Nocturne of Remembrance (29 page)

“Fully aware that someone in the family other than herself was entertaining sexual relations, the defendant has kept it secret all along.”

Fingered thus, Akiko looked pale, and her shoulders were quivering. The courtroom was silent for a while.

Misaki broke the spell as if remembering himself. “Defense attorney, are you actually saying that was her real motive for killing him?”

“Her real motive?”

“Her husband, the victim, was the only man in the house. The defendant suspected infidelity and—”

“Mr. Prosecutor, allow me to get to that in due course. It’s related to a testimony to follow. Your honor, I end my cross-examination.”

“U-Uhm,” Akiko called to Mikoshiba’s back.

“Defendant, I’ve finished my cross-examination,” he snapped. Mikoshiba had the option of letting her attempt a shoddy defense and smashing it to bits, but he didn’t want to disturb the flow.

Silenced, Akiko stood listlessly at the witness stand.

“Your honor,” Mikoshiba reprised, “regarding the new evidence that I promised, to start with I would like to summon a witness.”

“You may proceed.”

“Witness, please.”

On Mikoshiba’s cue, the court clerk brought him into the courtroom. It was the elderly Mizohata. Immediately after taking the oath, he sat down and looked up to Sanjo.

“Mr. Presiding Judge.”

“Yes.”

That wasn’t the customary way of addressing his honor, but Mizohata was not only older than Sanjo but had an insouciant air that was quite disarming. “To pronounce the truth in court, I should stand on my two legs. But as you can see, they have grown feeble. Would you mind if I stay seated while I testify?”

“Not at all. I’d like you to feel comfortable.”

Sanjo was being deferential, and that was psychologically advantageous. Mikoshiba greeted Mizohata with a slight nod once the old man had settled down.

“Now, witness. Your name and occupation.”

“Shonosuke Mizohata. I’m retired.”

“What had been your occupation?”

“I was the local doctor for a neighborhood in Fukuoka City.”

“How long had you practiced?”

“I started the year the Crown Prince was born, so 1960, until 1991. Thirty years or so.”

“Thirty years. That’s a long time. Your practice must have been snugly embedded in the community.”

“That’s right. Back then, the absolute count of doctors was quite low, so if you opened a practice, you became the primary physician for a whole neighborhood.”

“Meaning, you were closely involved with each patient.”

“I had to be, more like. You were living in the same neighborhood, so you accepted emergency cases in the middle of the night and on holidays. Any bedridden patients, you visited. Of course you kept charts but in time came to know your patients’ symptoms by heart.”

“I see. Then you must remember the faces of many patients.”

“I remember them better than those of new acquaintances.”

“Well then, is there a former patient in this courtroom?”

“Yes.”

“Please point to the person.”

Mizohata twisted his torso counterclockwise and indicated the defendant.

Akiko tensed as though a gun had been pointed at her. Given her terribly surprised look, Mizohata’s face must have faded from her memories.

As for Sanjo and Misaki, they could only watch the proceedings like spectators at a magician’s act.

“By the way, witness. What was your specialty?”

“I was a general practitioner so I practiced everything except dentistry and gynecology, but it was psychiatry.”

“Please briefly explain what that is.”

“In the broadest terms, it’s a medical field that primarily addresses psychosomatic disorders.”

“Psychosomatic?”

“The Japanese Society of Psychosomatic Medicine defines that as a clinical condition whose onset and course are closely associated with socio-psychological factors and admit of structural or functional disorders.”

“Does that include neurosis?”

“Strictly speaking, neurosis and depression are not considered psychosomatic disorders, but I have seen many patients afflicted with neuroses.”

“Then, is there a neurosis patient, in this courtroom, who was under your care? If so, please point to the person.”

“Her,” Mizohata indicated the defendant again.

“Liar,” said Akiko in a trembling voice. “You were my doctor?”

Mizohata smiled nostalgically. “This was twenty-six years ago. At the time, you were suffering from amnesia. It’s quite possible that your memory was confused at the time of treatment.”

“Hold on.” Misaki raised his hand hastily. “Witness, do you have proof that you were the defendant’s primary physician at the time?”

