Masako Togawa - The Lady Killer

“She says it’s nothing to do with Ichiro Honda, that it is her affair entirely,” replied Shinji.

“Perhaps because the child’s father might be a murderer?”

“She doesn’t believe he committed any of the crimes.”

“Why do all these women believe in his innocence, I wonder?” mused the old man. “Is he particularly good to women, do you think?”

“That’s the main point about him,” said Shinji. “His abnormality, if we are looking for one, seems to lie in the fact that he can get inside women and win their sympathy. He deceived them all, but none of those women see it that way. I just don’t know how to explain it, but plainly it’s true.” He was surprised that his growing familiarity with the case had planted inside him feelings about Ichiro Honda of which he had not been aware. This did not mean that for a moment he approved of Honda’s behavior.

The old man seemed to be satisfied with Shinji’s report. He jotted a few notes down on a pad, but Shinji could not see what they were. Finally he looked up and said, “I went to see him today, you know.” There seemed to be almost a tone of intimacy in the way he said “him.”

“He’s been in jail for three months now, and it seems to have turned him into a mere shadow of himself. It’s impossible to visualize him as an attractive man who can sweep women off their feet. The death sentence has plainly knocked him all of a heap. I tried to put some life back into him; I advised him to reconstruct his lady-killer’s diary instead of just moping in his cell. He can do it if he tries; being a computer engineer, he has a better memory than most people. He should be able to remember most of it, given time—I’d bet on it.” He took out a fresh cigar and bit off the end.

“What do you think is the salient point of this case—the one we’re going to have to overcome at the appeal?” he asked as he fiddled with his lighter.

“The defendant’s rare blood type.”

“I agree. They found blood under their fingernails—minute quantities, but enough. It’s one of the first things you look for in cases of strangulation; often the victim manages to scratch the killer’s face. Well, when they first analyzed, they were a bit cursory and put it down as AB. But after Honda’s arrest they found that he had a rare group—AB Rh-negative. So they went back and analyzed again and found that the blood was not merely AB but also Rh-negative. So their suspicions were confirmed—proved to all extents and purposes. This evidence as good as put the rope around his neck.”

“Yes,” said Shinji, “and there’s a related bit of evidence—the sperm type. They detected type AB in the vaginas of the victims. Only this evidence is less overwhelming; you can identify a blood type from either saliva or sperm, but you can’t go further than A, B, AB, or O in such cases—it’s only from blood that you can detect Rh-negative.” Shinji thought that his earlier research in the library had been useful after all.

“Very good. Now, blood types apart, there is one other bit of evidence that weighs heavily against the defendant, in my view.”

“The lack of an alibi,” replied Shinji, as promptly as if he were a primary school student who had done his homework well. He was enjoying this dialectic with his senior.

“Indeed, yes. On the fifth of November, whilst the first murder was being committed, Ichiro Honda claims to have been with Fusako Aikawa. However, on the nineteenth of December, on the night that Fusako Aikawa was killed, he claims to have been with Mitsuko Kosugi, who was inconveniently killed next. This non-alibi that he submits in place of an alibi interests me greatly. On first study, it looks like a cock-and-bull story, doesn’t it? If we are to believe him, he would have perfect alibis—except that, unfortunately, the women who could give them to him were murdered in their turn. Absurd, you say? But it raises interesting possibilities, too. Let’s just stop and think about motive, shall we? Contrast Honda’s rather unconvincing excuses for alibis with the question of motive. What motive did the prosecution put forward, do you remember?”

“Yes, sir. They claim that he strangled the women during sexual intercourse to satisfy his abnormal sexual tastes. And in support of this they got the family doctor who attends upon him and his wife to testify as to his impotence when he is with his wife.”

“Correct. The court was convinced of the view that he was a sexual criminal. However, I don’t agree. If his motive was sexual perversity, then why stop at two or at most three? It’s inconsistent, isn’t it? Why spare all the other women? He should have felt the same abnormal feelings toward them—and we know that he didn’t. So let me present a hypothesis. Let us imagine that the killer of all three women is called ‘X.’

“Now, if X equals Honda, then you can be excused for thinking that all three murders were committed for sexual reasons.

“But if X isn’t Honda, if it’s someone quite different, then we are left with another motive, one we didn’t think about when we thought that X was Honda. Do you follow me?”

Shinji thought for a while. “I see,” he said at last. “You mean that X was trying to entrap Honda?”

“Precisely, a trap. And I will tell you this. X, having committed the murders, didn’t seek to put the blame on Honda to save his own skin. How perfectly it was all contrived! No, something far more deliberate was involved.

“The women were murdered in order to frame Ichiro Honda.”

He spelled out these last words slowly and with great clarity. After a pause to let his words sink in, he continued. “Thus, in my opinion, the motive of X was a grudge against Honda. I felt increasingly sure of this when I was talking to the defendant today. What I now need is a list of all people who might hold such a grudge against him—that’s why I want him to reconstruct his diary.”

The old man spoke with increasing ardor, carrying Shinji along with him. It was like listening to some great advocate making a speech in court. The logic was beautiful, but could it hold together? Shinji doubted it; there was too much of a jump somewhere.

“I think,” went on Hatanaka, “that the rock-firm, the adamantine evidence presented to the court has been deliberately contrived by someone. It is the cunning work of a human being, not a sequence of accidents.”

“But can you convince the court of that?”

“Probably not. I must find evidence no less hard with which to confront the evidence against us.”

Shinji did not ask him how he intended to do this. He was overwhelmed by the old man’s sense of commitment.

“So,” the senior lawyer went on, “I’m going to make full use of that detective agency. Luckily the father-in-law is paying the bills, and he is rich—we can spend as much as we like. Acting on my conviction that all the evidence is planted, I’m going to start off by finding out how one gets hold of Rh-negative blood if one wants to.” He relit his cigar, which had gone out. “My mind is full of the righteous justice of the ancient Greeks,” he went on. “To them, Justice was the median line drawn between the defendant and his accusers. In this case, someone has tampered with that line, and I’m going to put it back where it belongs.”

The conversation was over, and Hatanaka stood up to leave. Shinji helped the secretary close the windows. Outside, the robe of night had fallen on the city; gazing into the dark streets, he felt that, against all the evidence, the zeal and devotion of one old man could possibly change the whole balance of the trial after all. The vast, dark sky was no broader than the old man’s commitment.

Behind him, Hatanaka shuffled out of the door, stooping, his briefcase in his hand.