8. Routine Work Leads to Unexpected Consequences
Two vital parts of a police detective's job, often overlooked in movies and TV shows, are the endless search for potential witnesses and the equally endless completion of paperwork.
A detective is essentially an information-gathering machine, processing data into actionable cases. But the information needed doesn't just float on the surface. In fact, the simpler and more mundane the crime, the harder it is to unearth.
People are far more likely to remember a bloody murder than a stolen bicycle or wallet. Source: me. As a detective, I don't deal with murders, but back when I was a patrol officer, I once participated in canvassing for witnesses to such a tragedy. We found them within two hours of knocking on doors. You could try to achieve that for a petty, forgettable offense — especially when the perpetrator isn't some desperate amateur but a seasoned professional, deliberately eking out a living through petty theft.
I can't speak with certainty about other prefectures, but in Chiba, prosecutors are reluctant to bring minor property crimes to court. First-time offenders are often encouraged to return the stolen goods and apologize, with a warning that further offenses could escalate their troubles. Victims are typically advised to withdraw their complaints. If a case does go to trial, however, prosecutors tend to push hard for a conviction.
This leniency encourages some criminals to stick to small-time theft. It's relatively easy to offload yet offers a stable illicit income. If caught, they play the part of someone forced into crime by circumstances or tempted by an easy opportunity. They return the stolen goods, receive a slap on the wrist from prosecutors, bow deeply to their victims, and lie low for a while. Then, inevitably, they go back to their old ways.
That day, I had been calling potential sellers of stolen bicycles, posing as a buyer and asking for details about their wares. After three hours, I had compiled a list of seven potential suspects to visit by evening.
The odds of success were slim. To make matters worse, most sellers didn't live nearby. I cursed my lack of a personal car. Even in evening traffic, driving would have been more convenient than the cramped, rush-hour monorail and bus rides awaiting me.
While rattling along in the train to my first suspect, an alert landed in my inbox. It contained details about paintings stolen from the Yukinoshita family mansion, accompanied by high-quality photographs provided by their insurance company. I examined the images as best I could on my phone screen.
The paintings were beautiful. As someone thoroughly Chiba-obsessed, I loved the local landscapes they depicted. I wouldn't mind hanging one in my own room, though even the cheapest piece, priced at 90,000 yen, was far out of my budget. I wondered idly if it was possible to order posters of Takahara's works.
One painting in particular caught my eye — a more recent one, completed seven years ago. It was titled "Spring Evening on Kemigawa Beach After the Festival." The scene was familiar to me. Near the beach was a park with a banquet hall and terrace. Our school used to hold joint American-style proms there with Kaihin Sōgō High School. In my second year, I somehow ended up organizing one of those events; in my third, I attended as a graduate.
The banquet hall was, of course, featured prominently in the painting, and on its terrace were two faintly outlined figures. I zoomed in on the image. The photo quality was excellent, clearly taken with a professional camera using a tripod and with a proper lighting.
The figures, roughly sketched in dark Sobu High uniforms, stood out despite their simplicity: a female figure with long black hair and a male figure, slightly hunched, with a mess of hair resembling a bird's nest. There was no mistaking it.
The military had drilled my bad posture out of me and ensured my hair was always neat. Yet the figure in the painting was undeniably me. And standing beside me was Yukino Yukinoshita.
It couldn't have been from our graduation — Yukino had worn a white satin dress, and I had donned a tuxedo. This must have been our second year, when we'd worked tirelessly to organize the event on a shoestring budget, despite the school board's opposition. Of course, artistic license could explain some details, but if Takahara truly was a friend of the Yukinoshita family, he might have known the full story.
After all, Yukino and I had once been forced to recount it to her family. I had confessed first, on the Inageritsu pedestrian bridge; Yukino had followed suit later, on the terrace, as we cleaned up after the event. Though, unlike in the painting, we hadn't been leaning on the railing — we'd been busy. Yukino had been poring over our chaotic budget at a table, while I reported on the cleanup progress.
In any case, the realization that the Yukinoshita family had displayed an image of our confession in their living room for years rattled me. So much so that I missed my station and had to hastily adjust my route. Fortunately, my intimate knowledge of Chiba's geography made reworking my plans easy. I refocused and got back to work.
The first three visits yielded nothing — just honest sellers trying to part with their own bicycles. They were polite and cooperative, showing me their documents. I scrutinized each bike, invented reasons for dissatisfaction, and left.
The fourth address began differently. A woman answered the intercom, though a man had been on the phone earlier. When the door of a typical single-family home swung open, I was greeted — no, ambushed — by an impressive display of cleavage. I know it sounds crude, and I'm far from being a hormone-fueled teenager at 28, but by Japanese standards, this was a weapon of considerable caliber.
I forced myself to look up at the woman's face, framed by dark pink hair. With the years added, she bore a striking resemblance to someone I knew… No, it couldn't be. What were the odds? Chiba had a population of over 900,000 people.
"Hikki?" Her unfiltered, joyful voice left no doubt.
"Yuigahama?"
