Hannya
The tattoo on her back was staring at him.
The room was tiny, cramped and dark. The window that dominated the wall opposite the door had thick, wooden slatted shutters drawn tightly across it, the early afternoon sunlight slipping through the cracks in slender, watery streams. Dust mites, kicked up by the relentless tromping of feet across the greasy woven-reed tatami mats danced silently in the still air. There was a set of thin sliding doors along the left wall that led to a shallow closet for storing a futon: the door sat slightly crooked in its runner but was closed and undisturbed. Lost in the gloomy murk of the ceiling was a single light of dubious functionality, also left unmolested for the moment. It was crowded already, with three forensics specialists creeping around in their black jumpsuits, peering into their notebooks, punctuating the room with the occasional camera flash like lightning.
Detective Keiichi Honma was the odd man out, bottling up the doorway with his large frame, staring blankly into the darkness of the room, rubbing his unshaven chin unconsciously. Behind him he could hear his junior partner, Yūsuke Shinogawa, speaking quietly with the landlady.
“I was supposed to show the room today,” She was saying, her voice thick and raspy from what was likely decades of cigarette tar. She looked like the rough type that wasn’t afraid of giving anyone hell. Owning a dive like this, in the middle of the less-than-safe Shinsekai district, Keiichi wouldn’t be surprised if she ate nails for breakfast. She reminded him of his mother. “I was going to air out the room. As soon as I opened the door I knew that something was wrong. I called you immediately.”
“Was the door locked when you arrived?” Yūsuke’s voice still sounded like an effeminate high-schooler’s to Keiichi. Oh well, he thought. One day he’ll grow in to himself. Although, at twenty-five, it was a fair bet that Yūsuke’s voice had done all the changing it was going to do for awhile.
“Yes, yes it was locked. I remember that clearly.” Even the old harridan sounded shaken. He didn’t blame her, it wasn’t a scene he’d particularly want to walk into either.
From the lit hallway it was clear to see that something lay in the center of the room. Something human-shaped. It was the body of a young woman, naked to the hips, laid out on her stomach, her knees together and pulled to her left, her arms raised up above her head.
Or, rather, where her head should have been.
The metallic copper smell of blood was thick in the air; the tatami beneath the body was squodgy with it, along with the heavy, sickly smell of the early stages of decomposition. The landlady was right: the room could use some airing.
Even more arresting than the abruptly truncated stump of her neck, or her exposed, naked breasts, was the dark, dense, flowing patterns that completely covered her back. A tattoo.
It was fantastical.
The centerpiece of the tattoo was nestled between and slightly beneath her shoulder blades; a larger than life face, terrifying in its aspect. It was unmistakably a woman, or at least part woman, done up in the medieval style with the butterfly eyebrows impossibly high on the forehead and the center part. Her eyes, however, were slightly squinted in pain or rage or anguish, maybe all three. Its irises were colored a dull gold, its pupils two black holes like wells. Beneath the eyes the skin seemed to fade from pale flesh slowly into a vibrant crimson. The nose was large, disproportionately so, nostrils flaring. Her mouth gaped wide in a pained and desperate snarl, the chunky teeth like stones and the massive animal fangs, blackened with dye like the court ladies of old used to. Two small horns were carefully depicted at the woman-creature’s hairline.
Keiichi stepped into the room, drawing closer, carefully kneeling down as close as he could come to the body without soaking his knee in the blood-sponge of the mats.
The tattooed demon woman’s hair formed the basis for the rest of the design; it was wild, flowing out in all directions, swirling like storm wind, twisted by the artist into nightmare shapes, skeletons, demons, screaming ghosts, spiraling out of sight beneath her pants and weaving down her arms, knotting itself into snakes that ended just past the elbow. It seemed that every time a camera flashed, piercing the ambient darkness, a new ghastly detail was revealed.
Keiichi heard Yūsuke pause in the doorway behind him.
“What’s the matter, rookie?” He asked. “Never seen a naked woman before?”
“No,” Yūsuke retorted, coolly ignoring the taunt. “Just never a headless one…or one with a tattoo like that.”
Keiichi made a thoughtful sound while rolling back on the balls of his feet, breaking eye contact with the creature tattooed on the corpse’s back. It was strangely compelling.
