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After I found the handless doll, I thought about the Wrist-Cut Case every day in class. Midterms were coming up fast, but I hardly noticed. Out of all the gruesome incidents the news had covered lately, this was the most fascinating. Pondering the culprit’s terrifying fixation with hands was exactly the kind of thing I liked to do. And I believed … that he was just like me. Obviously, the particulars were different, but I still felt a connection to the man behind the gruesome wrist cuttings.
After that, I often made my way to the lecture hall during breaks so that I could brush past Mr. Shinohara. He remembered me and would wave when he saw me. He was a young man, thin, with short hair. I spent a lot of time wondering if he was really the man behind the Wrist-Cut Case.
I once came across Mr. Shinohara talking to Morino outside the lecture hall. He had seen the book Morino was carrying and was telling her he had a copy of the follow-up. It was a nonfiction book about dealing with the mentally unstable. Morino simply replied, “Do you?” her usual blank expression never faltering.
In class, I continued to function largely through pretense. It was easy to live as an ordinary high school kid, never standing out—but my mind was occupied almost entirely with the latest reports on the Wrist-Cut Case, and it was exhausting to keep my slang current and to chatter happily with the humans around me about the latest celebrity gossip. I occasionally felt like an idiot for expending all that effort.
It seemed Morino spent as much time in the lecture hall as Mr. Shinohara had said. Almost every time I peeked in the doors, she was sitting in that quiet room alone.
She was always alone, but not because she was being bullied—it was more like she had deliberately cut off all communication with those around her. Her stony silence made it clear that her interests and passions had nothing in common with those of the other students.
“Apparently, Morino tried to kill herself in junior high,” someone told me. With that in mind, I took a closer look at her pale hands. I didn’t know why she had wanted to die, but I doubted the world made it easy for her to live.
If I stopped acting, I would end up like her. If the people around me discovered how merciless and unemotional I was, how much more difficult would my life become? I compared my current situation with that hypothetical and couldn’t find much difference—I was isolated either way.
Three days after I found the doll, I decided to carry out a new plan.
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iii
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Mr. Shinohara lived on a quiet street in a normal house, two stories tall with thin white walls that shone yellow in the light of the setting sun. There was no one around, and the only sound was an airplane flying past far above me.
Mr. Shinohara was the homeroom teacher for a second-year class; I happened to know someone in that class who had been able to tell me the teacher’s address and confirm that Mr. Shinohara lived alone.
I looked at my watch. It was Thursday, and all the teachers would be in a meeting, so I would have plenty of time before he got home.
After making sure there was no one around, I went through the gate and around the back of the house. There was a small yard with a clothesline, and that was all. Nothing in the garden but grass—no weeds or insects, just a flat, empty bit of ground. A large window faced into the garden, but it was locked, so I wrapped a towel around my hand to break it. Then I listened carefully, making sure I had not attracted any attention, before unlocking the window, taking off my shoes, and entering the house.
The culprit behind the Wrist-Cut Case was cutting off human hands and taking them away with him. Nobody knew what became of the victims’ hands. Some people imagined the culprit enjoyed looking at them, whereas others suggested he ate them. Nobody knew the truth—but any which way, there was a strong possibility that the killer had left evidence in his house. My first goal tonight was to search Mr. Shinohara’s house for such evidence.
I had broken the living room window, scattering glass across the floor, so I had to walk carefully to avoid cutting myself. The house was very tidy, with the magazines on the table and the remote controls all lined up neatly.
I made as little noise as possible. I was worried that Mr. Shinohara might return home suddenly, and I didn’t want to miss the sound of the key in the front door. I would have to run before he caught me.
The floors were highly polished. Although the lights were off and it was dark, I could see by the small amount of still-lingering sunlight streaming through the windows.
I found the stairs. Careful not to touch the wall or handrails, I went up them. Even if I left fingerprints, Mr. Shinohara would not call the police if he were the Wrist-Cut Case culprit—but I still didn’t want to leave any trace that I had been in his house.
On the second floor, there was a bedroom with a desktop computer and a number of bookshelves inside. The books were arranged by size, with the spines carefully lined up together, no dust anywhere.
