Mikami instinctively switched gear. Hiyoshi had resigned because someone had mistreated him. It was possible the resentment was unjustified, that Hiyoshi’s mother had simply chosen to ignore her son’s frailty; either way, what mattered was that Hiyoshi – and his family – were under the impression that he’d suffered maltreatment.
‘Yes, well, it really was unbelievable.’ The bitterness twisted her features. ‘He was working for NTT Computers, in communications! The police chose him to help with a new case, and, well, when he saw how useless you all were at that sort of thing, he thought he could make himself useful by joining Forensics. Then, of all things, that kidnapping . . .’
Perhaps thinking of the eyes and ears of her neighbours, she suddenly told Mikami to come in, pulling him through the wooden door. It closed behind them. They stood hemmed in between the tall wall and a patch of head-height fatsia, the recess feeling damp and humid despite it being the cold season. Keeping her voice down, Hiyoshi’s mother continued.
‘It was unforgivable. To throw my son right into a barbaric case like that. Then to call him incompetent . . . after such a tiny little mistake. Don’t you people in the police have families? Was that normal behaviour for you? Try putting yourself in the shoes of the parents – we devoted ourselves to raising our son in a loving environment. He was devastated; the whole thing has ruined his life. How on earth do you intend to take responsibility for that?’
Mikami wasn’t sure how to respond. The virulence of her anger gave the false impression that she was talking about something that had happened earlier that day or the day before.
‘I’m here to offer an apology, and to talk to Hiyoshi if I can. There’s still a lot about what happened that we’re not clear on.’
‘You’re not clear on?’ Her shoulders came up, hostile, as she stuck her chin out in accusation. Her mouth was trembling. ‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t even know what you did to my son?’
‘Do you know who told your son he was incompetent?’
‘I’m sure you’re fully aware of who it was.’
‘Please, ma’am, if you could tell me. I am planning to make a thorough investigation into the matter.’
‘I don’t know – whoever was in charge at the time. I remember Hiyoshi telling me, “I made a mistake, I’m incompetent.” Ever since, he’s just been . . .’
He hadn’t told her what had actually happened.
‘You mean to say it was Hiyoshi himself who said he was “incompetent”, not somebody else?’
‘What are you trying to imply? He would never say such a thing, not unless someone had said it to him first. The poor boy was completely morose, he hardly ate. He looked terrified. It was one of your people. Someone said something to him, and it ripped his heart in two.’
Mikami prickled with each accusation.
‘Did Hiyoshi explain to you what his mistake was?’
‘He wouldn’t say a thing. Can’t you tell me? Did he really do something wrong? Or was it someone else trying to make him take responsibility for their mistakes?’
Mikami nodded to show he understood how she felt. He got the impression she’d already told him everything she knew.
‘I’ll try to ask him directly. Please, if you’d let me see him.’
‘Impossible,’ she snapped back.
‘Five minutes, that’s all I need.’
‘He won’t see anybody. Nobody at all.’
‘Nobody at all?’
‘Nobody. Not even family . . .’
She brought a hand up to cover her mouth. Tears formed in her eyes and they began to lose focus. Mikami held his breath as he waited for her to continue. In his mind he saw a number of potential scenarios. She looked back at him with reddened eyes.
‘Fourteen years. It’s been fourteen years. He’s been shut up in his room since the day he stopped going to the lab. He won’t talk to me, to his father. That’s how badly you people have hurt my son.’
Mikami looked up at the sky.
A recluse.
The worst-case scenario – suicide – had been in the back of his mind. But this hit him with even greater force.
‘May I ask how old he is now?’ Mikami asked, forgetting about work.
‘Thirty-eight. He’ll be thirty-nine next month. I don’t know what we can . . . How we can . . .’
Hiyoshi’s mother hid her face in her hands. The sound of sobbing leaked through.
The whole thing has ruined his life. Mikami had assumed it was an exaggeration, but not now. It all made sense.
‘How do you communicate with him?’
She looked up sharply.
‘Just how is talking going to help? It’s not as though any of you care. Not after all th—’
‘I had a similar situation, with my daughter,’ Mikami said, cutting in. A pain ran through his chest, brought on by the knowledge that he’d said this in part to accomplish something for work. ‘It’s been hard on my wife. She lost the ability to communicate and—’
‘Did she come back out?’ This time, Hiyoshi’s mother interrupted him. ‘Your daughter. Did she come back out?’
‘. . . yes.’
The ache in his chest grew worse. It was true, she had come out of her room. But . . .
‘How did you convince her?’
The hunger in her eyes caused Mikami to flinch. She moved closer, stark desperation on her features. Mikami cursed himself for having brought it up, but it was too late to crush the woman’s hopes.
‘We argued, just let everything out.’
I hate this face. I want to die!
It’s all right for you! It’s okay for you to look like that, you’re a man!
Mikami felt himself going pale. His head started to feel numb. He prepared himself for the dizziness to come. He stood firm. It passed in a few seconds. He told himself he was fine, and continued.
‘We also took her to see a therapist. That helped her let her feelings out.’
Hiyoshi’s mother gave a doubtful nod, her eyes flicking to the ground. Her disappointment was plain to see. They’d had fourteen years. They would be long past any discussions of whether or not to take their son to therapy.
‘Are you able to discuss your feelings at all?’ Mikami said.
She seemed distracted. ‘Oh, no . . . Every day I put a letter under his door, but he hasn’t answered a single one of them.’
‘Have you tried taking a harder line on it?’
‘His father did, a few times in the beginning. But it only made things worse.’
Mikami’s eyes lingered on the woman’s frail-looking shoulders. He was caught somewhere between professional integrity and personal feeling.
‘Would you allow me to try, with a letter?’
‘Of course . . . thank you,’ she answered, hardly listening. Her eyes hovered impassively over one of the windows of the house, a room – no doubt her son’s – on the first floor, the curtains closed.
28