It would have come down to self-protection. Kyuma had been close to retirement and had already been promised a golden handshake and an executive role in the private sector. Whatever his circumstances, he was an executive who had looked after his own interests; in doing so, he had chosen to leave his successors with the parting gift of a live grenade. We can defuse it if we deal with it internally. Perhaps Kyuma had concluded as much, but that only proved he was as narrow-minded as the rumours had said. The reality was that there had already been a whistle-blower, in the form of Koda, and that the girl’s father also knew the truth. It was a barely sleeping giant, one that might be chanced on or woken up at any moment.
It truly was a cursed legacy. The director’s secret was passed down the lines. Kakinuma’s words. When he was about to retire, Kyuma had confided the truth to his successor, Tadahiko Muroi. The failed recording. The cover-up. The Koda memo. Muroi had no doubt been stunned, but he would have realized he’d become complicit the moment he heard the words. If he had let the facts come to light, the press conference to mark his promotion might have ended up marking his resignation. So Muroi had done as instructed, he’d taken the poison. It was probably during his reign that the framework for maintaining the secret – the surveillance and intimidation of Koda, after he’d left the force – was put in place. Muroi had primed Kakinuma for the role and appointed Urushibara to head up the operation. Keeping the Home Unit under lock and key was integral to preventing any leaks, so the blanket ban on Kakinuma’s transfer was added to the legacy. Criminal Investigations’ greatest secret. Carried down the line by eight successive leaders, all the way to the present day – to Arakida.
Mikami’s mood darkened.
Michio Osakabe was among the eight. As was the celebrated commander Shozo Odate. He had acted as a go-between for Mikami and Minako, and he’d been a father figure to the entire department. Still, they couldn’t have done anything. The potential danger of revealing the cover-up would have grown with time. They’d been handed a live grenade, and it had harboured more destructive energy than ever before. It wouldn’t have been about self-protection; it was all they could do to bury it as deep as possible.
Mikami nudged open the driver-side window. Cool air brushed his cheek. The north wind rustled the remaining leaves on the winter trees dotted along the pavement.
He needed to reset his line of thought.
He thought he could see through to Arakida’s way of thinking. Perhaps he had grown worried, sensing some kind of hidden motive behind the commissioner’s visit. Soon afterwards, word had reached him that Futawatari was digging around to find information on the Koda memo. It would have felt as though someone was sniffing around the hole in which he’d buried the grenade. Like a cornered animal, he’d panicked, sensing the danger, and had imposed the gag order before the night was out. Was there a real chance he would lash out, if he was pushed? Whatever Arakida did, Mikami felt certain Matsuoka wouldn’t take it quietly. He would be prepared to fight Tokyo directly if he perceived a threat to the department.
Mikami sensed he was beginning to understand the reason behind Futawatari’s actions, together with the aim of Administrative Affairs. They were working to remove any and all obstacles to Tokyo’s agenda. Did it forward this agenda to condemn the Six Four investigation? They would expose the department’s shortcomings, its weaknesses, then hold them up to its throat, hoping to breach the castle without spilling blood.
Was that the plan?
Even so, the knowledge that the bomb concealed within Six Four was related to a cover-up, that it had the potential to bring down not only the department but also the entire Prefectural HQ, clouded Mikami’s understanding of what Futawatari was trying to achieve. There was no guarantee it wouldn’t turn into a hornets’ nest. Yet he had gone from one place to the next, openly enquiring about the Koda memo. That was no different to advertising the bomb’s existence. It was a hallmark of inspections made in Administrative Affairs – whether to do with Personnel or Internal Affairs – that they were carried out in silence, in the shadows. More to the point, its inspectors were experts at measuring risk, always conscious of the public mood and wary of any possible legal action. They would expose the force to danger despite their duty to protect it. Were they capable of such a thing? If the truth came out, the Prefectural HQ would face the censure of every one of the 260,000 officers across the nation, together with the condemnation of the NPA. It would be a disastrous loss of face. The HQ would be stripped of its autonomy and forced into performing ablutions, into spending a long winter under the roof of Tokyo’s scrutiny. It would become a lame duck. Wouldn’t that be the outcome Futawatari feared the most?
Although . . .
Was there anything to suggest Futawatari had made any progress? Mikami had been in Criminal Investigations until the spring, but it was only fifteen minutes earlier that he had finally learned the truth about the Koda memo. Futawatari had failed in his attempt to get to Kakinuma. Urushibara definitely wouldn’t talk. And the field officers were all subject to the gag order, banned from talking to Administrative Affairs. They wouldn’t let their guard down in front of the enemy’s star player. The rank-and-file officers weren’t even aware of the facts. The odds were stacked against Futawatari. It was safe to assume he had still to get to the truth. He’d overheard someone talking about something called the Koda memo; that was the extent of what he knew. He had no idea what it said. He wasn’t aware of the danger, and that was why he was going after even the newly recruited detectives asking after it.
Mikami’s line of thought stopped there.
Futawatari must have overheard the memo being mentioned. But where?
His theory, only half thought through, took a sudden hit. This was Criminal Investigations’ dark secret, handed down from director to director. It wasn’t anything you could simply overhear. Where the hell could Futawatari have got wind of it? Had somebody told him? Was it Akama, whose orders he was working under? He’d known the detective’s code name for the case. Mikami had to admit that anyone overseeing an entire department had access to streams of information that were entirely off limits to anyone of a lower rank. Mikami refused to buy it. His authority meant that any number of people would seek to curry his favour, but it still didn’t make sense that he would have heard a code name that had never made its way around the headquarters as a whole.
Mikami felt at sea again. The mystery of Futawatari expanded to take over his thoughts. Futawatari knew something he wasn’t supposed to have heard about. He was discussing something it was taboo to speak of. The man’s dark eyes flickered in and out of Mikami’s mind, devoid of emotion.
Futawatari was doing something without realizing the risk. No. It was unthinkable. Mikami was more and more sure of it. Futawatari had always weighed the risks against his actions – it was how he’d made his name as the department’s ace.