Previously, on CRIMINAL MINDS...
Prentiss got drunk.
...and now, the continuation.
Prentiss eagerly received the can of coffee with both hands, and pressed it to her forehead before cracking it open. The day was bright and chilly, and her breath misted.
"I tell you, Reid, this is one innovation I'll be sure to introduce to the brass in Maryland. Can you imagine one of these machines in every corridor? Triple productivity."
Wrapped in a trenchcoat, Reid was peering at her with some concern.
"Are you alright? Last night…"
"We're never, ever, ever discussing last night under pain of me shooting you in the kneecaps.-Oh God. Anyway, Hotch said I should get some exercise, and I'm inclined to agree with him."
The team had split into groups of two and, arriving once again in Akihabara, set off to investigate the cosplay cafes. With Hotch and Sasaki at the high-profile cafe that had employed Mei Oda, the others were sent to more obscure venues identified by Johnny B. Reid and Prentiss stood outside Cafe Blue Paradise while Prentiss sipped her coffee.
"What do you make of this place so far?" she asked. "Is it everything you dreamed of?"
"I have to admit," said Reid, "I wasn't prepared for the depth of the fantasy. There are people who spend whole nights here, the way some men visit bars. I'm not sure if that's psychologically healthy, but I can't see it in and of itself producing the kind of behavior our unsub exhibits."
"There must be a stressor. But there's no shortage of stressors around here, with the way people work and live. Maybe one day a guy just…snaps."
"That's not very scientific."
"It's hard to know the proper terminology in a situation like this. It's like we have to invent it as we go along."
"Agreed.-You know, the way things are going, we might to end up having to profile a fictional character."
"This Yuusuke? Well, what do we know about him?"
"In the game, the hero and heroine are connected by a sense of loss. He's lost his father; she's lost both parents and lives in a boarding house. If he can help her come to terms with her loss, it's a happy ending. Otherwise…"
"But he never displays any hostile feelings towards her?"
Reid shook his head. "Not that I can think of. That must be the unsub's pathology. One of these girls had a negative interaction with him…one that led him to invert the fantasy, turning healing into harm."
"You still favor the male customer as unsub."
"You were the first one to mention it, as I recall. Just now you seemed to think so, too."
Prentiss sighed. "I have to admit, it's plausible. I'd just like to believe it isn't true…that feelings of love or respect, or whatever it is, can't turn bad like that…in spite of all evidence, and experience, to the contrary. Anyway," she said, tossing away the can, "let's get to work."
Two workers at Cafe Blue Paradise, both frequent Rei Nakamura cosplayers, had volunteered to speak with them. Neither spoke English, and they were relying on Reid's untested powers of translation.
Natsumi Kodo had a broad, honest, open face. She wore a white smock over a vaguely maid-like uniform, but there was nothing coquettish or fantastic about her. Her colleague Rin Todokawa, off-duty, looked younger, was slender and nervous, and wore a black turtleneck sweater. Her hair was cut short and slightly tufted. Natsumi much more resembled a poster of Rei Nakamura hanging on the wall, the same kind of plain, sensible girl with a small red ribbon in her hair.
When Reid mentioned the victimology, Rin almost burst out crying.
"So it's true!"
"We can't be sure of that yet," he said clumsily. "Only that it's…held true so far."
Rin clung to Natsumi's arm. "I'm scared."
"Shh." Natsumi gently patted her shoulder. "The police will protect us. See? They've even got the American FBI. That's how much they care. We're going to be okay." "
But…Maya and everyone else, they're not okay! Who did it? Who could do something like that?"
"That's what we need your help figuring out," said Prentiss, and Reid translated. "We think a certain Yuusuke cosplayer might know something about the case. He was friends with Mei Oda. He persuaded her to leave a previous job and go into cosplay. You two might know him as well."
"There are lots of Yuusuke cosplayers," Natsumi said, guardedly.
"This one was very outgoing and charismatic," said Reid. "He was probably more social, less awkward than your other customers. Kind, solicitous, knowledgeable…you had a positive impression of him."
"But how could a person like that…?" said Rin, disbelieving.
"We didn't say he hurt anyone, only that he might know something. Can you think of anyone who fits that description?"
Natsumi looked down. A powerful thought had struck her, but she was obviously reluctant to voice it. Reid waited patiently, gazing at her.
Rin shook her arm. "What is it?"
"There is Akira," she said quietly.
"Akira? Is that his real name?"
"I think so. But he never told us his last name."
"What else can you tell us about him?" Prentiss asked.
"He isn't like the others. It's just like you say, he's…very confident. I think he has a good job…he spends a lot of money."
