the
Yomiuri.”
“A reporter?”
“Yes, a reporter.” I handed him my business card.
“Hmmm.” He read the card over three times. “You’re a gaijin, right?”
“Yes. I’m a gaijin reporter working for the
Yomiuri.”
“So why are you here?”
• • •
This process was repeated endlessly, as everyone’s immediate assumption was that I was a newspaper boy. One middle-aged man who answered the door wearing a sweatsuit even complained about his morning paper not being delivered on time.
So I changed tactics. “Hello,” I began, “I’m a
reporter
for the
Yomiuri Shinbun
working on a story. Here is my card. I apologize for being a foreigner and taking your time, but I’d like to ask some questions.”
It sped up the process, but the results were still nada. The same for my colleagues, so we were sent to the company where the victim had worked, joining the mob of reporters from other media. When we got there, it was just after closing time and workers were filing out of the building. They must have been instructed not to speak to the press, because we were met with a wall of silence.
I strolled around back to see if I could improve my luck. I encountered a man in green overalls loading a truck. I greeted him, and he didn’t bat an eye at my non-Japanese face. Did he think anyone would have had reason to bump off his colleague? I asked.
“Well, he was having an affair with a coworker,” he said. “Everyone knew that. So I figure it could have been his wife or maybe the mistress. You want the name?”
Of course I wanted the name. I tried to write it down, but I sucked at writing Japanese names. There are so many variant readings and kanji for names that it’s often a nightmare even for Japanese.
He finally took the notepad out of my hands and wrote the name down for me. I thanked him profusely, but he just waved his hand.
“You didn’t hear it from me, and I never talked to you.”
“Understood.”
“Yoshiyama, the mistress, hasn’t been to work in a couple days. End of story.”
Could it be this easy? I called Yamamoto from a public phone. I was so excited that I was unintelligible. Yamamoto made me slow down and give him the information in detail. He told me to grab Yoshihara and work with him.
We started calling every Yoshiyama in the phone book. Yoshihara finally found the right Yoshiyama, but, according to her husband, she couldn’t come to the phone because she was talking to the police. Bingo!
Our next order was to make our way to the Nishi Iruma police station for the press conference. The local satellite-office reporter, Kanda, was already there, speaking to the vice captain. Freshman reporters from the
Asahi
and the Saitama local newspaper mulled around, but the largest cluster of people was near the coffee vending machine.
Kanda had already gotten his can of coffee. Kanda was a veteran reporter, diligent and aggressive. He wore steel-rimmed glasses that covered most of his face and had long, greasy, stringy bangs that hung over his glasses like a sheepdog’s. He called me over to the desk of the vice captain and introduced us. We exchanged pleasantries, and then Kanda pulled me over to the corner. He congratulated me on my work but warned me to keep my mouth shut at the press conference.
“If you ask anything important at a press conference, you ruin your own scoop. You ask only for details about things everybody already knows, not details about things you only half know. Just watch and listen.”
The press conference was held in a meeting room on the second floor. The television crews were pushing their way around, and people placed their tape recorders on the podium where the homicide chief would be speaking.
When he did speak, it was brief and straight from his notes: “It looks like the victim, Machida, was killed a few days ago, probably on the night he vanished. The long-bladed knife appears to have pierced the heart, killing him instantly. The
Yomiuri.”
“A reporter?”
“Yes, a reporter.” I handed him my business card.
“Hmmm.” He read the card over three times. “You’re a gaijin, right?”
“Yes. I’m a gaijin reporter working for the
Yomiuri.”
“So why are you here?”
• • •
This process was repeated endlessly, as everyone’s immediate assumption was that I was a newspaper boy. One middle-aged man who answered the door wearing a sweatsuit even complained about his morning paper not being delivered on time.
So I changed tactics. “Hello,” I began, “I’m a
reporter
for the
Yomiuri Shinbun
working on a story. Here is my card. I apologize for being a foreigner and taking your time, but I’d like to ask some questions.”
It sped up the process, but the results were still nada. The same for my colleagues, so we were sent to the company where the victim had worked, joining the mob of reporters from other media. When we got there, it was just after closing time and workers were filing out of the building. They must have been instructed not to speak to the press, because we were met with a wall of silence.
I strolled around back to see if I could improve my luck. I encountered a man in green overalls loading a truck. I greeted him, and he didn’t bat an eye at my non-Japanese face. Did he think anyone would have had reason to bump off his colleague? I asked.
“Well, he was having an affair with a coworker,” he said. “Everyone knew that. So I figure it could have been his wife or maybe the mistress. You want the name?”
Of course I wanted the name. I tried to write it down, but I sucked at writing Japanese names. There are so many variant readings and kanji for names that it’s often a nightmare even for Japanese.
He finally took the notepad out of my hands and wrote the name down for me. I thanked him profusely, but he just waved his hand.
“You didn’t hear it from me, and I never talked to you.”
“Understood.”
“Yoshiyama, the mistress, hasn’t been to work in a couple days. End of story.”
Could it be this easy? I called Yamamoto from a public phone. I was so excited that I was unintelligible. Yamamoto made me slow down and give him the information in detail. He told me to grab Yoshihara and work with him.
We started calling every Yoshiyama in the phone book. Yoshihara finally found the right Yoshiyama, but, according to her husband, she couldn’t come to the phone because she was talking to the police. Bingo!
Our next order was to make our way to the Nishi Iruma police station for the press conference. The local satellite-office reporter, Kanda, was already there, speaking to the vice captain. Freshman reporters from the
Asahi
and the Saitama local newspaper mulled around, but the largest cluster of people was near the coffee vending machine.
Kanda had already gotten his can of coffee. Kanda was a veteran reporter, diligent and aggressive. He wore steel-rimmed glasses that covered most of his face and had long, greasy, stringy bangs that hung over his glasses like a sheepdog’s. He called me over to the desk of the vice captain and introduced us. We exchanged pleasantries, and then Kanda pulled me over to the corner. He congratulated me on my work but warned me to keep my mouth shut at the press conference.
“If you ask anything important at a press conference, you ruin your own scoop. You ask only for details about things everybody already knows, not details about things you only half know. Just watch and listen.”
The press conference was held in a meeting room on the second floor. The television crews were pushing their way around, and people placed their tape recorders on the podium where the homicide chief would be speaking.
When he did speak, it was brief and straight from his notes: “It looks like the victim, Machida, was killed a few days ago, probably on the night he vanished. The long-bladed knife appears to have pierced the heart, killing him instantly. The
Similar Books
