Malice (4 page)

“True. Which would make the time of death somewhere between six and seven o'clock.”

Wait.

That meant that he'd been killed right after he talked to me on the phone.

“How was he killed?” I said, half to myself. Kaga gave me a wondering look. He must've thought that was a strange question for the one who discovered the body. But it was true, I didn't remember seeing anything that would tell me how he'd died. To be honest, I was frightened. I don't think I even looked that closely at him.

I explained myself and Kaga nodded, understanding. “That's also something we need to wait on the autopsy to be sure, but all indications are that he was strangled.”

“You mean someone choked him? Like, with their hands, or a rope?”

“A telephone cord. It was still wrapped around his neck.”

“What?” I had no recollection of seeing the telephone.

“He had one other injury, besides. It appears he was struck in the back of the head. We believe the weapon was a brass paperweight. We found it on the floor next to him.”

“So someone hit him on the back of the head, knocked him out, then strangled him?”

“That's the most likely explanation.” Detective Kaga lowered his voice. “I'm sure there will be an announcement soon, but please don't repeat any of this before that, okay?”

“Sure, of course.”

The car finally arrived at my apartment.

“Thanks for the ride. That was much better than having to take the train.”

“Not at all. Thanks for the chat. It was very helpful.”

As I started getting out of the car, Kaga stopped me. “Tell me the name of the magazine.”

“His serial is being published in
Somei Monthly
.”

Kaga shook his head. “No. I meant the magazine you're writing for, Mr. Nonoguchi.”

I grinned sheepishly and blurted out the name. Kaga wrote it down in his notes and we said our good-nights.

Back in my apartment, I sat vacantly on the sofa for a while. I tried thinking back over the events of the day, but none of it felt real. It was the kind of day you seldom experience, if ever. The thought came to me that, even though it had been tragic, it was almost a shame to have such a day end by merely going to sleep. Not that I would be able to sleep, anyway. Not tonight.

Then I had an idea. I should record my experience. I should write the story of how my friend was killed.

That is the story behind these notes. I've decided I will keep writing them until the case is solved and the truth is out.

*   *   *

Hidaka's death was in the morning paper. I hadn't watched TV the night before, but I guessed the story was probably out by the eleven o'clock news.

The newspaper had a simple headline on the side of the front page, with the article continued on the interior. There was a big picture of Hidaka's house and, right next to it, a publicity shot of him that was probably taken for some magazine.

The article laid out the facts more or less accurately with one notable exception. Concerning the discovery of the body, it read, “Hearing from an acquaintance that the lights in the house were out, his wife, Rie, returned home to find Hidaka dead in the first-floor office,” which might make people think that Rie was the only one there. My name wasn't mentioned anywhere.

According to the article, the investigators were looking into two possibilities. One was that Hidaka's death was premeditated murder, and the other that it was incidental manslaughter. The front door had been locked, so the journalist assumed the criminal got in through the office window.

I closed the paper and was about to start making breakfast when the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock and it was just after eight. It was unusually early for callers. I almost never use my door intercom, I simply go and open the door, but today, I picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Nonoguchi?” The voice was of a woman, breathing hard, as if she had been running.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Sorry to drop by so early. I'm from Channel Eight News and I was hoping we could talk to you about what happened last night.”

That was a surprise. My name wasn't in the papers, but the TV newspeople had clearly caught wind that someone else was present when the body was discovered.

“Erm…” I considered my response. I didn't want to say anything lightly that might come back to haunt me. “What exactly is this about?”

“The author Kunihiko Hidaka was murdered in his home last night. We heard that you were there with his wife when the body was found. Is this true? Mr. Nonoguchi?”

Channel 8 News was one of those variety news shows. Her tone was overly deferential, almost sycophantic. I rolled my eyes. Still, it wouldn't do to lie.

“Yes, that's true.”

Even over the intercom, I could feel the excitement on the other side.

“And why were you visiting Mr. Hidaka's house that night?”

“Sorry, I can't discuss this with you. I've told everything to the police.”

“We heard that you contacted the wife, Rie, after seeing something strange about the house. Can you comment on what you thought was strange?”

“Please, talk to the police.” I hung up the intercom.

I had heard that TV news crews could be extremely rude, but this was my first time experiencing it for myself. Why couldn't they understand that I didn't want to talk to anyone so soon after finding my friend dead?

I decided I wouldn't go outside and risk running into another TV crew. I felt that I should pay Rie a visit or maybe just check on the house, but it would be impossible to get near the place today.

I was warming up a mug of milk in the microwave when the doorbell rang again. Again I picked up the intercom.

“Hi, this is Channel Four News. I was hoping I could talk to you?” This time it was a man's voice. “Mr. Nonoguchi, every person in the country is waiting to hear more details about what happened.”

This kind of bombastic statement would, under other circumstances, have made me chuckle.

“Look, all I did was find him. I don't know anything else.”

“But you were friends with Mr. Hidaka, correct?”

“That's true, but I can't talk to you about anything that happened last night.”

“If you could come out and tell us anything about Mr. Hidaka, that would be fine.” The man was persistent.

I sighed. I was worried less about the imposition and more about the trouble it would cause my neighbors if news crews were camped outside my door all day.

I hung up the receiver, went to my door, and opened it. A forest of microphones were thrust into my face.

*   *   *

In the end, my entire morning was spent fielding interviews, and I didn't even get to eat a proper breakfast. Finally, a little after noon, I retreated back inside my apartment. I was eating some instant udon noodles and watching TV when I saw a close-up of my face on the screen. I choked on my noodles. I couldn't believe they were already playing the footage they had taken just a couple of hours before.