"And how often does he come here?"
"Usually every few days. But we haven't seen him in two weeks."
Reid and Prentiss shared a glance. Bingo.
"You know," said Natsumi, smiling a little, "Akira did something nice for me. I was walking home one night, and a couple of boys got fresh. He chased them off. He even hit one with his briefcase. I was going to treat him to coffee or something…but he got embarrassed and ran away. "
"Not so confident, then," said Prentiss.
"You don't understand. It takes a lot of guts to stand up to anybody around here. He'd probably used up his supply of courage for that day."
"That was just before he disappeared," murmured Rin.
"When I didn't see him, I was kind of worried the punks got back at him…but he'll turn up. He's been gone for a week or two before, on business." Then, still smiling, Natsumi shook her head gently and said: "Akira-san has nothing to do with this. If he knew anything, he would have told the police. That's the kind of guy he is."
"Maybe so," said Reid, "but we'd still like to talk to him." He slid a business card across the table. "If he shows up, please call this number."
"You promise he won't get into any trouble?"
"I…" Reid looked at Prentiss. "I'm afraid I can't make that promise. But if he hasn't done anything, he has nothing to worry about."
"You believe in him, don't you?" asked Prentiss, and when Reid had translated, Natsumi nodded firmly.
Before they left, Prentiss had a final question: "There's something I'd like to understand. Maybe you two can help me."
"Yes?" After the solemn questions, Rin looked eager to help.
"I keep hearing that what goes on in…places like this, isn't sexual. At least not always. But if not, what is it? What is it people, I mean men in particular, find attractive about…all this?"
The girls looked at each other.
"Moe," said Natsumi.
"Moe," said Rin.
"Moeh?"
Rin blushed slightly. "It's…hard to explain."
"Moe literally means blooming flower," said Reid. "It's written with the character of moon under grass."
"I'm not sure I like the sound of that."
"It's probably best defined as a middle ground between cuteness and sexuality. Prentiss, do you know the Beatles song, Lovely Rita, Meter Maid?"
She nodded. "In a cap, she looked much older, and the bag across her shoulder, made her look a little like a military man. So…?"
"Exactly. What's so attractive about a girl who looks like a military man?"
"I guess I never thought about it like that."
"That's moe."
"I…see.-Well, you two girls be safe. If you keep away from the night trains, you shouldn't be in any danger."
Prentiss didn't mention, of course, what she and Reid both knew; that if the unsub were thwarted, he or she could escalate, grow unpredictable. Tonight was the first night of Sasaki's platform watch.
Morgan and Rossi, after interviewing an English-speaking cosplayer, sat in the park where Morgan had stood the night before. They ate their lunch of convenience store rice balls, washed down with more canned coffee.
"It's the same guy," said Rossi, "I'm sure of it. And he disappears just after the first attack. I'll bet my pension the other girls are telling the same story. But it doesn't fit the profile. He should be more introverted, more antisocial than the usual specimen; not less. They make him sound like an all-around great guy."
Morgan took a bite, swallowed. "He could be a textbook sociopath. Superficially charming, but lacking empathy."
"Then why the psychological need to visit these places? And why start killing now?"
"I think right now, all we can do is bring him in. If he's stopped visiting the cafes, it's a good bet he's missing work. He could be wandering around the neighborhood. Someone's bound to notice him sooner or later, especially with everyone on edge."
"We don't have much time." Rossi took out his phone. "Garcia?…That's great, I'm glad you're at the zoo. No, I've never seen a red panda, I'm sure they're adorable. I need you to narrow down that list to men with high-paying jobs, either high-tech or else management level. Look for recent absences from work, and of course any psychological issues. Call Morgan. Yes, I know it's your pleasure. Take care."
When he had hung up, Morgan asked: "Call me?"
"I should be getting back to the hotel. Strauss wants a status report, and someone should be on call in case this Hasekura wants to throw another party or treat us to lunch. Hotch took the bullet last time, and from what I hear, we oughta be grateful."
"I got it. I'll hang around here and try to coordinate everyone."
"That's just what I was about to ask. Here, finish my coffee, I've had eight cans of this stuff; I'm switching to tea."
Rossi walked off, picking his way between the smokers, looking harried and out-of-place.
Perhaps ten minutes had passed. Morgan remained in the park, people-watching, and checking periodically for calls from the other team members.
He saw a man, well-built, wearing sunglasses, emerge from a nearby convenience store. He was sure he'd seen the man pass by twice already. Well, maybe he still had trouble telling businessmen apart in their identical dark suits. But while the sunglasses weren't unusual on such a bright day, few other people were wearing them. With little surprise, but some apprehension, he saw the man turn suddenly and approach him.
