The Investigation Page 6

  ‘Why do such aggressive men become so docile during a heatwave?’

  ‘Because they know being in solitary during a heatwave is the express train to the graveyard. They were probably more careful.’

  ‘If they’re able to avoid solitary because of a heatwave, why wouldn’t they behave all the time? Isn’t that odd?’

  ‘What’s so odd about that?’

  ‘They kept going to solitary at other times, as if they wanted to.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think that, if you saw those cells. The fittest person couldn’t survive a week. It’s next to the cemetery. Even the guards are spooked. It’s actually a problem. They keep making up fake reports and skipping their rounds. Anyway, why would those imbeciles choose to go? It’s not like they’ve hidden a pot of honey there!’

  ‘They might be hiding something, though. I’ll have to take a look.’

  The solitary wing was a shabby building of eight cells and a small guard post. The wind raced around the ridge of the hill, causing the dark fir trees to howl like wolves. Maeda jerked open the door to the guard post. An old guard wearing thick, padded clothes was hunched by the extinguished furnace, his face blue from the cold, awaiting the end of his shift.

  ‘Rounds of the solitary cells! Open the doors!’ Maeda shouted.

  The old guard scampered off, his bundle of keys clanging. The steel doors of the solitary wing were secured by a thick metal bar and by two large locks. With clumsy hands, the old guard unfastened the locks and removed the bars. Four cells lined either side of the hallway. When the old guard opened the door to a cell, a terrible stench assaulted my nose.

  The old guard explained, ‘The prisoners come here with broken bones or festering wounds. The infected wounds smell so awful that we can’t open the cell doors in the summer.’

  I pressed my sleeve against my nose and stepped into the first cell. From the outside it looked to be somewhat roomy, but when I stepped in I realized it was only half the width I thought it was, because of the thick retaining walls, filled with pebbles and sand. It was so cramped it couldn’t hold a single piece of furniture. It wasn’t a prison cell; it was a trap. The spotted walls weren’t even lime-washed and the blackened floor was marinated in sweat, vomit and pus. Everywhere there were fingernail scratches and spots of blood, along with Chinese characters of common Korean girls’ names, some Korean words, and numbers counting down to the day of release. At the far end of the cell there was a waist-high wooden partition. I peeked over it, but had to grab my nose and jump back.

  The old guard, jangling his bundle of keys, laughed. ‘That’s the can, my friend. They all bring their own commodes and put them there. When they’re released from solitary they remove them. We don’t clean up those dirty Koreans’ shit, you know.’

  I held my breath and looked behind the partition again. A wooden lid was on the floor. I flipped it up to discover a round hole with a handle on the front. I plugged my nose with one hand and with the other lifted the contraption by the handle. Two feet below the hole was a wooden plank soaked in excrement. It was where the prisoner placed his personal latrine. Down there, on the wall, a small ventilation window was covered in inch-thick metal bars.

  I walked through the steel doors of the solitary wing and was instantly blinded by the sun. Prisoners 331, 645 and the others who frequented solitary were somehow connected. I was sure of it. I rounded the back of the building and a gust of wind buffeted my face. Coarse grains of sand blew into my eye. ‘This is a year-long problem,’ the old guard said. ‘That shit-storm coming from the mountain, I mean. All the sand and dust pile up under the walls of the buildings. So much so that the prisoners have to shovel it into sacks every month and clear it away.’

  A thought darted through my mind, so quickly that it almost slipped by. I whipped around and cried out, ‘Open the cell doors!’

  Befuddled, the old guard ran down the corridor. The doors to the solitary wing screeched open again. I ran into the cell I’d just left. I jumped down into the latrine hole and hit the ground with a hollow thud that trembled up through the tips of my toes. I pulled my club out and scraped at the edge of the wooden plank. It caught on a small notch. I squeezed closed my eyes and stuck the tip of my finger in it and pulled. Damp, lukewarm air came rushing up at me, carrying the smell of dirt and tree roots and rocks. An empty hole opened its dark maw between my feet.

