“ ‘I saw such a strange thing early this morning,’ he told me. ‘Today will be a good day. I might strike it rich.’ And off he went with his cart. I wished him luck, the way I always do.”
And that was the last time he had seen the old man. “When he didn’t come for his breakfast on the sixth, I thought he must be laid up with a cold. But …”
A bit past two that afternoon, a local salaryman who was a regular at the shop told him Kozaburo’s cart was parked in an empty lot not far away. Surprised, Kadoma closed the shop and went to investigate. It was indeed Kozaburo’s cart, piled high with cardboard, empty cans and old newspapers.
“At first I thought the police might’ve picked him up. But they would’ve impounded the cart. They wouldn’t just leave it next to an intersection.”
At the time, Kadoma had not known where Kozaburo lived. The old man had told him only that he had an apartment in central Shinjuku and lived alone. “I wasn’t convinced, to be honest. I suspected he might be homeless.”
There was nowhere to begin a search. The lot where the cart was found was hardly bigger than a postage stamp. There was no fence around it; it was full of trash and detritus. If the old man had wanted to leave his cart unattended for a few minutes, it was the perfect spot. “But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible had happened.”
Kozaburo depended on his cart. It was how he earned his livelihood. He never would have left it unattended for more than a short time.
“Then I remembered I could put a message out on the local station. If he was being cared for somewhere, or was in the hospital, I was sure someone would hear the message and contact me.”
Shigenori had to agree that the coffee shop owner’s approach was more efficient than a search with no leads.
“I said I hadn’t seen him since the morning of the fifth, and asked people to contact me if they had any news. About three days later, his next-door neighbor at the apartment house got in touch with me. She told me he hadn’t come home. But it was true—he did have a place to live.
“His neighbor heard my message on the radio and started to worry, so she went out onto her balcony and looked through his windows. It’s a first-floor apartment. The curtains were wide open. She could see right into the room.”
The room was almost bare of furniture. There was a bed, a TV, and a small table with a few dishes. It looked undisturbed. The door and windows were securely locked.
“That was all she could tell me. I’d run into a wall. Nothing further happened until close to New Year, when that young man came around asking questions. When was it … I’d just put away the Christmas tree, so it must have been the twenty-sixth or seventh. He told me he’d seen my message on the station website. He was very interested in Kozaburo, but unfortunately all he had for me were questions, not answers.
“I told him what I knew. There was nothing else I could do. He told me he’d ask around the neighborhood and visit Asahi House.”
Kenji’s actions seemed natural enough. First he visited the coffee shop, then the surrounding neighborhood and Asahi House. He probably hadn’t learned anything, so he kept asking around. On January 4 he saw the notice for the party in Ida and rushed there to see if he could get more information. He probably wanted to find the landlord to get into Kozaburo’s room. He’d need permission for that.
Kadoma did have one piece of interesting information about Kenji.
“He told me his name was Narita. Said he was Kozaburo’s grand-nephew on his mother’s side. I didn’t ask for proof.”
Why did he start using his real name? His cover story was probably blown when he was canvassing the neighborhood for information. After that he had decided he’d better stick to the truth. It was the kind of blunder only amateurs make.
Who is this guy? Shigenori was puzzled.
Was he really a relative of Kozaburo? That didn’t seem likely. He’d started his search too long after Kozaburo went missing, for one thing, and his approach was scattershot. When Kadoma urged “Narita” to file a missing-persons report, the young man suddenly became flustered and insisted that the police never made much effort to investigate such reports.
What was his real relationship with the old man? Why did Kozaburo Ino vanish? What happened to him? Where was he now?
An old man living alone, eking out a living by selling trash for recycling. What could someone like that encounter that would cause him to disappear?
The florist had suggested Kozaburo might be sitting on a lot of money. That would be a plausible reason for his disappearance. But he said he’d seen a birdlike monster.
As a detective, Shigenori had always had a habit of speculating too much. It was pointed out to him frequently, and he himself was aware of it. But his speculations were always rooted in reality. He never fantasized. Still, he couldn’t put the image of the giant bird out of his mind.
Kozaburo Ito sees a giant bird flying overhead. The next day he’s gone, as abruptly and completely as if he’d been snatched up into the sky.
His cart had been discovered the afternoon of the sixth, but exactly when he’d left it there was an open question. It seemed unlikely that he’d parked it on the fifth, otherwise it would have been discovered sooner.
His apartment was locked, the curtains left open. That suggested he’d gotten up as usual on the sixth and set out before sunrise. Before the city was awake, while it was still dark, he had disappeared in the vicinity of that traffic light.
Why before sunrise? Because a giant bird would find it easier to move about freely under cover of darkness? The distance from the tea caddy building to the empty lot where the cart was found was around five hundred meters in a straight line.
The distance a bird of prey might cover in a single glide.
A low hum. Shigenori’s eyes snapped open. The call light on the phone next to his pillow was flashing as the phone vibrated. The caller ID was TAE CHIGUSA.
3:22. The numbers leapt into his eyes. He pressed TALK. “Is that you, Tae? What’s going on?”
