“That doesn't happen?” Kunugi asked.
“Of course it does. There are cases of it, but there are also cases where it doesn't happen. Childhood abuse is of course of great concern to everyone, but there is no set pattern that leads to actual abuse. Sometimes an endearment results in abuse, other times, it's just a communicated exchange that creates abusive stimuli.”
“Isn't that taking it a bit far?”
“No. Past interference is a problem, but the quality of the problem is different. There are those types of people who are perplexed by attempts at normative communication. Reaching out to these children will feel to them exactly like physical pain. Remember five or six years ago the phrase âgive it your all' was banned?”
“I was reprimanded for using the phrase myself, actually,” Kunugi said. “I wasn't deliberately saying anything mean or anything.”
“That's what communication is. It's lopsided. Reciprocal comprehension is a delusion. Communication is the ability to overcome this onesided way of thought by embracing the possibility of misunderstanding each other in any situation. These days, fewer people know how to misconceive things. That's all.”
Kunugi held his chin again.
“In any case, contrary to expectation, this analysis of the information hasn't produced any one result. Pre-modern disciplines oriented toward understanding human behavior, such as psychology, have totally collapsed. In that sense, religion is a much more useful tool. Surveys, statisticsâthey're all useless. We've realized too late that humans cannot be understood. That's why there are still people who sustain primitive beliefs in the effects of trauma on character or personality.”
“Like the police.”
“I'm sure. That's the impression I got from the way your superior sounded off at the conference. This data is supposed to be used by the police to ascertain extreme charactersâto pick up dangerous persons. The police are the ones determining what makes someone unusual, so I'm assuming they'll look at home environments, proclivities, medical records⦔
Shizue wondered how dangerous any of these things were, or why they would have gone unnoticed.
Legislating this data mining is well within our vision, Ishida had made clear. Wasn't he just saying they'd be applying this ridiculous criteria to organize and analyze every citizen?
Race, provenance, profession, class, genderâbecause these distinctions had lost importance, the police decided to discriminate by educational environments and habits.
Shizue got a little emotional as she explained this, and as expected, Kunugi just said that sounded like an exaggeration.
“This investigation has been a really hard ride.”
“It always is. But arrest rates have gone down, right? Plus, I hear that there's a program in development that will sequester people who are genetically prone to act against society.”
“I've heard the same.”
“This data becomes material for programs like that. Society didn't come before humanity. Deviants definitely need to be arrested in order to support the framework, but is it right to preemptively weed out what might be deviant behavior? Isn't that a kind of eugenics?”
“I understand what you're saying.” The policeman straightened himself. “Truth be told, I'm not comfortable with it either. But I'm not as knowledgeable about this as you, so I don't know what exactly is wrong about it. That's why I'm asking so many questions.”
Then, “Hey!” Kunugi pointed over Shizue's shoulder.
She turned around exactly as the download completed. The drive made a short sound to signify that the job was finished and popped out a disc.
Shizue put the disc in a hard case and put a protective cover on it. They'd been working since morning and only gotten a third of the way through. Shizue brought out another disc to continue working, but Kunugi stopped her.
“This is good for today.”
“We've got a lot of work left. If we have until five o'clock I can probably manage another two or three discs.”
“It's not that. I have to deliver this disc to police headquarters by five. In that ugly government-issued solar car you see out there, driving from here to there will take exactly thirty-eight minutes. Add to that all the paperwork, and I have to leave here in twenty minutes. That's not enough time to do another disc.”
It'd take at least thirty minutes.
“The proviso states a police officer has to witness the work, so when I leave this place, the work you do alone will be invalid. We are all bureaucrats, if nothing else.” Kunugi spoke matter-of-factly as he took the disc from Shizue and put an organizational number on it. Then after taking a deep breath, he counted the disc along with the others and wrote the number down on another card, then put it all in a box. Then he stowed the box in his bag.
“Maybe it's just an illusion, but I have a feeling this will all be pointless.”
Kunugi put on an old-fashioned jacket not seen much anymore.
Shizue sterilized her fingertips.
In other wordsâ¦
I have to work this way for another two days.
“Pointless or not, the regulations have created a real obstacle, haven't they.”
She couldn't have anyone substitute as a counselor, and one never knew if a problem might arise. She wasn't even able to perform routine mail checks. Two more days of this would certainly be a problem.
“You don't prefer the regulations?” Kunugi, now standing, asked.
“I can't do it like this. We're in charge of a hundred people. Our division is short-staffed, and I myself have seven or eight people in each age group, totaling ninety kids I'm responsible for. Normally we each get thirty. Any more than that and we lose focus.”
What use is it complaining to this guy?
Shizue opened her mail on the monitor. As if waiting for the right moment, Kunugi stood again.
What?
Shizue's eyes froze.
There were no messages.
No messages from concerned children. She converted to the room monitor and summoned a roster of the children.
Kunugi decided that maybe he shouldn't be looking. He turned toward the wall and asked if there was a problem.
“It's not a problem, per se.” Shizue checked that she was connected.
Her message to Yuko Yabeâ¦
FAILED DELIVERY.
She double-checked the address and connectivity.
The connection wasn't recognized.
Is the monitor broken?
Shizue felt a shiver up her spine.
A broken monitor wasn't unheard of. But it was something she should have noticed when she sent the message yesterday. No, she could just try a voice message or at least check the connection on her home terminal. Shizue had been preoccupied with this data mining last night.
“There was a child who didn't come to yesterday's communication group. There was no notice of it, so when the proctor notified me I sent the student a message, but⦔
“There's no reply?”