  The siren blared. Maeda rushed into the solitary wing, looking as hollow as the hole beneath my feet. I shone my torch into the long, narrow tunnel that reeked of excrement, before crawling in. I couldn’t breathe. I crawled along for about five minutes. At the end of the tunnel I discovered worn wooden spoons, flat rocks, broken bowls and bits of china.

  ‘Fucking moles!’ Maeda said angrily, crawling behind me.

  We crawled backwards out to the cell. When Maeda and I emerged from the tunnel, we were relayed the warden’s order to prepare a report. The sun had set. Searchlights scanned the main wing, the outer wall and the roof of the central facilities. They’d increased the number of guards on rounds.

  In the warden’s office, standing in front of Hasegawa, Maeda mopped his damp forehead with his sleeve. ‘We did a cell check and everyone is accounted for. The man who dug the tunnel is still inside the prison.’

  Hasegawa glared at him. ‘That isn’t the issue, is it? The problem is that there’s a tunnel at all! Don’t you know what will happen if this leaks out?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Maeda said. ‘We’ll find out who did it and fill up the tunnel at once.’

  ‘And how will you find him?’ Hasegawa grabbed his military sword in fury.

  Maeda shot me a panicked look. ‘This one’s young, but very determined. He’s the one who discovered the tunnel in the first place.’

  Hasegawa glared at me, waiting for me to explain.

  ‘During my investigation of the murder I began to observe Prisoner 331, who’d been severely beaten by Sugiyama. I thought that might be motive enough for murder. I saw that his gang wore uniforms that had unusually worn and baggy knees. I thought maybe they frequently kneeled before him, but 331’s trousers were like that too. When I checked the solitary-wing log, I found that they were often sent there. They were practically volunteering to go. Because it’s quiet there and they were left alone, it’s the best place to plot something. And surveillance over there is lax, because the wing is remote and has thick double-layer walls.’

  Hasegawa raised his eyebrows. ‘How did you know they dug a tunnel?’

  ‘The solitary wing is in the path of a strong mountain wind. The guard there said the wind carries dirt and piles it under the walls. In each solitary cell there’s a small barred window. Each time the wind blew they’d toss the dirt they dug out through it to get rid of the evidence. The piles of dirt and sand weren’t really from the mountain. The prisoners had dug it up.’

  ‘And how did you know that the tunnel was under the latrine?’

  ‘It’s the only place we don’t inspect. Even if the cell was searched, nobody would look there. A filthy place is safe from prying eyes.’

  By now, Maeda had regained his confidence. ‘Sir, the murder of the guard and the escape attempt are not separate incidents. We will catch these barbarians and punish them accordingly.’ He turned to me, encouraging me to explain.

  I continued in a louder voice to chase away my fears: ‘The prisoners harboured deep animosity towards Sugiyama’s excessive violence. He had focused his surveillance on a few people. Prisoner 331 was one of them. Sugiyama discovered his escape plot, so 331 got rid of him.’

  ‘So this 331 is the murderer?’ Hasegawa asked.

  ‘That’s still only a hypothesis. We’ll have to interrogate him and get him to confess.’

  Hasegawa gripped the hilt of his sword. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Hurry up! Get him to spill!’

  THE RECONSTRUCTION OF DEATH

  The floor of the interrogation room was soaked through. One side of the room was filled with pincers large
and small, bars, chains and sharp tools. On the other side were a cement tub filled with water, a rack and a wooden stool. The smell of rusted metal and blood permeated the stale air. Prisoner 331 was naked, tied to the crossbeam with his arms outstretched. Blood trickled down from his swelling eye, and his ankles were scabbed, rubbed raw by his shackles. A guard, wearing rubber gloves up to his elbows, repeatedly threw water on him. The guard smiled, flashing his yellow teeth. But the guard was no different from the man he had broken. He must be a father who embraced his young son when he returned home, a gentle husband who fixed a broken shelf in the kitchen, a friendly neighbour who was now beating a helpless man to a bloody pulp.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said to me as he fastened the buttons on his coat. ‘I loosened him up, so he should start talking soon.’ He went up the stairs to leave.

