Chapter 6: A Gift for the Fool
The chill of room 216 clung to Kagehara Tetsuya as he slipped out, thirty minutes later. In his gloved hand, he clutched a small, black trash bag, no bigger than a fist. Its neck was cinched tight, a dark secret held within.
A quick detour took him past Yomikawa’s door. Still locked. No answer to his knock. Just as he’d figured. Forget it then.
“Ten-thirty,” he murmured, the sound swallowed by the old inn’s creaking timbers. “Need to move if I’m buying anything tonight.”
Back in his own room on the ground floor, the inn’s yukata felt like a borrowed skin. He shed it for his own clothes. He didn’t own women’s attire, naturally, but a plain face mask was a constant companion these days – a habit picked up after the juvenile detention center. His face was too well-known among the students; the mask was a shield against unwanted stares on his daily commute. If students might be present, the mask went on.
Preparations complete. Black mask in place, the small, heavy trash bag nestled deep in his pocket. He headed out, offering a deliberate, almost theatrical wave to the night clerk at the front desk. There. Let them remember what I was wearing when I left.
KĹŤya SanchĹŤme was a relic, its infrastructure clinging to a bygone era. No prying eyes of surveillance cameras here, just narrow, shadowed streets. And at this hour, blessedly empty. A perfect stage. He ducked into a sliver of an alley, a breath of darkness, and emerged transformed. His black jacket was now a muted light blue. A baseball cap sat low on his brow.
The jacket was reversible, a trick of the trade. The cap, a ghost in his pocket until now.
A murder at the inn. The police would swarm, undoubtedly. Door-to-door, their questions like probing insects. The clerk’s memory of his departing outfit, coupled with his own checkered past, would paint a target on his back. The detectives would ask, “Seen anyone dressed like this?”
He couldn’t have them stumbling upon his purchase of a woman’s wig. Not yet.
But the clerk had to remember his initial appearance. Hence, the reversible jacket. A fortunate foresight; two jackets would have been a clumsy burden.
Of course, a simple change of clothes wouldn’t fool even the most notoriously sluggish of Japan’s police. They knew about reversible jackets. So, he adjusted the mask, letting it slip a fraction, revealing a little more of his face. To a casual glance, he was now just a girl with short, boyish hair.
He caught his reflection in a darkened shop window. The layered, semi-long strands peeking from under the cap at the nape of his neck. Short for a woman, yes. Short enough to draw a second look, perhaps. But that was the point. It made the purchase of a wig seem all the more plausible.
First stop: the wig.
“Welcome!” The shop assistant was young, a man.
Yomikawa’s pretty face might have its uses after all, Kagehara thought, a flicker of something cold in his mind.
He offered no verbal reply to the greeting. When the clerk addressed him with a polite feminine honorific, Kagehara pulled his mask higher, tucking his right hand into his sleeve. He used the fabric to shield his mouth, a picture of shy hesitation as he browsed. When he had to speak, his voice was a mere whisper, words clipped short.
Two layers of muffling – mask and sleeve. As long as he kept it brief, the deception should hold.
Two minutes. He selected a wig, a near-perfect match for Yomikawa’s hair. Paid. Vanished.
A public restroom beckoned, a grimy sanctuary. Wig secured, he moved quickly to acquire the remaining items.
Underwear. A set. White ankle socks, women’s. Makeup. Just a touch.
The clothes were for the charade. The makeup, a subtle trick to hide the faint shadow of an Adam’s apple – still boyish, but a detail he couldn’t afford to overlook. Tomorrow, he’d be dealing with the police.
Then, the components for the illusion of breasts. Yomikawa’s weren’t large, but not insignificant either. He didn’t know the exact measurements; he doubted anyone did. Close enough would be sufficient.
Two large, white foam bra inserts. Fabric glue. Strong. Flesh-colored pantyhose.
The internet was a treasure trove of such deceptions. Cosplay tutorials, an endless supply.
The haul was surprisingly small, nothing too bulky. He stripped away all packaging, discarding it in a public bin, then compressed the items. When he’d left the inn, the clerk would have sworn he carried nothing. He needed to return the same way.