"No thanks," he said, looking straight ahead. "Not interested."
He assumed the man was a pimp. But instead of asking Morgan if he'd like to meet his sister, he silently held out a folded piece of paper, just below waist level, avoiding eye contact. Finally, after a quick glance around, Morgan palmed it.
12-5 san-chome, it read, in English. Please come alone.
The address was only a block away.
"You serious? You're really serious."
The man was stone-faced.
Morgan smiled ruefully at him, shaking his head. "Thanks, man. You had to complicate my day with this straight-up James Bond number."
Uncomprehending, the man walked off.
The address, on a side street of little shops, looked like an ordinary bar. A sign read Pub Tsukimi, and under a half-lowered venetian blind, a cosy wood-paneled room was visible. Morgan handled his cellphone, debating whether to call Hotch. In the end he returned it to his pocket, then stepped inside.
A bell tinkled. The room was cool and dark, and a man sat alone at the end of the bar. Then Morgan realized another man was standing to his left, leaning against the wall by the door, inspecting his fingernails. He resembled the man who'd passed him the note. There was the nick of a tiny scar on his lower lip.
Morgan nodded, but got no response. Shrugging, he went up to the bar and took a seat, one chair away from the other customer. The man was playing with a mother-of-pearl cigarette lighter, and didn't acknowledge him either.
A bartender with a politely vague expression drifted out.
"Sir."
"Double scotch on the rocks?"
"Yes, sir."
When the bartender had turned to the bottles, the man with the cigarette lighter coughed. Morgan turned to him. He looked wiry and tough, and had short, kinky hair like an afro. It was hard to guess his age. After a moment, he took out a long, unfiltered, dark-brown cigarette and lit it. A pleasant aroma filled the room.
"Double scotch on the rocks, sir. Eight hundred yen."
"Thanks."
Morgan put down a thousand-yen bill, which the man wordlessly took. No change was returned.
The man with the cigarette lighter nodded. "Scotch," he said. "Very good."
While his voice was almost unbelievably rough, he spoke good English.
"Thanks."
The man stuck out his hand. "Hello, nigger."
Morgan flinched. In his life, he'd encountered racism many times. The smaller displays-a hesitant greeting, the pause before an aborted slur-irritated him most. In this case, he was left speechless, and gave a firm handshake.
"Don't misunderstand," said the man, and coughed again. "See, I'm a nigger too."
"Is that so?"
"All us colored people are the same. We're all the same to the white man."
Unsure how to respond, Morgan drank. The man took a drag before going on: "My English is nice, isn't it?"
"It certainly is."
Morgan cast a glance back at the man by the door. He hadn't moved.
"Do you know what I am?" asked the cigarette-smoking man.
A well-intentioned racist, thought Morgan, but shook his head.
The curly-haired man leaned in. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and surrounded by a fine mass of wrinkles, the marks of premature age. "I am yakuza," he said. He grinned, displaying large, nicotine-stained teeth. "Japanese mafia. Are you scared?"
Morgan sipped his whisky. "Should I be?"
The man burst of laughing. "Of course not! Don't be stupid. The police know me; everybody knows me. This is my territory. I haven't brought you here to kill you. I want to help you."
The man wasn't missing any fingers, and had no obvious tattoos; but Morgan remembered the afro-like haircut, or punch perm, was associated with old-fashioned yakuza. From the rest of his appearance, he had no trouble believing it.
"And just how can you be of help to me, Mr…?"
"Toyoda," he waved his hand absently. "Call me Boss Toyoda. That's not important. What's important is, I'm going to help you catch this fucking maniac."
"I'd appreciate anything you can tell me."
As if not listening, staring across the bar, Boss Toyoda went on: "A real man doesn't hurt women, not unless they get mouthy. Only one of those otaku would do something like this. Don't get me wrong. I like them…mostly I like them. They are like little children. But you can't trust the way they think."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Hah. If you don't spend any time in the real world, you're bound to go crazy sooner or later. That's common sense. But the police won't do anything; not those lazy fucks. You are different. My boys have been watching you since you got here."
Morgan frowned; it was probably true. He had gotten so many stares from passers-by, he wouldn't have noticed a tail.
"I'm flattered," he said.
Suddenly, Boss Toyoda's eyes gleamed as he asked: "Do you listen to the blues?"
"Occasionally," Morgan admitted.
The Boss growled in Japanese toward the back; Morgan made out the word record. Putting his hand on Morgan's shoulder, he said confidentially: "Bessie Smith. The best blues there is. The St. Louis Blues. Very uncommon recording. There are maybe ten in the world. She gives it the most soul this time. You listen, it makes you want to cry."
