Rising Sun: A Novel (39 page)

And then he bent over the dead girl, and removed her watch.

“No kidding,” I said. “He took her watch.”

I could only think of one reason why: the watch must have an inscription. The man put the panties and the watch in his pocket, and was turning to go, when the image froze again. Theresa had stopped it.

“What is it?” I said.

She pointed to one of the five monitors. “There,” she said.

She was looking at the side view, from the overall camera. It showed the conference room as seen from the atrium. I saw the silhouette of the girl on the table, and the man inside the conference room.

“Yeah? So?”

“
There
,” she said, pointing. “They forgot to erase that one.” In the corner of the screen, I saw a ghostly form. The angle and the lighting were just right to enable us to see him. It was a man.

The third man.

He had come forward, and now was standing in the middle of the atrium, looking toward the killer, inside the conference room. The image of the third man was complete, reflected in the glass. But it was faint.

“Can you get that? Can you make it out?”

“I can try,” she said.

The zooms began. She punched in, saw the image decompose. She sharpened it, heightened contrast. The image streaked, and went dull, flat. She coaxed it back, reconstituted it. She moved closer, enlarging it. It was tantalizing. We could almost make an identification.

Almost, but not quite.

“Frame advance,” she said.

Now, one by one, the frames clicked ahead. The image of the man was alternately sharper, blurred, sharp.

And then at last, we saw the waiting man clearly.

“No
shit
,” I said.

“You know who he is?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s Eddie Sakamura.”

After that, we made swift progress. We knew, without a doubt, that the tapes had been altered and the identity of the killer had been changed. We watched as the killer came out of the room, and moved toward the exit, with a regretful look back at the dead girl.

I said, “How could they change the killer’s face in just a few hours?”

“They have very sophisticated mapping software,” she said. “It’s by far the most advanced in the world. The Japanese are becoming much better in software. Soon they will surpass the Americans in that, as they already have in computers.”

“So they did it with better software?”

“Even with the best software it would be daring to try it. And the Japanese are not daring. So I suspect this particular job was not so hard. Because the killer spends most of his time kissing the girl, or in shadow, so you can’t see his face. I am guessing they had the idea very late, as an afterthought, to make a change of identity. Because they saw that they only had to change this part coming up.… There, where he passes the mirror.”

In the mirror, I saw the face of Eddie Sakamura, clearly. His hand brushing the wall, showing the scar.

“You see,” she said, “if they changed that, the rest of the tape could pass. In all the cameras. It was a golden opportunity, and they took it. That is what I think.”

On the monitors, Eddie Sakamura went past the mirror, into shadow. She ran it back. “Let’s look.”

She put up the reflection in the mirror, and step-zoomed
in to the face until it broke into blocks. “Ah,” she said. “You see the pixels. You see the regularity. Someone has done some retouching here. Here, on the cheekbone, where there is a shadow beneath his eye. Normally you get some irregularity at the edge between two gray scales. Here, the line is cleaned up. It has been repaired. And let me see—”

The image spun laterally.

“Yes. Here, too.”

More blocks. I couldn’t tell what she was looking at. “What is it?”

“His right hand. Where the scar is. You see, the scar has been added, you can tell from the way the pixels configure.”

I couldn’t see it, but I took her word for it. “Then who was the actual killer?”

She shook her head. “It will be difficult to determine. We have searched the reflections and we have not found it. There is a final procedure which I did not try, because it is the easiest of all, but it is also the easiest to change. That is to search the shadow detail.”

“Shadow detail?”

“Yes. We can try to do image intensification in the black areas of the picture, in the shadows and the silhouettes. There may be a place where there is enough ambient light to enable us to derive a recognizable face. We can try.”

She didn’t sound enthusiastic about the prospects.

“You don’t think it will work?”

She shrugged. “No. But we might as well try. It is all that is left.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

She started to run the tape in reverse, walking Eddie Sakamura backward from the mirror toward the conference room. “Wait a minute,” I said. “What happens after the mirror? We haven’t looked at that part.”

“I looked earlier. He goes under an overhang, and moves away, toward the staircase.”

“Let’s see it anyway.”

“All right.”

The tape ran forward. Quickly, Eddie Sakamura went toward the exit. His face flashed in the mirror as he went
past it. The more often I saw it, the more fake that moment looked. It even seemed as if a small delay, a tiny pause, had been added to his movement. To help us make the identification.

Now the killer walked on, into a dark passage leading toward the staircase, which was somewhere around the corner, out of view. The far wall was light, so he was silhouetted. But there was no detail visible in the silhouette. He was entirely dark.

“No,” she said. “I remember this part. Nothing here. Too dark.
Kuronbō.
What they used to call me. Black person.”

“I thought you said you could do shadow detail.”

“I can, but not here. Anyway, I am sure this part has been retouched. They know we will examine the section of tape on either side of the mirror. They know we will go in with pixel microscopes and scan every frame. So they will have fixed that area carefully. And they will blacken the shadows on this person.”

“Okay, but even so—”

“Hey!” she said suddenly. “What was that?”

The image froze.

