Dance Dance Dance (16 page)

"Well, we've seen it plenty. It gets to where you can't even tell that it was a woman. It's dead meat. Rotten steak. And once the smell gets in your nose, you don't think of food, let me tell you. It's a smell you never forget. True, if you let things go for a long, long, long time, then all you got are bones. No smell. Everything's all dried up. White, beautiful clean bones. Needless to say, this lady didn't make it that far. And she wasn't rotting either. Just dead. Just stiff. You could tell she had to be some piece when she was warm. But seeing her like this, I didn't even twitch.

"Somebody killed this woman. She had the right to live. She was barely twenty. Somebody strangled her with a stock-ing. Not a very quick way to go. It's painful and it takes time. You know you're going to die. You're thinking why do I have to die like this? You want to go on living. But you can feel the oxygen drying up. Your head goes foggy. You piss. You lose the feeling in your legs. You die slow. Not a nice way to die. We'd like to catch the son of a bitch who killed this gorgeous young thing. And I think you're going to help us.

"Yesterday at noon, the lady reserved a double room in a luxury hotel in Akasaka. At five P.M., she checked in, alone," Fisherman recounted the facts. "She told the desk her hus-band would show up later. Phony name, phony telephone number. At six p.m., she called room service for dinner for one. She was alone at the time. At seven p.m., the empty tray was put out in the hall. The do not disturb sign was hang-ing on the door. Checkout time was twelve noon. When the lady didn't check out, the front desk called her room at twelve-thirty. No answer. The do not disturb sign was still on the door. There was no response. When hotel security unlocked the door, the lady was naked and dead, exactly as you see in this first photograph. No one saw the lady's 'hus-band.' The hotel has a restaurant on the top floor, so there's a lot of people going in and out. Very popular place to rendezvous."

"There was no identification in her handbag," said Book-ish. "No driver's license, address book, credit cards, no bank card. No initials on her clothing. Besides cosmetics, birth-control pills, and thirty thousand yen, the only item in her possession, tucked, almost hidden, in her wallet, was a busi-ness card. Your business card."

"You're going to say you really don't know her?" Fisher-man tried again.

I shook my head. I wanted to give these guys all the coop-eration I could. I really did. I wanted to see her killer caught as much as anyone. But I had the living to think about.

"Well, then, now that you know the circumstances, why don't you tell us where you were last night and what you were doing," Bookish drummed on.

My memory came rushing back. "At six o'clock I ate sup-per at home by myself, then I read and had a couple of drinks, then before midnight I went to bed."

"Did you see anyone?" asked Fisherman.

"I didn't see anyone. I was alone the entire time."

"Any phone calls to anyone? Anyone call you?"

I told them I didn't take any calls. "A little before nine, one came in on the machine. When I played it back, it was Work-related."

"Why keep the answering machine on, if you're at home?"

"I'm on a break. I don't want to have to talk business."

They asked for the name of the caller, and I told them.

"So you ate dinner alone, and you read all evening?"

"After washing the dishes, yes."

"What was the book?"

"You may not believe it, but it was Kafka. The Trial."

Kafka. The Trial. Bookish made note.

"Then, you read until twelve," Fisherman kept going. "And drank."

"First beer was around sundown. Later brandy."

"How much did you drink?"

"Two cans of beer, and then I guess a quarter of a bottle of brandy. Oh, and I also ate some canned peaches."

Fisherman took everything down. Also ate canned peaches. "Anything else?"

I tried, but it really had been a night without qualities. I'd quietly read my book, while somewhere off in the still of the night Mei was strangled with a stocking. I told them there was nothing else.

"I'd advise you to try harder," said Bookish with a cough.

"You realize what a vulnerable position you're in, don't you?"

"Listen, I didn't do anything, so how can I be in a vulner-able position? I work free-lance, so I hand my business card out all over the place. I don't know how this girl got ahold of my card. Just because she had it on her doesn't mean I killed her."

"People don't carry around business cards that don't mean anything to them in the safest corner of their wallets," Fisher-man said. "We have two hypotheses. One, the lady arranged to meet one of your business associates in the hotel and that person killed her. Then the guy dumped something into her bag to throw us off the track. Except the card, that single card, was wedged too deep in her wallet for that. Hypothesis number two, the lady was a professional lady of the night. A prostitute. A high-class prostitute. The kind that fulfills her duties at luxury hotels. The kind that doesn't carry any iden-tification on her person. But for some reason the john kills her. He doesn't take any money, so it's possible he's a psycho, a nut case. Those are our angles. What do you think?"

I cocked my head to the side and kept silent.

"Your business card is the central piece of evidence in this case," said Fisherman leadingly, rapping his pen on the desk.

"A business card is just a piece of paper with a name printed on it," I said. "It's not evidence. It doesn't prove any-thing."

