Tokyo: Officer Rabbit and Her Evil Partner

Chapter 6

Veteran Japanese murder enthusiasts all know this: in Japan, every criminal case has a statute of limitations. Once the clock starts ticking from the day of the crime, prosecution becomes impossible after the deadline passes.

"Exactly." Fushimi admitted it without hesitation.

Tamako's confidence shot up. She lowered her voice and laid out her chain of reasoning:

"The fact that Instructor Sakurai didn't destroy the anonymous letter means she has nothing to fear."

"Following that logic, why would the killer feel safe? Because she's certain she'll never be caught. And why so certain? The statute of limitations has already expired—even if she's exposed, she can't be charged. Plus, Sakurai might still lose her academy job, which explains her anxiety!"

Fushimi nodded. "Pretty much what I thought."

That was the cue Tamako had been waiting for. She tapped Fushimi's nose with her pencil, struck the classic "there's only one truth" pose, and declared, "But your theory is riddled with holes!"

"From the very start, you assumed 'Sakurai is the murderer.' The entire chain of speculation is built on sand."

"Why does keeping the letter equal confidence? Why does confidence equal an expired statute? Using that logic, I could just as easily argue Sakurai is innocent and simply kept the letter for further investigation!"

"A tower built on guesses collapses at the first breeze."

Delivering that tirade felt like chugging an ice-cold soda in midsummer; Tamako's toes curled with satisfaction.

Yet Fushimi didn't look the least bit rattled. He merely shrugged, not even bothering to meet her eyes.

"Fine. Let's say you're right."

Tamako scrunched her brows, convinced he was just being stubborn. "Did I say anything wrong?"

"Nope."

"Then I was right—you're not worth that price!" The moment the words left her mouth she regretted how harsh they sounded. Still unwilling to apologize, she crossed her arms and turned away. "100,000 yen was too much. I'll pay 50,000."

Mention money and Fushimi's expression changed.

He sighed. The agony of monetizing knowledge: too few people recognize its value. In his previous life he'd heard "I could do that too" until his ears bled—borderline PTSD.

"In that case, let me give you a free lesson." He set down his charcoal pencil.

"Hmm? Not convinced?"

Tamako licked her lips; she lived for these debates. Ever since primary school her razor-sharp logic had left opponents speechless.

"My hypothesis is logically shaky," Fushimi admitted, "but do you have any evidence to refute it?"

"Evidence isn't necessary; pure logic is enough—"

"Then how does that help the case? You're arguing just to 'win,' not to investigate. Do you have a single lead?" Leaning forward with elbows on knees, fingers steepled, he looked every inch the wolf about to pounce. "At this rate it's nothing more than an intellectual parlor game."

For the first time in her life, Tamako was at a loss.

Fushimi wasn't finished. "Since you're so confident in your reasoning, let's play a little deduction game."

"What kind of game?"

Tamako blinked, unsure what he was plotting.

"We pick someone. He imagines a murder in his head. We can only ask yes-or-no questions. First to deduce the truth wins."

The game he described would later become famous online as "Sea-Turtle Soup."

It originated on 2ch's "Mysterious Phenomena" message board. Internet culture was still niche, yet Tamako recognized it instantly and exclaimed,

"That's a lateral-thinking puzzle! Yes-or-no scenario deduction... You've read Sloane's book too? All right, I accept!"

"A straight win is boring. Let's raise the stakes," Fushimi said, eyes narrowing. "100,000 yen?"

"Eh? We're betting money?" Tamako went on high alert.

"Scared?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Gambling is illegal, and civil servants are banned from it." Tamako recited primly.

Crime index of only one percent, huh...

Fushimi rephrased it: "If I win, you pay the 100,000-yen consulting fee. If you win, I pay you 100,000 yen for tuition. Deal?"

"No bet." Tamako refused flat-out.

Fushimi mentally chalked it up: no wager, then. "Fine. Go find someone to set the puzzle—let's get this over with."

"Huh? Me?" She pointed at her own nose.

"Who else?"

"Then... forget it." Tamako's social anxiety kicked in.

"Can't be helped." Fushimi stood, scanned the room, and approached a male cadet who had already finished his portrait assignment. After a brief conversation, he returned.

Tamako peeked over her sketch board; when she saw Fushimi pointing her out, she ducked back behind it.

Moments later a soft-spoken, crew-cut boy sat down.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Shiraishi Hidenori—please take care." He bowed politely.

Fushimi resumed his seat, explained the rules, and announced, "All right, begin."

Tamako snapped into focus.

Hidenori pondered, eyes suddenly alight, and delivered the puzzle:

"A blind boy walks into a restaurant, orders a bowl of sea-turtle soup, takes one taste, and shoots himself. Why?"

(Everything above is nonsense. The real answer: sea turtles are poisonous—can't eat them. You get it now, right?)

Before the echo faded, Tamako raised her hand.

"Can we swap this one out? I've seen it in a book—the boy survived a shipwreck. Starving, his father fed him 'sea-turtle soup' made from his own flesh. Later, tasting real turtle soup, the boy realizes the truth and can't live with himself."

"Wrong," Hidenori said.

"Huh?"

Tamako wondered if he'd invented an original twist. Innovative—very cool...

Now nobody knew the solution. A perfectly fair duel of deduction!