Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 26

Fushimi Shika's clothes and trousers were bone-dry—proof he'd never left the chapel and therefore couldn't have smuggled the pistol out for someone else to plant prints on.

The gun itself couldn't have been swapped. Forensics had compared everything—caliber, firing-pin marks, gunshot-residue patterns—and confirmed it was the weapon that killed Sakurai Chizuru.

Fingerprints don't appear out of thin air.

If a fourth person had been inside the church, how did that person get out? Only Kawai's footprints were under the second-floor window, and the lobby downstairs carried only the bloody tracks of the three known occupants. Could the killer fly?

Kazama Takusai exhaled. Since hitting middle age his mind had turned cloudy; every thought felt wrapped in gauze.

He glanced at his watch, set down his coffee, and tucked the crime-scene report under his arm.

"Boss, where you off to?" Watanabe Shun slurped instant noodles.

"To pick someone up."

"You're really bringing her? That's against regs."

Kazama paused at the office doorway, sweeping the room. "Which regs? Should I hand over the Section Chief badge to you?"

"Seriously?" Watanabe's eyes lit up. "I didn't know you rated me that hi—"

"Vacation's canceled for the rest of the month."

"Eh? Wait—why?"

After Kazama left, Watanabe stood there bewildered. "What did I say wrong this time?"

Past midnight the rain finally stopped.

In the back seat Minamoto Tamako pored over the scene report.

"You know the rules," Kazama reminded her. "Case details stay confidential." He glanced in the mirror. "Any thoughts on the prints?"

"It means a fourth person was present," Tamako said, exhaling in relief. "An unknown shooter killed Instructor Sakurai. Thank goodness—it wasn't Fushimi."

"What if the prints were faked?"

"How?"

"Exploring possibilities." Kazama's gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror.

"Hmm." Tamako tapped her lip. "Sakurai's suitcase had coils but no needle—doesn't that strike you? The killer could have dipped a needle in sweat and drawn the prints right onto the grip."

She dismissed her own idea almost instantly.

"But it's only theoretically possible. First, the precision required—grip angle, pressure, ridge spacing. Second, sweat is invisible. Painting with transparent ink on a transparent canvas? Like a micro-sculptor working blindfolded."

She summed up: "A fourth person is far likelier than forged prints."

Kazama offered no comment.

He realized he might be chasing shadows. Even if the prints were fabricated, he had no way to prove it.

The sedan lurched to a stop; Tamako nearly cracked her head on the front seat.

Kazama's face had gone grim. "Sorry—tonight you stay at the academy."

"What? I can help!" She leaned forward. "Give me a chance. I want the killer caught."

"Temporary change in plans."

Kazama swung the wheel around and drove her back to campus.

"Transfer line 104," he barked into the dashboard radio. "Bring the suspect in—now."

"Sir? The doctor said observation—"

"Now."

An hour later Fushimi Shika was escorted into an interrogation room. The overhead lamp blazed white, cold. He yawned, aching everywhere—head pounding, fingers throbbing.

"So much for basic human rights. No wonder citizens call detectives leeches on taxpayers' money..."

His silent grumble was cut short by commotion outside the one-way glass.

Kazama had decided to conduct the interrogation himself—first time in three years. Officers pressed against the glass like kids at an aquarium, whispering bets.

"Too skinny—he'll fold fast."

"I've got 500 yen on five minutes."

"Five? Make it ten."

The press had the case splashed across headlines and the Commissioner demanded a solve within three days. Kazama's midnight arrest had lifted spirits; everyone wanted to watch the show.

Kazama arranged the evidence, glanced at his watch. "Don't let him sleep. Wake me at eight."

He slipped on an eye mask and reclined on the couch.

Fushimi steeled himself for questioning—but no one came. Each time his eyelids drooped a loudspeaker barked, "Stay awake!"

After a dozen rounds he seethed.

No clock, no daylight—time dissolved. Counting heartbeats, he guessed six hours dragged by before the door finally opened.

Kazama strode in fresh from a splash of water, signaled for the camera to be shut off, and sat like a warlord across the table.

"Last chance—confess or dig in."

"I'm innocent," Fushimi said, yawning.

"I won't use force." Kazama slid a sheet across. "Gunshot-residue report. Positive on you."

As Fushimi opened his mouth, Kazama cut him off. "Too late. Your method was clever—drawing prints with a needle dipped in sweat—but the needle carries your DNA."

He produced a sealed evidence bag: a slender hypodermic. "Intentional homicide plus assault on an officer. How many years do you think?"

Fushimi lowered his head onto the table, cheek against the cool metal. Eyes half-closed, he spoke in a muffled voice.

"Need a reminder? That afternoon we had firearms practical. Of course I had residue. Planning to convict me on that?"

"And that needle? Prove I used it. Prove the prints are fake. You're shaking the very foundations of forensic science. One speech, and every fingerprint conviction in the country becomes questionable."

Kazama thought: as stubborn as predicted.

Yet once inside this room, even the craftiest suspect hits a wall. If words failed, other methods remained.

"Continue holding him—ten more hours, no sleep." Kazama adjusted his tie.

Fushimi laughed softly. "Sorry, you've already lost."

Kazama frowned. "Quit the theatrics—"

"Boss!" Watanabe burst through the door, face ashen. "Come see—quick!"

"Planning to donate this month's salary?" Kazama growled.

"It's huge!" Watanabe thrust a newspaper forward. "The killer just turned himself in!"