❮TIME "22:22" AT NIGHT❯
❮JAPANESE POLICE DO NOT LOSE HEART❯
Night had fallen over Haruka High School like a heavy velvet cover. The sky was scattered with stars, but their light barely broke through the rare clouds slowly drifting across it, again and again covering the moon. Silence stood all around, broken only by the chirring of crickets and the distant noise of wind rustling in the crowns of the trees. The air was damp and cool, smelling of grass, wet earth, and a barely perceptible scent of smoke drifting from somewhere far away.
At the main entrance to the school, at a small counter that served as a security post, sat an elderly guard. He wore an old, worn uniform, a cap pulled down over his eyes. In front of him stood a mug of hot tea, and beside it a small black-and-white television murmured the night news quietly. The guard watched the screen half-absently, now and then sipping his tea and glancing over the empty school grounds.
The door into the school stood open. Inside, a dim light burned, but beyond the threshold it was dark and deserted.
Akiyama walked past without turning. His steps were quiet and confident. The soles of his boots barely touched the asphalt, only occasionally giving a light rustle when he stepped on small pebbles. Behind him, trying not to fall behind, moved Aoko. The guard did not even raise his head. He was used to people sometimes passing through here at night, and paid it no mind.
"Quiet, slow," Akiyama whispered, and gestured for Aoko to go around the grounds.
She nodded, switched on her flashlight, and silently headed left, along the wall of the school. The beam of the flashlight slid over the ground, picking bushes, stones, and tracks out of the darkness. Her steps were light, almost cat-like; she moved as though she had spent her whole life on nighttime excursions.
Akiyama turned the corner and switched on his own flashlight. The light cut through the darkness, picking out an old iron fence covered in rust. The metal was broken in places, and bent in one spot, as if someone had tried to climb over it. Beyond the fence stretched a wide field with tall grass and a barely visible path leading off into the distance.
He stopped, crouched down, and pointed the light at the ground. In the dense mud, tracks were visible. Many tracks — at least eight people, maybe nine. They were of different sizes and depths, but all led in one direction. Akiyama ran a finger along one of the tracks, checking its freshness. He quietly took out his radio, glanced briefly at the charge indicator — 15%. Enough for a couple of short calls. He switched it off to save power and put it back in his pocket. The grass under his feet rustled quietly as he shifted position.
"Aoko," he said in a whisper. "Go around the school from the other side. I'm standing behind the rise, by the fence. Come to me."
"Got it," she answered.
A few minutes later she appeared out of the darkness. Her breathing was even despite her quick pace. She stopped beside Akiyama, and the beam of her flashlight mixed with his light.
"What's there?" she asked.
"Tracks. A lot. And they're fresh."
He climbed over the fence. There was no other way — the fence had almost no gaps in it. An entrance or exit didn't exist either, especially with his height he wouldn't fit through any crack. The metal creaked under his weight — a long, grinding sound that carried through the night silence. He paid it no attention. Aoko followed him, and her footsteps thudded dully against the ground on the other side of the fence.
They found themselves in an empty field. The grass here was taller than by the school, and the wind made waves in it, like the sea. It brushed against their legs, making a quiet rustling sound as they moved forward. In the distance stood an abandoned building — an old slaughterhouse with a partially collapsed roof and broken-out windows. Beside it stood an old van with peeling paint and rusted wheels, along with a chicken coop, long unused.
Akiyama gestured for Aoko to stop and began slowly circling the van, carefully examining every detail. His steps were cautious, almost creeping. He looked at the ground, at the walls, at the wheels — searching for any clue.
In the window of the van, stuck in the frame, hung an old rusted knife with a broken tip. Akiyama came closer, aimed his flashlight at it, and examined it. The glass around the knife was cracked, but not shattered.
"Someone tried to break the window," he said. "Threw the knife, but missed the glass. Judging by the rust, this didn't happen today. Maybe a week ago."
