Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 46

Evening was settling in; the sun hovered just above the ridgeline, and the little inn bustled with life.

The cadets of Class A had finally reached their overnight stop. They were as giddy as kids on New Year's, shoving and splashing their way into the outdoor hot spring, refusing to climb out once they felt the steam. The owner beamed—tourist season had barely begun and business was already red-hot. This year was going to be a windfall.

Fushimi Shika woke to the ruckus downstairs. He'd slept long enough; stretching, he sat up and winced—every muscle ached. Sleeping on tatami, it turned out, was nothing like a proper bed.

He lifted his gaze and found Minamoto Tamako huddled at the far corner of the kotatsu, looking every inch the guilty cat burglar.

Before he could ask what stunt she was pulling now, someone knocked. "Tamako-san, are you in?"

Tamako jumped. She dove under the quilt like a mole, voice muffled. "Nope, not here!"

Shika blinked, lifted the kotatsu blanket, and found her in a perfect dogeza, face buried in her elbows. "What crime did you commit?"

"Shh!" She pressed a finger to her lips.

He had no idea what was going on, but he rose and opened the door.

Instructor Shirata Masahiro stood outside in a yukata, cigarette dangling, blowing on his hands to chase away the chill. He'd just phoned the academy; a bus was already on its way. Before it arrived he wanted a word with the two cadets.

Seeing Shika, the instructor arched a brow but said nothing—just sighed inwardly at how unfair life was. Other men worked ten honest years, while this kid casually charmed the Police Superintendent's daughter...

"Mind if I come in?" Shirata glanced past Shika. "I'm not interrupting?"

Shika read the man's expression, realized any explanation would only muddy the waters, and simply stepped aside. "Not at all. Please."

The bedroom was warm, smelling faintly of citrus.

Shirata swept the room with a glance. Tamako peeked over the kotatsu edge, then ducked out of sight again.

He folded himself onto the tatami, cleared his throat—then fell silent.

Shika waited. Finally the instructor spoke, voice heavy. "Some things are... hard to say."

"Take your time."

Shika settled beside the kotatsu and started peeling an orange. Through a gap in the quilt Tamako spied, silently willing the instructor to leave already.

The cigarette smoldered; ash dropped onto the tatami. Shirata snapped out of it, reached into his yukata sleeve, and laid three objects on the floor:

A bullet mottled with green corrosion, a rust-flecked police revolver, and a worn black notebook.

"Eh?!"

Tamako shrieked, jerked upright, and clipped the tabletop. The kotatsu rattled; Shika's elbow jolted, and the peeled orange rolled away.

Ignoring the bump, Tamako scurried forward on all fours until her nose almost touched the bullet, eyes crossing. "D-Don't tell me... this is the slug from the skeleton? But why, Instructor Shirata? Why did you take it?"

A bitter smile cracked the instructor's rigid face—his first crack all week.

He drew on the cigarette, exhaled, and began. "I knew him."

"W-What?!"

Tamako's head whipped around. Two homicidal instructors? Was that the theme of her academy career?

Seeing her panic, Shirata hurried to clarify. "Not like that. I didn't kill him."

He paused, then forced the rest out. "But he died because of me."

Tamako tilted her head, confused.

Shika leaned back against the kotatsu and started on another orange. A confession this big deserved snacks; suspense was always better with fruit.

"His name was Natsume Shiro," Shirata said softly, the story he'd buried for years finally surfacing. "Used to own an izakaya in town."

Tamako opened her mouth, but Shirata continued.

"About eight years ago Natsume started forgetting things—where he put his keys, what he'd come to buy. He'd buy horse-racing tickets and forget to cash them. His family took him to the hospital. Diagnosis: Alzheimer's."

"He forgot people, forgot meals, even how to speak. His kids worked far away, so every time he wandered off, I was the one who fetched him back."

"I was just a beat cop at the local koban then. My days were spent returning lost cats or escorting Natsume-san home. I hated the tedium. I was cramming for the detective exam, but every time I opened a textbook someone would report, 'Officer, Natsume-san's gone again.'"

"One day he told me he wanted to climb a mountain. I brushed it off. Later I learned he'd said the same to his family—who also ignored him."

"As his memory slipped further, he kept muttering 'mountain, mountain, mountain.' Nobody understood why."

"I made detective, came back to visit now and then. He was still repeating it. Then one day he vanished—along with my service revolver."

Shirata hung his head, shame etched deep. "Stupid, right? An old man with dementia stole my gun."

The kotatsu clicked softly. The cigarette burned down to the filter between his trembling fingers.

Silence pooled in the room.

At last Tamako whispered, "But why steal a gun to die in the mountains?"

Shirata lit another cigarette, as though lighting a burden he'd carried for years. "For the longest time I couldn't forgive him. Then I realized: the fault was mine. I organized this graduation exercise so none of my students repeat my mistakes."

"If he were alive, he'd be seventy-six now."

"Call it fate—I found his bones up there. He left a diary. After I read it, I knew I had to tell you the truth."