He heard a coarse rustling, like someone blundering through undergrowth. He sat up. Toshiko was deep asleep on the futon next to him.
“Hello, Tae? It’s Shigenori. Has something happened?”
As he spoke, he realized the sound on the end of the line was ragged breathing.
“I’m … I’m sorry …”
It was Tae. Shigenori was so relieved that he put a hand on the floor to support himself.
“I’m sorry to call you this late.” She was sobbing.
“No, I’m the one who should apologize. What are you doing up at this hour? You must be cold. Are you all right?”
No answer. More ragged breathing.
“Tae, it sounds like you’re having trouble breathing. Do you feel ill?” Am I going to have to call an ambulance?
“I’m afraid to look outside,” she said finally. Shigenori was at a loss. Toshiko stirred restlessly.
“I’m afraid. I can’t open the curtains,” she whimpered. “It knows what I’m doing. I’m sure of it.”
“Are you all right, Tae?”
“It doesn’t want me to see.”
Shigenori wondered if he was actually awake. Was this a dream?
“Tae—you mean the monster, right? The gargoyle?”
Silence.
“Tae?”
“It’s outside my window. I can feel it,” she whispered. The tension in her voice was contagious. Shigenori shivered with fear.
“I’m sorry. I’m just too scared to look out the window. I have to hide.”
This had gone too far. “Tae, listen to me. You’re not in any danger—”
“I’m sorry.” She ended the call.
For the next hour, Shigenori lay on his side, unable to sleep, his mind filled with regret.
Tae was an old woman living alone, c
ut off for the most part from the everyday world. Because of him, she had suffered a shock. His high spirits—excessive spirits, maybe—had infected her.
Since his diagnosis of spinal stenosis, every day had been a struggle as he waited for a bed to open at the hospital. A struggle with pain and boredom.
In the tea caddy building, he had discovered something to pull him out of his boredom, something that made him feel alive. A statue of a gargoyle, come to life? It was utter nonsense. If he investigated, he’d find a rational explanation.
Maybe “mysterious gargoyle” was just an excuse. Maybe he would’ve been happy with anything that allowed him to walk, investigate, think. Toshiko had said it herself.
You seem so energetic. It’s strange.
Shigeru might’ve looked grim as he scrutinized his notes, but he’d been enjoying himself. Still, this investigation was something he should’ve handled himself. He shouldn’t have gotten others involved.
I’ll visit Tae first thing in the morning and apologize, he decided. I’ve got to soothe her and get her back to her quiet routine.
At last he fell into a fitful sleep that lasted till dawn. When he woke, Toshiko was already up. He went to retrieve the newspaper from the box inside the front door and sat down. The morning edition was thick with ads and fliers. And there was an envelope.
Yamacho. When was he here? Shigeru wondered. He had hoped he’d gotten away from the tea caddy building before Tae called.
A shiny new dimple key fell from the envelope. So the “customer” hadn’t been difficult, just as Yamacho had guessed. There was a bill for services rendered. He’d also stuffed Shigeru’s fax into the envelope. He was always very careful about the details.
There was a Post-it stuck to the fax.
Work start 02:15, end 04:05. Pitch-dark, as advised.
There was a gap, as if he’d hesitated, then a hasty scribble.
Strange noises several times during visit. From overhead. Like the beating of giant wings. Saw nothing. Alone the whole time. Your “intruder” isn’t a bird, is it?
The newspaper slid off Shigeru’s lap into a heap on the floor.
3
“What do you mean, you can’t reach him?”
Kotaro knew he sounded aggressive, but he couldn’t help it. Seigo and Narita, the chief of School Island, exchanged glances but said nothing.
It was ten past nine on January 6, Kotaro’s first day of work since the year began. He’d actually hoped to begin on the fourth, as soon as the holidays ended, and was itching to start work. School was still out for winter break. He was ready for a full day of patrolling. But as soon as he’d hit his chair, Seigo had called him over and Narita had joined them.
“How long have you been trying? When did he stop responding?”
Narita chuckled soothingly, trying to keep things light. “Hold on, you’re jumping the gun. We don’t know if he’s disappeared.”
Narita was a former high school teacher, past forty. His move to Kumar had been unusual even compared to some of the other employees, but he was capable, easy to get along with, and highly rated by Seigo. At the moment, however, Kotaro couldn’t have cared less.
“How can you be so calm? You knew what he was up to. He was investigating missing persons. Not one but several. Now he’s out of contact too. Wouldn’t it be natural to worry that something’s happened to him?”
Seigo and Narita exchanged glances again. They looked more worried than before.
“Ko-Prime, calm down, please.” In other words, lower your voice. Narita looked pained. They were getting anxious glances from people at their desks.
“He was keeping me posted.” Narita held up his smartphone. “I reacted the same way you did. I wasn’t thrilled by the idea of his going off on his own. I told him to keep me informed of everything. He sent me a lot of messages. Called, too, a few times.”
So Kenji updated Narita but not me. I guess insurance is all I’m good for.