There was a scratch even as he spoke, and the bar was filled with a deep, powerful voice, that seemed to rise up like water from the floor. "I hate to see…that evening sun go down…It makes me feel…I'm on my last go-round."
Taking another sip, Morgan couldn't resist slightly tapping one foot against the bar.
"But a man doesn't cry," muttered the Boss; then, shaking his head, returned to himself. "Listen. These weeks, my boys seen a guy walking around at night. He tried to sleep in an alley. The police beat him up. But he's wearing a nice suit. I don't think he is homeless."
"Go to the police with this information," Morgan said, sternly. "I shouldn't be taking your statement."
"I'm not telling them anything. They can suck their own cocks all day long like they always do. I want to help you…I want you to get all the credit."
"As a fellow…?"
"As a fellow nigger," said the Boss, and grinned again. Morgan shivered.
Meanwhile Bessie Smith sang: "Feeling tomorrow, like I feel today…I'll pack my bag, make my getaway."
The Boss listened with his head on one side, waving the cigarette like a metronome.
"So," said Morgan. "What are you suggesting?"
"I'll have my guys pick this fucker up. Don't worry," he added, seeing Morgan draw back, "they won't rough him up. Then I'll turn him over to you. But only to you."
"I'm sorry. I can't agree to that."
"After that, give him to the police, I don't care. But I want you to make the arrest."
"And there's nothing else in it for you? You're doing this out of the goodness of your heart?"
"My job is to help people! Not hurt them. I keep them safe from crooks, like the Koreans and Chinamen."
Morgan wondered how he reconciled his fellow-feeling with African-Americans with this blatant sentiment, but kept silent.
"I'm sorry," he said, without hesitating, "but your organization must have rules, and so does mine. I can't sanction this. It's illegal. I'll have to tell my superior officer about this conversation, and I'll pass on the information about the vagrant. We'll look for him ourselves. Whether you want any credit is up to you."
To his surprise, Boss Toyoda nodded slightly. "I thought you might say that. I can see you're not a crooked man. Do what you want," and his last words were drowned out by a swell of music:
"St. Louis woman! With her diamond rings! Pulls my man around! By her apron strings!"
"But," the Boss finished, looking Morgan pointedly in the eyes, "I will do what I want as well. You might be hearing from me again."
Over the rim of his scotch glass, Morgan nodded.
Bessie Smith concluded: "My man got a heart like a rock cast in the sea…else how could he go so far from me?"
Night fell. It was raining again.
In the back room of Cafe Blue Paradise, Rin Todokawa collapsed with a sigh on a folding chair. Her six-hour shift was finally over.
She had been shaking all day, spilling tea even when she wasn't called on to play a clumsy character. She kept seeing the faces of Mei Oda, Maya Asano and Ayumi Tosaka, as they'd appeared on the news; normal photographs, but horrible in context. Faces that didn't exist anymore. Natsumi's words of assurance rang hollow.
If you keep away from the night trains, you shouldn't be in any danger.
The pretty American lady had said that. But of course she wasn't afraid; she carried a gun and probably knew karate. If not the train, Rin would have to take the bus, then walk. She might end up being killed by some mugger.
Why did it have to happen here? she thought. Here, where everything was so nice.
She took off her smock and, after a moment, buried her face in it. The rain whispered soft on the windowpane. The room was dark except for the orange neon light pouring through the window.
The door to the changing room opened. Rin looked up.
"Hello?"
There was nobody there.
Feeling childish anger that swallowed up her fear, she yelled: "Hey, don't try to scare me! That is so mean!"
"Sorry," came a low voice.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever it was sounded normal.
A figure dressed in a yellow raincoat came in, but stopped just outside the light from the window. Rin narrowed her eyes.
"Natsumi? Is that you?"
No answer.
"I t-told you, stop doing that! It really, really, really isn't-"
The figure's left arm came up. The gloved hand held a pistol.
"Put that away I know it's just a replica, I'm serious! Please, I'm really scared, okay, you scared me, now just…"
The gun went off with the sound of a popping champagne cork. Rin gasped and pitched forward, tears of pain blooming in her eyes, but the figure swooped forward and caught her before she fell off the chair. It held her shoulder with one firm glove.
"I'm sorry," came the same soft, indistinct voice. "I can't let an impostor like you exist any longer."
Rin opened her mouth, but it was covered in an instant by a sheet of transparent tape. Her eyes bulged, her lips formed the words: Please. Please. Please.
The figure holstered the gun and, gripping her with both hands, yanked her away as quick and sure as any jungle predator.