“Hey, you,” He asked gruffly, addressing the nearest technician. “Any sign of the head?”
Yūsuke cringed slightly at his senior’s rudeness. He would get used to it.
“No, sir.” The technician answered. Further into the room, another wrestled the closet door open. Keiichi half expected him to jolt back in surprise, the woman’s missing skull could be sitting right on the shelf of the closet. It was the only hiding place in the room. But he shook his head. The closet was empty.
Keiichi sighed. He needed a cigarette.
“So I assume we have no ID then.”
“No sir, there was no identification in her pockets. However, her fingerprints are intact, and there is the tattoo to consider.”
“Ink like that’s pretty distinctive.” Yūsuke chimed in. “And scary. I don’t like it.”
“Good thing she didn’t do it for you, then.” Detective Honma replied snidely, patting the breast pocket of his heavy overcoat to ensure his cigarettes were still intact. They were. Now he just hoped he’d brought a lighter.
“You think she’s Yakuza?” Yūsuke’s voice dropped a notch. He didn’t sound happy. Keiichi didn’t blame him: when the young officer had joined the division not too long ago there’d been a rumor flying around about some serious debt his family was struggling with. Some of the debt collectors seemed a little aggressive to be on the right side of the law. Yakuza, the Japanese mafia, more than likely. Yūsuke had neither confirmed nor denied the rumors, but Honma didn’t care. It was none of his business. Tattooing, especially full-body tattooing, had long been associated with the criminal underworld. However, most heavy-duty mobsters avoided ink nowadays: flashy tats made it way too easy for civilians and cops alike to see them coming from miles away. No need to be conspicuous.
“Who knows.” He finally unearthed a lighter in the depths of his left pocket. “But judging from the color of that ink that’s real Irezumi. There should be an artist’s signature in all that mess somewhere.”
“Should we look?”
“Save it for the Medical Examiner.” Keiichi grunted as he stood. “I need a smoke.”
-
Outside the apartment building the watery sunlight of early spring poured down into the street. Traffic was light: it was a weekday, past rush hour, and the only pedestrians walking by were stumbling, smudge-faced homeless and out-of-work day laborers. The crime scene was located on the outer edge of the district of Osaka known as Shinsekai which, at its center, was home to thriving and distinctive restaurants and entertainment. The fringes of this lively commerce area, however, were some of the roughest streets in all of Japan. It was the shadow of the city, the areas in which the undesirables, the poor, the transvestites, and a good number of the prostitutes chose to reside. It was the second-largest red light district in the city, aside from the nearby Tobita Shinchi district. However, during the early afternoon, it was eerily quiet.
“So, what do you think?” Yūsuke pushed his way out the door behind him just as Honma was lighting up. He sounded tired, as if he hadn’t had enough sleep the night before. His new fiancé was probably running him ragged. “empty, unrented apartment, locked door, no murder weapon, no head…the landlady said she hadn’t remembered seeing anyone suspicious going in or out of the building in the last few days-“
“I think you should run over there and pick me up some kushi-katsu.” Across the road in an open booth, a restaurant worker in a stark white apron was deep frying the breaded kabobs in sizzling vegetable oil. It smelled delicious.
Yūsuke did not look amused. Honma exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, relieved to feel the soothing nicotine.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He advised. “Once we get a time of death and an ID we can really kick into gear. But don’t get crazy just yet.”
He could sense the junior detective stewing in frustrated silence just beyond the bounds of his peripheral vision. Poor kid, hadn’t had the drive kicked out of him by the job yet. Still shining with the bright eyes of youth.
“Quit with the self-satisfied holier-than-thou crap.” Yūsuke declared, in what Honma used to think was a break with his character but later came to appreciate. He liked the kid. He had a low tolerance for bullshit. When no one else was around, he had no qualms about standing up to his senior. “You’re only 32 yourself.”
Keiichi chuckled dryly, then coughed. He took another long drag from his cigarette.
“How about that tattoo?” Yūsuke was trying another tactic. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You said it’s the traditional Irezumi style but…there’s not traditional motif.”
“That’s right.” Keiichi affirmed. “It’s an original design, that’s for sure. No koi fish, no tigers or dragons or goddesses of luck. Tell me, Shinogawa. How much do you know about Nō theater?”