“As it was an extremely interesting condition, I saved her charts even when I closed my practice. They’ve been handed over to the
defense attorney.”

“They are in my keeping,” Mikoshiba confirmed, holding the documents high up in the air. “I have been tardy with my explanation, your honor. I submit the past medical records of the defendant as Evidence D-18.”

As soon as Mikoshiba said this, the court clerk distributed copies of Evidence D-18 to Sanjo and Misaki. Submitting evidence in advance had become the norm in Japanese courts, but Mikoshiba had his reasons for tarrying until right before his argument.

“Witness. As the person who made these records, please explain the contents.”

“The patient was suffering from PTSD.” Despite his age, Mizohata’s voice was deep and resonant. “The summer of her ninth year, the patient’s sister died. Having cared for her very much, and still at the tender age of nine, the patient must have lacked the mental fortitude to accept the fact. PTSD is, in a way, an instinctive self-defense mechanism. When you are about to fall into a state of panic, your brain tries to stave it off by shutting down part of its functionality. In her case, this took the form of deleting her memories of her sister’s very existence.”

As Mizohata repeated what he’d explained to Mikoshiba, the listener who betrayed the greatest surprise was none other than Akiko.

“Considering the age of the patient, I hesitated to administer the customary drug regimen. Coaxing out the memories was dangerous, so I also told her parents not to bring up her late sister. There was no choice but to rely on natural healing … but in the middle of treatment, the family moved to Kobe, and I didn’t know what happened afterwards until now.”

“You must have regretted that your ministrations were interrupted midway.”

“I did. As far as I was concerned, time wasn’t an issue, so I intended to help her face herself of her own accord. As a matter of fact, she was exhibiting another troublesome medical condition that also required
treatment.”

“Another medical condition afflicting the young defendant—what type of illness was it?”

“It was a type of obsessional neurosis, and the cause was obvious. The severe shock of her sister’s death had traumatized her.”

“Is this obsessional neurosis something that time can heal?”

“Her condition was serious, and left as is, chances of it healing naturally were extremely slim. Normally, the symptoms are treated with antidepressants, but that offers no guarantee beyond the drugs’ duration.”

“Your honor. At this point, I would like to show the defendant something to ascertain the current status of her malady.”

“Just a minute, your honor,” Misaki rushed to cut in. “I have something to ask the defense. Fine, so the accused suffered from a mental disorder when she was little. But how is that relevant to the case under trial? If this is an attempt to prolong the argument needlessly, then it is nothing but unseemly.”

“Defense, I feel the same way. What is it that you are trying to prove?” Buffeted by the quick succession of new testimony, even Sanjo, known for his sangfroid, couldn’t hide his consternation.

“As I stated in the first session, I intend to prove the absence of a motive.”

Misaki snarled, “Don’t tell me you’re invoking Article 39 of the Criminal Code.”

“Far from it. That the defendant is fully competent to bear responsibility is evident without a psychiatric examination, as the officers and the prosecutor who interrogated her know best.”

“Then—”

“Prosecutor, ‘just a minute,’ as you put it. What I am trying to prove is simply the absence of motive. I implore you to lend your ear to the defense’s argument for a moment. Now, your honor. May I continue with my questioning?”

“… Proceed.”

“I will have the witness view a series of photos of the interior of the victim’s home.”

At Mikoshiba’s direction, a large monitor was set up.

“All of the images of the interior to be displayed come from Evidence A-14 submitted by the prosecution and are exactly what the Setagaya Station forensics unit photographed and recorded right after the incident. I therefore add that the images have not been edited or altered in any way by the defense.”

What appeared on the monitor first was the living room interior, the 300-square-feet space that had felt so home-like to Mikoshiba. The edges of the tables, chairs, and other furnishings were all rounded, and scissors and other stationery were apparently stored away and nowhere to be seen. The everyday life of Akiko and her children came across from memos pasted on the refrigerator and the schedules on the wall—frequent school events and questionnaires, lunch box contents and shopping lists determined thereby. Though there was no audio, just seeing the memos seemed to replay Akiko’s exchanges with her daughters.

