Chapter 86: The Father Outside the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, the True Killer Who Broke Down

Another murder had shaken Sunset Apartment, and reporters, like sharks drawn by the scent of blood, descended in swarms. Shunobu Aoyama explained his “copycat crime” theory to the journalists, while Aya Asai returned to police headquarters to relay this deduction to Superintendent Hattori. After listening, Hattori agreed with her assessment, but precisely because this was an imitation crime, he regarded it as all the more heinous. It had to be dealt with firmly, he insisted, to deter any others harboring similar intentions.

Thus, he demanded Aya Asai resolve the case and apprehend the perpetrator as soon as possible.

Seizing the opportunity, Aya Asai pointed out that Kinjo Heiji was mired in a bribery scandal and Takizawa Mahora was too distracted by the murder investigation to focus on their duties, leaving the team severely understaffed. She requested the immediate transfer of her trusted subordinates from Shinjuku Precinct, Ryoichi Fujimoto and Shinichi Nakamura, to strengthen her squad.

Superintendent Hattori agreed, promising to expedite the matter, though noting that the transfer of detectives within the Metropolitan Police Department was not something he could achieve with a mere signature.

Upon returning to her office, Aya Asai found Shunobu Aoyama waiting. Before he could speak, she told him, “Superintendent Hattori wants the case closed as soon as possible.”

“Once again, there’s no surveillance footage, no eyewitnesses. Solving this will take time. We can only start by reviewing the neighboring security cameras for suspects,” Aoyama replied.

Ryo Akimiya had experience disabling the building’s security system, and last night, before committing his crime, he did so again—so deftly that not only did he make things easier for himself, but he also inadvertently benefited would-be burglars.

“We’ll just have to be patient. It’s normal for cases like this to drag on for a year or more,” Aya Asai shrugged, unconcerned. Then she added, “By the way, my father asked you to stop by Shinjuku Precinct when you have a moment today.”

“Life is unpredictable. The last time I saw him I called him ‘Chief,’ but this time I’ll have to call him ‘Father-in-law,’” Aoyama mused, shaking his head in mock lament.

And what should he call him next time?

Aya Asai nudged him toward the door. “Off you go. Leave the investigation to me.”

Half an hour later, after a hiatus of two weeks, Shunobu Aoyama returned to his old stomping grounds at Shinjuku Precinct.

“Inspector Aoyama, what brings you here?”

“Good morning, Inspector Aoyama.”

“Morning, everyone. Long time no see,” Aoyama replied, greeting his colleagues with a smile as he made his way to Yuhiko Asai’s office and knocked on the door.

Knock, knock, knock!

“Come in!”

Aoyama entered, bowed before the desk, and said, “Father-in-law, you wanted to see me.”

“What are you calling me?” Yuhiko Asai’s head snapped up, his face thunderous, banging his desk for emphasis. “You and Aya aren’t even married yet! Even if you were, at work you address me by my title!”

“Yes, Chief!” Aoyama replied smartly.

“Hmph!” Yuhiko Asai stared at Aoyama, feeling more stifled than ever, his expression severe. “When did you start pursuing Aya?”

“Huh?” Aoyama looked up, feigning just the right amount of surprise, then said sheepishly, “Actually, Aya was the one who pursued me.”

He prided himself on his integrity, except when it came to shamelessness.

“Is that so?” Yuhiko Asai was incredulous. He’d assumed his naive daughter had been deceived—emotionally and physically—by the cunning Aoyama, but it seemed his daughter had been the initiator.

Aoyama took a deep breath, pressed his lips together, and said, “Chief, you know I’m a man who understands his place. At first, I refused Aya’s advances because I was keenly aware of the gulf between our families, how mismatched we were.”

“But after repeated rejections, she remained unwavering. She even threatened that if I didn’t agree to be with her, she’d end her life—jump off a building!”

“I had no choice but to acquiesce, hoping to placate her. But the heart is made of flesh, and over time, I was moved by her sincerity. To prove myself worthy of her, I earned Kenyu’s trust and respect, and asked him to propose to you on my behalf.”

Hearing this, and recalling how his daughter had been so determined last night—insisting on marrying Aoyama or dying for it—Yuhiko Asai instinctively believed him.

All the admonitions he’d prepared dissolved into confusion. After all, it was his daughter who’d thrown herself at the man, refusing to take no for an answer.

Or was it? Suddenly, Yuhiko Asai’s gaze sharpened.

With Aoyama’s cunning, perhaps he’d deliberately displayed his merits to entice Aya’s affections!

Had Aoyama known of this suspicion, he would have coughed up blood on the spot. If he had pursued Asai’s daughter, he’d be accused of social climbing; if she had pursued him, it was still his fault for luring her—all so Asai’s daughter could remain the unblemished lily.

“No matter who made the first move, Aya is a simple-hearted girl. I expect you to treat her well. Whatever you want, I can provide, but if she ever comes home to complain, don’t blame a father for being less than polite,” Yuhiko Asai threatened, his face cold.

Aoyama replied solemnly, “Yes, sir!”

He understood: he simply had to keep her from ever daring to complain at home.

Yuhiko Asai’s expression eased a little, his gaze complicated as he looked at the respectful Aoyama before him.

Originally, he’d planned to win Aoyama over as a trusted aide, but upon realizing the man’s calculating nature, he’d kept his distance. Yet, in the end, while he’d succeeded in maintaining boundaries, his daughter had crossed all of them. Now, with Aoyama as family, he could trust him—but he could hardly send family members to do risky work. Such was the irony of fate.

“I’ll smooth things over with Jiro Ninpei. Don’t escalate the conflict,” he said at last, revealing the real reason he’d summoned Aoyama. With Aoyama’s ruthless streak, if Ninpei kept provoking him, who knew what might happen.