“Nō?” Yūsuke repeated, bewildered at the turn the conversation had taken. “Well…it’s a form of traditional theater. Really boring, hard to understand. I guess Yoshimitsu Ashikaga liked it back in the Muromachi period, right?”
“That’s right.” Keiichi’s eyes had taken a faraway look. “The favorite art of samurai and warlords.”
That was what his father had said. Look, Keiichi. The favorite art of samurai and warlords. This is living history. He still remembered how his father’s eyes had shone. He still remembered how his father, a blue collar construction worker, would scrimp and save for months to afford the tickets for him and his child. They would sit in the back in the cheapest seats, father and son, he euphoric…Keiichi terrified. Even nowadays, watching the broadcasted plays on the NHK like he did whenever he was drunk and nostalgic, Keiichi could feel his stomach squirm. It was terrifying for him as a child. Ominous masks hundreds of years old, slow, deliberate dances, stories of demons and warriors and ghosts and dreams all chanted out by a chorus of eight men with voices like low thunder in language that was impossible for even the most astute listener to understand, unchanged since the 14th century. The first play his father had ever taken him to was called Dōjo-ji. It was the tale of a jealous and scorned woman who snuck into the temple where her former lover resided, hid under a bell and transformed into an evil, fire-breathing snake demon. It was heavy stuff for a kid.
“What does Nō have to do with anything?” Yūsuke asked, jolting Honma from his reverie.
“Did you get a good look at her ink?”
“Yeah. Never seen anything like it.”
“It’s a Nō mask.” Honma declared, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out on the pavement with the tip of his shoe. “At least, the centerpiece. The mask is called Namanari, from a play called Kawana.”
Yūsuke stared at him blankly.
“Just go look it up.” Honma grunted. “But judging from that, we’ve got ourselves one angry, angry young woman. I can’t think of any other reason she’d want a woman halfway turned into a demon in order to murder her husband immortalized on her back for all eternity. Besides, those tattoos cost like 3 million yen.”
“We don’t have much to go on…” Yūsuke sighed, turning the conversation back to grounds he understood.
“Sure we do.” Keiichi assured him. “Besides, a spirit like hers isn’t going to rest quietly until we know what’s up.”
He had no idea how right he was..
The room was tiny, cramped and dark. The window that dominated the wall opposite the door had thick, wooden slatted shutters drawn tightly across it, the early afternoon sunlight slipping through the cracks in slender, watery streams. Dust mites, kicked up by the relentless tromping of feet across the greasy woven-reed tatami mats danced silently in the still air. There was a set of thin sliding doors along the left wall that led to a shallow closet for storing a futon: the door sat slightly crooked in its runner but was closed and undisturbed. Lost in the gloomy murk of the ceiling was a single light of dubious functionality, also left unmolested for the moment. It was crowded already, with three forensics specialists creeping around in their black jumpsuits, peering into their notebooks, punctuating the room with the occasional camera flash like lightning.
Detective Keiichi Honma was the odd man out, bottling up the doorway with his large frame, staring blankly into the darkness of the room, rubbing his unshaven chin unconsciously. Behind him he could hear his junior partner, Yūsuke Shinogawa, speaking quietly with the landlady.
“I was supposed to show the room today,” She was saying, her voice thick and raspy from what was likely decades of cigarette tar. She looked like the rough type that wasn’t afraid of giving anyone hell. Owning a dive like this, in the middle of the less-than-safe Shinsekai district, Keiichi wouldn’t be surprised if she ate nails for breakfast. She reminded him of his mother. “I was going to air out the room. As soon as I opened the door I knew that something was wrong. I called you immediately.”
“Was the door locked when you arrived?” Yūsuke’s voice still sounded like an effeminate high-schooler’s to Keiichi. Oh well, he thought. One day he’ll grow in to himself. Although, at twenty-five, it was a fair bet that Yūsuke’s voice had done all the changing it was going to do for awhile.
“Yes, yes it was locked. I remember that clearly.” Even the old harridan sounded shaken. He didn’t blame her, it wasn’t a scene he’d particularly want to walk into either.
From the lit hallway it was clear to see that something lay in the center of the room. Something human-shaped. It was the body of a young woman, naked to the hips, laid out on her stomach, her knees together and pulled to her left, her arms raised up above her head.
Or, rather, where her head should have been.
