A Cop's Eyes (6 page)

“He told me that he was on TV half a year ago.”

“TV?”

“The usual stuff. A documentary program, slumming with the homeless. I heard they did blur his face out, though.”

“I see …” Natsume growled, plunged into thought.

“What is it?”

“Well …” punted the detective.

But Masayuki had a vague idea as to what Natsume was
thinking. Perhaps it wasn't the youths who'd come to the park earlier, but rather the bereaved family of the office worker whom Sho had killed, who'd gotten their revenge.

It was a possibility. The bereaved had seen the documentary and learned that Sho, who'd killed their son, now lived in Ikebukuro as a homeless man. His face might have been blurred, but if they knew about the tattoo on the back of his hand, they could have figured out it was Sho.

Masayuki's heart ached when he thought about the family. He understood the pain of a parent whose son's life had been stolen away.

Because if he ever ran across the person who'd run over and killed Tomoki …

“Hey, Masa …” Naka called from inside his sleeping bag.

“What, want a drink?” Masayuki came to his side and smiled.

“It's past time you said goodbye to this place,” muttered Naka.

“The hell are you saying? There's no way I could just leave you and go.”

“You can leave this old man here. I won't be living much longer, but you still have many years ahead of you,” Naka said with a fainthearted expression that was rare on him.

“So dramatic for just catching a cold …”

“You can't just keep living this life!” Naka raised his voice to interrupt Masayuki. “Going on like this will lay waste to your soul.”

“It's already a wasteland,” Masayuki muttered as Naka looked into his eyes as if to peer into him. “I don't know what I'm living for …”

“Masa, do you have a family?”

“I do—no, did.”

In the dim tent, Masayuki remembered his son Tomoki.

Tomoki had passed away seven months ago after he'd just started elementary school. He'd fallen victim to a hit and run at a crosswalk.

Masayuki and his wife Saeko were stricken with grief upon losing their only child. They waited in vain for the culprit who'd run over Tomoki to be apprehended. Masayuki vented his pent-up anger and sorrow at Saeko.

Tomoki had been hit on the way home from running an errand for Saeko. It was by no means his wife's fault. He understood that well enough. In fact, he should have consoled his wife, who was already tormenting herself. But he could only come to grips with the unjust reality then by blaming Saeko.

Soon their marital relationship became stormy. On his job too, Masayuki didn't feel like working at all and started arguing frequently with his superiors and coworkers. Once he went home, a chilly evening with Saeko awaited him. Up until then, he'd only worked hard so that his wife and son could live well. He'd thought it had been his own reason for living, but now, he didn't know what he worked or lived for.

One night, Masayuki got into a shouting match with Saeko over some trifle.

The next morning, she wouldn't come out of her room even after he got up. They'd been using separate ones since Tomoki's death. He signed the divorce papers he'd obtained a few days earlier, left them on the table, and stepped out of the door.

Masayuki's work was in Otemachi. But when the train stopped at Otemachi station, he couldn't bring himself to rise from his seat. He'd felt that way ever since he'd lost Tomoki, but until now he'd somehow coaxed himself off the train. This time, however, no matter how much he encouraged himself, he couldn't stand up.

Everything could go to hell—that was his mindset.

Since then, and for the past four months, he'd been wandering
homeless and jobless.

“How about your son's grave?” Naka, who'd been listening to Masayuki, asked. He hit at a sore spot. “Are you going to burden your wife with that?”

“Of course I'll visit.”

“Living like this, are you going to steal flowers somewhere there to offer your son?” When Masayuki couldn't reply, Naka added, “You're a coward.”

The first sharp words ever to come from the old man's mouth stung. “Yeah, I'm a coward,” Masayuki admitted. “I know that. But what's more cowardly is killing someone, leaving scars, and getting away with it,” he spat. He'd thought that for a while now.

Masayuki was crushing aluminum cans in front of his tent when Natsume came by. He had a shopping bag in one hand.

“Is Naka in his tent?” the detective called to Masayuki.

