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A FINAL CONFESSION
After dedicating thirty-four years of my life to serving as a police officer, all that remains is a sense of pain. Despite holding the title of superintendent and having a framed testimonial, these are merely pieces of paper that hold no real value for me. However, I refuse to view myself as a victim. When the pain runs deep, it is often concealed. I am certain that others have also experienced suffering. Sadly, the harsh reality is often masked with insincere smiles.
I am aware that putting my confession in writing is a risky move, but the weight of "that incident" has never left my mind after all these years. Without bringing it to a close, I know I cannot pass away in peace. Therefore, I have decided to put it down on paper, even though I could easily burn this note at any time.
What I call "that incident" was the Takahashi serial murders.
During the investigation of the Takahashi case, I held the position of chief detective at the Takanawa station while the Sakuradamon police station was handling the case. Back then, detectives were rewarded with bonuses based on how many suspects they could successfully prosecute. I was skilled enough to be promoted to chief at the young age of thirty, and my wife and I purchased a house in Kaminoge where we welcomed our first child. I was full of optimism for the future. However, suddenly and without warning, I found myself embroiled in a horrific incident. It still pains me to recount the details, but I must summon the courage to do so.
As a young detective, I often left for work before my wife was awake and returned after she had gone to bed. By the time of the incident, I had been promoted to section chief and had settled down in Kaminoge with my wife and our first child. One day, while walking home from work, I encountered a woman in a dark kimono. She appeared to be in severe pain and I offered to help her. She asked me to accompany her to her nearby home, where she continued to writhe in agony. As she lay on the floor, her kimono rode up, revealing that she wasn't wearing any underwear. Despite my loyalty to my wife and my commitment to my marriage, I found myself unable to resist her advances. Afterwards, the woman apologised and urged me to leave. As I walked home, I tried to rationalise what had happened, but the guilt lingered in my mind. I knew that I had betrayed my wife and compromised my integrity as a detective.
Two days after my encounter with the woman, I came across an article in the morning paper reporting her murder. Her name was Akari Kanemoto and the photo accompanying the piece showed a retouched, older image of her. Nevertheless, I saw enough resemblance to know it was her. According to the article, she was killed between 7 and 9 p.m. on the night of our encounter. I had met her at around 7:15 and left her place just before 9. The killer, most likely a thief, must have entered her house shortly after I left, or perhaps he had been hiding inside the whole time. The report stated that the victim was killed while combing her hair, and I could easily imagine the scene. Although the house was not too far from mine, I decided not to go there before heading to the office, where I acted as though I knew nothing of the murder.
