Chapter 124: Kurozawa Goes Down, A Headache of a Case

As he stepped out of the District Public Prosecutors Office, the morning breeze brushed against his face, and Nobu Kurosawa closed his eyes in intoxication.

This was the scent of freedom—intoxicating.

He stood still for a moment before getting into the car. The driver started the engine and slowly pulled away.

"Any news on Heiji?" Kurosawa asked faintly, his eyes closed as he feigned sleep.

The lawyer in the passenger seat turned back and replied respectfully, "Not yet. The prosecutors cannot find him either."

As Kurosawa's secretary, Heiji Haruo was being sought by everyone—those who wanted to help Kurosawa and those who wanted to kick him while he was down—but he remained elusive. After all, they could never have dreamed that on the very day Kurosawa’s incident occurred, Heiji Haruo had been planted in the ground by a nobody they would have never noticed—without even the benefit of water or fertilizer.

"Forget it. No news is perhaps the best news," Kurosawa sighed. Then, rousing himself, he added, "Come up with a plan against Hidenobu Aoyama as soon as possible. He must pay the price!"

If he had been defeated by an opponent of his own caliber, he would have chosen a dignified exit. But being undermined by a lowlife like Aoyama was truly humiliating. He was full of resentment and needed an outlet.

"Yes, sir!" the lawyer replied, his expression turning solemn.

"Ring-ring~ Ring-ring~"

At that moment, his mobile phone rang.

"Moshi moshi," the lawyer answered.

"Please put Mr. Kurosawa on the line."

The lawyer hesitated for a second, then turned and handed the phone to Kurosawa. "Sir, it’s for you."

"Hello," Kurosawa said, taking the phone.

"Mr. Kurosawa, this is Hidenobu Aoyama."

Kurosawa’s breathing hitched, his eyes darkening. He spoke coldly, "What is it? Looking to grovel for mercy? I won't make the same mistake again, Aoyama, you bastard!" He hadn't expected the man to dare contact him.

"Mr. Kurosawa seems to hate me quite a bit. To be etched in the memory of a great man like you is truly my honor." By the canal, Aoyama stood beside his car, watching the bustling river traffic. The morning breeze tugged at his coat, making it snap in the wind.

Realizing that Aoyama was not begging but rather provoking him, Kurosawa flew into a rage. "Aoyama, even if I have lost some power, I still have more than enough to crush an ant like you. Cherish every day; you don't have much time left to breathe. I mean what I say."

"By the way, Mr. Kurosawa, what color car do you like?" Aoyama asked curiously.

Kurosawa found the question bizarre.

"Ah!" The driver suddenly let out a startled cry. Then, with a look of terror, he slammed the steering wheel.

Kurosawa felt the car sway. He looked up instinctively and was struck with horror: a fully loaded green dump truck was barreling toward them. It was only an instant away.

"BOOM!"

Before he could react, the two vehicles collided. With a deafening crash, the front of the Mercedes vanished. The driver and the lawyer in the passenger seat were killed instantly. The car was sent flying, tumbling twice before slamming into the ground.

The dump truck, however, did not slow down. It slammed into the mangled half of the Mercedes, a metallic crunch caving in the rear side where Kurosawa sat. Screams erupted from onlookers nearby.

The dump truck finally came to a halt.

Inside the car, Kurosawa’s heart was nearly stopping. He felt no pain, only dizziness and confusion; his vision was a blur.

"Heh, it seems Mr. Kurosawa has received the car I sent. I chose green for you—it represents life and hope. How is it? Do you like it?"

The phone that had fallen inside the car remained connected. Aoyama’s voice drifted through, light and airy.

"I... I... It’s... you..." Hearing this, Kurosawa was filled with a mix of shock and rage. He gasped, his words fragmented and stuttering.

"It is me. Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Kurosawa. Don't worry about being lonely on the road to the underworld. Heiji Haruo is waiting for you down there; he will continue to serve you."

"If you had ever played Beast Chess, you would know that even a small mouse can swallow an elephant."

After saying this, Aoyama hung up and threw the phone into the canal. *Plop.* Watching the splash, he took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and placed it between his lips.

"Phew—"

The weight on his chest had finally been lifted. If he hadn't struck first today, he would likely be the one dead once Kurosawa made his next move.

"Tu-tu-tu..."

At the scene of the accident, listening to the busy signal on the phone, Kurosawa’s mind grew increasingly hazy. His eyes were filled with unwillingness, and two tears slid from the corners of his eyes.

His political life had been ended by a nobody, and now his physical life was being ended by the same man. *Baka*, how could Aoyama be so bold? How could he dare to kill him? How could he!

His past flashed before his eyes like a strobe light, finally settling on that afternoon when Aoyama had knelt before him, prostrating himself, begging for a chance to retrieve the photos. He, who had always been violent and bloodthirsty, had spared the man’s life out of a momentary appreciation for his talent—only to ruin his own future and life because of it...

Kurosawa felt only resentment, regret, and fury.

Finally, he gasped his last, dying with his eyes wide open, unable to find peace.