"Or longer," Aoko added.
"Maybe," Akiyama agreed. "But it tells us there was already some kind of clash here before."
He continued his circuit and stopped by the bushes next to the van. The branches of the bushes were broken, as if someone had pushed through them. Tools lay in the dust: a lock-cylinder puller, a screwdriver, a hammer, and a wrench.
He took out his phone and snapped a couple of photos. For the report. Akiyama put on gloves — the rubber stretched softly over his fingers — and picked up the puller. The metal part of the tool was covered in fresh scratches.
"This is a cylinder puller," he said. "Or an 'otter,' as it's called in some circles. A professional lock-breaking tool."
"An otter?" Aoko repeated.
"Yes. This device works on the principle of a corkscrew. It's used to open locks where there's a cylinder with a floating pin mechanism. With a puller like this you can simply pull out the lock cylinder, and then turn the mechanism with an ordinary screwdriver. See these scratches? They're fresh. It was used quite recently."
He set the puller down and picked up the hammer. Its handle was smooth from frequent use.
"And this is for brute force. When the lock is already broken but the door still won't open, they knock it off its hinges." Akiyama went on, holding the tools. "There are two main methods of forced entry. First, knocking out the cylinder. You take a chisel, place it against the cylinder, and strike it hard with the hammer. The cylinder simply flies out of its housing, after which the deadbolts open with no protection at all — you just turn the mechanism with a screwdriver."
He walked up to the door of the van, examined it, and pointed at the dents. The metal was deformed, and around the lock fresh chips of paint were visible.
"The second method — turning. For this they use what's called a 'twist bar,' a blank made of high-strength steel resembling a key. It's driven into the keyhole and, with the help of pliers, turned by force. After that kind of forceful action the lock can no longer be repaired — the whole locking mechanism has to be replaced."
Akiyama picked up the lock lying by the entrance. It was heavy, with its insides torn out, and it gave off a metallic clink as it moved.
"This lock was broken skillfully. See the marks on the mechanism? First they used the puller to break the retainers. And when it gave way, they finished it off with the hammer."
"So they knew what they were doing?" Aoko asked.
"Yes. These aren't random people. This is an organized group. They knew where they were going. They knew about this place."
Akiyama fell silent for a moment, arranging the timeline in his head.
"This most likely happened yesterday, after the festival. They came here already equipped with tools. First they tried to open the lock carefully — hence the puller. But something went wrong. Maybe the lock jammed, or they were in a hurry. Then they switched to the forceful method, knocked out the cylinder with the hammer. The lock broke, the door opened."
"And who locked this door so tightly that they had to break it open?" Aoko asked.
"I'd suggest some smugglers, if this is their place, or just migrants."
He opened the door of the van and stepped inside. The floor creaked under his weight, and the air carried the smell of dampness and old wood. He pointed his flashlight deeper in, examining the space. On the table stood a bottle with the remains of milk and a plate of buckwheat. In the corner lay an old mattress. Akiyama moved further and stopped at a door at the far end of the van. It was ajar.
He pushed it — the door opened with a creak. A sharp, nauseating smell struck his nose. Akiyama pointed the flashlight inside.
Haruto was sitting on the toilet. He sat in an absurd, twisted pose, bent so low that it seemed gravity itself were relentlessly pulling him toward the ground.
His body was mutilated — his intestines pulled out, mixed with his own feces and stuffed back in. His eyes were open, but there was no life in them, only an endless emptiness. Flies, maggots, and worms swarmed around his face and wounds. They crawled over his skin, over his hands, over his clothes. The maggots had long since mixed with the flesh and internal organs. Nearby on the floor lay a bowl of urine mixed with feces and buckwheat. And in his mouth someone had stuffed dog excrement mixed with a protein shake.
Akiyama looked at the body for several seconds without moving.
"Ugh, damn awful case," he exhaled.
