare.
Most perps cracked within ten minutes; those who held out still twitched, sweated, blinked too much.
Kazama started his mental countdown, studying Fushimi, guessing how long the kid would last.
A moment later Fushimi lifted both hands, wrists up.
"Be my guest," he said, smiling.
The ward was silent except for the slow drip of the IV.
"Ready to talk?" Kazama asked.
"Why would I admit to something I didn't do?"
Kazama exhaled through his nose and straightened. "Where were you when it happened?"
"In the auditorium."
"What went down?"
"Don't remember."
"You don't remember?"
"Nope. Don't remember." Fushimi sounded almost cheerful.
"Planning to claim post-concussion amnesia, are we?" Kazama's voice turned razor-thin.
"Could be," Fushimi said. "By the way, I'd like a lawyer."
"Finally showing a guilty conscience?" Kazama raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not hiring counsel to defend me," Fushimi replied. "I'm hiring one to sue you."
He folded his hands over his blanket. "Threatening a suspect violates Article 319 of the Code of Criminal Procedure. Bragging about planting evidence adds attempted coercion and abuse of authority under the Penal Code. If I win, you're looking at one to three years in prison or detention."
He reached out and tapped Kazama's chest in return.
Kazama's face twisted with distaste.
Silence stretched. The detective's lone eye seemed to bore straight through Fushimi's skull, hunting for truth.
"You remind me of someone I hate," he muttered.
"Is he as handsome as me?" Fushimi asked.
"Equally vain."
Kazama stood, slid an ink card across the bedside table. "Enjoy your sick leave. For the next twenty days you won't be this relaxed when we chat."
Fushimi knew exactly what that meant: police could detain a suspect for up to twenty days before deciding to indict or release.
To pad their stats, some detectives used "soft" torture—bright lights, no sleep, no food, no water. Kazama had already decided Fushimi was guilty; sooner or later he'd make him talk.
Yes, that was how Japanese detectives worked in the nineties.
Kazama left orders: no visitors, watch the suspect, keep him from harming himself or running.
Minamoto Tamako trailed him down the corridor, pelting him with questions. He ignored her until they reached the elevators.
"Go home and change," he said.
"But—"
"One a.m. sharp. I'll pick you up at the main gate. Consider it your first field assignment."
Tamako beamed, thanked him three times.
Scary on the outside, soft on the inside—what a nice uncle!
Watanabe Shun waited until her footsteps faded around the corner. "Boss, so you like the energetic type? No wonder you never show up for mixers."
"I have a daughter," Kazama cut in.
"Seriously? First I've heard of it!"
"She reminds me of my kid. I don't want her getting lost." He slipped on dark glasses. "And she's that lady's daughter. Tease me all you want, but if anyone else hears it, you'll be looking for a new job."
"Which lady?"
"Police Superintendent Minamoto. Our boss's boss."
"Then why not say her name?"
Because Kazama couldn't remember it; he'd only glimpsed a mother-daughter photo on her desk.
"Curiosity killed the cat," he said.
Watanabe snapped to attention. Classic Kazama—always airtight.
Back at the station Kazama submitted Fushimi's prints. Thirty minutes later Forensics dropped the report on his desk. He poured coffee and flipped through pages.
His finger froze. He waved over a technician. "You're sure about this?"
The man pushed up his glasses. "Absolutely. Basic lift—no mistakes."
"Then explain why none of the prints match—not the two victims, not the suspect."
"Correct."
"Could they be fakes?"
"No. Fabricated prints leave glue residue."
"So whose prints are on the gun?" Kazama asked.
"Not my department," the tech shrugged. "Finding suspects is your job."
Kazama rubbed his temples. Had he misread the kid?
No—couldn't be.
The perp had used the victims' phone to call the press; reporters arrived before the police.
The word "Heavenly Punishment" had been scrawled in blood—proof of cool nerves and antisocial flair, just like the boy in the ward. Psychopaths weren't daikon radishes; two in one case was impossible.
Two dead, one suspect, three lunatics—and now a fourth set of prints on the gun.
What the hell was going on?
Kazama pinched the bridge of his nose and sank into thought.