His eyes were neither guarded nor tense as a smile lingered on his lips.
HOW A BOY BECOMES A SOLDIER
The stove in Maeda’s office was still emitting heat. My blood warmed, making me tired and lethargic. Maeda barely glared at the censor log I handed him before stamping it. I wasn’t sure what to say and what to keep to myself. ‘Regarding Sugiyama’s case,’ I said hoarsely.
‘What about him?’ Maeda asked with a bored expression. ‘Did he rise from the dead?’ He shoved a finger in his ear as though to dig out what I’d just said.
‘I think I’m starting to understand the significance of the poem I found in his uniform.’
He removed some earwax and wiped it off his finger, looking puzzled. I couldn’t blame him; a few anonymous scribbles couldn’t be evidence of anything much, let alone murder. ‘There’s nothing of note about that case. Just focus on your censorship duties.’
‘Yes, sir. I won’t neglect my duties because of the case. If you look at the log you’ll see that I’ve been on the task. But I would still like to investigate the cause of death and the situation surrounding Sugiyama’s murder.’
‘That’s all in the autopsy report the infirmary sent over.’
‘There are certain facts I can’t determine from that document. I think it would be a good idea for me to go to the infirmary and talk to the doctor who performed the autopsy to find out more about—’
Maeda flung aside the newspaper he’d begun to read. ‘You’re in over your head, boy. Do you realize what the infirmary is? It’s solely for Kyushu Imperial University Medical School researchers. It’s a first-tier security zone where guards aren’t even allowed! You can’t just waltz in whenever you want.’
I persisted. ‘I’m conducting the murder investigation according to the warden’s express orders. Something caught my eye on the daily-duties log and that led me to interrogate Prisoner 331. Sugiyama had beaten him so badly that he suffered broken bones.’
Maeda’s wrinkled face showed a glimmer of curiosity. ‘Are you telling me that he killed Sugiyama because of a grudge?’
‘To confirm that I have to interview the doctor who performed the autopsy and take a look at the corpse.’
‘All right. I’ll write you a note. But be careful.’ He stamped a form granting me permission to enter the infirmary. ‘Just do what you need to do and leave. Be invisible!’ Strangely, his order sounded more like a plea.
The infirmary was a two-storey building to the right of the central facilities. From the outside it looked like a single structure, because a long corridor linked the two. Inside, however, it was a different story. The tart smell of disinfectant floated around the infirmary corridor, in stark contrast to the stench of sweat and bodily waste in the central facilities. The clean scent made me faintly dizzy, but it was a small price to pay. The infirmary was built when Fukuoka Prison became a national long-term prison. Before then, nobody gave a second thought to the health of criminals and traitors. So instead of an infirmary, there was a makeshift ward in the administrative wing, without adequate medical equipment and staffed by a doctor pushing sixty and a nurse in her forties. They dealt mostly with corpses fresh from execution, illness and riots. There was no need for medicine, as there was no saving the dying or curing the sick. The situation changed thanks to Professor Morioka of the Kyushu Imperial University Medical School, the country’s foremost medical expert. A charming, sociable man with a deep appreciation for the arts, Morioka was well known in Kyoto as a philanthropist and intellectual. His decision to leave the university for the prison system was therefore a shocking event, and the media covered the move with a tinge of hysteria. Morioka, explaining his decision as a strict adherence to the Hippocratic Oath, said that prisoners, too, had the right to receive medical treatment. As university hospitals were overflowing with good doctors, he would serve those who needed him most. He emphasized that he would continue to conduct research in the prison. The head of the university hospital was flummoxed, and even the mayor tried to persuade him to stay. Morioka recruited a medical staff of ten specialists, a dozen interns, twenty researchers and twenty-odd nurses. When he arrived at the prison, everyone greeted him expectantly. The prisoners were elated that their health, ruined from the cold, starvation and harsh beatings, would now be monitored by Imperial University doctors.
I floated by the patients’ rooms, nurses’ station and treatment rooms. Bright lights cast everything in sparkling white. Doctors and nurses wearing dazzlingly white coats rushed about. In my mind, a uniform represented one’s soul — the prisoners were washed out, the guards were dark, the doctors were clean and the nurses were pure. The autopsy room was in the basement, at the far end of the corridor. Sugiyama’s body was lying on a metal gurney in the middle of the empty room. Bruises — blue, black and red — covered his body. I noticed his knees were scratched, and darkly calloused. Dried blood tattooed his smashed forehead. Meticulous stitches sealed his pale, dry lips.
Eguchi Shinsuke, the head researcher who oversaw autopsies, stood behind the gurney, his face obscured by a surgical mask. I saluted. He held out a dry hand and removed his mask. He smiled broadly. In every way a gentleman, he looked to be in his forties. Men at war aged quickly, but he seemed to have avoided the harsh reality of the times. He guided me out of the door and led me into an observation room reserved for those viewing an execution or coming to collect a body. He placed the autopsy file on the desk and opened it. ‘The primary cause of death was cranial rupture and cerebral haemorrhage, due to a blow to the back of the head. The bruises all over his body are consistent with being hit with a blunt weapon while unconscious.’
I felt intimidated. The doctor gave me a kind look, then went back to the gurney and covered the corpse with a white cloth. He returned and washed his hands. I smelled something faintly fishy in the cool air. ‘Can you tell me what the blunt weapon was?’
‘It’s probably one of the clubs you guards have. The bruises are shaped like the tip of the club. The lacerations on the cranium have the same circumference. The long metallic weapon thrust into his chest caused some real damage. That sharp object punctured the heart.’
I knew that metal shafts were easy to come by in the prison. Whenever a prisoner came upon a piece of metal he plotted how he would use it to kill someone. Prisoners shaved down spoons into makeshift knives, or they took the mesh netting that kept them at bay, made it stronger by twisting it around itself, filed down the tip and walked around with it hidden in their sleeves. ‘The body was hanging from the second-floor banister,’ I reminded Eguchi.
‘Hanging was not a direct cause of death.’
‘You mean he was already dead?’
Eguchi gazed at me over his glasses and shook his head, indicating that he didn’t know.
I tried another angle. ‘What does it mean that his lips were sewn shut?’
He shook his head again.
It was left to me to discover the truth. The results of the autopsy were clear, but the pieces of evidence it scattered failed to create a complete picture. I left and walked down the corridor. I couldn’t wait to leave that white, shining ward. I was more suited to a damp, dark, grey space.
8 December 1941 dawned the same way as any other morning. The tram clanged its bell and rattled along the street, kimono-clad women rushed past and men glared with angry expressions. That afternoon a university student stepped into the bookshop to tell us that the same important breaking news was being continuously broadcast on the radio. I ran over to the radio shop next door. People were milling around outside the glass doors. I heard an impassioned voice burst through static: ‘At six this morning the Japanese Imperial General Headquarters, comprising the army and the navy, entered into battle in the Pacific against American and British forces. The navy air fleet bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, causing massive damage to American battleships.’