2. Nothing Changes in the Yukinoshita Household
A person's dwelling is a remarkably accurate reflection of their character, habits, and social status. The interior of a home reveals far more about someone than they're usually willing to consciously disclose. A few photos on social media (assuming they're authentic) can tell you more about a person of interest than a lengthy conversation ever could.
A police officer should be adept at studying premises. We inspect them, examine them, and search them. Sometimes, we assess them for potential dangers, lines of fire, or possible hiding places. But such scenarios mostly occur during training exercises. Chiba is a peaceful city, and Nishi-Chiba is an even more tranquil station. It's best to let the SAT team from the city or prefectural headquarters handle armed criminals. In my not-so-long life, I've been under fire a few times, and I deeply hate that feeling. Like most people, I fear death, and a burst from an assault rifle is a terrifyingly efficient way to meet it.
Although the likelihood of an ambush involving military-grade weapons in the Yukinoshita family home was negligible, that didn't eliminate other, more obvious dangers. The stockpile of anti-Hikigaya weaponry in this house must have been accumulating for about ten years now.
I pretended to examine the point of entry from the outside, but in reality, I was trembling with fear, reluctant to go inside. It seemed to me that the lock on the door had been picked, but the forensics team from the crime scene investigation unit would confirm that for sure. They only need a few microscopic samples to identify the tool's material. Since you can't buy lock picks at Komeri, they rely on advanced methods like mass spectrometry and other techniques to determine the place and method of a tool's manufacture.
Afterward, I donned the protective gear necessary to preserve the crime scene and stepped inside. Another detective might not have gone to such lengths for a simple burglary, but firstly, I don't tolerate sloppy work. Secondly, a burglary is about the most interesting case they'd entrust me with. And thirdly, this is the Yukinoshita family's house. In this prefecture, they're as spoiled as a pampered cat. Maybe that's why Yukino grew up to be such an unpredictable cat lady.
A vivid memory sprang to life in my mind: a black-haired girl in a school uniform, mesmerized by a cat dozing in a box near the entrance to high school. On the usually serious and focused face of the school's ice queen, there wasn't even a trace of her usual reasoned composure. Instead, there was only pure, unrestrained delight at the sight of a not-so-young and rather unremarkable cat.
Komachi had euthanized the terminally ill Kamakura six years ago. Unfortunately, I couldn't see the pet off on his final journey, as I was listed as missing in action in the Philippines during a civil war, struggling just to stay alive.
Yukino Yukinoshita and I last saw each other about ten years ago. I failed the entrance exams to Shukutoku University, while she was accepted into the Faculty of Law at Todai. Continuing our relationship was no longer possible after that. I've spent my entire life searching for something real. I found it, buried under the snow, only to lose it a year later—blinded by my own stupidity and inability to achieve anything meaningful in life.
Officer Yamashita's voice pulled me from the depths of my memories. For reasons best left buried in the farthest corners of my mind, I dislike working with women. This doesn't make me a misogynist. There are brilliant professionals and utter incompetents among both women and men. My aversion is simply the result of personal psychological trauma that no one needs to know about—especially not the psychologist on the medical board.
Officer Yamashita introduced me to the witness: Yuriko Sakurai, 57 years old, a cleaning lady. I was relieved to learn from her that Mr. and Mrs. Yukinoshita were visiting Mr. Yukinoshita's relatives and would return home by 9 a.m. The witness had arrived at 5:15 a.m. to prepare the house, which had been empty for some time, for the owners' return. Mrs. Yukinoshita doesn't employ permanent household staff, instead hiring help from an agency when needed.
Sakurai-san noticed the unlocked door but didn't suspect anything unusual. She knew that the Yukinoshita family had two adult daughters. Perhaps one of them had come home and forgotten to lock the door. However, the house was empty, and several paintings were missing from the living room wall.
It's amusing, but I remembered those paintings: landscapes of Chiba painted by a friend of Mr. Yukinoshita. Purchased or gifted on various occasions, they hung opposite the head of the family's favorite old sofa.
The sofa was still there, impeccably maintained, and the furniture looked much the same as it had ten years ago, though it was likely newer. The entire Yukinoshita house reflected its owners: an understated blend of European practicality and Japanese aesthetics. Solid, old things paired with the best modern quality.
As it turns out, the paintings by Kenji Takahara were insured. The cleaning company's manager specifically reminded Sakurai-san that such works of art required careful handling. Out of curiosity, I pulled out my work smartphone and looked up the approximate price of Takahara's works. Judging by reports from three years ago, they could fetch up to eight million yen. Not a small sum.
Sakurai-san also mentioned an interesting detail: she called the security company, and they deactivated the alarm system in the house. Why hadn't it gone off when the door was broken into? I'm a theft specialist, but I don't know much about security electronics. I inspected the alarm system panel hidden behind a decorative cover in the hallway. It was an older model I didn't recognize. No surprise there — I'm only familiar with the cheap, modern systems often installed in small shops that occasionally cause problems for patrol officers by going off at night.
I spent about two more hours in the Yukinoshita house, drawing up the necessary documents and waiting for the forensics team to arrive. They would need two and a half to four hours to collect all the evidence, followed by three to fourteen working days for the required analyses. In some cases, they might even need help from colleagues in Tokyo. And in Japan, police cooperation across prefectures isn't always swift.
In any case, I was going to leave the crime scene before the owners returned. My night shift was coming to an end. As the detective on duty, I'm required to hand over all the night's cases to the head of the Nishi-Chiba Criminal Investigation Department, Hiroshi Yamada. Then, Yamada-dono will decide who will investigate further. I hope one of the senpai gets assigned to this high-profile and politically sensitive case so I can get some sleep and return to hunting down stolen bicycles.