When he answered, “Yeah,” Natsume entered the old man's abode.

Even after half an hour, the detective failed to reemerge. Wondering what was happening, Masayuki peeked inside.

“Masa, why don't you join us?” invited Natsume, who was crouched in the tent. He was cooking a soup of meat, burdock, and carrots over the portable stove. Tearing off kneaded flour dough in thin pieces, he dropped them into the pot.

Pouring some in a large bowl, he handed it to Naka, who slurped the broth and ate with relish.

“Yum.
Suiton
, that takes me back.” Of late, Naka hadn't had any appetite. It actually had to be delicious for him to be eating so wholeheartedly.

“It's similar to
suiton
, but this is called
hittsumi
,” Natsume enlightened Naka.

“Huh,
hittsumi
. First I've heard of it,” the old man marveled.

Natsume had made three people's worth, and he and
Masayuki went to have theirs on a bench in the plaza.

What a strange man—that was Masayuki's thought as he glanced at Natsume, who was holding his bowl and having a mouthful of
hittsumi
.

Knowing that he was a detective didn't make him intimidating in the least. He was generous even to homeless people like them. The man was no doubt good-natured, but how did that work out for a cop? It was nice of him to treat them to a homemade meal, but was he actually investigating the case? Masayuki's positive impression of Natsume as a person nestled next to countervailing doubts.

“About the office worker you mentioned the other day … whom Sho killed,” Masayuki began.

“Yes, what about it?”

“Do you think there's a possibility that one of the bereaved killed Sho?”

“I could tell you were thinking that, too,” Natsume replied, looking straight at Masayuki.

“It's a possibility, isn't it.”

“The day before yesterday, I went to meet with that person's father.”

So Natsume did suspect the family of the man who'd been killed by Sho.

“When his son passed away, he was living in Yokohama, but now he's living alone in Shizuoka. We were able to confirm his alibi for when the case occurred.”

“And the victim's mother?”

“It seems she succumbed to illness two years ago.”

“Oh …”

They were able to confirm an alibi for the father—this wasn't Masayuki's problem, but he was relieved to hear it. He felt surer that the culprits were the youths who had come by the park.

“There's something I'd like you to see,” Natsume said, pulling
a photo from his pocket. It was of a bottle of imported whiskey. “It's the murder weapon from Mr. Aizawa's case. We found it yesterday in a trash can at another park.”

Masayuki examined the photo. The bottle was covered in mud, and the bloodstains spattered on the label made it hard to read. But it said Macallan. “I don't know if this is the same one, but Sho had this brand in his shack.”

“I see. I appreciate it,” Natsume thanked him.

Masayuki stood up from the bench. “Are we done? I need to work.”

“Just one more thing,” Natsume stopped him. “How old are you, Masa?”

“I'm thirty-eight.”

“The same as me. This may not be any of my business, but how long do you intend to continue this lifestyle?”

Natsume's words caught Masayuki off guard. “That really is none of your business,” he replied, chewing over his irritation.

“Just earlier, I spoke with Naka about you. I can't begin to fathom the pain of losing your child. But—”

“You can't!” flared up Masayuki. “How could you know what it's like to grieve for your only son? It's not just grief. After the grief comes the helpless emptiness. I'd been hanging in there to protect my dear family. But no matter how hard I tried, someone, some stranger, could just rob me of my happiness. What am I supposed to hang in there and live for now? Let folks who're still happy bandy words like ‘hard work' and ‘effort'!” Masayuki spouted before heading back to his tent, as though in flight.

That night in his tent, Masayuki drank for a change. Naka's words, and Natsume's, had pierced and lodged in his heart.

He'd thought that leaving that house behind might liberate him, if only a little, from the pain of mourning. If he kept living as a drifting weed, his heart might grow numb and easy; yet, the
wound in his heart had only deepened. No matter where he ran, was there no way to run from his past in the end?