After finishing his cigarette, Aoyama flicked the butt into the river. He was Japanese now, so he didn't care about manners—he was just polluting the river like any other Japanese person. He turned and got into his car.

He picked up his personal phone and made a call.

"Yamakawa-kun, arrange for a few men..."

News of Kurosawa's death in the car accident caused a stir in Tokyo's political circles. Given his special status, no one believed it was an accident. Of course, no one suspected Aoyama. After all, his status was too low—a mere nobody—where would he find the guts to assassinate Kurosawa?

However, everyone tacitly understood to instruct the prosecutors and police not to investigate too deeply, as Kurosawa’s death was a result many had desired but dared not execute. Still, the primary suspects were criticized by others; after all, Kurosawa had already lost, and resorting to physical elimination was seen as truly malicious.

Regardless, Kurosawa’s death marked the end of the series of storms he had instigated.

...

Aoyama had sent Kurosawa away.

Meanwhile, Jiro Ninpei was about to send his older brother away. Regarding the framing of Aoyama, Taro Ninpei had held a press conference yesterday to respond, publicly bowing in apology and promising to resign from his post as a member of the Diet. He did not go into detail about why he had framed Aoyama, only brushing over it vaguely.

He had booked a flight to the United States for today. Since reporters had been camping at his doorstep, he had to leave, or the situation would only escalate and impact his family's lives.

"Brother, I'm sorry. It's all because of me that your years of hard work have vanished into thin air, and now you have to flee to the United States." At the airport entrance, Jiro looked at his brother with deep self-reproach.

Taro, sporting dark circles under his eyes from a sleepless night, replied calmly, "This has little to do with you. It is simply that I was not as skilled as my opponent. Jiro, do your own work well. Do not provoke Aoyama on your own. This isn't over. When I return, I will settle the score with him."

If he had previously attacked Aoyama out of concern for his brother and family interests, he now held a personal grudge and could not let it go. Although he appeared calm, he was in agony; this departure meant his last few years were wasted, and he would have to start from scratch upon his return. He hated Aoyama to the bone.

"I understand, brother. Don't worry," Jiro said, though in his heart, he was determined to wash away the shame for himself and his brother.

Taro patted his shoulder. "Do not act on your own. Father will not let Aoyama go; he will certainly teach him a lesson. Consider that the interest; when I return, I will collect the principal."

Jiro was skeptical. Their father seemed to favor the outsider—there was no sign he intended to protect his own son. Revenge would have to be his own burden.

"Well, it's getting late." Taro checked his watch, turned to his wife, and walked away.

*Aoyama, I will return!*

"Brother, have a safe trip!" Jiro shouted at his retreating back.

Taro waved without looking back.

Only when his brother’s figure disappeared did Jiro turn to leave, his expression gloomy yet fired up. *Aoyama, wait for me to come and play with you.*

"Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!"

In his office, Aoyama sneezed three times. He sniffled, then continued to read the files on the serial murders, jotting down key points.

Victim 1: Male, 22, junior at Tokyo Institute of Technology, from Saitama Prefecture. Died: New Year's Eve, January 26, 1990. Beaten and tortured to death. No skin left intact. Footprints of three people and multiple fingerprints found at the scene. Based on shoe size, one perpetrator was likely female.

Victim 2: Male, 35, taxi driver, from Tokyo. Died: March 5, 1990. Also tortured before death. Hands and feet bound, arteries severed, bled to death. Three sets of footprints, but only one fingerprint found, matching one from the first scene.

Victim 3: Female, 18, recent high school graduate, from Kanagawa Prefecture. Died: May 7, 1990. Subjected to violence, gang-raped by two men, then strangled. DNA of two men found. Three sets of footprints; no fingerprints.

Victim 4: Male, 27, restaurant waiter, from Hokkaido. Died: August 8, 1990. Subjected to violence; genitals severed. Three sets of footprints and a stray hair from a female found at the scene.

Victim 5: Female, 24, nightclub hostess, from Tokyo. Died: November 7, 1990. Beaten, not sexually assaulted. Cause of death: decapitation. Three sets of footprints, but no fingerprints or hair found.

Because the cases were so heinous, Tokyo police had collected fingerprints and DNA from over 100,000 potential suspects in 1990 and 1991, but found nothing. The killer had vanished after the last crime as if they had evaporated from the face of the earth.

"Phew—" Aoyama exhaled. His head was starting to ache.

Based on the records, the killer’s methods were becoming more mature, leaving fewer and fewer traces. The five victims varied in age, status, gender, profession, and birthplace. There were almost no commonalities; the killer was likely committing random murders, the hardest type to solve.

Aoyama had already prepared to give up after a while and tell Kunio Ninpei that he was powerless to solve it. Though people called him a "detective god," he knew his own worth—his high clearance rate was because he focused on closing cases rather than finding the objective truth. But this case offered no room for a scapegoat.

"Knock, knock, knock!" A sudden rap at the door.

Aoyama called out, "Come in."

"Inspector, regarding the murder of Michi Ayase, my investigation into the Kimura family has made progress," Shinichi Nakamura said, stepping in with a beaming expression.

Aoyama’s attention shifted immediately from the serial murder case. "What progress?"