Aoko came closer and looked over his shoulder. She said nothing, but her face went pale. She turned away and covered her mouth with her hand. The silence was broken only by the monotonous drone of flies.
Akiyama closed the door and stepped back. He sat down on an old sofa standing in the corner of the van. The sofa's springs creaked plaintively under his weight. He picked up the glass bottle of milk, opened it, and took a swallow. The milk was warm, almost repulsive, but he paid it no mind.
Aoko looked at him and asked with a faint smirk:
"How is it you're not sick? You're such an idiot, drinking milk in a place like this."
"I'm used to it. As a kid I used to drink from a bucket on my father's farm."
"And what if someone poisoned it?" Aoko asked, a little quietly, her voice slightly trembling.
"Don't worry, I checked. The milk hasn't curdled, there's no sediment, the smell is normal. If there's something in it, only a lab will find out."
Akiyama sighed heavily and looked out the window, as if sensing that rain would soon begin.
"We're staying here," he said. "We need to examine everything. Every detail could matter."
Aoko sat down across from him, folding her hands on her knees. Her breathing was still uneven.
"How many were there?" she asked.
"I don't know, but quite a few," Akiyama answered. "The tracks say so. Different sizes, different depths. But they all led here."
Akiyama set the bottle on the table and closed his eyes for a moment.
"They know how to break locks. They aren't afraid of getting dirty. They know how to cover their tracks. And they leave behind people like Haruto."
Aoko moved closer. Her footsteps made almost no sound on the old floor.
"Do you think they'll come back?"
"I don't know," Akiyama answered honestly. "But I want them to."
Aoko looked at him, then shifted her gaze to the window and asked:
"Should I call for backup?"
Akiyama answered calmly, taking another sip of milk:
"Of course. Say: found a body, accidentally drank some milk, and sat on the sofa, hope they don't hold a grudge. I'll be smelling like a corpse either way, I'll say I accidentally sat on the sofa, I can even write up an explanation."
"And why didn't you call ahead of time? You're a fool too, you know."
"The radio battery died, didn't get to it."
Aoko nodded, took out her radio, and left the van.
At that moment a light, cold rain began drizzling outside the window. Drops tapped on the roof of the van, creating a monotonous rhythm. The wind howled through the cracks, and the old van rocked slightly.
Akiyama looked out the window. The rain was washing away the tracks outside.
The police station cafeteria was empty. Only the dim light of fluorescent lamps illuminated the plastic tables and old chairs, on which countless officers had sat over the years. The smell of food mixed with the smell of cleaning supplies and fatigue — a thick, heavy atmosphere that never disappeared even in the quietest hours. Somewhere in the kitchen oil hissed on a frying pan, a sizzle audible whenever someone threw meat onto the hot surface. The aroma of fried onion and soy sauce spread through the cafeteria, mixing with the smell of old wood and paper. It seemed even the air here was heavy with tension.
Akiyama sat at one of the tables, a plate of almost untouched food pushed away in front of him. He wasn't looking at it. His hands lay on the table, clasped together, and his eyes were fixed on one point on an old poster on the wall that had lost its colors many years ago. His uniform was slightly unbuttoned at the top, his tie loosened, and his hair looked as if he hadn't slept for several nights.
He didn't know how much time had passed since he'd sat down here. Minutes blurred into hours. It was empty all around; only occasionally did footsteps sound in the corridor, but no one came in. That suited him. The noise of food frying drifted from the kitchen, creating a background rhythm that was almost soothing.
The cafeteria door opened with a quiet creak.
Aoko came in. Her steps were quick and confident; she didn't pause for a second. In her hand she held a folded sheet of paper. Coming up to the table, she tossed it right in front of Akiyama, and it landed softly against the plastic surface.
Akiyama slowly shifted his gaze from the worn poster to the sheet. Then to her.
"What's this?" he asked without expression.