"Not for a while now, but still Yui!"
Yui Yuigahama threw her arms around me. I froze, still processing the improbability of encountering two ghosts from my past in a single day. Very, very low odds. It seemed the gods of detective stories had decided to toy with me.
The awkwardness of the reunion was compounded by the appearance of a disgruntled man in loungewear. I instantly pegged him as the "overly jealous husband" type — a profile I'd encountered frequently during my time in koban.
"Yui, what's going on? Who's this guy?" he demanded.
"Soutarou, look who's here about the bike! It's Hachiman, my classmate from high school. We were in the same club! I haven't seen him since graduation!"
Soutarou dialed down his hostility, though only slightly.
"Ito Soutarou," he said curtly, extending a hand. "I see you already know my wife."
"Hikigaya Hachiman," I replied just as formally. Observing etiquette costs nothing, but it makes life easier—a valuable skill for someone who finds society utterly unbearable.
"Let's go, I'll show you the bicycle."
"Thank you, Ito-san."
I intended to take a look at the Boardwalk that Ito was selling. However, Yuigahama (I couldn't bring myself to call her Ito) had other plans.
"You'll have time for that. Hikki, don't you think we should sit down and have a proper talk?"
"I don't think, Ito-san, that would be appropriate," formal Japanese is made for extricating oneself from awkward situations. Just follow the culturally programmed structures, and they'll pave the way for your escape. "I'll look at the bicycle your husband is selling, and if I like it, I'll buy it, and then I won't waste any more of this precious family evening time".
"Nonsense. Soutarou, help me convince this fool to stay. I've learned to brew tea just as well as Yukinon!"
It was clear that Soutarou Ito had no desire to have an unfamiliar man with a disagreeable face, dark circles under his eyes, and a long history with his wife in his home. However, Yuigahama beamed with such enthusiasm that he gave in. So did I. I'd make up for the lost time with extra overtime work.
The interior of the Ito house reminded me a lot of the Yuigahama family apartment, where I had visited a few times during my school years. It felt like Yuigahama's touch.
The living room, where we settled, looked straight out of a four-year-old Nitori catalog. A typical middle-class family home, bought on a mortgage. In places, signs of more recent renovations were visible. I'd venture to guess that some of the damage to the interior was caused by a small but very active dog, and some by a child around two or three years old – old enough to walk but not yet learned to behave. Both guesses turned out to be true – when we sat down for tea, a dachshund ran up to Yuigahama. Right behind it, a chubby girl, around three or four years old, peered hesitantly through the door.
"Yua, our daughter, " Yuigahama clarified. "Come here, Yua, don't be afraid, come meet Uncle Hikki."
"Uncle Hikki" didn't inspire much trust in Yua, as she silently shook her head and disappeared deeper into the house.
"You haven't introduced the last member of the family. Who's this?" I asked, glancing at the dachshund.
"Seiburu. Or rather, Seiburu the Second. He's from the same kennel. Seiburu the First passed away two years after we last saw each other."
Seiburu the First was the mischievous dachshund that lived with the Yuigahama family when she was still a teenager. Because of that crazy little sausage on short legs, I was hit by a car on my first day of high school. I broke my leg, missed three weeks of the new school year in a new class, and became an outcast for a long time. Ah yes, the car was the very same Phantom from the Yukinoshita family, which I saw this morning. It was driving Yukino to school.
Turns out that Kamakura managed to survive longer, but not much.
Yuigahama's eyes showed the slightest hint of tears, but she collected herself, poured tea, and began asking questions. It was clear that she was dying of curiosity. Her husband... not so much.
"Hikki, where did you disappear after school? There were wild rumors that you became a mercenary and got killed in Africa!"
As for her talent for making tea, Yuigahama was greatly exaggerating. It was just an ordinary, bland tea that millions of middle-class Japanese families drink. Not even close to the level Yukino could achieve in the volunteer club's room.
"I didn't become a mercenary, I joined the Self-Defense Forces. And I wasn't killed, I went missing in action during a peacekeeping operation in the Philippines."
Yuigahama choked on her tea. Her husband looked surprised. Yes, modern-day Japanese people aren't used to such adventures. Our American friends are constantly fighting somewhere, but we are peaceful and calm people.
"The Self-Defense Forces? How did you even end up there?"
"I started by failing my college exams."
"I remember. I was really surprised and worried about you. And you even left Yukinon!"
I gave her the most serious look I could muster. Yuigahama flinched and fell silent. I wasn't going to discuss my personal life in front of strangers.
"My family's financial situation suddenly worsened, and I couldn't afford to work part-time jobs and spend wildly on prep courses, hoping to try again the following year."
"And you didn't say anything?"
"They were my problems. And what could you have done to help me? Until my father's company went bankrupt, the Hikigaya family lived better than the Yuigahama family."
"And Yukinon?"
I shot an even heavier look at Yuigahama, the kind reserved by patrol officers for not-so-bright, difficult teenagers. My classmate shut up.
