“Who is it?” a woman asked.
Teruo showed his badge to the small camera. “Is this the Ozawa residence? We’re from the TMPD, here to ask a few questions.”
There was a pause and some whispering, before the main gate opened and they walked into the yard. It was well-kept, with a swinging bench and a round table on their left, and a vegetable garden on their right.
A middle-aged woman and a man—whom Teruo assumed to be Fumiko’s parents—stood at the front door with panicked faces.
“Have you found our daughter?” the mother asked, hands clenched on her long skirt.
“Ma’am,” Teruo said, bowing, “it would be best to talk inside.”
The parents exchanged a glance, then invited them in. Teruo and Miyazaki took off their shoes and followed Fumiko’s parents to the living room. After introducing themselves properly, they sat on the sofa.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, ma’am, sir,” Teruo started carefully. “Your daughter, Ozawa Fumiko, was found dead yesterday afternoon.”
The mother broke into a painful cry, cupping her hands to her mouth to stifle it. The father patted her back, then looked at Teruo.
“Are you sure it’s her?” he asked, voice shaking. “Perhaps there’s a misunderstanding.”
Though he disliked this part the most, Teruo pulled out a photograph of Fumiko out of his pocket and handed it to the father. It felt gruesome to do this, but he needed to. Teruo had cut off the part of the picture where the bloody wire was wrapped, but it still didn’t make it better. They had to look at their daughter’s face: gray skin, purple lips, hollow eyes. Dead.
The mother crumbled in on herself, her wails growing louder, and the father wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand. Teruo placed the photograph back in his pocket.
“I’m truly sorry.” Teruo bowed, and Miyazaki mirrored him. “We’re working on finding out who is responsible. It would help if you could answer some of our questions.”
The mother stood, palms covering her face, and entered the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
“Give her a minute,” the father said, tears still pouring down his face. “I can answer your questions.”
Miyazaki pulled out his notepad and a pen. “Could you confirm your daughter’s age and details about her daily routine and job?”
“She’s twenty-eight.” He paused. “Was,” he corrected himself, and wiped his cheeks again. “She worked at a call center in Itabashi. On weekdays she’d wake up at ten, have a late breakfast, then stay in her room until three when she’d leave for work. She returned at about one in the morning.”
Miyazaki jotted down the details, along with the address of the call center and contact info. “What did she take to work and back?”
“There’s a bus nearby that takes her straight to her office’s headquarters and she took a taxi at night. The expense was paid by her workplace. On Tuesdays and Fridays she took a different bus because she stopped at a ramen shop to pick up food.”
This piece of info corroborated what the restaurant’s employee told them.
“And on weekends?” Teruo asked.
“She would go out with friends. Fumiko still kept in touch with her college and high school friends. She’d stay out until late, but never got in trouble.”
“Has she ever complained about her friends?” Miyazaki asked. “Maybe some of them treated her badly? Or maybe her relationship with them changed in any way?”
The father shook his head. “Not to me. Let me call my wife back. She might know more.”
He went to the kitchen and, as he opened the door, Teruo saw the wife sitting at the table, her head down over her arms. He didn’t have children and could only imagine the pain of parents having to bury their own child.
The husband convinced his wife to return to the living room. Her eyes were puffy, and tears still trickled down her cheeks, but she did her best to stay calm.
“Tell the officers about Fumiko’s friends,” her husband encouraged.
She thought for a bit then replied through deep sighs, “There are four, maybe five young women. At least from what I understood whenever she was on the phone.” She pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. “Fumiko never brought them home, but she met with them almost every weekend and I’ve seen them in pictures.”
“Did she get along well with them?” Teruo asked.
“Oh, very well. She was always excited to go out with her friends.”