Suddenly, he couldn't bear being alone. What a weak person he was. When he'd been with Saeko, her human presence had been so unbearable, but when he tried living alone, the inexorable loneliness of it nearly crushed him.

Masayuki took the bottle and headed to Naka's tent.

“Naka, let's drink together,” he called from outside.

There was no response. Was he already asleep?

Oh well
—if he drank right next to him, the man might eventually wake up.

Masayuki turned over the tarp and went inside. He turned on the flashlight. He poured a drink into his cup and downed it.

“Naka … I respect you. You've been living like this for ten years. Alone … Might be beyond me … If I keep living like this, I might start not wanting to live at all … Because I'm weak … Hey, say something.”

Masayuki turned the light toward the sleeping bag.

He felt something was amiss and moved close to Naka's face. The area around his mouth was stained red.

The moment Masayuki saw that, his heart started beating furiously. “Naka, Naka, what's wrong!”

He shook Naka's body. The old man let out an agonized moan. In an instant, Masayuki sobered up.

While he waited sitting on a bench in the hospital hallway, a doctor approached him. Masayuki stood and bowed.

“Are you family?” the doctor asked.

“No, I'm not,” Masayuki replied.

“Could you contact his relatives, then?”

“I don't know them at all. Is Naka that sick?”

“It's terminal lung cancer. How did he ever ignore it for so long? Unfortunately, there's nothing that can be done at this
point. All we can do now is take measures to reduce his suffering …” the doctor told Masayuki and left.

Masayuki weakly sank onto the bench and hung his head.

“You're lucky. You can eat nutritious stuff while you're here,” Masayuki said to Naka, who was in bed.

Two days after being brought to the hospital in an ambulance, Naka had regained consciousness. According to the doctor, however, he was still in an unpredictable state.

“Masa, I know you've got work to do, so don't be visiting every day,” Naka said with a gentle smile.

“I'm getting it done all right. More importantly, I never asked till now but … do you have family?”

“Family … Nope, I was always alone,” Naka answered with a lonely little laugh.

“I see.”

What would happen when Naka died? With no one but Masayuki the wiser, would he be given a quiet pauper's burial?

Masayuki almost sighed, but did his best to stifle it.

He heard a knock and turned around. The door opened and Natsume entered.

“How are you?” he asked, approaching Naka's bed.

“Pretty good. When I'm discharged, make me
hittsumi
again.”

“I thought you'd say that, so I cooked some.” Natsume hoisted up the plastic bag in his hand. “I've checked with the nurse.”

“But it's probably cold. I can go microwave it somewhere,” Masayuki offered.

“No need. I know many people at this hospital, so I borrowed their kitchen and made this just now.”

So that was it—Masayuki understood when he heard Natsume's explanation.

The homeless Naka had been treated quite cordially since being admitted. Perhaps Natsume had put in a word with the
hospital.

Extracting a large plastic bowl from his bag, Natsume placed it in front of Naka. When he opened it, steam came rising out. Natsume pulled up a folding chair and sat next to Masayuki.

Natsume watched with delight as Naka ate the
hittsumi
. When the old man finished, the detective turned to Masayuki and said, “I'd like to speak with him, just the two of us.”

“In that case …” Masayuki stood up.

“It's okay. Masa, stay,” Naka begged, exchanging looks with Natsume. “Please.”

Hearing this, the detective closed his eyes. He seemed to be thinking over something. When he opened his eyes, he looked at Naka and asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yup … Please.”

“I understand … We found out who murdered Mr. Aizawa—”

“Oh?! You mean … you caught those guys?” Masayuki, surprised, turned to look at Natsume, who sat down next to him.

But not meeting his gaze, Natsume instead stared at Naka and continued, “The fingerprints we found on the bottle used as the murder weapon matched the ones from the cup and bowl in your tent. You're the one who killed Mr. Aizawa, yes?”

Appalled, Masayuki looked back and forth at the two's faces.

What was the man saying? There was no way Naka was the—

“Yes.”

Masayuki's eyes widened at the reply. “Why? Why would you kill Sho?”