The camera segued into the kitchen to show well-organized cookware. It was a tidy tableau, with only a manual slicer next to the microwave. There were no forks or chopsticks left out. The door of the cabinet under the sink was open, but there were no cooking scissors hanging there, let alone kitchen knives. Stacked up unceremoniously in the sink, however, were dishes and spoons that must have been used for that evening’s dinner.

Next came the murder scene, the bathroom, and a drastically different mood.

There were red splatters on the walls. Akiko’s efforts to wash away the blood had been cut short when Yozo had barged in on her. While almost everything in the bathroom was also rounded, the sprayed blood alone rendered the space terribly foreboding. Faint inarticulate groans arose from the visitors’ gallery.
Yeah, right
, Mikoshiba thought. Why would an unrelated person want to sit in a courtroom if it wasn’t
to be regaled with testimonies and photos that reeked of blood?

The third set was of Akiko’s room.

Originally the couple’s bedroom, it must have become hers after Shingo had taken to shutting himself in his study. A double bed with only one pillow dominated the modest-sized chamber. On a built-in shelf was a row of family photos, all of whose frames were rounded if not oval. The room’s overall impression was relaxed, too, as a result.

The camera entered into the rooms of Miyuki and Rinko.

These were the abodes of a thirteen- and a six-year-old girl, respectively, and looked similar apart from a student desk in Miyuki’s. One had posters of pop singers, the other of cartoon characters, and armies of stuffed toys surrounded each bed. Their mother’s penchant for tidiness did not extend to these rooms: a compass, scissors, mechanical pencils, and erasers lay scattered on Miyuki’s desk along with notebooks, while drawing papers and colored pencils on Rinko’s floor nearly covered it. Just gazing at the sight, you could hear their mother’s scolding voice from out of frame.

Last was Shingo’s room.

It lacked even a whiff of family life. Around the inorganic monitor and printer were numerous black and red ballpoint pens. A letter opener had been inserted into a recent quarterly report in place of a bookmark. Under the desk reigned chaos itself, stock investment documents, snack bags, empty coffee cans, sundry computer accessories and cords, and thrown-off clothing carpeting the floor.

Mizohata, who been staring at the enlarged photos, eventually let out a brief moan. The only person close enough to hear was Mikoshiba, but it clearly expressed a mix of discomfiture and chagrin.

Mikoshiba had the verification he needed. Indeed, Mizohata had found something in them.

“Witness, have you seen enough?”

“… Ah, yes. I get it. There’s not a shred of doubt given this house’s interior.”

“What did you learn from looking at the photos?”

“Little Akiko … the patient, I mean, still suffers from that neurotic illness. Even a span of twenty-six years couldn’t heal her. As her primary doctor, nothing is as unfortunate and regrettable.”

“Witness, you say the patient is suffering from neurosis. Please name the condition.”

“She has trypanophobia, also known as ‘needle phobia.’ ”

“Stop it!” Akiko, who had remained reticent until now, broke the silence. Leaning out of the defendant’s seat, she reached out ready to clutch at Mizohata. “Wh-What right do you—”

“Defendant, please calm down.”

A nearby courtroom officer blocked Akiko, who was clearly losing it. Mizohata seemed flustered by her reaction, but Mikoshiba kept steering him.

“Witness, please continue with your testimony.”

“Ah … yes.”

“In general what are the symptoms of needle phobia?”

“If the patient becomes aware of anything sharp like a needle, icepick, or knife, she might experience heart palpitations, fear, and such.”

“You said fear?”

“A morbid fear that she might hurt others, or herself, with the tip. For example, I think that acrophobia is well known, and in that case the fear of falling from a height makes you freeze with fear or weak at the knees. Likewise, with needle phobia, seeing or imagining anything with a sharp tip makes you freeze. There are differences in degree, but the worst patients may even squat down on the spot.”

“How did you surmise that the defendant is still suffering from needle phobia?”

“ ‘Surmise’ isn’t the word, I recognize it. Looking at the living room, the kitchen, and her own room, it’s obvious.”

“Please be more specific.”

“All of the furnishings in the living room have rounded edges. Normally, such rooms contain scissors and box cutters stuck in
penholders for easy access, but everything with a sharp tip seems to have been stored somewhere out of sight. In her bedroom too, there is nothing with an acute part in plain view.”