6

How did you fare with Yugao?” Magistrate Ueda asked Reiko.

They were seated in his private office, a sanctuary lined with shelves and cabinets that contained court records. A maid poured them bowls of tea, then withdrew.

“I must say she wasn’t very cooperative,” Reiko said ruefully. She dabbed her cloth tea napkin against her face. Although she’d washed off Yugao’s saliva, she still felt its moist slime on her skin, as though the hinin had permanently contaminated it. “In fact, she did her best to make me think the worst of her and discourage me from doing anything that might save her.”

Reiko gave her father an edited version of her talk with Yugao. She told him that Yugao had been rude to her, but didn’t repeat the insults; nor did she mention how Yugao had spat on her. She felt chagrined because she should have handled the situation better, although she didn’t know what she could have done differently. And she didn’t want her father to become offended on her behalf and punish Yugao. Despite Yugao’s behavior, Reiko still pitied the woman, for Yugao must have suffered much degradation in her life as an outcast, whether she was a murderer or not. Even a hinin deserved justice.

“I’ll send Yugao back to jail for the time being. What was your overall impression of her character?” Magistrate Ueda said between sips of steaming tea.

“She’s quite a nasty, bad-tempered person,” Reiko said.

“Do you think she’s capable of murder?”

Reiko pondered, then said, “I do. But I wouldn’t place much faith in a personal opinion based on one short meeting.” Now that her own temper had cooled down, her sense of honor required that she put aside her emotions and conduct a thorough, fair inquiry. And she had too much pride to fail. “I need to do more investigation before I can determine the truth about Yugao.” Too many unanswered questions remained. “And since she won’t help me, I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“Very good.” Magistrate Ueda glanced at the window. The sun, fading with the approach of twilight, shone golden through the paper panes. He set down his tea bowl and rose. “I must return to the courtroom. I have three more trials today.”

“And I should be going home.” Reiko also stood.

Traveling through the city after dark was even more dangerous than usual. At night the outlaws marauded, and prudent citizens stayed indoors. Reiko wondered when she would sec Sano and hoped he wouldn’t be home too late, for she was eager to tell him about her new investigation.

“Tomorrow, maybe I’ll find evidence that someone other than Yugao killed her family,” Reiko said. But at this moment, she had to admit she wouldn’t mind proving that Yugao was as guilty as she claimed to be.


Although Hirata had been a frequent visitor to Edo Jail during his police days, he hadn’t seen the Tokugawa prison for a while. Now, as he and his detectives approached it, he observed that it hadn’t improved. The fortress-like structure still loomed above a canal that smelled like sewage; the water murkily reflected the setting sun’s orange rays. The high stone walls still wore a coat of moss. The same sullen guards peered from the watch turrets. The same aura of despair hung over the gabled rooftops within. Hirata and his men brought the cart that contained Ejima’s corpse across the bridge to the iron-banded gate. There, lanterns burned and a guardhouse sheltered two sentries.

“We want to see Dr. Ito at the morgue,” Hirata told them.

They promptly opened the gate. Hirata knew that Sano paid them a generous salary to admit visitors for Dr. Ito, ignore their business in the morgue, and tell no tales. Hirata led his men into the compound, past dingy barracks and the warden’s office building that surrounded the dungeon. He knew where the morgue was, but he’d never been inside; most people shunned it in fear of physical and spiritual contamination. Entering a courtyard enclosed by a bamboo fence, he found a low building with scabby plaster walls and a ragged thatched roof. As he and the other men dismounted, he looked through its barred windows.

Its interior was furnished with cabinets and waist-high tables. Three male eta-the outcasts who staffed the jail-were washing naked corpses in stone troughs. A man came out the door. He was tall, in his late seventies, with white hair, prominent facial bones, and a shrewd expression; he wore a long, dark blue coat, the traditional uniform of a physician.

“Dr. Ito?” said Hirata.

“Yes?” the doctor said. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” When Hirata identified himself and his men, Dr. Ito’s face relaxed into a smile. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Hirata-san,” he said with a courteous bow. “Your master has spoken highly of you.”

“He speaks highly of you, too,” Hirata said.

“Is he well?” When assured that Sano was, Dr. Ito said, “I am glad to hear that. It has been over six months since I last saw him.”

Hirata detected a wistful note in the doctor’s voice. As chamberlain, Sano was so closely watched that he didn’t dare associate with a convicted criminal. Hirata knew that Sano missed his friend and observed that the feeling was mutual.

“How may I be of service?” Dr. Ito asked.

“Chamberlain Sano has sent a body he’d like you to examine.” Hirata explained about Chief Ejima’s death.

“I’m happy to oblige. Where is it?”

