“I don’t know. It sounds kind of lame.”
“What’s lame about it?”
“Well, the not getting paid part, for one thing. Why do it if you don’t get paid? Anyway, I don’t much like science class in school. Most of the stuff we learn there is totally useless. What’s so fun about studying science?”
“Everything. You just don’t know it yet. The world is full of mysteries. And the joy of uncovering even the slightest mystery is incomparable to any other joy you will ever know.”
Kyohei shrugged. “If you say so. It’s not my thing. I’m not sure me worrying about humanity taking the right path will mean much of anything unless I become president of America or something.”
Yukawa chuckled. “My fault for taking the big example. But we can narrow our focus down to the choices a single person has to make. Whenever you take an action, you have to make a choice. What are you going to do today?”
“I haven’t decided yet. My uncle said he’d take me down to the ocean last night, but after that guy dying, I’m not so sure that’ll happen.”
“Let’s assume that your uncle is available to take you down to the ocean. You’ll have a choice: to go to the ocean as planned, or put it off for another time.”
“That’s not a choice. If my uncle could take me, why wouldn’t I go?”
“Well, what if it were raining?”
Kyohei looked out the window. “Is it supposed to rain?”
“I have no idea. But even if there are blue skies now, the weather could take a turn for the worse, couldn’t it?”
“Well, I could check the weather before going.”
“Ah, yes, the weather. And who do you have to thank for the weather report? Scientists. Except, modern weather reporting is not entirely accurate. You probably want a weather report that’s going to tell you exactly what it’s going to be like on the beach when you go today—specifically, what it’s going to be like an hour from now, and for another hour after that. Wouldn’t you?”
“If they had a weather report like that, sure.”
“You say they, but what could you do about it?”
“Um, nothing? I don’t know how to tell the weather.”
“You could ask someone who does. Say, one of the fishermen down at the harbor. They’d probably be able to tell you. Every morning they get up and judge the weather before they go out fishing. They have to, because it could cost them their lives if the sea got too rough. They can’t just rely on the weather reports, they have to rely on what they know about the weather the day before—the color of the sky, the direction of the wind, the humidity, et cetera—to get the most accurate prediction possible. That is science. What you’re studying in school science isn’t helping you? Fine. Try learning how to read a weather chart, and then tell me if science still isn’t helping you.”
Kyohei was silent. Yukawa stood, a satisfied look on his face. He started to leave, but then he stopped and looked down at Kyohei. “It’s okay if you don’t like science,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean you can just ignore things you don’t understand. It’ll come back to haunt you.”
NINE
Central Hari was the largest train station on the local line and the closest to the police department. There was a rotary out front for buses and taxis. Still, to anyone coming from Tokyo, it would look like the sticks, thought Nishiguchi. He headed up to the city himself a few times a year and was always a little awestruck by the size and complexity of the stations.
“Anytime now,” Motoyama said, looking down at his watch. Nishiguchi checked the time. It was 2:20 p.m.
The two detectives were standing just outside the gates at the station, waiting for an express train. They’d both been on their feet since the morning, and their shirts were soaked with sweat. Both of them were wearing jackets, however, and their ties were tied tight and straight.
Masatsugu Tsukahara’s widow, Sanae Tsukahara, had answered immediately when they called the number he had left in the guest ledger. When Nishiguchi explained why he was calling, she fell silent, a long silence that spoke volumes. When she eventually asked what had happened, her voice had been shockingly calm.
Nishiguchi had laid out the facts as plainly as possible, and the widow had listened in silence. Nishiguchi left her his cell phone number so she could call when she knew what train she would be arriving on. The plan was for him to pick her up at the station by himself, but about an hour after the phone call, Motoyama called to tell him he’d be coming along. Apparently, a man named Tatara, a director in Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department’s homicide division, had called their boss saying he wanted to accompany Sanae Tsukahara. The deceased had been in the same department as Tatara at some point before he retired last year.
Though the union card had told Nishiguchi that Tsukahara was a former cop, the revelation he was in Tokyo homicide came as a surprise. Yet it did make one thing clear: now he knew why the widow had sounded so collected on the phone moments after learning of her husband’s death. She’d probably spent many long years anticipating that very call.
With a director from the Tokyo Police Department arriving, they couldn’t just send one of the rank-and-file to greet the train—thus, Motoyama’s addition to the welcoming party.
“There it is,” he said, peering through the gates. Passengers were starting to come down the stairs. The number of tourists had dropped sharply after the weeklong holiday in August. Everyone they saw was identifiable at a glance as local, if not by their clothes, then by the size of the bags they carried.
One couple stood out from the crowd as clearly different, however. The woman was slender, wearing a gray dress and lightly tinted sunglasses. She looked to be about fifty. The man was on the short side but broad shouldered and looking smart in a black suit. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses.
“And that’s them,” Motoyama whispered. “Look at those eyes. That’s a detective who earned his rank.”
The man spotted them immediately and strode over, the woman following closely behind him.
“Director Tatara?” Motoyama spoke.
“Yes, and you are?”
“Motoyama, Captain, Hari Police Homicide. This is Detective Nishiguchi.”
Nishiguchi bowed his head as he was introduced.
Tatara nodded back, and indicated the woman standing behind him. “This is Mrs. Tsukahara. I believe you’ve already spoken.”
“Yes. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Mrs. Tsukahara,” Motoyama said, turning to face the widow and bowing deeply. “You have our condolences.”
Nishiguchi bowed too.
“Thank you for your concern, and for handling this … matter,” she said, her voice a shade deeper than it had sounded over the phone.
“And thank you for allowing me to accompany her,” Tatara added.
“Of course,” Motoyama said.
“When I heard what had happened, I knew I wasn’t going to get any work done today anyway. Detective Tsukahara was more than a colleague to me. I owe him a great deal.”
“I see,” Motoyama said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping the sweat from the side of his face. “I regret not having known him.”
“Where’s the body?” Tatara asked, straight to the point.