The ghost’s immaterial body was translucent white looking like a washed out version of his former living self. A cold mist surrounded him, and the mark of the wire was visible: three black lines crossing his neck, their color striking against the skin. Death marks always stood out like that. His feet were firmly planted on the ground, which meant a heavy burden kept the spirit here, most likely related to his murder.
Shinji was among those who could see the ghosts of the dead and his job—besides investigating crimes—was to ensure the spirits finished up whatever kept them tied to this world and then safely send them to the other side. When Chief Inspector Hayashi had called him and told him about the murder, Shinji jumped in the first available taxi and rushed over, hoping to reach the scene before the chief. His new superior officer wasn’t like his former one. Since Hayashi didn’t see ghosts, the liberty Shinji enjoyed back in Hiroshima was going to be reduced here and he wanted to find out as much information as possible until Hayashi arrived.
Unfortunately, the discussion with the ghost didn’t go as well as Shinji had hoped. Though he assured the ghost he’d help him, Shinji knew that little had registered for the poor man. The deceased were often confused during the first hours after their passing and the man had been in a daze during the entire conversation. Like with most ghosts, the jogger’s memories were jumbled. Only fragments lingered. Sometimes memories would return and other times they stayed lost forever.
The jogger couldn’t remember his name, his family, his friends, or the person who killed him. After—more or less—getting over the initial shock of finding out he was dead, there were two things the ghost remembered. One was a feeling of choking and the other was a sharp pain in his upper arm—the bicep—Shinji figured from the way the spirit held it.
Now Shinji squatted, feet deep into the mud, his shoes completely ruined, attempting to get more information out of the ghost. The man had quieted down, but his body still emitted ghostly mist and chilled wafts of wind.
“Hey,” Shinji whispered. “Can you please tone down the wind? It’s freezing and we still have a lot of work to do.”
The ghost stopped and looked around him surprised. “Oh. How do I do that?”
“Try to think positive thoughts to calm yourself. I know it’s not easy, but everybody here will do their best to find the person who did this to you.”
“Oi, Miyazaki,” Hayashi said, making Shinji jolt. “What are you doing?”
Shinji looked up at the chief. Hayashi stood to the right, head tilted, a deep crease etched between his brows and arms folded over his broad chest. Shinji had been so preoccupied with the ghost, he didn’t hear Hayashi approaching.
Swallowing hard, he put on his usual fake smile. “Looking for more evidence, sir.”
“You were talking to someone.”
“No, sir. I was mumbling to myself.” Shinji cringed at his lame lie. He needed to be more discreet when talking to spirits.
Hayashi clicked his tongue. “Really?” he drawled. “Is that a thing of yours?”
Shinji rose to his feet, peeling off the latex gloves. “It is.”
Right then the jogger’s spirit stopped pacing and propped himself in front of Hayashi, studying him. The ghostly mist twirled, forming into a circle around Shinji and Hayashi, the cold waft making their clothes sway.
“Can he see me?” the ghost asked.
Now you decided you want to talk?When I’m not able to answer you?
“Huh, he can’t,” the ghost answered his own question. “Only you can,” he told Shinji. “That’s sad.” He exhaled and the air blew through the chief’s combed hair, ruffling a few strands.
Hayashi’s eyes widened and he stared ahead where the ghost was, invisible to him. He pulled a pack of Mevius cigarettes from his inner pocket, lit one, then extended his hand straight through the ghost’s immaterial body. The spiritual energy of the ghost made the cigarette’s smoke disperse in small particles.
Shinji wondered what Hayashi saw. Spirits had been a constant presence in his life, so a world without them was unknown to him. Did Hayashi see the smoke dispersing? Or did it look normal?
Hayashi pulled back the cigarette, drew in a long drag, then muttered, “I need a fucking vacation.” He stretched his left shoulder, rubbing his knuckles briefly over it and grunting.
Shinji remained quiet, not wanting to say something inappropriate. The superintendent warned him that Chief Inspector Hayashi was a difficult man to work with, but up until now he didn’t seem all that difficult. More like tired of bullshit.
Difficult or not, Shinji needed to get along with Hayashi, at least enough to be able to solve cases because Tokyo was his home now. He would never return to Hiroshima. That chapter of his life was done. All he wanted was to forget and heal, and the best way to do that was to work on cases, help catch criminals and send spirits of the dead to the afterlife.
“Suzuki’s here,” Hayashi said, bringing Shinji back to reality. “Let’s see what she has to say.”
A woman with dyed light brown hair, tied back into a ponytail, and wearing white hazmat suit with the hood pulled down, kneeled next to the jogger’s dead body. To her left were a man and a woman, also in hazmat, younger than Suzuki—perhaps of Shinji’s age. The young woman was nodding fast as the medical examiner told her something. The man was whiter than the ghost and held the back of his gloved hand to his mouth like he was about to throw up.
Shinji shook his head.Why work in homicide if you’re going to be sick?
The medical examiner looked up at Shinji and Hayashi when they arrived. Shinji bowed and Hayashi introduced them to one another.
“A new one already, Hayashi?” Suzuki said. “You change them like socks.”
“Like ‘em fresh.” Hayashi’s lips curled into a grin.