Aoyama replied obediently, “Understood!”

If Jiro Ninpei didn’t antagonize him, he certainly wouldn’t seek trouble.

“That’s all. Off with you,” Yuhiko Asai waved him out.

Aoyama bowed again. “Understood!”

No sooner had he left the office than his phone rang. He answered without checking the caller ID, “Hello?”

“Mr. Aoyama, this is Kazuki Yamakawa. President Hori has agreed to meet with you. He invites you to join him for a hot spring in Kanagawa this Saturday. Will you be available?”

“Excellent. Please tell President Hori I look forward to our meeting,” Aoyama replied, ending the call.

When he returned to police headquarters, he saw a chaotic crowd gathered outside. Two officers were forcibly dragging a man out the door.

The man appeared to be in his forties, unkempt and haggard. As he was hauled away, he struggled and shouted at the top of his lungs:

“Let go of me! My daughter didn’t kill herself! She didn’t! Why won’t you investigate?”

“You lapdogs of the elite!”

“Hurry up and leave! Your daughter’s death has already been ruled a suicide. Stop making trouble. Interfere again and we’ll lock you up!” the two officers barked, throwing him to the ground before spitting at his feet and striding away without a backward glance.

The onlookers dispersed, leaving only the middle-aged man sitting on the ground, clutching a shattered photo frame, wailing inconsolably.

Aoyama frowned. His compassionate nature made it hard for him to witness such scenes. He quickened his pace, skirted around the sobbing man, and entered the building. He stopped one of the officers who had just witnessed the commotion.

“Excuse me, what happened just now?”

“Oh, Aoyama!” The middle-aged officer recognized him, pulled him aside, and whispered, “That man was Miya Inoue. A month ago, he reported to the police that his daughter, Sadako Inoue, had been raped by her classmate, Fuji Konoe.”

“But after investigation, the Sex Crimes Division 2 refused to arrest Konoe, citing insufficient evidence. Shortly after, his daughter fell to her death from a school building. The Homicide Division 2 investigated and ruled it a suicide. He made a scene at the time and was detained for interfering with official duties. He was released the day before yesterday. Everyone thought he’d learned his lesson, but now he’s back, making trouble again.”

“So was his daughter really raped by Fuji Konoe? Was it suicide?” Aoyama asked, his tone thoughtful and curious.

The officer smiled meaningfully, not answering directly, but instead said, “Fuji Konoe’s father is Han Konoe, Deputy Director of Public Prosecutions at the Tokyo District Prosecutors’ Office.”

Aoyama understood at once. He glanced back at the man sobbing at the entrance, then shook his head and walked into the office building.

Compared to these true-blooded villains, he thought, his own forbearance in not abusing his power over ordinary people made him almost virtuous—a counterfeit tyrant, at most.

…

That evening, the news reported on the murder at Sunset Apartment, including an interview with Shunobu Aoyama at the scene.

On screen, Aoyama spoke confidently to the camera: “This is clearly an attempt to imitate the crimes of Kyoka Kitano. Not only is the murder method identical, but even the placement of the victim’s body mirrors Kitano’s actions.”

“The perpetrator even left a note at the scene, implying that he was the true killer of Masako Mikami, trying to sway public opinion toward the idea that the police arrested the wrong person. Frankly, it’s laughable. The evidence against Kyoka Kitano for Masako Mikami’s murder is conclusive. The perpetrator’s antics are simply childish…”

Crash! Watching the news with high expectations, Ryo Akimiya flew into a rage. He grabbed his cup and hurled it at the television, shattering it across the floor. He screamed, “I’m the one who did it! You’re the ones who got it wrong! I didn’t imitate anyone!”

He’d originally expected that, once the case went public, the police would be publicly humiliated and beset by public doubt—and he, accordingly, would become even more feared.

He never imagined that the arrogant, incompetent Aoyama would claim he was simply a copycat of Kyoka Kitano. It was infuriating!

Already warped and unstable, Ryo Akimiya seethed with fury and frustration, as though the recognition he craved had been handed to Kitano instead.

“Fine, just wait. I’ll prove I’m the original with more deaths!”

Ring! Ring!

The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted his thoughts.

“Hello?” Akimiya answered.

“Akimiya, a client just called. Their water pipe burst. I need you to work overtime—grab your tools and get over there right away. The address is…”

“Yes, yes, I’ll go immediately!” Akimiya replied, bowing and scraping as he spoke, deeply submissive even over the phone.

He was used to being assigned extra work after hours, never daring to protest.

Once his supervisor hung up, his face twisted with rage. He cursed the client vehemently. “Idiot! Damn it! Why did the pipe have to burst so late? Now I have to work overtime again!”

Seething, he made his way to the address in Kita-Senju, Arakawa Ward—a detached house. Opening the door was a haggard middle-aged woman, who immediately bowed in apology. “I’m so sorry to trouble you so late. Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” Akimiya answered, bowing as he entered and changed his shoes. He glanced around; on the entrance cabinet was a family portrait. Besides the woman, there was a distinguished-looking man and a vibrant young girl, all three smiling happily.

The woman followed his gaze to the photo, her eyes reddening. She pressed her dry lips together and said, “That’s my husband and daughter.”

“They’re not home tonight?” Akimiya asked, noting the empty living room.

“My daughter… passed away. My husband isn’t home yet,” the woman replied, taking a deep breath.

“My condolences,” Akimiya said quietly. But at her words, malice flickered in his eyes. His fingers trembled, and a surge of murderous intent welled up within him.

What a wretched woman.

Having to come all this way, so late, because of her.