“He’s not a professional at this kind of thing. Of course he couldn’t solve it just like that. After he tracked down his first lead—the coffee shop—he took the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth off. Then he went to the apartment house. He knocked on every door and got no response. He even laughed about his lack of progress. Said it never happens like this on TV.”
Kenji had also visited the neighborhoods where other disappearances had taken place, but the story was the same: finding out anything was much harder than he’d expected. The homeless people he’d approached had been less than helpful.
“Not only were they not used to being interrogated by strangers, the questions he was asking were unsettling. ‘Has anyone you know suddenly vanished?’ That kind of thing. It probably sounded like an accusation.
“By the end of the year, he basically had nothing to show for all the time he’d put in. He told me he was taking an overnight bus back home and planned to spend the first and second there.”
Kenji was back in Tokyo on the afternoon of the third. He decided to return to Asahi House and go from there to see what he might be able to learn. Still, not much in the way of results was likely with such a haphazard approach, especially when he came across as an amateur, which would immediately put people on their guard.
“He told me he’d underestimated the difficulty. I advised him to drop the whole thing.” Narita looked at Seigo and winced in discomfort. “I couldn’t get him to quit. He wanted to keep going until he decided it was hopeless.”
“Kenji’s the quiet, serious type. I’m not surprised, really.” Seigo sighed. He might’ve been thinking of himself as a young man.
“His last message was the day before yesterday, the fourth.” Narita said. “At 9:34 p.m.” He held out the phone so Kotaro could see.
Something’s been bugging me. I’m going to check it out tonight.
Kotaro read the message twice. “He went somewhere after he sent this message.”
Narita nodded. Seigo frowned. “I asked him where he was going. No answer,” Narita said. “That definitely bothered me. I called him several times that night but couldn’t connect. He might’ve turned his phone off. If he did, it’s still off.”
“Did you try his apartment?” Kotaro asked.
“He’s not home. The door’s locked.”
“Do his parents know anything?”
“I called them last night,” Seigo said. “We’d been out of touch with him for a full day. His parents were surprised to hear from me.”
Kenji’s parents hadn’t noticed anything unusual during his visit home. He’d eaten a lot, drank a lot, and had a good time. The day he left for Tokyo, he told them that both school and work were keeping him busy, and that both were fascinating.
“Are you going to file a missing-persons report?” Kotaro asked.
“I’d like to wait another day. If he doesn’t show up, we’ll take the next step.”
“If you file a report, you’ll tell the police everything, right? About his investigation and the missing homeless people?”
“Of course.”
“Let me know if you need help. Any time of the day or night. I remember everything he told me. The police have to understand that he was serious about finding those people.”
Seigo nodded vigorously.
“Did Kenji contact you at all?” Narita asked.
“No. Maybe he thought you were the only one he needed to keep in the loop.”
“I’m not talking about the investigation. You guys are friends. Don’t you ever shoot the breeze?” Narita’s eyes widened as he remembered something. “Wait a minute—”
He pulled out his phone again and scrolled through his messages. His thumb stopped. “He sent me this.”
He held the phone out again. Seigo peered at the screen too.
“He didn’t tell me every detail of what he was doing, just where he’d
been that day, things like that. But then I got this.” It was a mail with an attached image. The timestamp read 3:03 p.m. on December 30.
“He gave me a call right after he sent this. He said he thought it was fascinating. He asked me if I could figure out what it was.”
“What—it’s a drawing,” Seigo said.
“It looks like a child did it,” Kotaro said.
A giant gray bird filled the screen, crayon on drawing paper. The drawing was crude, obviously the work of a child.
Narita’s phone had a retinal screen. Kotaro could see how the young artist’s hand had trembled as he drew the image.
“It’s a bird,” Seigo said.
Narita smiled. “That’s a pretty odd bird.”
“It has wings like a bird,” Kotaro said, “but legs like a human.”
“Correct. There’s no face, but you can see it doesn’t have a beak. Again, more human than bird.”
“Come on, it’s a kid’s drawing,” Seigo objected. “It’s a mix of reality and imagination.”
“Kenji was excited by this picture. If you look closely, it’s actually very well executed. It’s Mothman.”
“I don’t get it.”
“An imaginary being. An urban legend. You’ve never heard of Mothman, Seigo?”
“I’ve heard of MOS Burger.”
Kotaro was still peering at the smartphone screen. “Did Kenji say anything else about this?”
“No, nothing. He didn’t send it to you?”
“No. Could you send it to me? I want to take a closer look at it.”
Narita blinked in surprise. Kotaro’s eyes were burning with determination.
“Sure, but I don’t see how it has anything to do with his investigation. It must be something he just happened to stumble across.”
As Kotaro turned to go, Seigo warned him again not to lose his cool over Kenji’s unexplained absence.
Back at his desk, Kotaro found it hard to concentrate. It was all he could do to keep from surfing the web. He couldn’t track what has happening in front of him. Text flowed past on the monitor, but he couldn’t follow it. It was like looking at a foreign language.