Chapter 49

On the ride back, the cadets were spent. Inside the bus, snores rose and fell like a tide.

When they'd set out, every one of them had been bursting with confidence, swearing to finish top of the class. Now they felt lucky just to pass; rankings could take care of themselves.

To Fushimi Shika, people were no different from monkeys—dangle a few dates in the morning, snatch them away in the evening, and the trick still worked everywhere.

Back at the academy, Fushimi turned over the forged evidence to the police. During the prosecutor's questioning he swore he'd found the items on the bones in the mountains.

He never mentioned Shirata Masahiro once.

Because of that, the prosecutor never even thought to connect it to the missing gun. A corpse that had lain in the hills for years was a dead end—destined to be shelved as a cold case.

The police would open a token file, notify the family, give the bereaved a scrap of closure, and stamp it suicide—technically correct, yet the ritual of seeming diligence that was actually apathy had long been a hallmark of Japanese detectives, much to the public's disgust.

But Great Japan had its own national conditions: the brass demanded a 100 % clearance rate while handing out pocket change for budgets. Down at the bottom, the foot soldiers were buried under a backlog of cases that would never be solved.

In the old days the police had even asked the Yamaguchi-gumi to keep public order; nowadays getting the yakuza to cart off bodies was already a bargain.

The next day the academy posted the results.

Everyone crowded beneath the bulletin board, craning their necks. At the very top was Fushimi Shika's name; right below him, in second place, Minamoto Tamako...

The instructors had meant to roast Fushimi on the fire, but they underestimated the thickness of his skin. Under the complicated stares of his classmates he didn't bat an eye; he even had the nerve to congratulate them. "Congrats, everyone, on landing the score you wanted."

No matter how Yoshimura Yu protested, Instructor Shirata kept his promise: this year the koban assignments would follow the rankings.

One by one the cadets were called up to fill out forms, writing their names next to the koban they fancied.

Fushimi was summoned first. He swept his gaze over the list, weighing each choice.

Remote rural koban? Hard pass—quiet, sure, but the living standards were miserable and the pay peanuts.

Flashy downtown koban? Also pass—this was peak yakuza crackdown season; get unlucky and you'd be cannon fodder in a gang shoot-out...

He deliberated, then finally stopped at Sugamo Station Koban, Toshima Ward, Tokyo.

Fushimi had a vague memory of the place. In his last life he'd seen it on the internet: Sugamo was a shopping district custom-built for the elderly, no gaudy neon, just hand-painted wooden signs. Over time it became Tokyo's gray-haired paradise.

Located in Toshima Ward, it stood shoulder to shoulder with Ginza, Shinjuku, Shibuya, and Ikebukuro as a major hub.

Prices were lower than elsewhere—nicknamed "Grandma's Harajuku." On days off you could hop the train to Ikebukuro for fun...

Low crime, good order, and a plum spot in the city—your daily grind would be looking after retired grandpas and grandmas.

Perfect. He inked his name in the blank beside Sugamo Station Koban.

Instructor Shirata raised an eyebrow, impressed. Top graduate of the year, turning down prime real estate to pick the most dangerous zone... Admirable grit!

He didn't know that in 1990 Sugamo ranked second in Tokyo's crime stats—number one was Kabukicho in Shinjuku. The district was a maze of aging alleys and flophouses crammed with low-income residents, porn shops, and underground gambling dens; its chaos rivaled Kowloon Walled City at the time.

Call it an information gap. Fushimi had only just learned placements would be decided by final scores; he had zero prep. The internet wasn't what it would become, rumors from classmates were useless, so he picked the only area that sounded like a sleepy retirement zone twenty-odd years later.

After Fushimi stepped down, Minamoto Tamako was called.

A native of Hokkaido, she had never set foot in Tokyo. All she knew was that the capital was dazzling. Seeing Fushimi choose a Tokyo koban, she felt both the tug of homesickness and the thrill of the unknown. Since they'd be working together, hesitation vanished.

She signed her name in a clean stroke, right next to Fushimi's.

A side note: normally, the Hokkaido Prefectural Police and the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department are separate jurisdictions; graduates stay local. A Hokkaido Police Academy student becoming a Tokyo beat cop is unheard of.

But Japan's bubble had burst. To divert public anger, the government declared open season on the yakuza. New statutes—the Anti-Boryokudan Act, organized-crime laws, anti-money-laundering regs—were rolling out; the yakuza's final golden age was ending.

A nationwide dragnet devoured manpower. The state shuffled bodies wherever gaps appeared. Tokyo grad, Hokkaido grad—bottom-tier patrolmen were all the same. If you could stand a post, you were a good civil servant.

When the forms were done, some cadets rejoiced, others despaired. All, however, had graduated—except Yoshimura Yu, who refused to repeat the year and quietly filed for withdrawal the night before.

Back in the dorm, Tamako's first act was to scoop up Rabbit Officer and report to Kawai. "Second place! I passed, and I'll be working the same koban as Fushimi-shi."

"Good job, Tamako-chan!" She wiggled Rabbit Officer's plush paw and patted her own shoulder. "I knew you could."

At dawn the next day, Class A graduates gathered in the auditorium for commencement.

The curtain drew back. A wooden banner framed the police crest: "93rd Short-Term Course Graduation Ceremony." The principal and directors sat onstage, sunflowers and daisies at their sides.

The counselor called names. Each cadet marched up, accepted a diploma from the principal, and shook the lead instructor's hand.

Tamako sat ramrod straight, dark-blue uniform crisp, badge gleaming. Memories of a promise to her best friend blurred her vision.

"Minamoto Tamako!" the counselor called.

"Sir!"

She rose, marched in step, snapped a salute. The principal smiled and handed her a sheet of paper—her diploma, stamped with the date, signed by the superintendent, bearing the name Police Officer Minamoto Tamako.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you very much, sir!"

She moved to Instructor Shirata and clasped his hand. Tradition demanded a farewell word.

Looking at her tear-streaked face, he couldn't help chuckling. "Why the tears? You're an officer now—no crying on duty."

"Yes, sir! Understood!" Tamako wiped her eyes, saluted, and strode off.

When Fushimi's turn came, Instructor Shirata shook his hand. After a long pause, he found only three words of advice:

"Don't die."

"Yes, sir."