A Cop's Eyes by Gaku Yakumaru

homeless people like them. The man was no doubt good-natured, but how did that work out for a cop? It was nice of him to treat them to a homemade meal, but was he actually investigating the case? Masayuki’s positive impression of Natsume as a person nestled next to countervailing doubts.
    â€œAbout the office worker you mentioned the other day … whom Sho killed,” Masayuki began.
    â€œYes, what about it?”
    â€œDo you think there’s a possibility that one of the bereaved killed Sho?”
    â€œI could tell you were thinking that, too,” Natsume replied, looking straight at Masayuki.
    â€œIt’s a possibility, isn’t it.”
    â€œThe day before yesterday, I went to meet with that person’s father.”
    So Natsume did suspect the family of the man who’d been killed by Sho.
    â€œWhen his son passed away, he was living in Yokohama, but now he’s living alone in Shizuoka. We were able to confirm his alibi for when the case occurred.”
    â€œAnd the victim’s mother?”
    â€œIt seems she succumbed to illness two years ago.”
    â€œOh …”
    They were able to confirm an alibi for the father—this wasn’t Masayuki’s problem, but he was relieved to hear it. He felt surer that the culprits were the youths who had come by the park.
    â€œThere’s something I’d like you to see,” Natsume said, pullinga photo from his pocket. It was of a bottle of imported whiskey. “It’s the murder weapon from Mr. Aizawa’s case. We found it yesterday in a trash can at another park.”
    Masayuki examined the photo. The bottle was covered in mud, and the bloodstains spattered on the label made it hard to read. But it said Macallan. “I don’t know if this is the same one, but Sho had this brand in his shack.”
    â€œI see. I appreciate it,” Natsume thanked him.
    Masayuki stood up from the bench. “Are we done? I need to work.”
    â€œJust one more thing,” Natsume stopped him. “How old are you, Masa?”
    â€œI’m thirty-eight.”
    â€œThe same as me. This may not be any of my business, but how long do you intend to continue this lifestyle?”
    Natsume’s words caught Masayuki off guard. “That really is none of your business,” he replied, chewing over his irritation.
    â€œJust earlier, I spoke with Naka about you. I can’t begin to fathom the pain of losing your child. But—”
    â€œYou can’t!” flared up Masayuki. “How could you know what it’s like to grieve for your only son? It’s not just grief. After the grief comes the helpless emptiness. I’d been hanging in there to protect my dear family. But no matter how hard I tried, someone, some stranger, could just rob me of my happiness. What am I supposed to hang in there and live for now? Let folks who’re still happy bandy words like ‘hard work’ and ‘effort’!” Masayuki spouted before heading back to his tent, as though in flight.
    That night in his tent, Masayuki drank for a change. Naka’s words, and Natsume’s, had pierced and lodged in his heart.
    He’d thought that leaving that house behind might liberate him, if only a little, from the pain of mourning. If he kept living as a drifting weed, his heart might grow numb and easy; yet, thewound in his heart had only deepened. No matter where he ran, was there no way to run from his past in the end?
    Suddenly, he couldn’t bear being alone. What a weak person he was. When he’d been with Saeko, her human presence had been so unbearable, but when he tried living alone, the inexorable loneliness of it nearly crushed him.
    Masayuki took the bottle and headed to Naka’s tent.
    â€œNaka, let’s drink together,” he called from outside.
    There was no response. Was he already asleep?
    Oh well
—if he drank right next to him, the man might eventually