The metallic copper smell of blood was thick in the air; the tatami beneath the body was squodgy with it, along with the heavy, sickly smell of the early stages of decomposition. The landlady was right: the room could use some airing.
Even more arresting than the abruptly truncated stump of her neck, or her exposed, naked breasts, was the dark, dense, flowing patterns that completely covered her back. A tattoo.
It was fantastical.
The centerpiece of the tattoo was nestled between and slightly beneath her shoulder blades; a larger than life face, terrifying in its aspect. It was unmistakably a woman, or at least part woman, done up in the medieval style with the butterfly eyebrows impossibly high on the forehead and the center part. Her eyes, however, were slightly squinted in pain or rage or anguish, maybe all three. Its irises were colored a dull gold, its pupils two black holes like wells. Beneath the eyes the skin seemed to fade from pale flesh slowly into a vibrant crimson. The nose was large, disproportionately so, nostrils flaring. Her mouth gaped wide in a pained and desperate snarl, the chunky teeth like stones and the massive animal fangs, blackened with dye like the court ladies of old used to. Two small horns were carefully depicted at the woman-creature’s hairline.
Keiichi stepped into the room, drawing closer, carefully kneeling down as close as he could come to the body without soaking his knee in the blood-sponge of the mats.
The tattooed demon woman’s hair formed the basis for the rest of the design; it was wild, flowing out in all directions, swirling like storm wind, twisted by the artist into nightmare shapes, skeletons, demons, screaming ghosts, spiraling out of sight beneath her pants and weaving down her arms, knotting itself into snakes that ended just past the elbow. It seemed that every time a camera flashed, piercing the ambient darkness, a new ghastly detail was revealed.
Keiichi heard Yūsuke pause in the doorway behind him.
“What’s the matter, rookie?” He asked. “Never seen a naked woman before?”
“No,” Yūsuke retorted, coolly ignoring the taunt. “Just never a headless one…or one with a tattoo like that.”
Keiichi made a thoughtful sound while rolling back on the balls of his feet, breaking eye contact with the creature tattooed on the corpse’s back. It was strangely compelling.
“Hey, you,” He asked gruffly, addressing the nearest technician. “Any sign of the head?”
Yūsuke cringed slightly at his senior’s rudeness. He would get used to it.
“No, sir.” The technician answered. Further into the room, another wrestled the closet door open. Keiichi half expected him to jolt back in surprise, the woman’s missing skull could be sitting right on the shelf of the closet. It was the only hiding place in the room. But he shook his head. The closet was empty.
Keiichi sighed. He needed a cigarette.
“So I assume we have no ID then.”
“No sir, there was no identification in her pockets. However, her fingerprints are intact, and there is the tattoo to consider.”
“Ink like that’s pretty distinctive.” Yūsuke chimed in. “And scary. I don’t like it.”
“Good thing she didn’t do it for you, then.” Detective Honma replied snidely, patting the breast pocket of his heavy overcoat to ensure his cigarettes were still intact. They were. Now he just hoped he’d brought a lighter.
“You think she’s Yakuza?” Yūsuke’s voice dropped a notch. He didn’t sound happy. Keiichi didn’t blame him: when the young officer had joined the division not too long ago there’d been a rumor flying around about some serious debt his family was struggling with. Some of the debt collectors seemed a little aggressive to be on the right side of the law. Yakuza, the Japanese mafia, more than likely. Yūsuke had neither confirmed nor denied the rumors, but Honma didn’t care. It was none of his business. Tattooing, especially full-body tattooing, had long been associated with the criminal underworld. However, most heavy-duty mobsters avoided ink nowadays: flashy tats made it way too easy for civilians and cops alike to see them coming from miles away. No need to be conspicuous.
“Who knows.” He finally unearthed a lighter in the depths of his left pocket. “But judging from the color of that ink that’s real Irezumi. There should be an artist’s signature in all that mess somewhere.”
“Should we look?”
“Save it for the Medical Examiner.” Keiichi grunted as he stood. “I need a smoke.”