  It was a common manoeuvre: the prisoner would be relieved at the departure of the brutal guard and would tell his replacement everything. My role was to appear at the appropriate time and write the report. After the other guard left, I undid the pulley block attached to the crossbeam and Prisoner 331 collapsed on the floor like a pile of sand. I dragged him to a chair and seated him, and he squinted, slowly focusing his swollen eyes on me. I draped his uniform on his shoulders. His eyes betrayed complicated feelings.

  I opened the report file and sharpened my stubby pencil. ‘331! How long have you been digging that underground tunnel?’ I knew I wouldn’t get an answer. He had withstood twenty-four hours of beatings so far. I got up, shovelled some peat into the furnace and lit it. The light from the weak fire danced on his blood-soaked face.

  ‘It’s all over,’ 331 moaned, his voice hoarse. ‘All that’s left for me is death. I guess all I can do is confess. I might as well tell you.’

  ‘And why would you tell me, when you didn’t open your mouth while you were being beaten to a pulp?’

  ‘You figured it out. You read the solitary-wing log and found out that I’m a regular in solitary. Nobody even imagined what was going on, but you deduced what I was doing in there. I think you’ll accept my terms.’

  ‘What terms? I’m only a guard. If you want to negotiate, do it with the head guard or the warden.’

  ‘No. They just want to kill me. You – you’re interested in the stories. About me. About the prison.’

  ‘I don’t have the power to let you live.’

  ‘I don’t expect that. Just write down what I tell you. Don’t remove a single word and don’t add anything. Of course, you may not believe me. You might think I’m pulling your leg. But you can’t edit it. You have to record what I say, word for word.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘Somebody needs to record what is going on in here. So people will know what happened, when the war ends.’

  ‘The regulations are to destroy documents after a certain time. No record exists forever.’

  Prisoner 331 threw me a confident smile and pointed at my head. ‘At least what’s recorded in there won’t disappear. The walls of this terrible place will crumble and documents will burn, but the memories in your head will remain. So don’t you die until the war’s over!’ His eyes flashed.

  I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what he wanted out of this. I doubted he’d tell me the truth. Even if he did, I was sure it would be bait for some scheme.

  ‘Seven years,’ he blurted out, disregarding my confusion. ‘It’s been almost seven years since I came to this hellhole.’

  I picked up my pencil. The recycled paper waited hungrily to record his story.

  ‘From the day I got here I dreamed of escaping,’ he said. ‘I dug the tunnel to escape from death, but it turns out what I dug was the road to death.’

  Choi arrived at Fukuoka Prison in July 1938 for the attempted assassination of a prominent figure and the instigation of rebellion. He had spent half his life being hounded and the other half in prison. As a teenager he was pursued by the police for setting fire to several public buildings. The year he turned twenty he crossed the Tumen River. Manchuria was an ideal place for Koreans; they weren’t oppressed by the Japanese Government-General of Korea or the vicious Special Higher Police, and they weren’t subject to the violence of Japanese merchants. He settled in a Korean neighbourhood in Mukden. He frequented gambling dens and bars, shouting and cursing. He honed his fighting skills. Soon he was earning bundles of cash from the barwoman who pleaded with him to collect overdue bar tabs on her behalf, from the rice dealer who asked him to find the employee who’d stolen from him, and from the business magnate who tasked him with killing his cheating wife’s lover.

  One day he was hanging around a gambling den when a man with small rat-like eyes approached him. Choi drank with the man for a couple of hours, then packed his bags and followed him out of town. They walked for two days until they arrived at a cave in the mountains, where twenty bearded men in animal pelts were hiding, exhausted from anxiety and hunger. These men had lost everything to the Japanese. Their rice paddies and houses had been expropriated; their food, belongings and wives had been taken through allocated collection; their home towns and language obliterated. They were willing to do anything just to kill some Japs. The problem was that nobody had ever killed a single one. A man with a thick beard introduced himself as the commander of an autonomous anti-Japanese guerrilla unit; in reality, they were merely a gang of thieves who swung their fists at Korean merchants under the guise of building a war chest. The commander was a drunk and welcomed Choi’s fists and big ideas, thinking that they would help the unit grow into the most feared in Mukden, but he soon kicked himself for his stupidity – Choi was not an obedient dog, he was a wolf. Choi became the leader of a subset gang that threatened the commander’s position. The commander, unable to wrest control, leaked false information to a Japanese spy: that a man named Choi Chi-su was planning to lead an attack on the Kwantung Army’s Mukden headquarters.

