“But this is Setsuko Nakamura, the woman who’s been in all the newspapers for the last three days. How did you get hold of her autopsy?”
“I’m helping a friend of hers. We have a theory that she was drowned by her husband. What you told me about the autopsy shows that he certainly had the time to do it.”
“Maybe had the time. Nothing about the autopsy’s firm, Rei.”
“What do you mean?”
Tom chucked me under the chin. “Forensics cannot offer firm answers.”
“Then what’s the point?” I let my exasperation show.
“Listen, cousin. This woman died between four and six hours after eating dinner—no one can say for certain. The water might have been snow, or it could have been from the bath. And she may or may not have had a head injury.”
“Okay,” I said, standing up to go. Maybe was not as good as certainly, but it was a step in the right direction. And now I knew she’d had a child.
“I’m really grateful, Tom,” I began. “I owe you.”
“That’s all right.” He gestured at the papers I was tucking away. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I’ll return the autopsy to my friend. Case closed,” I said, wishing I could believe it.
I carried three curved plum branches home and arranged them in a chipped Satsuma vase I’d rescued from the neighborhood’s oversized trash pickup a month ago. Even with the addition of flowers, I found myself thinking my small apartment was a dump compared to Aunt Norie’s house. Kimono and wood-block prints couldn’t hide the electrical cords draping the walls like an ugly spider web, and nothing could be done to camouflage the ancient linoleum floor. What finished the disaster off were my cardboard boxes overflowing with books and shrine sale miscellany, and my sorry wardrobe hanging on a rod that spanned the length of one short wall. No wonder my mother refused to stay with me.
I slid the kotatsu table on its side against the wall so I’d have room for to unroll my futon. I laid across it with the autopsy notes in front of me. I wished I’d studied Setsuko more closely when I found her. All I really had was a memory of her snow-shrouded figure and her long, black hair frozen stiff like a piece of bark. Her hair. I thought about it and suddenly had another question.
Aunt Norie said Tom had gone to the hospital. The St. Luke’s operator told me he was unavailable. I tapped a pen restlessly against the table, thinking. Tomorrow I had to go back to work. I needed to put this problem away.
Thirty minutes later I was outside St. Luke’s, the sleek, sand-colored building which was perhaps the most luxurious hospital in Japan. St. Luke’s had been founded in 1900 by an American doctor, a fact that protected it from U.S. bombs during World War II. The hospital was haven again following the 1995 subway gas attack by members of the Aum Shinrikyo cult. Five cult members punctured bags containing nerve gas on several commuter trains; when the fumes began to escape, people began pouring off the trains, half-blinded and ill.
Eleven died and approximately 3,800 people were injured, many of them going to St. Luke’s. Tom had over-seen the emergency room that morning. He told me the most amazing thing had been the stoic calm of the victims. Nobody cried, just waited patiently for their turn.
Unlike me. I walked straight into the emergency room, presented my card to the head nurse and demanded to see Dr. Shimura immediately. Shortly thereafter my cousin emerged from a curtained-off area wearing a white coat and look of irritation.
“Just five minutes,” I said. “I want to ask you more about bruises.”
“If I don’t come with you, I suppose you’ll never leave.” Tom sighed and showed me into the hospital café, a cheerful blue and yellow room decorated with faux Grecian columns. A table full of nurses stared at my cousin with undisguised longing. He didn’t seem to notice.
“So you want to know about bruises.” Tom swirled cream into a small cup of coffee. “On a most basic level, they form when some kind of trauma breaks the blood vessels and allows blood to seep through tissue.”
“And blood always flows downward, according to gravity?”
“Sure.” Tom twisted his watch around so he could look at it without being obvious.
“She couldn’t have died naturally, then.” My voice rose and the nurses swiveled around to look at us again. “When I found her, she was lying face down. I’m sure of it because her hair had fallen over her face.”
Tom’s beeper went off. He unclipped it from his waist and studied the number blinking on it.
“Bruises wouldn’t have formed on the back of her head if she fell face down. Don’t you get it?” I beseeched him.