"A taxi driver was killed yesterday," Aoko answered, sitting down across from him. She leaned her elbows on the table and clasped her hands together in front of her. "They found the body in the car. Outside the city. No bullet. Someone ate him."
Akiyama frowned, and for the first time in a long while his face changed.
"Ate him?"
"Not an animal," Aoko cut in. "Cannibals. Bite marks on the hands. Human ones."
Akiyama shifted his gaze to the paper but didn't reach for it.
"No bullet," Aoko repeated.
"So you're telling me someone shot him in the head, and then dug the bullet out with their finger?"
"Yes. Exactly."
Silence hung between them. Akiyama looked at her, trying to tell if she was joking. But her face stayed serious.
"Someone shot him, and then pulled out the bullet? What kind of composure does that take — to sit over a body and dig around in its head with your finger?"
"So that we couldn't determine what weapon was used," Aoko answered.
Akiyama stayed silent for a few seconds. He shifted his gaze to the paper, pulled it toward himself, and began reading. The notes were written in a sweeping hand, but he recognized it — Aoko always wrote like that.
"The body was found this morning," Aoko said quietly. "The car was parked by the old sawmill. The door was open. The man was sitting in the passenger seat. His face was almost undamaged, but his hands... someone had bitten off chunks of flesh. Or just wanted us to think that."
"No signs of a struggle?"
"None. He was sitting in place."
Akiyama put the paper down and looked at Aoko.
"Are you sure it wasn't an animal?"
"I don't even know what to say."
Akiyama shook his head. He picked up a spoon, stirred the cooled soup, but didn't raise it to his mouth. The smell of frying meat from the kitchen grew stronger, almost tangible, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
"How many murders is that this week?" he asked. "First Haruto. Now the taxi driver. Something keeps happening."
He set down the spoon and pushed the plate away.
"And that's not all. We found Renji Asakawa. A skeleton with remnants of flesh, no skin. Crucified, burned, beaten with a sledgehammer."
"Renji Asakawa?" Aoko repeated. "The guy who went to Haruka?"
"Yes. His parents are dead too. Hayato Asakawa and Haruka Asakawa. And the older brother, Akio, is in a coma right now. On the edge between life and death."
Akiyama took a breath. The cafeteria grew even quieter, as if even the kitchen had gone still, listening to their conversation. All that could be heard was a phone ringing somewhere down the corridor.
"And that's still not all," Akiyama went on. "Asura Kaito. Renji's girlfriend. Hanged herself in the forest. Official version — suicide. I don't believe it."
"You think it's connected?" Aoko asked.
"I don't know. But too many people have died this week. Every one of them was connected to Renji. To his past."
He looked at the plate of soup. It had cooled completely; a thin film had formed on the surface.
"Sometimes I think someone is trying to erase all the traces. To wipe out everyone who had anything to do with this case. And we're just trying to catch up, but we're always too late."
Aoko was quiet for a few seconds. Then she said:
"Let's go there. Where the taxi driver was killed. See for ourselves."
Akiyama looked at her. A shadow of exhaustion flickered in his eyes.
"Is Itsuki there?"
"No," Aoko answered. "He's busy with another case."
Akiyama leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily.
"Then I think I'll pass."
He looked again toward the kitchen, where oil was still hissing on the frying pan. The smell of frying meat filled the room.
"I'm tired, Aoko. Today I don't want to see another body. I just want to sit here, in the quiet. Smell the food someone's cooking. And not think about death."
Aoko didn't press him. She stood up slowly, took the paper from the table, and turned toward the exit.
"I understand. Get some rest. I'll call if anything changes."
She left the cafeteria, and the door closed behind her with a quiet thud. Silence returned. Akiyama remained sitting at the table, staring into the emptiness in front of him. In the kitchen, they went on frying meat, the smell growing richer.
He ran his hand across the table, briefly touching the paper Aoko had left. But he didn't open it. He just sat there in silence, listening to the rain outside the window and the hiss of oil in the pan.