he have invented a better alibi? Furthermore, Hirata’s examination of the crime scene last night argued that Fujio could be innocent.
There was no evidence that Fujio had been in the house recently. The woman could have gone there by herself. Hirata even wondered whether she’d been hiding there at all. The stove and braziers had contained no sign of recent fire, the only food in the house was some old dried fruit, and the privy didn’t smell as if anyone had used it lately. The woman could have been taken there and immediately killed-by someone who wanted to frame Fujio.
Yet perhaps Fujio was guilty, but hadn’t expected the body to be found, and therefore had thought he wouldn’t need an alibi. The story about a secret mistress might have been the best he could do when caught off guard.
“I think you went to see Wisteria at your house yesterday,” Hirata said. “Maybe she didn’t like being alone, in the cold, and she complained. Maybe you were desperate because you had nowhere else to put her. There was an argument. Things got out of control. You killed her.”
“That never happened.” Fujio shifted his stance, planting his feet firmly on the ground.
“Or maybe you intended to kill her all along,” Hirata said, “because she saw you kill Lord Mitsuyoshi.”
“Treasury Minister Nitta did it.” Triumph tinged Fujio’s declaration. “I heard the news.”
“You killed Wisteria before you knew Nitta was convicted,” Hirata guessed. “You were afraid she would tell the police that you’re the killer, and you couldn’t let her live.”
“I didn’t kill Lord Mitsuyoshi,” Fujio said hotly. “And I didn’t kill Wisteria. Someone put her body in my house to make it look like I killed her!”
In Fujio’s eyes dawned the realization that this was exactly how it looked-and how a magistrate who tried him for the murder would interpret the crime scene. A visible current of panic tautened his slim figure. Hirata sprang forward to grab Fujio, at the same instant that the hokan turned and bolted across the rice fields.
“Hey! Come back here!” Launching himself in pursuit, Hirata called to the detectives: “Stop him!”
Fujio stumbled over dirt clods, his garments flapping, legs and arms pumping furiously. Hirata panted as he labored to catch up. But soon Fujio’s pace slowed; fatigue hobbled his gait. Hirata closed the distance between them and lunged, seizing Fujio around the waist.
The hokan fell forward and slammed to the ground. Hirata landed with a thud on top of him. Fujio lay limp and wheezing.
“You’re under arrest,” Hirata said.
After the treasury minister had died with his guilt or innocence undetermined, Hirata couldn’t risk allowing one of Sano’s only two other suspects to escape. And even if Fujio proved not to have killed the shogun’s heir, he was still the primary suspect in the murder of the woman at his house.
“Silly habit of mine, running away when I’m sure to get caught,” Fujio said, managing a wry laugh. “But this time it was worth a try.”
Although Sano usually traveled with an entourage to assist him and uphold the dignity of his rank, Edo Jail was a place he preferred to go alone.
Edo Jail, a fortified dungeon surrounded by deteriorating stone walls and watchtowers, reigned over the slums of northeast Nihonbashi. Inside, jailers tortured confessions out of prisoners, and convicted criminals awaited execution. The jail also housed Edo Morgue, which received the bodies of citizens who perished from natural disasters or unnatural causes. There Dr. Ito, morgue custodian, often lent his medical expertise to Sano’s investigations. Because the examination of corpses and any other procedures associated with foreign science were illegal, Sano wanted as few people as possible to know about his visits to Edo Jail.
Dr. Ito met him at the door of the morgue, a low building with flaking plaster walls. “What a pleasure to see you,” Dr. Ito said.
In his seventies, he had white hair like a snowfall above his wise, lined face and wore the dark blue coat of a physician. Years ago he’d been caught practicing forbidden foreign science, which he’d learned through illicit channels from Dutch traders. The bakufu had forgone the usual sentence of exile and condemned him to work for the rest of his life in Edo Morgue. There Dr. Ito had continued his scientific experiments, ignored by the authorities.
“However, I might have wished for a better occasion than another violent death,” he said.
“I, too,” Sano said. “I wouldn’t ask you to examine another body now if I had any choice.”
The Black Lotus disaster had taken its toll on Dr. Ito even though he hadn’t been at the temple that night, when over seven hundred people had died. Their bodies had been taken directly to a mass funeral outside town, but many nuns and priests had died from injuries or committed suicide in jail, and Dr. Ito had prepared their corpses for cremation. His horror at the Black Lotus carnage had put a halt to his work-the one solace that made his imprisonment bearable-and the spiritual pollution from so many deaths had weakened his health.
Dr. Ito smiled reassuringly and gestured for Sano to enter the morgue. “Justice for a murder victim takes precedence over personal feelings.”
Inside the morgue, a large room held stone troughs used for washing the dead, cabinets containing tools, a podium stacked with papers and books, and three waist-high tables. Upon one table lay a figure draped by a white cloth. Beside this stood Dr. Ito’s assistant, Mura, a man of some fifty years, who had bushy gray hair and an angular, intelligent face.
“We’re ready to begin, Mura-san,” said Dr. Ito.
Mura was an eta, one of the outcast class from which came the wardens, torturers, corpse handlers, and executioners of Edo Jail. The eta’s hereditary link with death-related occupations such as butchering and leather tanning rendered them spiritually contaminated. Most citizens shunned them, but Dr. Ito had befriended Mura, who performed all the physical work for Dr. Ito’s studies.
As Sano went to stand near the table, he battled an impulse to run away. He’d not yet recovered from the horror and nausea he’d experienced upon finding the body. He dreaded examining the corpse of a woman he’d known intimately.
Mura peeled off the white cloth from the corpse, beginning at the feet. The rigidity of death had passed, and the woman lay flat on her back, limbs straight. Her feet were bare, their skin a bluish white; dirt and cuts marked the soles. As her clothes came into view, Sano observed red-brown splotches on the kimono’s purple and green floral pattern. The woman’s fingernails were broken and crusted with dried blood. Mura uncovered her top half, exposing the hideous mutilation where her head should have been. The sweet odor of rotting meat struck Sano; his stomach lurched.
“Where did you find her?” Dr. Ito asked.
Sano related the details of the murder investigation, explained how he’d discovered the body, and described the scene.
“Was there blood around the body?” Dr. Ito said.
An indelible picture of the room haunted Sano’s mind. “Not much. Some spatters on the floor, the wall, the futon, and the mosquito net.”
He knew Reiko was worried about him, and he’d wished to act normal in front of her last night, but all his energy had gone toward keeping sickness and emotion at bay. Closing himself off from Reiko would drive them farther apart, but he couldn’t explain the murder’s extreme effect on him without telling her what would make matters worse.
“To determine exactly what happened, we must view the rest of her.” Dr. Ito gestured to Mura.
The eta fetched a knife and cut the kimono off the woman. He removed the white under-kimono, exposing her naked body. It was an ugly patchwork of huge red and purple bruises that had erupted under the pale skin on her abdomen, breasts, and ribcage. Smaller bruises blotched her neck, arms, and thighs. Sano inhaled sharply through his teeth; Dr. Ito murmured in dismay, and even the stoic Mura looked shaken.
“Please turn her on her side, Mura-san,” said Dr. Ito.
Mura obeyed, and they silently viewed the bruised back and buttocks. Then Dr. Ito walked around the table, his expression pitying as he studied the corpse. “This brutality indicates a male rather than a female attacker, because it required considerable strength. Those bruises were made by fists. The small ones on the arms and neck are fingerprints.”