“Just this last thing,” Kagehara breathed, the reversible jacket now black again, the wig gone. “Then it’s done.”
The only remaining task for this nocturnal excursion: the fist-sized black trash bag. The thing he’d carried from room 216. The remnants of the unknown killer’s messy work. His cleanup.
Tools first. He tugged the mask higher, just below his eyes, and stepped back into the fluorescent glare of a convenience store. This time, his voice was his own, flat and unremarkable. “Excuse me. Kerosene lighter and kerosene? No? Just a regular lighter then, please. Thanks.”
Another store. “Kerosene? For lighters. A can, please. Thank you.”
It took three stops before he had what he needed. Kerosene for lighters, the kind favored by a certain breed of smoker. Easier to find in the city’s bustling heart, perhaps, but not here.
The clerk’s suspicious gaze pricked at him. Kagehara offered no explanation, a deliberate blankness in his eyes. Only when the door slid shut behind him did a thin, humorless smile touch his lips. “Let the detectives chase that phantom.”
He knew. Many in the department saw him as a coiled viper. More than a few suspected him in Tanaka Erika’s death. Once the inn’s gruesome discovery was officially police business, suspicion would fall on him. He was there, after all. If his plan worked, the trail they’d uncover would be this: After the incident, Kagehara Tetsuya abruptly leaves the inn. He buys kerosene. He buys a lighter.
A non-smoker buying such things? Curious, isn’t it? Planning to burn something? A head, perhaps? But one small can of kerosene wouldn’t be nearly enough for that. Let them speculate. Let their theories run wild.
The true explanation? That would be Yomikawa’s burden to bear. It might even deflect suspicion from the actual murderer. A neat little bow on the “gift” he was preparing for Yomikawa. Three birds, one carefully thrown stone.
Of course, if the police were uncharacteristically competent, if they didn’t immediately suspect him and instead followed the true path… all this effort would be for naught. So, this particular clue, he decided, would be called: A Gift for the Fool.
The night streets were hushed, almost reverent. He passed an old, dented metal trash can, its lid grimy. He lifted it without breaking stride and returned to the public restroom, the scene of his earlier transformation.
The stalls were fully enclosed. Privacy. He bolted the door. The black bag opened. Kerosene sloshed in. He placed the bag on the overturned, filthy metal lid. A flick of the lighter. Flames erupted, a hungry orange maw. The plastic shriveled, melted, revealing the contents. Chunks of… something flesh-like, yet not entirely. It sizzled, writhed in the heat, pieces cut small, deforming, charring with an unnatural speed. A faint, sweet, cloying odor mixed with the acrid smoke, something that made the hairs on his arms prickle. It wasn't just the smell of burning; it was the scent of something other.
When the flames died down to angry embers, Kagehara stirred the grotesque mess with the nozzle of the kerosene can, added more fuel. Again, the flames leaped. Again, that unsettling aroma. Before the can was empty, all that remained was a pile of brittle, blackened carbon.
He crushed the fragments with the bottom of the can, a gritty powder. Flushed it down the toilet. Gone.
The smell, though… some of it would cling to his clothes. That’s why this was the last task. No matter. Even if they suspected, it would be Kagehara Tetsuya’s problem. After tonight, after the voices swapped… that would be Yomikawa’s headache.
And if, by some infinitesimal chance, the swap didn’t occur as foretold? He could deal with a lingering smell. A minor inconvenience.
Back at the inn, the same clerk slouched at the desk. An exchange of tired greetings. Kagehara was about to head for his room, eager to assemble the fake breasts, when his eyes snagged on it: a small, dark lens in the upper right corner of the counter. A camera.
Trouble. If that lens covered the stairs, or worse, his room… He paused, feigning a sudden thought. “Um… any chance you have a trash bag? My room seems to be out.”
“Sure, no problem. Hang on.” The clerk, a young man in his early twenties, hair a bit too long, ambled off. His manner was casual, almost lax, even with a guest. A stricter manager would have deemed him careless, unqualified.
Someone like this, Kagehara thought, a new calculation forming behind his eyes, might be easy to talk to. Easy to read.
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