Less Than Human (18 page)

“I don’t think I can stand being neighbors with you for the rest of my life.” Ishihara tried to make it a joke. “Get off my
back. I’ve got to report on the Okayama case.”

Beppu slid his chair away, grumbling.

Ishihara was glad the Zecom case wasn’t his. He could see the pressure put on Mikuni and the Okayama police by Zecom, and
probably by the Tokyo police authorities, but he didn’t think Mikuni was handling it very well. They needed to get their information
in order.

The business with the robot, for example. Nakamura must have let his killer into the lab, and the killer knew how to get out
without attracting attention. And McGuire said there should be backups—which argued, to his mind, that it was an inside job.
Or an outsider who knew their way around the company and around a computer. A disgruntled ex-employee, maybe.

But Mikuni was spending more resources on chasing Nakamura’s personal contacts outside the lab than in interviewing people
in the company. Because that fellow Yui, the one with the authoritative PR manner, told them Nakamura had debts in the town.

How did Yui know all this? He was Nakamura’s boss, sure, but not his mate. Mikuni hadn’t taken into account McGuire’s comments
that Nakamura was a complete wimp. Would that kind of man make friends in a tough crowd to start with? And none of the other
researchers in the unit had said anything about Nakamura’s after-hours activity.

Yui himself stank of deception. It might be merely the desire to keep Zecom out of trouble. Yui had been with the company
since he left university. He was Zecom’s best, and also the type Ishihara trusted least. They were university-educated, so
they thought they were cleverer than everyone else; they’d spent time abroad, so they thought they knew how to do things better;
they had high-paying jobs with connections to government and business bigwigs, so they assumed they had protection.

The description might apply almost equally well to McGuire … no, not really. Her husband’s family were ordinary people. And
by “ordinary,” he didn’t mean white-collar Betta-dwellers.

So what was he to write in the report?
Dear Boss, I think Okayama Prefectural are pissing in Zecom’s pockets and we’re never going to find the killer because he’s
in the company.

He groaned and started tapping his thoughts into something more tactful. Maybe he should get voice activation on his machine.

A quick glance across the room showed three detectives seated at their desks in earnest conversation with their screens. It
looked so stupid. He really didn’t want to start talking to machines. It reminded him of the Silver Angels kids, trying to
wire themselves to computers.

“Enjoy your field trip?” Assistant Inspector Ube paused on his way past.

Ishihara grunted assent.

“Message from young Bato, too.” Ube scratched his head. “He wants you to call. He won’t be in today, but he’s online.”

After the Kawanishi incident, Ishihara had asked Constable Bato from Fraud to keep an eye open for the dead man’s name in
connection with loans, in case he’d been in trouble somewhere.

“Thanks.” Ishihara reached for his normal, solid, unimplanted telephone.

Bato’s voice faded in and out. “… nothing on Mito …”

One lead gone nowhere, thought Ishihara.

“… the other man.”

“Who?”

“You don’t need to yell … hear you. From Kawanishi, technician called Sakaki … sent you a note. He’s blackballed at every
legal level. For over a year now.”

And another lead entirely. “Thanks, mate.”

“Happy to oblige.”

Ishihara ruffled through the papers in his in-tray. There it was, a fax sent to him yesterday.

It looked like Sakaki had been sinking further and further into debt now for months. To get himself on the list of unacceptable
risks for legal loan houses, he would have had to miss several payments completely and at more than one place.

He laid Bato’s fax about Sakaki on the left of his desk, the incident reports from Kawanishi in the middle, and his own notes,
including what he thought McGuire said, on the right. About time he cleared this up. Was Mito’s death an accident or not?
If not, was it murder and who was responsible?

The evidence of the factory said accident—nobody was on the floor except Mito and the body was undisturbed.

The evidence of the robot was unclear, according to McGuire. Something caused it to move outside its programmed sequence and
to go to halt instead of emergency stop after hitting Mito. But she still didn’t know for sure if that “something” was accidental
electronic interference or deliberate sabotage. It wasn’t mechanical failure.