-
Outside the apartment building the watery sunlight of early spring poured down into the street. Traffic was light: it was a weekday, past rush hour, and the only pedestrians walking by were stumbling, smudge-faced homeless and out-of-work day laborers. The crime scene was located on the outer edge of the district of Osaka known as Shinsekai which, at its center, was home to thriving and distinctive restaurants and entertainment. The fringes of this lively commerce area, however, were some of the roughest streets in all of Japan. It was the shadow of the city, the areas in which the undesirables, the poor, the transvestites, and a good number of the prostitutes chose to reside. It was the second-largest red light district in the city, aside from the nearby Tobita Shinchi district. However, during the early afternoon, it was eerily quiet.
“So, what do you think?” Yūsuke pushed his way out the door behind him just as Honma was lighting up. He sounded tired, as if he hadn’t had enough sleep the night before. His new fiancé was probably running him ragged. “empty, unrented apartment, locked door, no murder weapon, no head…the landlady said she hadn’t remembered seeing anyone suspicious going in or out of the building in the last few days-“
“I think you should run over there and pick me up some kushi-katsu.” Across the road in an open booth, a restaurant worker in a stark white apron was deep frying the breaded kabobs in sizzling vegetable oil. It smelled delicious.
Yūsuke did not look amused. Honma exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, relieved to feel the soothing nicotine.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He advised. “Once we get a time of death and an ID we can really kick into gear. But don’t get crazy just yet.”
He could sense the junior detective stewing in frustrated silence just beyond the bounds of his peripheral vision. Poor kid, hadn’t had the drive kicked out of him by the job yet. Still shining with the bright eyes of youth.
“Quit with the self-satisfied holier-than-thou crap.” Yūsuke declared, in what Honma used to think was a break with his character but later came to appreciate. He liked the kid. He had a low tolerance for bullshit. When no one else was around, he had no qualms about standing up to his senior. “You’re only 32 yourself.”
Keiichi chuckled dryly, then coughed. He took another long drag from his cigarette.
“How about that tattoo?” Yūsuke was trying another tactic. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You said it’s the traditional Irezumi style but…there’s not traditional motif.”
“That’s right.” Keiichi affirmed. “It’s an original design, that’s for sure. No koi fish, no tigers or dragons or goddesses of luck. Tell me, Shinogawa. How much do you know about Nō theater?”
“Nō?” Yūsuke repeated, bewildered at the turn the conversation had taken. “Well…it’s a form of traditional theater. Really boring, hard to understand. I guess Yoshimitsu Ashikaga liked it back in the Muromachi period, right?”
“That’s right.” Keiichi’s eyes had taken a faraway look. “The favorite art of samurai and warlords.”
That was what his father had said. Look, Keiichi. The favorite art of samurai and warlords. This is living history. He still remembered how his father’s eyes had shone. He still remembered how his father, a blue collar construction worker, would scrimp and save for months to afford the tickets for him and his child. They would sit in the back in the cheapest seats, father and son, he euphoric…Keiichi terrified. Even nowadays, watching the broadcasted plays on the NHK like he did whenever he was drunk and nostalgic, Keiichi could feel his stomach squirm. It was terrifying for him as a child. Ominous masks hundreds of years old, slow, deliberate dances, stories of demons and warriors and ghosts and dreams all chanted out by a chorus of eight men with voices like low thunder in language that was impossible for even the most astute listener to understand, unchanged since the 14th century. The first play his father had ever taken him to was called Dōjo-ji. It was the tale of a jealous and scorned woman who snuck into the temple where her former lover resided, hid under a bell and transformed into an evil, fire-breathing snake demon. It was heavy stuff for a kid.
“What does Nō have to do with anything?” Yūsuke asked, jolting Honma from his reverie.
“Did you get a good look at her ink?”
“Yeah. Never seen anything like it.”
“It’s a Nō mask.” Honma declared, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out on the pavement with the tip of his shoe. “At least, the centerpiece. The mask is called Namanari, from a play called Kawana.”
Yūsuke stared at him blankly.
“Just go look it up.” Honma grunted. “But judging from that, we’ve got ourselves one angry, angry young woman. I can’t think of any other reason she’d want a woman halfway turned into a demon in order to murder her husband immortalized on her back for all eternity. Besides, those tattoos cost like 3 million yen.”
“We don’t have much to go on…” Yūsuke sighed, turning the conversation back to grounds he understood.
“Sure we do.” Keiichi assured him. “Besides, a spirit like hers isn’t going to rest quietly until we know what’s up.”
He had no idea how right he was..