"Not yet it doesn't." He kept rapping on the desk. "The Criminal ID boys are going over the room for traces. There's an autopsy going on right now. By tomorrow we'll know a lot more. So you know what? You're going to wait with us. Meanwhile, be a good idea if you start remembering more details. It might take all night. Take your time, you'll be sur-prised at what you can remember. Why don't we start from the beginning? What did you do when you woke up in the morning?"

I looked at the clock on the wall. Ten past five. I suddenly remembered my date with Yuki.

"I need to call somebody first, okay?" I said to Fisherman. "I was supposed to meet someone at five. It was important."

"A girl?" questioned Fisherman.

"Right."

He held out the phone to me.

"You're going to tell me that something came up and you can't come," Yuki said immediately, beating me to the punch.

"Something unforeseen. Really," I explained. "I'm sorry, it's not my fault. I've been hauled down to the Akasaka police station for questioning. It'll take too long to tell you about it now, but it looks like they're going to hold onto me for a while."

"Police? What'd you do?"

"I didn't do anything. There was a murder, and the cops wanted to talk to me. That's all."

"What a drag," Yuki remarked, unmoved.

"I'll say."

"You didn't kill anyone, did you?"

"Of course I didn't kill anyone. I'm a bungler, not a mur-derer. They're just asking about, you know, circumstances. But I'm sorry I'm going to let you down. I'll make it up to you."

"What a drag," said Yuki, then slammed down the receiver in her inimitable fashion.

I passed the phone back to Fisherman. They had been straining to listen in, but didn't seem to come away with much. If they knew it was a thirteen-year-old girl, you can be sure their opinion of me wouldn't have shot up.

They had me go over the fine points of my movements all day yesterday. They wrote everything I said down. Where I'd gone, what I ate. I gave them the full rundown on the konnyaku yam stew I'd eaten for dinner. I explained how I shaved the bonito flakes. They didn't think I was being humorous at all. They just wrote everything down. The pages were mounting fast.

At half past six they sent out for food—salty, greasy, tasteless, terrible—which we all ate with relish. Then we had some lukewarm tea, while they smoked. Then we got back to questions and answers.

At what time had I changed into pajamas? From what page to what page of The Trial had I read? I tried to tell them what the story was about, but they didn't show much interest.

At eight o'clock I had to take a leak. Which they let me do alone, happily. I breathed deeply. Not the ideal place to breathe deeply, but at least I could breathe. Poor Mei.

When I got back, Bookish wanted to know about my soli-tary telephone caller that evening. Who was he? What did he want? What was my relationship with him? Why didn't I call him back? Why was I taking a break from work? Didn't I need to work for a living? Did I declare my taxes?

My question, which I didn't ask, was: Did they actually think all this was helpful? Maybe they had read Kafka. Were they trying to wear me down so that I'd let the truth escape? Well, they'd succeeded. I was so exhausted, so depressed, I was answering everything they asked with a straight face. I was under the mistaken impression that I'd get out of here quicker that way.

By eleven, they hadn't stopped. And they showed no sign of stopping. They'd been able to take turns, leave the room and take a nap while the other kept at me. I hadn't had that luxury. Instead, they offered me coffee. Instant coffee, with sugar and white powder mixed in.

At eleven-thirty I made my declaration: I was tired and wasn't going to answer any more questions.

"Aww, c'mon, pul-eeze," Bookish said lamely, drumming his fingers on the table. "Listen, we're going as fast as we can, but this investigation is very important. We have a dead lady on our hands, so I'm afraid you're going to have to stick it out."

"I find it hard to believe these questions have any impor-tance at all," I said.

"Petty details serve their purpose. You'd be surprised how many cases are solved by petty details. What looks like petty isn't always petty, especially when it comes to homicide. Murder isn't petty. Sorry, but why don't you just hang around a while. To be perfectly frank, if we felt like it, we could designate you a prime witness and you'd be stuck here as long as we liked. But that would take a lot of paperwork. Bogs everything down. That's why we're being nice, asking you to go through this with us nice and easy. If you cooper-ate, we won't have to get rough."

"If you're sleepy, there's a bunk downstairs," Fisherman said. "Catch a few hours of shut-eye, you might remember something."

Okay, a few hours sleep would be nice. Anywhere was better than this smoke-filled hole.

Fisherman walked me down a dark corridor, down an even darker stairwell, to another corridor. This was not bod-ing well. Indeed, the bunk room was a holding tank.

"Nice place, but can I get something with a better view?"

"All due apologies. It's our only model," said Fisherman without expression.

"No way. I'm going home. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Don't worry, we're not locking you in," said Fisherman. "A cell is just a room if you don't lock the door."

I was too tired to argue. I gave up. I stumbled in and fell onto the hard cot. Damp mattress, cheap blanket, smell of piss. Love it.

