Malice (15 page)

I had assumed that Osamu Nonoguchi wanted the videotapes from Kunihiko Hidaka because something on them was of particular importance, something he didn't want us to see. Yet nothing on the seven tapes seemed to link them to Nonoguchi at all.

A dark mood spread through the office: we had missed our mark. That was when word came from forensics that they had finished examining the knife.

They reported, “Slight wear was found on the blade, showing it had been used at least a couple of times. No traces of anything resembling blood were found. There were several fingerprints found on the handle, which we have identified as belonging to Osamu Nonoguchi.”

This was something. Why would Kunihiko Hidaka have a knife bearing Osamu Nonoguchi's fingerprints tucked away like some valuable treasure? And why did he keep this a secret from his wife, Rie? A possible scenario occurred to me at once, but it was so outlandish, I hesitated to voice it without further evidence.

I thought about asking Nonoguchi about the knife, but I rejected that summarily. Without anyone's actually saying it aloud, we all thought this knife would be the trump card we needed to finally break him—we just had to be careful about how we played it.

*   *   *

The next day, we got another call from Rie Hidaka. She'd found another tape. We quickly went over to retrieve it.

“Take a look at this.” She held a book out to me—a paperback copy of
Sea Ghost
, the same book she'd given me before.

I gave her a curious look.

“Open the cover.”

I lifted the edge of the cover. Detective Makimura gasped. The inside of the book was hollowed out, creating a compartment in which a videotape was concealed. It was like something from an old spy novel.

“This book was packed in a different box from the other books, which I thought was curious. So I took a closer look at it,” Rie Hidaka told us.

I asked if she had a video player at the house. When she said yes, I decided to watch it there. Taking it back to the office felt like a waste of time.

The first thing that appeared on the screen was a familiar-looking garden and window. It was the Hidakas' backyard. The video had been taken at night, and it was dark, except for the bright square of the window in the middle.

In the corner of the screen, numbers showed the date and time the video had been taken. It was December, seven years ago.

I leaned forward with anticipation. But the camera only showed the same garden and window. Nothing happened. No one walked into the frame.

“Shall I fast-forward it a bit?” Detective Makimura asked.

Then a lone figure appeared on-screen.

 

5

CONFESSION

OSAMU NONOGUCHI'S ACCOUNT

 

For several days I'd had the feeling that the next time Detective Kaga paid a visit to my hospital bed, he'd bring with him all the answers he'd been looking for. Based on what I'd seen of his work so far, it seemed likely: he was precise, thorough, and startlingly fast. Whenever I closed my eyes, I could hear his footsteps' swift approach. When he found out about Hatsumi, I resigned myself—at least partially—to what was to come. His eyes were far keener than I'd expected. I'm hardly qualified to pass judgment on others, but I think he made the right decision by getting out of teaching.

When next he did come, Kaga was bearing two pieces of evidence. One was a knife, the other, a videotape. To my surprise, the tape was inside a hollowed-out copy of
Sea Ghost
.
How like Hidaka's sense of humor,
I thought. Though one could also interpret it as a tactical move. Had it been any other book, even Detective Kaga might not have arrived at the truth so quickly.

“Please explain what we found on this tape. If you'd like to look at it, I'm sure the hospital has a player we can borrow.”

That was all he needed to say to get the full story out of me because nothing less than the truth would explain the scene captured on that tape.

Yes, I still offered some resistance—refusing to answer, even though I knew it was in vain and wouldn't put him off. When he saw me clam up, Detective Kaga wasted no time and began relating his own theory. Clearly he'd expected this to happen, and with the exception of a few details, he nailed it.

By way of an epilogue he added, “All I've said is pure conjecture at this point. However we feel this is enough to construct a viable motive for your crime. You told me that we were free to create our own motive? Well, I think this will do nicely.”

It was true. If the only other option was confessing the real reason I killed Kunihiko Hidaka, I'd have been perfectly willing to let them make up something. Of course, I'd never dreamed that the story Detective Kaga would “make up” would be the truth.

“It looks like I've lost,” I said after a few moments of stunned silence. I spoke calmly, in an attempt to mask my bewilderment. In this, too, I failed.

“Will you talk?” he asked.

“If I don't, you'll submit what you just told me to the court?”

“Yes.”

“Then I'll talk. Since the cat's out of the bag anyway, I'd feel better if all the details were correct.”

“Did I get some of it wrong?”

“Hardly anything. It's quite impressive. Still, there are a few details that should be included. It's a matter of honor.”

“Your honor?”

I shook my head. “Hatsumi Hidaka's honor.”

Detective Kaga nodded. He instructed the detective with him to take notes.

“Hold on a moment,” I said. “Do we absolutely have to do it this way?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just … it's a long story, and there are parts of it I'd like to get straight in my head. I wouldn't want things to get jumbled in the telling and detract from the story.”

“I'll let you look at the finished report.”

“I know, but indulge me. If I'm to confess, I'd like to do it in my own words.”

Detective Kaga was silent for a moment. Then, finally, he asked, “You mean you'd like to write your own confession?”

“If you'll allow it, yes.”

“Very well. That works out better for us anyway. How long will it take?”

“A full day, I should think.”

Detective Kaga looked at his watch. “I'll be back tomorrow evening.” He stood up and they left the room.

*   *   *

That is how I came to write my own confession. I'm working under the assumption that this will be the last full piece I write. You might call it my final opus. When I think of it in this way, I find myself not wanting to waste a single word; yet unfortunately, I lack the time to labor over every turn of phrase.