Detective Ogata took the lid off the night soil cart. He lifted out the bin of stinking human waste and exposed Ejima, still dressed in his clothes, armor, and helmet, wedged in the hidden compartment. Dr. Ito called two of the eta outside to empty the waste bin. He told the third to carry the corpse indoors.

“This is my special assistant. His name is Mura,” he introduced the man.

Mura was gray of hair and stern of face. Hirata remembered Sano telling him that Dr. Ito had befriended Mura even though he was an outcast, and Mura performed all the physical work associated with Dr. Ito’s examinations. Now Mura laid Ejima’s corpse on a table. He positioned lanterns on stands near it. As Hirata, Dr. Ito, and the detectives grouped around the table, the smoky, flickering flames lit their faces and the dead man. Hirata thought they must look as if they were gathered to perform some weird religious ritual. His leg ached, and he hoped he could remain standing for the duration.

“Please undress the body, Mura-san,” said Dr. Ito.

The eta removed Ejima’s helmet. The face that appeared was almost boyish, with sleek, unlined skin, although Hirata knew that Ejima had been in his forties. In life he’d worn a habitual sly look that proclaimed secret knowledge; in death, his countenance was blank.

“Can you figure out how he died without cutting him?” Hirata asked Dr. Ito. “I have to return him to Edo Castle. It wouldn’t do for people to guess he’d been examined.”

“I’ll try,” Dr. Ito said.

Everyone watched Mura work the armor and robes off the body. So far, there seemed nothing gruesome about the examination. Mura handled Ejima with gentle, respectful care. Soon Ejima lay naked, his torso marked with bloody red hoofprints and gouges where the horses had trampled on him. Dr. Ito donned white cotton mitts to protect himself from bodily excretions and spiritual pollution. He inspected Ejima’s head, turning it from side to side. His hands moved, pressing and probing, over the torso.

“I feel broken ribs and ruptured internal organs,” he told Hirata.

“But did I understand you to say that the witnesses saw Ejima collapse in the saddle?”

“Yes,” Hirata said.

“Then he was probably dead before he fell, and these injuries are not what killed him,” Dr. Ito said. “Mura-san, please turn the body.”

Mura rolled Ejima onto his stomach. A dark stain had spread across his back. “The blood has pooled,” Dr. Ito explained, then carefully examined Ejima’s scalp. “There are no injuries here. The helmet protected his head.” Circling the table, he pored over the body; he told Mura to turn it again, then continued his scrutiny. He shook his head and frowned.

“Can’t you tell what caused his death?” Disappointment filled Hirata at the thought of returning to Sano empty-handed.

Dr. Ito suddenly halted near the right side of Ejima’s head. He stooped, his gaze intent. An expression of surprise and heightened interest came over his face.

“What is it?” Hirata said.

“Observe this mark.” Dr. Ito pointed to a hollow in the facial bones between the eye and the ear.

Hirata leaned close. He saw a small, bluish, oval spot, barely visible, on Ejima’s skin. “It looks like a bruise.”

“Correct,” said Dr. Ito. “But it’s not from the injuries at the track. This bruise is more than a day old.”

“Then it must have nothing to do with his death,” Hirata said, feeling let down. “Besides, a little bruise like that never hurt anybody.”

But Dr. Ito ignored Hirata’s words. “Mura-san, please fetch me a magnifying lens.”

The eta went to a cabinet and brought a round, flat piece of glass mounted in a black lacquer frame with a handle. Dr. Ito peered closely through it at the bruise, then gave Hirata a look. Enlarged, the bruise showed an intricate pattern of parallel lines and whorls. Hirata frowned in disbelief.

“It’s a fingerprint,” he said. “Someone must have pressed against Ejima’s skin hard enough to bruise it. But I’ve never seen such fine detail in a bruise. What’s the meaning of this?”

As Dr. Ito contemplated the strange bruise, wonderment shone in his eyes. “In all my thirty years as a physician, I’ve never personally seen this, but the phenomenon is described in the medical texts. It sometimes appears on victims of dim-mak.”

“The touch of death?” Hirata saw his own amazement reflected on his men’s faces. The atmosphere in the room chilled and darkened.

“Yes,” Dr. Ito said. “The ancient martial arts technique of delivering a single tap that is so light that the victim might not even feel it but is nonetheless fatal. It was invented some four centuries ago.”

“The force of the touch determines when death occurs,” Hirata recalled from samurai lore.

“A harder tap kills the victim immediately,” Dr. Ito clarified. “A lighter one can delay his death for as long as two days. He can seem in perfect health, then suddenly drop dead. And there will be no sign of why, except an extremely clear fingerprint where his killer touched him.”

“But dim-mak is so rare,” said Detective Arai. “I’ve never heard of anyone using it-or killed by it-in my lifetime.”

