Keigo Higashino: Malice

“You’re right, I can’t disclose that, or at least, I shouldn’t.” Kaga chuckled. “But I suppose it doesn’t really matter. We’re still waiting on an autopsy for the final results, but we’re pretty sure it happened sometime between five and seven o’clock.”

“Except, he called me after six.”

“True. Which would make the time of death somewhere between six and seven o’clock.”

Wait.

That meant that he’d been killed right after he talked to me on the phone.

“How was he killed?” I said, half to myself. Kaga gave me a wondering look. He must’ve thought that was a strange question for the one who discovered the body. But it was true, I didn’t remember seeing anything that would tell me how he’d died. To be honest, I was frightened. I don’t think I even looked that closely at him.

I explained myself and Kaga nodded, understanding. “That’s also something we need to wait on the autopsy to be sure, but all indications are that he was strangled.”

“You mean someone choked him? Like, with their hands, or a rope?”

“A telephone cord. It was still wrapped around his neck.”

“What?” I had no recollection of seeing the telephone.

“He had one other injury, besides. It appears he was struck in the back of the head. We believe the weapon was a brass paperweight. We found it on the floor next to him.”

“So someone hit him on the back of the head, knocked him out, then strangled him?”

“That’s the most likely explanation.” Detective Kaga lowered his voice. “I’m sure there will be an announcement soon, but please don’t repeat any of this before that, okay?”

“Sure, of course.”

The car finally arrived at my apartment.

“Thanks for the ride. That was much better than having to take the train.”

“Not at all. Thanks for the chat. It was very helpful.”

As I started getting out of the car, Kaga stopped me. “Tell me the name of the magazine.”

“His serial is being published in Somei Monthly .”

Kaga shook his head. “No. I meant the magazine you’re writing for, Mr. Nonoguchi.”

I grinned sheepishly and blurted out the name. Kaga wrote it down in his notes and we said our good-nights.

Back in my apartment, I sat vacantly on the sofa for a while. I tried thinking back over the events of the day, but none of it felt real. It was the kind of day you seldom experience, if ever. The thought came to me that, even though it had been tragic, it was almost a shame to have such a day end by merely going to sleep. Not that I would be able to sleep, anyway. Not tonight.

Then I had an idea. I should record my experience. I should write the story of how my friend was killed.

That is the story behind these notes. I’ve decided I will keep writing them until the case is solved and the truth is out.

Hidaka’s death was in the morning paper. I hadn’t watched TV the night before, but I guessed the story was probably out by the eleven o’clock news.

The newspaper had a simple headline on the side of the front page, with the article continued on the interior. There was a big picture of Hidaka’s house and, right next to it, a publicity shot of him that was probably taken for some magazine.

The article laid out the facts more or less accurately with one notable exception. Concerning the discovery of the body, it read, “Hearing from an acquaintance that the lights in the house were out, his wife, Rie, returned home to find Hidaka dead in the first-floor office,” which might make people think that Rie was the only one there. My name wasn’t mentioned anywhere.

According to the article, the investigators were looking into two possibilities. One was that Hidaka’s death was premeditated murder, and the other that it was incidental manslaughter. The front door had been locked, so the journalist assumed the criminal got in through the office window.

I closed the paper and was about to start making breakfast when the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock and it was just after eight. It was unusually early for callers. I almost never use my door intercom, I simply go and open the door, but today, I picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Nonoguchi?” The voice was of a woman, breathing hard, as if she had been running.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Sorry to drop by so early. I’m from Channel Eight News and I was hoping we could talk to you about what happened last night.”

That was a surprise. My name wasn’t in the papers, but the TV newspeople had clearly caught wind that someone else was present when the body was discovered.

“Erm…” I considered my response. I didn’t want to say anything lightly that might come back to haunt me. “What exactly is this about?”

“The author Kunihiko Hidaka was murdered in his home last night. We heard that you were there with his wife when the body was found. Is this true? Mr. Nonoguchi?”

Channel 8 News was one of those variety news shows. Her tone was overly deferential, almost sycophantic. I rolled my eyes. Still, it wouldn’t do to lie.

“Yes, that’s true.”

Even over the intercom, I could feel the excitement on the other side.

“And why were you visiting Mr. Hidaka’s house that night?”

“Sorry, I can’t discuss this with you. I’ve told everything to the police.”

“We heard that you contacted the wife, Rie, after seeing something strange about the house. Can you comment on what you thought was strange?”

“Please, talk to the police.” I hung up the intercom.

I had heard that TV news crews could be extremely rude, but this was my first time experiencing it for myself. Why couldn’t they understand that I didn’t want to talk to anyone so soon after finding my friend dead?

I decided I wouldn’t go outside and risk running into another TV crew. I felt that I should pay Rie a visit or maybe just check on the house, but it would be impossible to get near the place today.

I was warming up a mug of milk in the microwave when the doorbell rang again. Again I picked up the intercom.

“Hi, this is Channel Four News. I was hoping I could talk to you?” This time it was a man’s voice. “Mr. Nonoguchi, every person in the country is waiting to hear more details about what happened.”

This kind of bombastic statement would, under other circumstances, have made me chuckle.

“Look, all I did was find him. I don’t know anything else.”

“But you were friends with Mr. Hidaka, correct?”

“That’s true, but I can’t talk to you about anything that happened last night.”

“If you could come out and tell us anything about Mr. Hidaka, that would be fine.” The man was persistent.

I sighed. I was worried less about the imposition and more about the trouble it would cause my neighbors if news crews were camped outside my door all day.

I hung up the receiver, went to my door, and opened it. A forest of microphones were thrust into my face.

In the end, my entire morning was spent fielding interviews, and I didn’t even get to eat a proper breakfast. Finally, a little after noon, I retreated back inside my apartment. I was eating some instant udon noodles and watching TV when I saw a close-up of my face on the screen. I choked on my noodles. I couldn’t believe they were already playing the footage they had taken just a couple of hours before.

“You were friends from elementary school, correct? What sort of person would you say Mr. Hidaka was?” the female reporter asked in a shrill voice.

On the screen, I seem to be thinking far too deeply about the question. I had noticed at the time that my silence was uncomfortably long. I guessed they hadn’t had the time to edit out this awkward pause in the footage. You could see the reporters around me growing impatient.