“I have to answer this page.” Tom walked over to a telephone on the wall and lifted the receiver. He spoke animatedly and gave a slight bow at conversation’s end, but I was too wound up to find it amusing.
“I’ve bought myself ten more minutes,” Tom said when he came back. “Did you bring the autopsy?”
“Of course.” I chewed on my thumbnail as Tom read it again.
“Yes, you’re right,” he said at last. “Given the circumstances, this is very likely the Battle sign.”
“You mean she fought somebody?”
“No, cousin. Battle is the name of the physician who identified a special type of bruise. He studied head injuries and found that when someone is hit hard on the back of the head, it fractures the cranium and also bursts the capillaries so blood seeps through tissue and pools behind the ears. This creates dark bruises now known as the Battle sign.”
“But didn’t you tell me the X ray showed no fractures?”
“Often fractures don’t show up. Even having been in medicine for ten years, I can tell you it’s extremely difficult to look at a film and discern a hairline fracture from a vein or even a normal joining of the skull bones.”
“So, you’re telling me you believe she was hit on the back of the head?”
“Yes,” Tom said, after a second’s pause. “Looking at the time the coroner did the exam—10 A.M. on January 2—there was a very reasonable amount of time for the sign to appear, even allowing that she was packed in snow for a night.”
“We’ve got to do something.”
“Well, the ideal situation would be to have the coroner revise his findings. But it’s not likely that he will admit to any mistake.”
“So no one will ever find out.” I didn’t hide my disgust. “She’ll have died and been written off all because of some mighty oisha-san’s incompetence. Or maybe, because the company involved is Sendai, they had everything smoothed over.”
“If you want to put your mind at ease, call the police,” Tom said. “Tell them you talked to me and I suggested they take the autopsy to a different coroner for a second opinion.”
“The captain won’t listen to me. He hates foreigners.”
“Try. Your Japanese is good enough.”
“But it’s not medical! If I call him, could I give him your number, too? So you could explain everything?” I hated myself for being so dependent, but I knew how much weight Tom’s words would carry.
“If you insist.” Tom didn’t look happy. “Cousin, I’m going to just say this once. After you speak to the police, this mission of yours should end. This friend who asked you to do things should realize you’re an English teacher, not a crime fighter.”
“Crime fighter?” I raised my eyebrows. “You’ve been reading too many comic books.”
Tom didn’t smile. Instead, he changed languages. “In Japan, young people listen to their elders. So I’m telling you as an older cousin to younger, that whoever struck this woman thinks he got away with it. You’re not the one to tell him otherwise.”
Nobody could possibly know why I’d gone to St. Luke’s, but I was on hyper alert as I edged my way into the train station. I watched the people who boarded the train, but seats were plentiful at this hour and no one came near me.
I was the only one to get off at Minami-Senju, my subway stop. I walked fast over the steel pedestrian overpass and down its steps to the sidewalk, passing Family Mart and the liquor store. A large group of bszoku, young motorcycle hoodlums, roared past me. They had lately taken to congregating outside the liquor store, revving their engines for the fun of it. Nobody dared complain because bszoku were rumored to be junior workers for the yakuza, organized crime gangs similar to the American Mafia.
Compared to them, my homeless neighbors were absolute gentlemen. Tonight they had a bottle of beer between them and were pouring it out into small glasses. One of them called out an invitation that I pretended not to hear.
The first thing I did when I got into my apartment was lock and chain the door. Then I telephoned Minshuku Yogetsu. My relief that Mr. Yogetsu answered instead of his wife was short-lived.
“Miss Shimura! Such luck you called. My wife wants to talk to you. May I put her on?”
She had probably decided to charge me for the broken shji screen. I did not want to talk to her about it. “Actually, I can’t stay on the phone. I just wanted to leave a message for Hugh Glendinning.”
“Oh, he’s out drinking at the Alpenhof. He does that every night, now. I’m surprised he doesn’t move there.” Mr. Yogetsu sounded hurt.