Sakaki’s turning up at work on the afternoon after discovery of the death was suspicious, also that he was deep in debt. But
unless McGuire’s examination of the robot showed how Sakaki could have done it, he wasn’t a suspect.

A copy of McGuire’s report to her bosses at Tomita had been sent to him, as requested. He skimmed through most of the technical
details to the summing-up. She didn’t speculate how the accident might have happened—all she said was “it is likely the robot
was modified in some way that allowed it to move outside its program. This is supported by the erasure of the control logs
at the time of the incident and the unidentified hardware attached to the controller.”

The police specialist in industrial machinery said much the same thing, although he hadn’t seen the “hardware” McGuire referred
to. Some kind of transmitter.

A number of possibilities presented themselves: Mito and Sakaki might have gone gambling together, then quarreled over who
should pay back the loan—except Mito was a Happy Universe member and didn’t gamble; Mito might have found out about Sakaki’s
habit and threatened to tell the company, or even tried to get money from Sakaki in exchange …

Some of these possibilities assumed Sakaki had stayed on at the company after his shift ended. He could have clocked out,
then hidden until everyone else had left. All the possibilities assumed Sakaki could have reprogrammed the robot or caused
it to move. Could he have taken off the arm like Nakamura’s murderer? The only person who could tell him that was McGuire.

He called her number from her business card, but she wasn’t there. A young male voice that identified itself as Kato said
McGuire-san hadn’t come in yet.

Ishihara said he’d call back later and dropped the phone back in its slot in annoyance. No rush, really. If Sakaki did happen
to be a particularly clever murderer, he wasn’t likely to do anything else—he’d be happy for McGuire to discover nothing and
the accident to remain an accident. Surely she’d have called Ishihara by now if she’d found evidence that it wasn’t.

But why wasn’t McGuire at work yet? He’d got her classified in his mind as “ambitious workaholic,” one of those foreigners
who delighted in beating the Japanese at their own game. Workaholics should go to work.

His desk phone buzzed, an outside line, voice only. Bato again?

“Religious Affairs, Ishihara.”

“Um, this is McGuire. From Tomita …”

Ishihara sat up straight, the coincidence prickling the back of his neck. “McGuire-san. What can I do for you?”

“Can I ask you about a Religious Affairs problem?” Her Japanese was damn good. He’d never have guessed a foreigner was on
the other end of the line.

“Yeah, sure. That’s my job.”

He could hear her take a deep breath.

“My niece seems to be involved with a weird group. The police think it’s a cult of some kind. They talked to my brother-in-law,
but he can’t contact her.”

“What’s the group’s name?”

“The police called them the Silver Angels.”

Ishihara cursed inwardly and re-called the Silver Angels report onto his screen. Interviews … interviews … list of geography
club members …

“Assistant Inspector?”

“Yeah, I’m here. What’s your niece’s name?”

“Mari Kitami.”

There she was. In the list of geography club members who couldn’t be found. The home address looked familiar—he’d seen it
when he looked up the information on McGuire’s husband.

“How should we go about looking for her?” Her voice was strained. “The police don’t seem very worried, but we are.”

“You can report her as a missing person.”

“Will that help find her?”

No, it will do fuck-all, he wanted to say. If the kid wants to disappear, you can’t do anything. Even if it tears you and
your family apart.

“It means the police will be able to keep an eye out for her all over the country, in case she’s left Osaka.”

More silence. She’s not stupid, he thought. She knows if the girl’s left Osaka they’ve got less chance of finding her. He
pushed his notes on the Kawanishi Metalworks accident to one side. It seemed less urgent.

“What can you tell me about these Silver Angels?” said McGuire finally. “I can’t find anything on your police information
boards, and there’s not much online.”

“I don’t know much, myself,” Ishihara heard himself say. “But I know someone who does. I’m going to see him. Would you like
to come?”

“Where?”

“Be waiting at the taxi rank outside the Umeda subway east two exit. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

“All right.” She closed the link.

