Rules of the Hunt (10 page)
The train
swayed and Adachi looked up.
Several
feet away, a young and rather pretty OL was looking his way, an expression of
subdued distress on her face.
Then she
looked directly at him, a silent cry for help in her eyes.
The carriage was jammed.
Pressed up directly behind her was a
round-faced middle-aged
sarariman
,
his face expressionless.
The practice
was all too common.
A man would press up
against a woman in a crowded subway and grope her or otherwise excite himself
sexually, confident that the woman would not complain.
A Western woman would tear herself away from
her assailant or otherwise protest.
Japanese women were taught to be submissive.
Other travelers, packed together but isolated
in their own worlds, would not interfere.
Adachi
sighed.
Chifune would be the death of
him.
He squeezed toward the beleaguered
OL until he stood beside her,
then
smiled at the
sarariman
.
The man smiled back uncertainly.
Adachi reached out and put his hand in a
friendly manner on his shoulder and squeezed.
He thought he had the place about right.
The
sarariman
's face glazed
over with pain and he went very white, and at the next station shot from the
train as if rocket-propelled.
The girl
looked at Adachi uncertainly.
He had
helped her, but this was not usual behavior.
She was not sure what was coming next.
Adachi winked at her and she blushed.
He could not think of what else to do, and then he remembered that he
had a bunch of these idiotic MPD public relation cards in his pocket.
The cards featured the MPD mascot, a mouse
called ‘Peopo,’ and promoted the emergency service 110 number and the name,
rank, and telephone number of the officer concerned.
It was the kind of thing you gave to a
citizen and not to a
yakuza
, if you
did not want to be laughed at.
The girl
looked reassured and gave a little bow of thanks.
Adachi's station came up and he smiled
briefly and left.
*
*
*
*
*
Adachi's team
worked in a large open office on the sixth floor.
The layout was
designed so that everybody could see what everybody else was doing.
It was not ideal for concentrated individual
work, but it was excellent for supervising and integrating the group.
There were
thirty detectives, including the superintendent himself, in Adachi's
department.
The layout in this case
consisted of three islands of eight detectives headed by a sergeant — with the
remaining three desks by the windows occupied by two inspectors and Adachi
himself, when he was not using his private office.
Down the corridor were individual interview
rooms, and anybody who needed privacy or to concentrate went there for the
period necessary.
However, being
apart from the group for long was frowned on.
The group system, the basis of Japanese social culture, had served them
well.
The most frequently heard saying
in
The system did encourage individual
initiative, but only in the sense that it contributed to the progress of the
group.
Personally,
Adachi was surprised how many nails were protruding these days, but thought it
had probably always been so in reality.
The trick was to avoid the hammer, and the best way to do that was not
to be perceived as a nail.
Alternatively, the nails could come together as a group.
One way or another in
hard to avoid the group.
Most of the
desks were occupied when Adachi walked in.
His detectives were hand-picked, and selection for the elite unit was
regarded as a privilege, but the level of commitment demanded was high.
Typically his detectives worked seventy to
eighty hours a week on top of commuting up to three hours a day and attending
the near-obligatory group drinking sessions after work.
Quite a number
of his men were unshaven and bleary-eyed from having been up all night.
The killing of the
kuromaku
was a serious business, and its resolution demanded every
effort.
Also, it was well understood
that the twenty-four hours after a murder were a particularly crucial
time.
Physical evidence quickly got
lost.
Human memory had a short shelf
life.
You had to search and interview as
quickly as possible.
That was the
well-understood routine.
Adachi felt a
pang of guilt for not having been up all night with his men as well, but then
reflected that in his own way he had been making a contribution to the
inquiry.
Anyway, his right-hand man,
Detective Inspector Jim Fujiwara, was about as reliable as another human being
could be.
They had worked together for
the last three years and knew each other well.
Fujiwara, a stocky powerful man in his late forties, had worked his way
up through the ranks.
He had more street
experience than Adachi and an encyclopedic knowledge of the
yakuza
.
Their respective skills were complimentary and they worked together
well.
Adachi felt fortunate.
Adachi sat
down at his desk and Fujiwara sat down facing him.
A detective brought tea.
He was wearing house slippers.
Most of the detectives were.
In
in their offices that it was customary to make yourself comfortable and as much
at home as you could.
And, of course, no
one wore shoes inside the home.
They
were removed as you entered and placed by the door.
It was a barbaric idea to bring dirt from the
street into the home, and, anyway, outside shoes were not comfortable to relax
in.
There was a
pile of reports on Adachi's desk.
It
stretched several inches high.
He might
have sneaked in a little relaxation last night, but such interludes would be
scarce until Hodama's killers were found.
There would be work, work, and more work.
It was the Japanese way.
Adachi gestured
at the reports.