My reunion with Kunihiko Hidaka came, as I've said, seven years ago. At the time, Hidaka had already made his authorial debut. He had received a small publisher's new-author award two years prior to our meeting. By the time our paths crossed again, he'd published one collection of short stories and three novels. I believe the publisher lauded him as “a brilliant new voice.” Of course, they always say that.

I'd had my eye on him ever since his books started hitting the shelves. Half of me was proud that my childhood friend had made it, while the other half was envious of his success. We'd often talked about becoming writers when we were kids. We both loved books and were constantly recommending our favorites to each other, reading and swapping them when we were finished. Hidaka turned me on to Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin. In return, I gave him Jules Verne.

Hidaka often boasted he would become a better writer than any of them. He was never one for modesty. Though I might never have said it quite as loudly, I shared his dream. So you can see why I was a little jealous of him for having made it out of the gate first, while I hadn't even taken the first step.

I did genuinely want to congratulate him on his success. More selfishly, I also thought connecting with him would offer me a chance. Through Hidaka, I could reach out to publishers, accessing the publishing industry in a way I'd only dreamed of.

I wanted to contact him immediately, but worried that, so soon after his debut, even words of encouragement from an old friend would be nothing more than a nuisance. So, I cheered him on in silence, reading his stories in the magazines and buying his books whenever a new one came out. In the meantime, inspired by his success, I returned to writing in earnest for the first time since a little bit of light fiction I'd written back in college.

I'd been incubating several ideas for years. I chose one and began to write—a story about a fireworks maker, based on an old man who lived near my house when I was growing up. I visited him several times in the last two years of elementary school and never forgot the fascinating story of how he'd discovered his craft late in life—a salaryman who became enchanted with fireworks after watching a display while on a business trip. It occurred to me that I could expand on that story and make it into a longer work. This became a novel I entitled
A Circle of Fire
.

Two years had passed when I finally decided to write to Hidaka, telling him I'd read everything he'd written and was a strong supporter of his work. I ended by saying I'd like to meet up with him sometime. To my surprise, his response came right away. He called me.

He remembered our childhood days with fondness. Thinking about it now, I realize that was the first time I'd spoken with him at any length since we went off to separate high schools.

“I heard from my mom you'd taken up teaching. Sounds like a nice, steady job. Better than me. I don't get a salary or bonuses. I never know what tomorrow's going to bring.” He laughed an easy laugh. Easy because he knew inside he'd gotten the better deal. Still, I didn't hold that against him.

We made plans to meet. We picked the place: a café in Shinjuku; and after that, dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I went to our reunion straight from work, still wearing my suit. He was in jeans and a bomber jacket. I remember thinking,
So that's what it's like to be self-employed,
and for some reason, at the time, it impressed me.

We talked about old times and mutual friends, and gradually the conversation turned to Hidaka's novels. When he found out that I really
had
read everything he'd written, he was genuinely surprised. According to him, not even the editors who badgered him to write more had read half of his stuff. Now it was my turn to be surprised.

He was in great spirits and talked nonstop, but his face clouded over a little when I asked about sales.

“Sadly, winning the new-author award from a literary magazine isn't a free ticket to success. You need people talking about your books to really move them off the shelves. Of course, a more prestigious award might have a little more pull. It's hard to say.”

It must be tough,
I thought,
making it as a writer only to realize your struggle is just beginning
. I believe that even then Hidaka was up against a kind of wall in his career. You might call it a slump. I don't think he had a clear path out of it, either. Of course, at the time, I had no inkling of any of this.

Then I confessed to him that I, too, was writing a novel and hoped to make my own debut soon.

“What, you've got a finished novel?” he asked.

“No, embarrassingly, I'm still working on my first. Soon, though. I'll be done soon.”

“Well, bring it by when you finish up! I'll read it, and if I like it, maybe I can introduce you to some editors.”

“Really? That's really great of you. Puts the ink in my pen, if you know what I mean. I was worried that without any real connections in publishing, I'd have to start sending in submissions blindly and hope for my own new-author award.”

“Oh, don't bother with those. They're a pain in the ass. Half of those things are just luck. If what you wrote doesn't suit the tastes of the underlings reading the slush pile, your novel will simply get cut in the early stages and never even see the light of day.”

“I've heard the horror stories.”

“Yeah, it's brutal. No, going straight to the editors is the only way.”

Before we parted that night, I promised I'd let him know when I was done.

With a concrete goal in my sights, my entire attitude toward writing changed overnight. I'd spent more than a year working on the first half of the novel, but it only took me another month to finish it. It ended up being a medium-length work, just under two hundred pages.

I got a hold of Hidaka and told him I'd finished my book. He told me to send it to him, so I made a photocopy and dropped it in the mail. Then all I had to do was wait. I remember going to work that day entirely unable to focus on my lesson plan.

However, no word came from Hidaka. I figured he was busy and didn't bother him right away. But a part of my mind started to worry that the manuscript I'd sent him was so bad he didn't know what to say. Bleaker and bleaker scenarios began to form in my imagination.

A full month after I'd sent him my book, I finally decided to call. His response was disappointing, but not in the way I'd feared: He hadn't read it yet.

“Sorry. I'm working on a really tough assignment right now and just don't have the time.”

What could I say to that? He was a professional author. The man needed to eat.

“Well, that's fine. I'm not in any hurry. You do what you need to do,” I said, unsure even as I said it why I was encouraging him to delay even further.

“Sorry. As soon as this is done, I promise to get right to it. I looked over the beginning, it's about a fireworks maker, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm guessing you based it on that old guy who lived next to the shrine?”

I told him he was right.

“It brought back memories! Anyway, I really want to read it, I just haven't had the time.”