"The dream of living off a rich wife wasn't going to come true quickly. I needed a proper job. Without an education, it was hard to find one. I came across an ad recruiting volunteers for the Self-Defense Forces. The conditions seemed acceptable. There was a chance I'd be sent far away from Chiba, and if I came back, no one would remember my failure."
"And they accepted you?"
"I passed the lower ranks. The Self-Defense Forces has a shortage of enlisted personnel, so they couldn't be picky. They taught me how to march, make my bed properly in the barracks, shoot at a target with an automatic rifle, and then drive a truck. That was the most important thing, driving a truck."
Yuigahama couldn't hold back and laughed.
"I just can't picture you... in the army... in uniform, following orders."
"The service turned out to be unexpectedly simple and calm. You didn't have to remember people — everyone's name and job were written on the tags on their uniform. Everything was fine until the government agreed to participate in a UN peacekeeping mission in the Philippines."
"We send peacekeepers abroad?"
"Regularly. Usually to Africa, but this time, along with Australians and New Zealanders, we went to the Philippines. There, on Mindanao, was another round of brutal, multilateral slaughter. Usual business for them. This island is a powder keg. Ethnic, religious, political conflicts, organized crime – you choose. The Self-Defense Forces recruited specialists in logistics who spoke English well. I was one of them. We were assembled into a composite battalion, vaccinated, did combat training, loaded onto the JS Shimokita, and sent to Cotabato. It's a port on Mindanao where our base was supposed to be."
"So, what did you do there?" This time, Yuigahama's husband seemed interested. It's not every day you get to talk to a Japanese person who was a peacekeeper in a hotspot.
"Unlike the Aussies and Kiwis, we didn't patrol or mediate between the factions in the conflict zone. We loaded rice onto our trucks. We delivered it to refugee camps and villages. We handed it out to the locals. Then we came back and waited for the next chartered government freighter with humanitarian aid from Japan. We repeated. In between, we were bored at the base, avoiding venturing into the city. We didn't even have armored vehicles — just a couple of Koukis, well, Toyota Mega Cruisers with machine guns for convoy protection, and that was it."
"Rice?"
"There had been a civil war there for three years. Tens of thousands killed, which means tens of thousands of workers not cultivating the fields. The seed stock was looted. Black market prices were so high that it was easier to kill the merchant than to pay. A bowl of rice was the difference between hunger and a hungry death."
Hunger is a disgusting word to Yuigahama, who was always thinking about food. For her, hunger meant it was a long time until lunch break, and she was already craving something delicious.
"How can that be..."
"That's why they asked for international aid in Manila. But, as it turned out, things could get even worse."
"What happened?"
"The conflict escalated. Radicals attacked the American embassy in Manila and killed the ambassador. The Americans retaliated, with the Philippine government's consent, by launching airstrikes on the radical-controlled areas. Chaos erupted again. My platoon came under attack while we were delivering food to villages about forty kilometers from Cotabato. We lost communication and were left without our wheels."
I didn't tell the whole truth. It wasn't an attack by Filipinos. It were American guided bombs. We were caught in an airstrike because our route changed unexpectedly, and the information hadn't passed in time through the chain of command from the battalion to the UN peacekeeping forces in Manila to the Philippine Department of National Defense and then to the Americans, so the officer directing flights on the USS Ronald Reagan didn't order the pilots to abort the strike. It was just friendly fire — almost inevitable in such a mess. Washington and Tokyo agreed not to disclose the incident, and they quietly offered the only surviving soldier the option to resign. That's how I got the recommendation for service in the Chiba police.
I took a sip of tea, pushed the unpleasant memories aside, and continued:
"We made our way back slowly, through unfamiliar territory in a combat zone. Only to find out that our battalion had been urgently evacuated from Cotabato after unrest broke out. I surrendered to the government forces, spent two and a half months in a filtration camp while they established my identity. Then I returned to Japan. I left the Self-Defense Forces, joined the police. I worked as a patrol officer, got promoted, and now I'm a detective in the Nishi-Chiba precinct. That's it. No Africa, no mercenaries, nothing interesting."
Yuigahama and her husband were sitting there, mouths agape. Very rude and un-Japanese of them.
"Filtration camp. What is it?"
"Something like a large, poorly guarded, and poorly equipped prison. But at least they had drinking water, and they fed us twice a day."
"You... in prison... in the Philippines?"
"It's all in the past now. Better tell me how Yuigahama became Ito." I tried to steer the conversation back to polite territory.
"I met Soutarou in our last year of college. Then we started dating, got married, and Yua was born. Soutarou earns well, so I'm a housewife."
Yuigahama's husband, proud that he had finally caught some attention, began to boringly explain his fate as a corporate slave and how, in the next three years, he could expect a promotion with increased bonuses if he kept his KPIs above 103%. I nodded politely. Then I remembered the purpose of my visit. There was no point in pretending anymore. I had already mentioned I worked in the police. I handed Mr. Ito my business card. He reluctantly showed me the documents for his bicycle. It was a nice bike. If I had the money, I'd trade my old one for that model. But I certainly wouldn't buy it from Yuigahama's husband.