He took one last look at Miyazaki before pulling himself away.I need a fucking smoke.He set his cup on the desk, opened the window and grabbed his pack, lighting a cigarette. The cold autumn air filled with car fumes wafted in, mixing with the tobacco and Teruo breathed in, trying to rid himself of Miyazaki’s smell.
These thoughts about Miyazaki confused and worried him. He wanted to dive into the murder case and give his mind something else to focus on.
“Sir, did you hear anything I told you?” Miyazaki asked.
Teruo rubbed his forehead, annoyed that now he was the one distracted. He turned to Miyazaki. “No, apologies. Could you repeat?”
Miyazaki pointed to his desk where documents along with an opened envelope lay. “I picked it up when I arrived. We’ve got Ozawa’s home address and her parents’ contact details. She was reported missing this morning. We’ll have to pay them a visit today and let them know about the situation.”
Teruo nodded. “Any news from our friends at the forensic medical center?”
“Definitely not friends.” Miyazaki frowned. “The man who answered when I called yesterday evening snapped at me.”
“He does that often.”
“That’s because you probably nag him often.”
“Yep,” Teruo said, taking a long drag. “It’s one of my favorite activities.”
“That’s rude, sir,” Miyazaki said, shaking his head.
He sounded like Megumi. They’d probably get along well and team up to scold Teruo. Miyazaki had guts to call him out. None of his officers ever did such a thing. They were too scared. Instead of feeling annoyed, Teruo found it amusing and refreshing. Miyazaki was straightforward when he wanted to, only with a bit more tact than Teruo.
A smile tugged at his lips and his gaze met Miyazaki’s who smiled back. Their eyes lingered on each other for a long, tense moment before they both looked away. Teruo glanced again and realized Shinji’s cheeks were flushed.
Clearing his throat, Teruo picked up the envelope and took out the files. “So, Ozawa. Wire around the neck, pet tag, injected in the deltoid according to Suzuki’s preliminary assessment.”
“Different injection site than the jogger’s. Not sure if that’s relevant, though.”
Teruo placed a picture of Ozawa, containing only the upper part of her body—from her head to her chest—on the white board, next to the jogger. He circled the deltoid area of her arm and then the jogger’s bicep.
“The difference might mean nothing,” Teruo said. “Just random places where the criminal plunged the syringe. Or it might tell us the criminal’s height.” He put a finger on Ozawa’s picture. “Higher part of her deltoid.” He traced the finger toward the jogger. “Bicep. Our jogger is 187 cm. Ozawa is 161 cm. The criminal could be somewhere in between. 170-175 cm or so.”
Miyazaki made a quiet “oh” with his mouth and nodded. “The criminal could’ve injected in a section of the arm easier to reach.”
“Yes. In the spur of the moment, when we’re under pressure to do something—in this case murder a person—the body reacts fast and the hand reaches for the easiest spot.” Teruo sighed. “Or it could be me over-thinking. I’m grasping at straws since the killer left no evidence behind.” He picked another report. “That thread you found led nowhere and we’ve yet to find out the jogger’s identity. Speaking of, have you found anything about him in the missing persons reports or somewhere else?”
Miyazaki hesitated for a few seconds before answering, “No, I didn’t find anything yet, sir.”
“Well,” Teruo said, “for now I’ll stick to my theory that these two had an affair and the peculiar wire and pet tag are somehow related to whatever message the killer’s trying to deliver.”
“There are also no signs of struggle in both cases,” Miyazaki added. “It supports the theory that Ozawa and the jogger knew the killer.”
“Yeah, it does.” Teruo nodded satisfied. “We’ll be able to test some of our theories once Suzuki ID’s the jogger and gives us the results of the autopsy.” He straightened his suit jacket and tie. “Let’s visit Ozawa’s family and see what they know.”
CHAPTER 8
Teruo
As they drove to the Ozawa residence, Teruo sat back in the passenger seat, hand out the window, a cigarette hanging between his fingers.
Too many thoughts nestled in his mind. So many that not even the nicotine could stop him from worrying. The goddamn dream, the way Miyazaki looked at him, the white wind, the discussion about Miyazaki’s former superior officer. He’d been stubbornly picking each one of them apart until now, but he started to think he was stressing over nothing. Megumi was right. He had to let it go, be grateful to have a work partner who liked his job as much as Teruo did and also stop fantasizing about said partner. Easy right?
Who the fuck am I kidding?
“Sir?” Miyazaki said. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
Teruo’s interest piqued, welcoming the distraction from his own thoughts. “Ask first, then I’ll tell you if I mind.”