Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 27

Hokkaido Police Academy rocked by lurid scandal: "Pervert Instructor Murder Case—Full Story!"

Local tabloid Morning Read splashed the exposé across its front page, rolling the presses overnight so the paper hit the streets before the killer turned himself in. Hour by hour the uproar doubled, tripled, then detonated across every screen and tongue in Sapporo.

The headline alone was click-bait gold; salarymen snatched copies from kiosks like free tissues. One-hundred yen for a melon-sized helping of schadenfreude—hard to beat.

Open the paper and the story tasted even sweeter than a Yubari melon: revenge, domination, a lady cop, a cadet, the killer's tear-stained confession—an all-you-can-eat buffet of high and low culture. Critics were already calling it the drama of the year.

At dawn, the Criminal Affairs Chief had barely flushed the first bowel movement of the day when reporters cornered him outside the stall. They swarmed like hornets after the hottest buzz, police station or no.

Word spread fast: rookie reporter Yazaki Momo had single-handedly resurrected a dying paper with this scoop. Two hours in, seventy thousand copies sold out. Whoever wrote that article was born for the newsroom.

For a local tabloid, speed is life. First to print wins.

The chief grabbed a few ringleaders and declared the story pure fabrication; the investigation was still ongoing... He hadn't even finished when fate slapped him across the face.

The killer walked in and surrendered.

The chief's complexion cycled from green to purple. He could already see tomorrow's headlines: "Useless Keystone Cops," "Reporters Beat Police to the Punch," "Time for a Public Apology."

He sent an aide to buy a copy so he could tear the article apart line by line.

One glance and his stomach sank—the report was more detailed than the official file. A mole inside HQ? A moonlighting officer? Was tabloid money really that good?

"Put me through to Criminal on the second floor."

The chief lifted the landline, face grim, and asked Section Chief Kazama Takusai for an update. Kazama claimed he'd narrowed the suspect list and insisted the confessor was a scapegoat.

The chief's color improved—slightly. "Any hard evidence?"

Kazama: "No."

The chief's face went scarlet again, but a superintendent must remain stoic. He brewed a cup of tea, swallowed his temper, and pressed on. "On what basis, then, did you pick your suspect?"

Kazama laid out his reasoning.

"Forged fingerprints with a syringe needle? That's the story you bring me? Fine—show me the needle."

"Still looking," Kazama admitted.

The needle he'd shown Fushimi Shika in the interrogation room had come from a corner drugstore.

The chief's blood pressure spiked; a high-pitched whine rang in his ears. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he ordered, "Release him. No evidence, no detention."

Contain the fallout. God forbid tomorrow's headline reads "Police Torture Innocent Cadet."

Kazama said nothing until the chief barked for an answer. Then, quietly: "Yes, sir."

Japanese law allows three types of detention—flagrante delicto, emergency, and warrant-based—capped at seventy-two hours total. Fushimi fit none of them. Kazama's move had been illegal.

"Boss, what do we do?" Officer Watanabe Shun asked. "Let him go?"

Kazama hung up, newspaper clenched in one fist, eyes skimming.

"Sakurai Chizuru, hit-and-run thirteen years ago, ran over the victim twice..."

"Victim's family hunted her for years, destiny reunited them at the academy..."

"Former killer becomes instructor, still tormenting cadets..."

"Nagano Kawai urged Sakurai to confess; instructor silenced her..."

"Ishizuka Kazuo, kindred spirit, armed himself to avenge Nagano..."

"Incompetent police arrest only survivor; illegal detention..."

"Ishizuka couldn't bear an innocent taking the fall, surrendered..."

"Good Samaritan's tragic end moves nation to tears..."

So the killer turned himself in because the cops grabbed the wrong man?

What does "couldn't bear police oppression of the innocent" even mean?

And that line—"The good man's fate makes us sigh"—what fate?

"Bunch of morons!"

Kazama slammed the paper onto the desk. He shrugged off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and lunged for the interrogation room. Watanabe threw himself between them. "Boss! Easy! No hitting!"

"Out of my way!" Veins bulged across Kazama's forehead. "You doubt me too?"

"It's not about doubt—we've got no proof!" Watanabe blurted. "Forensics just matched the handwriting on the wall to Ishizuka's samples..."

"If you can fake prints, you can fake handwriting," Kazama snapped.

"Cool it, boss! One punch and the case is dead!"

Of every officer present, only Watanabe dared calm Kazama. The rest hid behind busywork, sneaking glances at the drama.

Kazama froze. He realized Fushimi had been baiting him from the start. The moment they met, the game began. With Fushimi's nerves, he could have played the trembling innocent.

He hadn't.

Instead he'd swaggered, practically daring Kazama to arrest him, even threatening a lawsuit—because only behind bars would Ishizuka feel compelled to confess, turning the tabloid fantasy into accepted fact.

Kazama had no idea how Fushimi pulled the strings.

The desk phone rang again. The chief demanded release; a mob of reporters waited at the gates.

Kazama lifted a slat of the blinds. Six, maybe seven cameras. Enough for six separate front-page stories.

He exhaled, the familiar weight of defeat settling on his shoulders.

"Let him go." He waved a hand.

Watanabe beamed. He hauled Fushimi up, unlocked the cuffs. No personal effects to return—Fushimi had arrived in hospital garb, empty-handed.

Fushimi flexed his wrists, signed the release with a flourish.

Moments later, flanked by officers, he stepped into the sunlight. Reporters surged, microphones bristling. Kazama flicked on the TV, surfing channels until he found a live feed.

"...Last night a shooting at Hokkaido Police Academy led to one cadet's arrest. Released this morning for lack of evidence, we now take you live to the scene. Sir, any comment?"

On screen Fushimi looked drained yet composed. He offered the camera a gentle smile.

"Justice speaks for itself."