“You were friends from elementary school, correct? What sort of person would you say Mr. Hidaka was?” the female reporter asked in a shrill voice.

On the screen, I seem to be thinking far too deeply about the question. I had noticed at the time that my silence was uncomfortably long. I guessed they hadn't had the time to edit out this awkward pause in the footage. You could see the reporters around me growing impatient.

“He had a strong personality,” the me on the screen said at last. “He was a real individual. Sometimes you'd think he was the most amazing guy, then other times you'd be surprised by his coldness. But perhaps you can say that about anyone.”

“Can you give an example of what you mean by his coldness?”

“Well…” Then the me on the screen shook his head. “No, not off the top of my head. And this really isn't the time or the place.”

Of course, in my head I was picturing Hidaka killing that cat, but it wasn't the kind of thing to announce on the public airwaves.

After a series of increasingly inappropriate questions, the female reporter asked, “Is there anything you want to say to Hidaka's killer?”

This was it, her home-run question.

“Not at this time,” I answered. You could tell she was disappointed.

After that, they cut back to the studio, where a reporter talked about Hidaka's novels. Behind the many varied worlds he had created, the reporter said, were the complicated human relations of the author himself. This clearly suggested that his death might be related to the intersection of his literary and private lives.

The reporter talked about the recent troubles Hidaka had had with his novel
Forbidden Hunting Grounds
. How the family of the man who was the model for the book's main character had raised objections. Apparently word hadn't yet got out that Miyako Fujio had been to Hidaka's house the day he died.

Then they went to a panel of celebrity guests they'd brought into the studio, and they started talking about Hidaka's death. I got a sour taste in my mouth and turned off the television.

I wished the NHK would cover the situation. For accurate information about something big, one of their networks was usually the best option. Unfortunately, the death of Hidaka wasn't momentous enough for a publicly funded station to put together a special program.

The phone rang. I'd lost count how many times it had already rung that day, but I still picked up on the off chance it might be something to do with work.

“Yes, Nonoguchi speaking,” I said a little roughly.

“Hi, it's me.” The firm voice on the other side was without a doubt Rie.

“Oh, hi. How did you do last night?” It was a strange question, but I couldn't think of anything else to ask.

“I went to stay at my parents' house. I thought I should probably call people, tell them what happened, but I just didn't have it in me.”

“I can imagine. Where are you now?”

“Home. I got a call from the police this morning, and they said they wanted to go over the scene with me and ask me a few more questions.”

“Has that happened already?”

“Yes. Though some of the detectives are still around.”

“What about the media? They giving you any trouble?”

“Of course. But some of the people from Hidaka's publisher and some television people that knew him came over, and they're handling the questions. It's taken a load off my shoulders.”

“I see.” I was going to say that was good, but swallowed my words. It didn't seem like the right thing to say to a woman who'd lost her husband the night before.

“How about you, Mr. Nonoguchi? They must be pestering you endlessly. I didn't see it myself, but one of the people from the publisher said you were on TV. I was worried so I called.”

“Oh, don't worry about me. I think they've finally settled down.”

“I'm really sorry you had to go through this.” I could hear her apology was sincere, and I was impressed with her mental fortitude. By all rights, she should have been one of the saddest people in the world right then, but she was taking the time to worry about me.
She really does have spine,
I thought again.

“Please let me know if there's anything I can help with. Anything at all,” I told her.

“I think I'm okay. Some of my husband's relatives are here, and my mother, too.”

“Okay.” I remembered that Hidaka had a brother two years older than him, and that the brother and his wife had taken in his mother. “Well, if there's anything, don't hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you so much. I'll talk to you later.”

“Thanks for calling.”

I hung up, but my thoughts remained on Rie. I wondered what she would do now, how she would live. She was still young, and I'd heard that her family was well-off, with money from the freight business, so she probably wouldn't struggle. However, I figured it would probably take quite some time for her to recover from the shock. After all, they'd only been married a month.

Before meeting Hidaka, Rie had been a passionate fan of his novels. They'd met through her work and had started dating soon after. That meant that last night she lost two important things: one was her husband, the other was the author Kunihiko Hidaka's new novel.

I was still lost in thought when the phone rang again. They wanted me to appear on a variety news program. I turned them down on the spot.

*   *   *

Detective Kaga arrived a little after six that evening. I answered the doorbell with a despondent certainty that it was the press again and found him on my doorstep instead. He wasn't alone. He'd brought another, slightly younger detective with him, named Makimura.

“Sorry to bother you. I had two or three more questions.”

“I expected as much. Come on in.”

Detective Kaga didn't even move to take off his shoes but asked, “Were you in the middle of dinner?”

“No, I haven't eaten yet. I was thinking of getting something, though.”

“How about we eat out? To tell the truth, we've been so busy conducting interviews that we didn't have time for a proper lunch. Did we?” He looked to his partner, and Detective Makimura obliged with a sheepish smile.

“Okay, sure. Where would you like to go? There's a pretty good pork-cutlet place near here.”

“We're fine anywhere.” Then Kaga hesitated as though he'd just thought of something. “There was a family restaurant just down the street, right? The one you went to with Mr. Oshima, your editor.”

“That's right. Do you want to go there?”

“Actually, yes. It's close, and they have free coffee refills.”

“I can get behind that,” Detective Makimura chimed in.

“It's fine by me,” I said. “Let me get my jacket.”

I went to get changed, leaving them at the door. I wondered why Kaga wanted to go to that restaurant. Did he have some reason for wanting to see it? Or was it just because it was close and he could drink coffee?