"It won't be locked," Fisherman repeated as he shut the door with a cold, solid thunk.

I sighed and pulled the blanket over me. Someone some-where was snoring loudly. It seemed to come from far off, but it could've been in the next cell. Very disturbing.

But Mei, Mei! You were on my mind last night. I don't know if you were alive at the time, but you were on my mind. I was slowly taking off your clothes, and then we were making love. It was our little class reunion. I was so relaxed, I thought someone had loosened the main screw of this world. But now, Mei, there's nothing I can do for you. Not a damned thing. I'm sorry. We lead such tenuous lives. I don't want Gotanda to get caught up in a scandal. I don't want to ruin his image. He wouldn't get work after that. Trashy work in a trashy world of trashy images. But he trusted me, as a friend. So it's a matter of honor. But Mei, my little Goat Girl Mei, we did have a good time together. It was so won-derful. Like a fairy tale. It's no comfort to you, Mei, but I'll never forget you. Shoveling snow until dawn. Holding you tight in that world of images, making love on deductible expenses. Winnie the Pooh and Mei the Goat Girl. Stran-gling is a horrible way to die. And you didn't want to die, I know. But there's nothing I can do for you now. I don't know what's right or wrong. I'm doing all I can. This is how I live. It's the system. I bite my lip and do what I got to. Good night, Mei, my little Goat Girl. At least you'll never have to wake again. Never have to die again.

Good night, I voiced the words.

Good night, echoed my mind.

Cuck-koo, sang Mei.

22

The next day wasn't much different than the previous. In the morning the three of us reassembled in the interrogation room over a silent breakfast of coffee and bread. Then Bookish loaned me an electric razor, which was not exactly sharp. Since I hadn't planned ahead and brought my toothbrush, I gargled as best I could.

Then the questioning started. Stupid, petty legal torture. This went on at a snail's pace until noon.

"Well, I guess that about does it," said Fisherman, lay-ing his pen down on the desk.

As if by prior agreement, the two detectives sighed simultaneously. So I sighed too. They were obviously stall-ing for time, but obviously they couldn't keep me here for-ever. One business card in a dead woman's wallet does not constitute sufficient cause for detention. Even if I didn't have an alibi. They'd have to strap me down—at least until the fingerprinting and autopsy yielded a more plausible suspect.

"Well," said Fisherman, pounding the small of his back as he stretched. "About time for lunch."

"As you seem to have finished your questions, I'll be going home," I told them.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Fisherman said with fake hesitation.

"And why not?" I asked.

"We need to have you sign the statement you've made."

"I'll sign, I'll sign."

"But first, read over the document to verify that the con-tents are accurate. Word by word. It's extremely important you know what you're signing your name to."

So I read those forty-odd sheets of official police tran-scriptions. Two hundred years from now, I couldn't help but think, they might be of some value in reconstructing our era. Pathologically detailed, faultlessly accurate. A real boon to research. The daily habits of an average, thirty-four-year-old, single male. A child of his times. The whole exercise of read-ing it through in this police interrogation room was depress-ing. But read it I did, from beginning to end. Now I could go home. I straightened the stack of papers and said that every-thing looked in order.

Playing with his pen, Fisherman glanced over at Bookish. Bookish pulled a single cigarette from his box of Hope Reg-ulars on top of the radiator, lit up and grimaced into the smoke. I had an awful feeling.

"It's not that simple," Bookish spoke in that slow profes-sional tone reserved for elucidating matters to the unordained. "You see, the statement's got to be in your own hand."

"In my own band?"

"Yes, you have to copy everything over. In your own handwriting. Otherwise, it's not legally valid."

I looked at the stack of pages. I didn't have the strength to be angry. I wanted to be angry, I wanted to fly into a rage, I wanted to pound on the desk and scream, You jerks have no right to do this! I wanted to stand up and walk out of there. And strictly speaking, I knew they had no right to stop me. Yes, but I was too tired. Too tired to say a word, too tired to protest. If I wasn't going to protest, I'd be better off doing what I was told. Faster and easier. I'm wimping out, I confessed to myself. I'm worn out and I'm wimping out. Used to be, they'd have to tie me down. But then again, their junk food and cigarette smoke and razor that chewed up my face wouldn't have gotten to me either. I was getting weak in my old age.

"No way," I surprised myself by saying. "I'm going home. I have the right to go home. You can't stop me."

Bookish sputtered something indecipherable. Fisherman stared up at the ceiling and rapped his pen on the desk. Tap-tap-tap, tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap.

"You're making things difficult," said Fisherman suc-cinctly. "But very well. If that's the way it's going to be, we'll get a summons. And we'll forcibly hold you here for investi-gation. Next time won't be such a picnic. We don't mind that, you know. It'll be easier for us to do our job that way too. Isn't that right?" he tossed the question over to Bookish.