There was nothing to suggest Mr. Shinohara was the wrist cutter.
I placed the middle and index fingers of my right hand on my left wrist to measure my pulse. It was faster than usual, evidence that I was tense. I took a deep breath, trying to relax.
I thought about wrists for a moment. When doctors want to test if someone is alive or dead, they always hold the wrist, feeling for a pulse. How would the doctors feel for a pulse on a victim from the Wrist-Cut Case without a wrist?
I looked at my watch. The teachers’ meeting at school should have been ending about then. If Mr. Shinohara were to head directly home, I would need to hurry.
I looked at the other rooms on the second floor, two tatami-floored rooms with shelves and wardrobes. But there were no clues to suggest that Mr. Shinohara had hurt anyone.
Each time I left a room, I checked to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, like my student ID, a uniform button, a textbook, or a sock. The worst blunder I could possibly make was to leave anything behind that could be used to identify me. Why? Because it could be avoided easily if I paid attention.
Certain I had left no trace behind, and still wearing socks, I went downstairs—into the kitchen.
Did Mr. Shinohara ever cook? There weren’t many dishes, and everything was placed away neatly. There was nothing in the sink. It was as if the cups and cooking implements had been placed there decoratively the moment he bought them, never once used.
On the table, there was a rice cooker, which was a bit too big for someone living alone. I had no information on his family or background—perhaps he had formerly lived with other relatives, or perhaps there was no real meaning to the oversize rice cooker.
The stainless steel sink was polished, and it gleamed in the nearly horizontal light coming through the window. With no lights on, the house was growing steadily darker. The reddish glow from the sink was the only source of light. The only sound, the low hum of the refrigerator—the same silence as in the chemistry lecture hall. I could feel my emotions growing still.
In the center of the kitchen, I took my wrist, measuring my pulse again. Beneath the skin of my left wrist, my blood vessel throbbed steadily. My fingers felt it expand and contract. My pulse was normal again.
Then it abruptly sped up, pulsing violently, as if about to explode.
My nose had picked up an unnatural scent: something rotting, something being consumed by bacteria. The images that scent brought to mind sent my pulse racing.
I began tracking the source of the smell. There was nothing in the cupboards or drawers. My eyes fixed on the refrigerator.
I gripped the refrigerator handle through my handkerchief, careful not to leave fingerprints. As I opened the door, there was a distinctive tug as it came unsealed. The smell grew stronger, and I knew I had been right—Mr. Shinohara was behind the Wrist-Cut Case.
In the cold fridge air, lit by the lamp, were rows of hands—on the shelves, placed with their fingers toward the door, the fingers and nails lined up next to one another like piano keys.
In the back, there were several small dishes, on top of which were the front paws of dogs and cats. The hands of the doll I’d found in the lecture hall garbage can were in the door. They were just balls of cloth, but they were the same color as the doll, so I knew they were the doll’s hands.
I had long been a proponent of the theory that the wrist cutter was preserving the hands. I had no basis for this—it was merely what I would have done. I had been right.
I picked up one of the hands, a woman’s hand. Red nail polish was flaking away, and the hand was cold and heavy in my palm.
I was touching dead skin. No, not dead—all his victims were alive, each living with a missing hand … but it made sense to refer to the part that had been cut off as dead.
There were right hands and left hands. There were the hands with nails that had turned black and hands with skin that was still beautiful.
I stroked several of the hands. I felt like I was peering into the depths of Mr. Shinohara’s heart. Regular people wouldn’t have understood, and I was sure Mr. Shinohara was convinced that no one would ever understand him. But it was easy for me to picture him alone in this kitchen, stroking his collection of hands.
The hands were in his refrigerator, so Mr. Shinohara must be the wrist cutter—but I had no intention of telling the police. Perhaps I should have, but that did not interest me. I had a different goal in mind.
I too wanted a hand cut off of someone. Touching Mr. Shinohara’s collection made me want it even more.
I looked around the refrigerator. There were all kinds of hands in there. I could take any of them. Not just any hand would do, though; I knew exactly whose hand I wanted. But I put all the hands in front of me into a bag that I’d brought with me.