  The Kwantung Army marched through the hills at battalion strength. Instead of mobilizing the troops, the Japanese commander waited for the guerrillas to emerge on their own. A long confrontation ensued. The rugged geography was on the rebels’ side. The gang climbed over the cliffs and left the valley before the Kwantung Army reached the cave. Choi headed towards the Siberian Maritime Province with more than twenty men. They lived like wild creatures of the night, scaling mountains after dark and sleeping under leaves during the day. When they arrived at their destination, the gang had shrunken to fourteen; cold, hunger and beasts had reduced their ranks. Rumours about the fearsome band of thieves from Mukden preceded them to the Siberian Maritime Province, where they were organized under the command of the Russian Communists. That was where Choi encountered Marx’s ideas; Choi’s talent for fighting and dreams of destroying the Japs grew even fiercer. Six months later he’d turned into a loyal Communist. His unit attacked a Japanese ordnance corps and seized its train and assassinated a Kwantung Army general and commander; the Siberian Maritime Province soon became their territory. But it wasn’t enough for Choi; he knew he was fated for greatness. Wanting more intense battles with more enemies, he headed to Vladivostok. He sneaked into the belly of a ship, covered in the stench of disintegrating produce and fish, and disembarked in brightly lit Tokyo Bay three days later.

  The Communist organization extended like a vine everywhere; in Tokyo it was centred on Korean students studying abroad, who had learned about Communism from books and didn’t know how to act on their rage. They stayed up all night memorizing manuals on fighting, but didn’t know how to apply their learning to the Japs. They agonized over their sterile ideology, debating useless theory hundreds of times. Choi blamed books for delaying revolution; in his mind, writing was a tool that allowed the powerful to oppress the weak for thousands of years. The rich incarcerated the poor using law books, loan sharks oppressed the poor with their ledgers, and officials had used the king’s directives to suck the people dry. He couldn’t wait for a book-free world. He attended a Korean student meeting in
Tokyo and mocked them: ‘You so-called intellectuals have imprisoned yourselves behind letters,’ he announced. ‘You’re weak. You’re unable to take any action. That’s what the Japs want – to create bookworms who can’t act. You want to overthrow the Japs, but all you do is wriggle in the mud.’

  Disgusted, Choi established his own Communist cell in the Tokyo area. Soon there was a spike in arson and attacks on officials, bankers and the heads of defence contractors. The Special Higher Police didn’t realize that they were the acts of a foreign Communist; they thought they were isolated instances of increased violence as society became unsettled. Three years after he arrived in Japan, Choi planned the best plot of his life, the one attack that would return the whole warped situation to normal. It was 29 April, the Emperor’s birthday. He would bomb the Emperor’s celebration at Ueno Park, attended by high-level army generals, the Interior Minister and others. His assistant was a Korean student named Kim Gwing-pil, who had been studying chemistry at Rikkyo University when he received his conscription notice. He’d been on the run since then. Kim, who wore round eye-glasses, looked every bit the intellectual. Choi asked if he could make a bomb. Kim assented, requesting a hideout in return. He stayed up all night, reading books about gunpowder and explosives that Choi procured for him. No matter what happened, he had to make a bomb by 28 April.

  Two days before the big event Kim handed over two bombs he’d made over several sleepless nights. Choi promised to send him money and buy a passage to Manchuria after the bombing. But the bomb Choi lobbed into the crowd didn’t go off; he was arrested on the scene. The Special Higher Police caught up with Kim, who was wandering the Japanese islands without any escape funds. The prosecutor sought execution for Choi, but the Tokyo court sentenced him to life imprisonment. What they didn’t know was how tenacious Choi was in biding his time. Choi wasn’t angry at Kim. It wasn’t the man’s fault; it was the damn books he’d read. Inaccurate knowledge acted like a noose. If Kim was wrong, it was for the audacity of thinking he could change the world with a couple of books.