“Well, that's not uncommon, but it's not that there's no return message. There's noâ¦monitor.”
“No monitor?”
“I have to go,” Shizue said. And she left.
AS HAZUKI DISCONNECTED
, some rote on-air news appeared on-screen.
At the bottom right of her screen floated a file called violent criminals of the twentieth century.
The on-air menu flooded the screen with text, so she knew the basic gist even with her speakers on mute.
A middle-aged man with old-fashioned dyed hair was rapidly moving his mouth. Words appeared in a text box below his face in conjunction with the movement of his mouth.
NO WEAPONS / THEATRICAL / CALLED A PSYCHO-KILLER / MINORS / “EDUCATIONAL” / IN THE HOMEâ¦
AROUND THIS TIME THE STALKER / FAMOUS/ BIZARRE MURDERDâ¦
The words ran so quickly she couldn't read them all.
Not that she wanted to.
To begin with, Hazuki wasn't sure what
bizarre
meant. She just thought it must mean something bad.
Well, not simply bad, but immoral. That was the impression she had. She didn't know why, but probably because of the way the word looked. Even if the meaning wasn't apparent, the appearance of that series of characters could signify so much. She might be totally wrong, but there was still the unspoken meaning that was implied.
She tried viewing the word in English. Still, she recognized words by spelling, which vexed her. At wit's end, she switched to Arabic.
Then, suddenly she didn't understand anything. The middle-aged man with brown hair or anyone from any country. She didn't know what they were saying.
They showed picture after picture of young girls.
They were explained with words she'd never seen before.
These must be victims.
Judging from the age of these girls they couldn't be perpetrators. Their clothing looked unfamiliar to her, meaning they could have been of foreign nationality. Yet their faces looked recognizable, meaning they must have been Japanese.
These were children from a really long time ago.
If I were murdered, I wonder if I'd appear foreign to people looking
at me in the future
.
More familiar scenes on her monitor.
Though surrounded by incomprehensible words, the images were clearly taken from the area where Hazuki grew up.
However, it was only for a split second that the images were familiar. The footage soon took on a morbid cast. These were probably images from the murder investigation of the local killingsâunder the North-South Line overpassâMio had been talking about, which was more accurately said to be taking place under the Central North-South Line directly adjacent to her neighborhood.
Hazuki could point out on a map where this was but had never seen it herself. This broadcast was the first time she'd seen it.
They went back to showing headshots.
These must be of the latest victim
.
It was a boy. Hazuki tried to remember his name but couldn't for some reason. No, it was because she hadn't ever known it.
This was a foreigner too.
It was because of the Arabic writing on the screen.
In any case this was a language from a world Hazuki had nothing to do with, she reasoned.
She looked at her monitor.
Four fifty-one pm and twenty seconds.
It had been at least five hours since she connected to the area center cable. She'd long surpassed the suggested amount of time for connectivity. Or rather, Hazuki's group had been instructed not to spend more than two hours at a time on work.
Hazuki put her monitor on sleep mode and got up from her chair.
Dinner should be ready now.
She left her room and went down the hall.
In the dining area was, as expected, a neatly laid-out meal.
She was four when they pulled her out ten years ago. Hazuki had been eating this same kind of meal every day in this room ever since. Her foster dad was a busy man who only came home about once a month. She no longer had a caretaker, so she was frequently alone.
She wasn't hungry.
She drew water from the faucet and drank one glass. She felt full.
Whether Hazuki decided to eat or not, every morning the dining table would be set for breakfast. The home helper sent over by the security center was very conscientious, correct, taciturn.
She thought of throwing away the food. She knew it would be a waste, but if she left it, there would be an ordeal later. If you left a meal out twice without touching it, the security center automatically notified a counselor.
Then they'd start sending you all these messages, and pay visits, notify your caretaker, and generally create a bother.
She wasn't without a caretaker, but what would they make of this kind of behavior? They might bring her to a medical caretaker. If you were under sixteen and determined to have an eating disorder, they would abruptly cart you out to a rehabilitation center.
This diagnosis was apparently made through a medical interview conducted via another monitor. If you answered the questions poorly, it wouldn't matter if you were healthyâthey would declare you ill. Conversely, you could be suffering from a grave illness but answer the questions correctly, and the monitor would not diagnose you.
Unlike other illnesses, psychological ones like eating disorders were problematic.
Still, what child would answer these questions honestly
, Hazuki thought.
She kept looking at the food.
I'll keep it for now
. She might want to eat it later. It wouldn't matter when she ate it as far as anyone was concerned. It would just be cold.
But just as she'd resolved thisâ A
thunk
. Was the helper still around? Usually she tried not to be seen.
She considered it a matter of custom. Hazuki would only see the caretaker on days she cleaned the house.
Today?
Not cleaning day.
She expected no visitors. It couldn't have been her foster father. He never did anything alone. Whenever he came home he'd have an entourage trailing him. And then there were all the people who'd come the day before to prepare everything for their return.
She heard the clicking of the doorknob moving.
Hazuki looked at the kitchen monitor. If there were someone at the door the monitor there would automatically turn on. All she saw displayed on it was the time. Hazuki pulled the emergency receiver from her main monitor and gripped it tight, then turned on the monitor.
The monitor beeped, and the front door clicked open.
Hazuki reflexively moved to push the dial button, but her fingertip stopped at the button, paralyzed. What came on her monitor was so unexpected it arrested her stiff.
“What a huge house,” came the voice through her monitor speakers.
On her monitor screen was Mio Tsuzuki.