He cursed himself for a fool. Yes, he felt sorry for her and her family if the niece had got involved with a cult. But he
shouldn’t involve McGuire. Mind you, the bastard priest would be more likely to talk with an attractive female present. An
attractive
foreign
female … Ishihara almost looked forward to it.

McGuire looked washed-out, her bright hair and dark-ringed eyes standing out against pale skin. She always seemed to wear
the same kind of outfit—white shirt and comfortable-looking slacks, flat shoes, no jewelry. Today’s slacks were dull green.

“Where are we going?” she said.

“Northwest,” replied Ishihara shortly, all his attention concentrated on getting them out of the scrum of taxis and trucks
around the station. The Seikai traffic reforms were supposed to solve congestion, not make it worse.

When they reached the expressway he relaxed and put the car into autodrive.

“I called you this morning,” said Ishihara. “About the Kawanishi Metalworks case.”

She had to think for a moment. “The welder, you mean?”

“Yeah. We received some information that could have a bearing on the case. Tell me, and think about this carefully, could
that technician, Sakaki, have reprogrammed the robot to do what you saw?”

“No.” Her answer was immediate and definite. “To access the robot’s basic programming, the programmer must input their own
registration number and password. Sakaki wouldn’t have that information.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Unless Sakaki has skills nobody is aware of, yes.”

“Could he have taken off the hand piece to hit Mito, like Nakamura’s murderer at Zecom?”

She snorted. “Not at all. At Kawanishi the entire arm showed stress. The Kawanishi robot moved out of sequence and hit Mito
because he was standing too close. The Zecom robot could not physically have hit Nakamura if he fell in the way we found him.”

So Sakaki was off the hook. His guilty act must be about his debts.

They drove off the expressway, down into the narrow canyons of back streets festooned with electric lines and billboards,
filled with cars and bicycles and people. A bit like ground-level Tokyo but with fewer Chinese, more Koreans and Russians.
The car crawled, but if they walked, Ishihara would have to watch McGuire as well as his own back.

McGuire stared wide-eyed at the street. “I’ve never been in this part of town,” she said. “It doesn’t look very safe.”

“It isn’t.” Ishihara steered between a noodle delivery bike and three men either stealing or moving a tall vending machine.

McGuire looked directly at him. “Thank you for bringing me along. Is this expert one of your”—she struggled with the word—“informants?”

He kept his eyes on the street. “Not really, although he does give me information. He used to be a member of one of the late-twentieth-century
New Religions.” He didn’t say Soum. The word created an instant reaction of distaste in most people’s minds.

“He left them and went back to orthodox Buddhism.” Well, closer to orthodox Buddhism than to anything else. “He used to be
affiliated with Daitoku-ji temple.”

“So he really is a priest?” she said.

“Kind of a lay priest.”

She was silent again, and Ishihara concentrated on driving. The road cleared as they passed the crowded area around the station.

“Assistant Inspector?”

“What?”

“If Mari is being kept with this group against her will, what can we do to get her away from them?”

She was looking directly at him again. Ishihara braked at traffic lights and met her eyes. Their round foreignness still shocked
him.

“If you have reason to think she’s being physically restrained from leaving,” he said, “you can request a Custody Officer
from the local police station to go with you. You have a right to ask to see her, and she has to tell you in person if she
doesn’t want to go with you.”

“What if they coerced her into saying that?”

“If you’ve got reason to believe they’re coercing her— and that’s why you take a disinterested witness—you can make a formal
complaint, and the police may take out a warrant to investigate the situation.”

She mulled that over.

“What you can’t do,” he said, “is barge in without a warrant and demand the group give her back. We end up having to arrest
you, not them.”

“Has that happened before?”

He nodded. It happened, even to experienced policemen who should know better. The stupidest thing he’d ever done. In a moment
of desperation, he’d wasted his last chance to see Junta, if the boy had ever been there. By the time he returned legally,
the whole group had gone.

“Here we are.”