The Search
Tokyo, March, 2017….
A week after St. Patrick’s Day, news broke of Takamoto’s disappearance. Politicians confronted with serious tones confirmed the news of a missing detective and Takamoto’s face appeared in all the Tokyo newspapers and TV channels. Although the disappearance of a young courageous police officer was newsworthy, in Japan, people disappearing from society was not, and at first the public paid little heed. That was until a day or two later when a tsunami of tweets with news about a missing foreign cop in Japan rolled through social media. A loose sense of confusion spread among politicians in Tokyo when they heard about the Irish detective. They neither confirmed nor denied statements from the press and as conspiracies mounted, so too did pressure on local authorities to take control of the narrative. As each fruitless day came and went, more and more international media gathered and pressed for answers to the missing detectives.
Microphones of various colours and sizes, branded with news channel insignia, were pushed in the direction of the uniformed police chiefs and suited politicians.
‘Is it true a foreign detective working with Japanese police is also missing?’ Solemn drawn faces stared back. ‘Was it an abduction? Are the missing detectives connected? Have the abductors made any demands?’ The translators hardly had time to take a breath. ‘Were the detectives under cover? Are they victims of organized crime?’
The questions were relentless and focused mainly on a sorrowful Police Commissioner. He bowed his head in silence, shame drawing his jaws to the floor. Alongside him stood a defiant Tokyo Governor. She had a steel and determination and although she knew the entire story, she adamantly pushed back against rumours and any inuendo about a missing foreign detective. On the other hand, the Commissioner was a terrible poker player, and offered little more than a weak tattle of a situation that would soon change for the better, and how his officers would not give up the search for Takamoto. His daily torture was relentless…
Wind swept through gaps in the high rises and the cold cut through his police uniform. The beat cop sniffled through long days and stood together with his brethren in huddled groups for instructions; orders to progress to the next block, or to enter businesses with a loose connection to the yakuza. Takamoto was one of their own and like all the beat cops, he was dedicated to the search in his own way. But he silently resented procedure, and openly resented the cold.
His fingers numbed in his thin white gloves, and he fixed a surgical mask to his face to keep his nose warm. Despite his fur-lined jacket, the nights were long and colder than they should have been in March.
At least he was paid a little extra for the overtime and the inconvenience of missing sleep. A small consolation for his numb extremities, and when the stinging wind whipped, his eyes watered, and the pittance received simply was not enough. When he managed to find warmth indoors, his calves ached, and he sighed behind his mask.
After a week, the dogs sniffed in circles and were retired to headquarters. The faint scent faded in the city grime and precious time ticked by with nothing to show for their efforts. The cops on the ground held out little hope but kept their opinions to themselves, while the Commissioner’s torment continued daily until the public lost interest and the news networks moved on.
On the final night of the official search, the cop left his group and entered a nearby convenience store. He walked to the back, glanced at a couple of late-night shoppers, and entered the toilet. He locked the door and stood in front of the toilet bowl. He turned the water tank cover upside down and quickly removed a mobile phone attached to the cover. He placed a call and waited.
‘We’re close. No more than a day’s search away. Move tonight.’ He never waited for the answer and just hung up. He took the battery and SIM from the phone and tossed the phone shell in the bin. He replaced the cover on the water tank and leaned his white gloved hands on the nearby sink. He looked at his masked face in the wall mirror and his eyes were calm. He felt no guilt, just the ache in his calves, which suddenly felt worthwhile.