I saw the outline of the killer, walking away toward the white wall in the background, the exit sign above his head.

“Looks like a silhouette.”

“Yes, but something is wrong.”

She ran the tape backward, slowly.

As I watched, I said,
“Machigai no umi oshete kudasaii.”
It was a phrase I had learned from one of my early classes.

She smiled in the darkness. “I must help you with your Japanese, Lieutenant. Are you asking me if there has been a mistake?”

“Yes.”

“The word is
umu
, not
umi. Umi
is ocean.
Umu
means you are asking yes or no about something. And yes, I believe there may have been a mistake.”

The tape continued backward, the silhouette of the killer coming back toward us. She sucked in her breath, in surprise.

“There
is
a mistake. I cannot believe it. Do you see it now?”

“No,” I said.

She ran the tape forward for me. I watched as the man walked away in silhouette.

“There, do you see it now?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

She was becoming irritable. “Pay attention. Look at the shoulder. Watch the shoulder of the man. See how it rises and falls with each step, in a rhythmic way, and then suddenly … There! You see it?”

I did. Finally. “The outline seemed to jump. To get bigger.”

“Yes. Exactly. To jump bigger.” She adjusted the controls. “Quite a lot bigger, Lieutenant. They tried to blend the jump into the up-step, to make it less conspicuous. But they did not try very hard. It is clear anyway.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means they are arrogant,” she said. She sounded angry. I couldn’t tell why.

So I asked her.

“Yes. Now it pisses me off,” she said. She was zooming in on the image, her one hand moving quickly. “It is because they have made an obvious mistake. They expect we will be sloppy. We will not be thorough. We will not be intelligent. We will not be
Japanese.
”

“But—”

“Oh, I
hate
them.” The image moved, shifted. She was concentrating on the outline of the head, now. “You know Takeshita Noboru?”

I said, “Is that a manufacturer?”

“No. Takeshita was prime minister. A few years ago, he made a joke about visiting American sailors on a Navy ship. He said America is now so poor, the Navy boys cannot afford to come ashore to enjoy Japan. Everything is too expensive for them. He said they could only remain on their ship and give each other AIDS. Big joke in Japan.”

“He said that?”

She nodded. “If I was American, and someone said that
to me, I would take this ship away, and tell Japan to go fuck itself, pay for its own defense. You didn’t know Takeshita said this?”

“No …”

“American news.” She shook her head. “Such nothing.”

She was furious, working quickly. Her fingers slipped on the controls, the image jumped back, lost definition. “Shit fuck.”

“Take it easy, Theresa.”

“Fuck, take it easy. We’re going to score now!”

She moved in on the silhouetted head, isolating it, then following it, frame by frame. I saw the image jump larger, distinctly.

“You see, that is the join,” she said. “That is where the changed image goes back to the original. Here on, it’s original material on the tape. This is the original man walking away from us, now.”

The silhouette moved toward the far wall. She proceeded frame by frame. Then the outline began to change shape.

“Ah. Okay. Good, what I hoped for …”

“What is it?”

“He is taking a last look. A look back at the room. See? The head is turning. There is his nose, and now, the nose is gone again, because he has turned completely. Now he is looking back at us.”

The silhouette was dense black.

“Lot of good it does us.”

“Watch.”

More controls.

“The detail is there,” she said. “It is like dark exposure on film. The detail has been recorded, but we cannot see it yet. So … Now I have enhancement. And now I will get the shadow detail … Now!”

And in a sudden, shocking moment, the dark silhouette blossomed, the wall behind flaring white, making a kind of halo around the head. The dark face became lighter, and we could see the face for the first time, distinctly and clearly.

“Huh, white man.” She sounded disappointed.

“My God,” I said.

“You know who he is?”

“Yes,” I said.

The features were twisted with tension, the lip turned up in a kind of snarl. But the identity was unmistakable.

I was looking at the face of Senator John Morton.

I sat back, staring at the frozen image. I heard the hum of the machinery. I heard water dripping into buckets, somewhere in the darkness of the laboratory. I heard Theresa breathing alongside me, panting like a runner who has finished a race.

I sat there and just stared at the screen. Everything fell into place, like a jigsaw puzzle that assembled itself before my eyes.

Julia Young: She has a boyfriend who travels a lot. She’s always traveling. New York, Washington, Seattle … she meets him. She’s madly in love with him.

Jenny, in the TV studio: Morton has a young girlfriend that’s driving him crazy. Makes him jealous. Some young girl.

Eddie: She likes to cause trouble, this girl. She likes to make turmoil.

Jenny: I’ve seen this girl hanging around at parties with some of the Washington types for about six months now.

Eddie: She was a sick girl. She liked pain.

Jenny: Morton heads the Senate Finance Committee. The one that’s been having hearings about this MicroCon sale.

Cole, the security guard, in the bar: They have the big guys in their pocket. They own ’em. We can’t beat ’em now.

And Connor: Somebody wants this investigation to be over. They want us to give it up.

And Morton: So your investigation is formally concluded?

“Hell,” I said.

She said, “Who is he?”

“He’s a senator.”

“Oh.” She looked at the screen. “And why do they care about him?”