“When did he check Mr. Senba in?”
“Around the end of April.”
Kusanagi nodded. That fit with Tsukahara’s absence at the soup kitchen in Ueno from May onward.
“Pardon the intrusion, but what was your connection to Mr. Tsukahara, Director?”
Shibamoto was silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “About twenty years ago, we had a bit of difficulty concerning malpractice at the hospital. Someone on the staff leaked word that one of our doctors had made a mistake, a patient had died, and that there had been a hospital-wide effort to conceal what happened. Typically, it’s very difficult to prove malpractice, but in this case, every new piece of evidence that came to light was stacked heavily against the hospital. The doctor tried to assert his innocence, but the defense was a mess, losing critical pieces of evidence and the like, until the hospital was pushed into a corner. The director of the hospital at the time was my father, and the investigation took a toll on him.
“Masatsugu Tsukahara came to their rescue. He did the rounds, questioning everyone at the hospital until he found the informant, a nurse who’d been present at the surgery. It turns out that she’d fabricated the malpractice claim, trying to get back at the hospital for years of poor treatment.
“Her motives were infantile, yet her actions put the entire hospital in a very precarious position. If the truth of the matter hadn’t come to light, even if we’d been found not guilty of malpractice, the stain on our image would’ve been difficult to remove,” Shibamoto explained calmly.
“So when Mr. Tsukahara came to you with an ill homeless man with no residential card, you felt obligated to take him in?”
Shibamoto frowned for moment, but it soon faded. “If it hadn’t been Mr. Tsukahara who brought him, it would’ve been difficult to convince us to make the exception, yes.”
“How did Mr. Tsukahara explain the request to you? Did he mention his connection to Senba at all?”
“Not in much detail, no. He only said Senba was someone he had known for a long time.”
“And Mr. Tsukahara covered all of his hospital expenses?”
“The patient was penniless.”
“How is Mr. Senba’s condition? I’ve heard he’s in hospice care?”
A wrinkle formed between Shibamoto’s eyebrows, and he frowned. “We’re generally not supposed to talk about the condition of patients in our care, but I’ll make an exception, given the circumstances. As you said, he’s in our terminal care ward. Mr. Senba has a brain tumor.”
That was a surprise. Kusanagi had been expecting some other kind of cancer.
“Malignant, I assume?” Utsumi asked.
Shibamoto nodded, his face hard. “At the time when Mr. Tsukahara brought him here, he’d already deteriorated quite a bit. He could still walk, though he required a cane. His health was in bad shape, and he was emaciated. Mr. Tsukahara said that one of his friends, another homeless man, had been taking care of him, but if he’d found him even a week after he did, it might have been too late.”
“And there’s no hope for recovery?”
Shibamoto shrugged. “If there were, he wouldn’t be in hospice care. Surgery isn’t an option. His disease is so far progressed that there would be no point.”
Kusanagi sighed and leaned forward. “Is he conscious?”
“It depends. Would you like to see him?”
“If possible, yes.”
“Wait a minute,” Shibamoto said, standing. He walked over to his desk and picked up the phone. After exchanging a few words, he turned to look at the detectives. “The nurse says he’s doing well today. You can meet him now if you’d like.”
“Please,” Kusanagi said, standing.
Shibamoto nodded and spoke a few more words on the phone before putting it down. “We have a visiting room on the third floor of the hospice ward. Please wait there.”
Kusanagi and Utsumi thanked him and left. The hospice center was newer and wrapped in a deeper silence than the hospital. They took the elevator up to the third floor and followed the map they found posted on the wall. A nurse in a pink uniform was standing outside the room.
“You’re from the director’s office?” the nurse asked.
“Yes, thank you for letting us see him.”
Kusanagi went to show his badge, but the nurse smiled and raised her hand to tell him there was no need. “Please wait here. I’ll bring Mr. Senba.”
The nurse walked off, and Kusanagi and Utsumi went inside the visitors’ room. There were two small tables, with folding chairs on either side. No one else was in the room.
Kusanagi sat down on the nearest chair and looked around. The room was devoid of décor and had only a single round clock on the wall. He could hear the sound of the second hand ticking.
“It’s quiet,” he said. “Almost like time moves at a different pace here.”
“I’m guessing that’s on purpose,” Utsumi said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well…” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “When you consider that everyone here has a limited amount of time left…”
Kusanagi grunted and leaned back in his chair.
They sat in silence until they heard a sound approaching: something rubbing against the floor outside. Eventually, Kusanagi realized it was the sound of wheels rolling across the tiles.
The noise stopped, and the door opened. The nurse reappeared, pushing a wheelchair in front of her. Sitting in the wheelchair was an old, emaciated man. His wrinkled skin clung to his bones, and the shape of his skull was clear beneath his wispy hair. His neck made Kusanagi think of a plucked chicken, and his hands where they emerged from the sleeves of his billowing pajamas looked like withered twigs.
Kusanagi and Utsumi both stood. The nurse pushed the wheelchair in front of them and put on the brake.
The old man remained facing the back wall, unmoving, except for his eyes, which twitched a little in their sunken sockets. Kusanagi knelt down and peered into those eyes. “Hidetoshi Senba?”
The man’s narrow jaw moved. “Yes,” he said. His voice was raspy but firmer than Kusanagi had imagined it would be.
Kusanagi showed the old man his badge. “We’re detectives from Tokyo homicide. I believe you know a Mr. Masatsugu Tsukahara?”
Senba blinked a few times, then said, “Yes.”
Kusanagi kept looking straight at him when he said, “I’m afraid Mr. Tsukahara has passed away.”
Senba’s sunken eyes opened wide, staring out into space. Though his face was pale, the skin around his eyes reddened as his mouth cracked open. “When? Where?”
“Several days ago, in a place called Hari Cove.”
“Hari…” Senba croaked, opening his eyes, then narrowing them. The wrinkles on his face shifted each time he moved. Then he groaned, a low, guttural sound that might’ve been a quiet scream. But he hardly moved. He was still facing the blank wall in front of him.
“The investigation is still ongoing, but there is a possibility that Mr. Tsukahara was murdered. I was hoping you might have some information that could help us.”
Senba’s eyes turned toward Kusanagi, not quite focusing.
“Mr. Senba. Do you know why Mr. Tsukahara went to Hari Cove? That’s near where your wife’s family lives, correct? Do you think there could be a connection?”
Senba’s mouth twitched, as if he was muttering.
Kusanagi was about to repeat his question when Senba turned his head a little and raised his left hand—a signal for the nurse to put her ear by his mouth. She nodded once or twice, then said, “Wait just a moment” to the detectives and left the room.
Senba sat in his chair, his eyelids closed. Kusanagi waited in silence.
When the nurse returned, she was carrying a piece of paper. She exchanged a few words with Senba, then held the paper out to Kusanagi.