"Yes sir, that's going to be even easier in the long run. That's what we should've done earlier. Let's get a sum-mons," he declared.

"As you like," I said. "But I'm free until the summons is issued. If and when the summons comes through, you know where to find me. Otherwise, I don't care. I'm outta here."

"We can place a temporary hold on your person until the summons is issued."

I almost asked them to show me where it said that in Statutes of Law, but now I really didn't have the energy. I knew they were bluffing, but it didn't matter.

"I give up. I'll write out my statement. But I need to make a phone call first."

Fisherman passed me the telephone. I dialed Yuki's number.

"I'm still at the police station," I said. "It looks like this'll take all night. So I guess I won't make it over today either. Sorry."

"You're still in the clink?"

"A real drag." This time I beat her to the punch.

"That's not fair," she came back. There's a lot of descrip-tive terms out there.

"What have you been doing?"

"Nothing special," she said. "Just lying around, listening to music, reading magazines, eating cake. You know."

The two detectives tried to listen in again.

"I'll call you as soon as I get out of here."

"If you get out of there," said Yuki flatly.

"Well, okay then, lunchtime," announced Fisherman, soon as I hung up.

Lunch was soba, cold buckwheat noodles. Overcooked and falling apart. Hospital food, practically a liquid diet. An aura of incurable illness hovered over it. Still, the two of them wolfed the stuff down, and I followed suit. To wash down the starch, Bookish brought in more of his famous lukewarm tea.

The afternoon passed as slowly as a silted-up river. The ticking of the clock was the only sound in the room. A tele-phone rang in the next room. I did nothing but write and write and write and write. Meanwhile the two detectives took turns resting. Sometimes they'd go out into the corridor and whisper.

I kept the pen moving. At six-fifteen I decided to make dinner, first taking the yam cake out of the refrigerator . . .

By evening I'd copied twenty pages. Wielding a pen for hours on end is hard work. Definitely not recommended. Your wrist starts to go limp, you get scribe's elbow. The mid-dle finger of your hand begins to throb. Drift off in your thoughts for a second and you get the word wrong. Then you have to draw a line through it and thumbprint your mis-take. It could drive a person batty. It was driving me batty.

For dinner, we had generic take-out food again. I hardly ate. The tea was still sloshing around in my gut. I felt woozy, lost the sense of who I was. I went to the toilet and looked in the mirror. I could barely recognize myself.

"Any findings yet?" I asked Fisherman. "Fingerprints or traces or autopsy results?"

"Not yet," he said. "These things take time."

I kept at it until ten. I had five more pages to go, but I'd reached my limit. I couldn't write another word and I told them so. Fisherman conducted me to the tank and I dozed right off.

In the morning, it was the same electric razor, coffee, and bread. The five pages took two hours. Then I signed and thumbprinted each sheet. Then Bookish checked the whole lot.

"Am I free to go now?" I asked hopefully.

"If you answer a few more questions, yes, you can go," said Bookish.

I heaved a sigh. "Then you're going to have me do more paperwork, right?"

"Of course," answered Bookish. "This is officialdom. Paperwork is everything. Without the paper and your prints, it doesn't exist."

I pressed my fingers into my temples. It felt as if some loose object were lodged inside. As if something had found its way into my head and ballooned up to where it was impossible to remove.

"This won't take too long. Be over before you know it."

More mindless answers to more mindless questions. Then Fisherman called Bookish out into the corridor. The two stood whispering for I don't know how long. I leaned back in my chair and studied the patterns of mildew on the ceil-ing. The blackened patches could have been photographs of pubic hair on dead bodies. Spreading down along the cracks in the wall like a connect-the-dots picture. Mildew, cultured in the body odor of the poor fools ground down in this room the last several decades. From a systematic effort to undermine a person's beliefs, dignity, and sense of right and wrong. From psychological coercion that fed on human inse-curity and left no visible scars. Where far removed from sun-light and stuffed with bad food, you sweat uncontrollably. Mildew.

I placed both hands on the desk and closed my eyes thinking of the snow falling in Sapporo. The Dolphin Hotel and my receptionist friend with glasses. How was she getting along? Standing behind the counter, flashing that profes-sional smile of hers? I wanted to call her up this very second. Tell her some stupid joke. But I didn't even know her name. I didn't even know her name.

She sure was cute. Especially when she was working hard. Imbued with that indefinable hotel spirit. She loved her work. Not me. I never once enjoyed mine. I do good work, but I have never loved my work. Away from her work, she was vulnerable, uncertain, fragile. I could have slept with her if I'd felt like it. But I didn't. I want to talk to her again.

Before someone killed her too.

Before she disappeared.