“Neither have I,” said Detective Inoue. “I don’t know of anyone in Edo who’s capable.”

“Remember that anyone who is would not publicize the fact,” Dr. Ito said. “The ancients who developed the art of dim-mak feared that it would be used against them, or for other evil purposes. Hence, they passed down their knowledge to only a few favored, trusted students. The techniques have been a closely guarded secret, kept by a handful of men whose possession of it is known only among themselves.”

“Doesn’t it take an expert martial artist to master the techniques?” Hirata asked.

“More than that,” Dr. Ito said. “The successful practitioner of dim-mak must not only learn to concentrate his mental and spiritual energy and channel it through his hand into his victim; extensive knowledge of anatomy is required to target the vulnerable points on the body. The points are generally the same as those used by physicians during acupuncture. The energy pathways that convey healing impulses through the body can also convey destructive forces.”

He touched the bruise with his gloved hand. “This bruise is located on a junction along a pathway that connects vital organs.” He continued, “The need for anatomical knowledge explains why the practitioners study medicine as well as the mystic martial arts.”

“Do you really think Ejima died of murder by dim-mak?” Hirata said, skeptical though intrigued.

“In the absence of any other symptoms besides the bruise, where the killer’s energy entered the body, it is probable,” Dr. Ito said.

Hirata expelled his breath, awed by the import of Dr. Ito’s finding. “Chamberlain Sano will be interested to hear this.”

“We should not be too hasty to inform him,” Dr. Ito cautioned. “The bruise isn’t definitive proof. If my theory is wrong, it could misdirect Chamberlain Sano’s inquiries. Before I can pronounce the cause of death, it should be confirmed.”

“Very well,” Hirata said. “How do we do that?”

Dr. Ito’s expression turned grave. “I must dissect the head and look inside.”

A serious dilemma faced Hirata. He needed to tell Sano exactly how Ejima had died and establish beyond doubt that the death had resulted from foul play, but mutilating the corpse was a big risk. Hirata and Sano both had enemies who were waiting and watching eagerly for them to make a mistake. Should anyone notice signs of an illegal autopsy on a corpse from a case under their investigation, their enemies might get wind of it. Yet Hirata couldn’t fail in his duty to Sano. Casting about for a solution to his problem, Hirata found one that he thought would work.

“Go ahead,” he told Dr. Ito. “I’ll take the responsibility. But please do as little damage as you can.”

Dr. Ito nodded, then said, “Proceed, Mura-san.”

Mura fetched a razor, a sharp, thin knife, and a steel saw. He trimmed and shaved Ejima’s hair in a narrow band from ear to ear across the back of the scalp, then made a cut that circled the head just above the eyebrows. He peeled back the flesh, exposing the moist, bloody skull, then began sawing the bone. The rasp of the saw grated loud in the silence that fell over his audience. Hirata watched, fascinated and repelled.

In his lifetime he’d seen all kinds of gory spectacles-men’s faces cleaved in half and their bellies slit wide open during swordfights, their heads lopped off by the executioner, blood and innards spilled. Yet this methodical butchery disturbed him. It transformed a human into a piece of meat. It seemed the ultimate disrespect for life. Hirata began to understand why foreign science was outlawed, to protect society and its values, at the cost of advancing knowledge.

Now Mura finished cutting the skull all the way around and through the bone. He took hold of Ejima’s head and worked the top free, as though removing a tight lid from a jar. He inserted the knife blade into the skull and scraped the tissue that held its cap in place. Hirata watched Mura lift off the skullcap. Blood oozed out, red and viscous, thickened with clots. It bathed the grayish, coiled mass of the brain, glistened wetly in the lantern light, and soiled the table.

“Here is our proof,” Dr. Ito said with satisfaction as he pointed to the blood. “When a death-touch is struck, its energy travels along the internal pathway that connects the point of contact to a vital organ. Ejima’s murderer targeted his brain. The touch on his head caused a small rupture to a vessel inside his brain, which gradually leaked blood and enlarged until it burst and killed him.”

“And he had no other injuries that could have caused the bleeding?” Hirata said.

“Correct,” said Dr. Ito. “Dim-mak was the cause of death.”

Hirata nodded, but he felt as much apprehension as relief that they knew how Ejima had died. “We’ll go back to Edo Castle and report the news to Chamberlain Sano,” he told the detectives.

“What about the body?” Inoue said. He glanced at Ejima’s corpse, which lay with its brain exposed, the skullcap beside it on the bloody table.

“It goes with us.” Hirata turned to Dr. Ito. “Please have your assistant put Ejima’s head back together, wrap a bandage around it, clean him up, and dress him.”

This was only the beginning of the effort to cover up the examination.

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