"Fujiwara-
san
, I see you have been busy."
Fujiwara
acknowledged the implied compliment.
Specific praise was uncommon.
You
were expected to do your work as well as you could and you did it.
Nothing else would be appropriate.
There was nothing exceptional about doing
your duty.
"We have
completed the house-to-house questioning and we have in all the reports from
the
kobans
and mobiles in the
area.
In addition, we have the
preliminary pathology reports and those of the Criminal Investigation
Laboratory.
There have been some
developments."
"The case
is solved?" said Adachi with a smile.
"Not
exactly, boss," said Fujiwara with a grin.
"I think on this one we are going to earn our pay."
Adachi became
serious.
Fujiwara continued.
"We now have several reports of two
black limousines in the area around seven in the morning — within the time
window, anyway.
The models were
current-year Toyota Crown Royal Saloons.
They were noticed because the two cars were in convoy and there was some
speculation as to what dignitary was inside.
Otherwise there was nothing suspicious.
The windows were tinted, so the witnesses have no idea how many people
were inside or who they were.
Still, we
now have sufficient evidence to indicate that the killers came in went in those
cars."
with shiny black executive limousines, thought Adachi, and tens of thousands of
them would be current-model Toyotas.
It
did not seem a promising line of inquiry.
It was a pity the killers had not favored Cadillacs or Mercedeses.
Both makes were comparatively uncommon and
were favored by the
yakuza
.
At least he would have a pointer as to where
to look.
Also, the good thing about
leaning on the
yakuza
was that you
normally got a result.
To get rid of police
harassment, the
yakuza
had the useful
custom of giving up a suspect.
The suspect
might well not be the guilty party, but he would plead guilty and confess and
the police could mark the case closed.
In return, the nominated perpetrator would receive a light sentence and
when he came out would be greeted by the gang and feted.
It was a common way for a gang member to
establish himself with his gang.
It was,
so to speak, part of the apprenticeship system.
Adachi had
once described the custom to a visiting police group from the West, and they
had been horrified.
Personally, Adachi
thought the custom had a lot to recommend it.
No
yakuza
operated on
his own
initiative anyway; actions were always dictated from
the top, so the idea of a specific guilt or innocence was somewhat
academic.
Second, the custom
incorporated a built-in check on the crime rate.
A
yakuza
gang did not mind giving up a member now and then for a few years, but it did
not help practical operations or morale if half the gang was behind bars.
Finally, it made the job of both the police
and courts a lot easier, which was good not just for them but for the
taxpayer.
Everyone gained.
"Nothing
helpful like a license plate?" said Adachi helpfully.
"And a
signed confession," replied Fujiwara.
"Nothing so convenient at the scene.
However, a policeman in a
koban
several blocks away saw a Toyota
Crown Royal Saloon of the right year and color parked, and took its number as a
matter of routine.
The driver was
fiddling in the trunk.
When questioned,
he said he had had a puncture and had just finished changing the tire.
The beat cop expressed his sympathy and let
the man go, and apart from making a record in his log, thought no more of it.
But when he was questioned again, he said one
thing struck him afterward — the driver's hands were clean and his uniform was
immaculate.
Of course, he could have
been wearing gloves when he was changing the wheel."
"Did he
look at the driver's ID?" asked Adachi.
The thought occurred to him that the drive would certainly have had
gloves.
Even the cabdrivers wore gloves
in
and a conscientious chauffeur would certainly come prepared for such an
eventuality as a puncture.
"No,"
said the inspector.
"There was no
apparent cause.
It did not seem polite
to question someone who had just had a puncture who was obviously in a
hurry."
Adachi
grunted.
Treating the citizenry politely
was all very well, but like most policemen he believed that an extra question
or two seldom went amiss.
The innocent
should have nothing to hide.
Of course,
everybody really had something they would rather not be known.
He thought of Chifune and her secrets and the
discretion with which they conducted their sporadic affair.
"One car,
not two?" he said.
"One
car," said Fujiwara.
"Though it could have linked up with a companion nearer its
destination.
But the make, model,
description, and timing fit."
"Was
there anyone else in the car?" said Adachi.
"The
koban
cop did not know," said
Fujiwara.
"The windows were
tinted.
He said he thought he saw
someone else in the passenger seat, but hadn't a clue about the rear."
"Put that
cop on my shit list," said Adachi sourly.
"He seems to think he's a social worker, not a policeman.
What's the point of having
kobans
all over the place if the cops
stationed there don't keep their eyes open?"
"He got
the number," said Fujiwara, in defense of the beat cop.
Actually, he thought Adachi's criticism was
justified, but he had sympathy for the cops in the field.
And the inspector had spent considerably more
time working out of a
koban
than
Adachi.
"And we have traced
it."