Those Who Are Not Protected - Chapter 1: Episode 1.1

When the clock on the wall passed the 7 p.m. time, Mikumo Tadakatsu had just finished checking the last document. He put all the papers on his desk into the cabinet assigned to him. He locked it and made sure that the cabinet doors were properly shut. He was always cautious—that was his usual way.

“You’ve worked hard. Are you not leaving yet?” he said to Zemi, who was still in the office. Zemi shook his head weakly in front of his computer.

“There are still four more applications. It’ll probably take another hour.”

Tadakatsu wanted to help, but his job was only to review and stamp documents. He was not supposed to interfere with actual cases.

So, he just said, “Try to finish soon,” and he left the office.

When he walked out of the Aoba Ward Office, the neon signs on the streets of Sendai were already glowing dimly. In the sound of traffic, young women’s cheerful voices could be heard. The quiet buildings now felt lively. If someone visited for the first time, it would be hard to imagine that only four years ago, this place had experienced a huge earthquake.

In fact, Sendai was one of the first places to recover after the disaster. In addition, areas like Miyagino Ward and Wakabayashi Ward, located near Shiogama Port, experienced significant damage. But people, supplies, and money came from all over the country, thus helping the recovery move quickly.

However, just because the city looked lively again didn’t mean the people’s hearts had healed. Some had lost their family, some lost their homes, and others had lost their will to live. Everyone carried a pain in their hearts.

Tadakatsu was considered lucky. Although his brother, sister-in-law, and two nephews who lived near the coast had died, his family was safe. Some people might say he was cold, but he believed that giving love to those who were still alive was the best way to honor the dead.

He wondered how his wife was feeling. Would she cook his favorite food tonight? As he walked and thought about this, someone suddenly called out to him from behind.

“Mikumo-san.”

When he turned around, he was surprised by the person standing there.

“You… Why are you here?”

“I was waiting for you.”

*****

“Your apartment smells bad.”

When the phone rang, Teruyama felt annoyed. Ah, it’s her again.

The caller was Grandma Taeko, who lived nearby. Her usual walking route will pass by the apartment building that Teruyama owned. Even though the problems were on someone else’s land, she always found something to complain about—like grass growing too far onto the sidewalk or rude people dumping trash outside. Sometimes, Teruyama thought she only went out walking to find things to complain about.

“This really bothers the neighbors. Please take care of it,” she said.

“Okay, okay, I got it.”

He hung up and looked at the clock on the wall. It was just after 8 a.m. Teruyama held back his annoyance about the old woman and got ready to go out.

The apartment she complained about was 50 meters from Teruyama’s house. He had used all his retirement money to build it many years ago. After thirty years, it had become very old because the location wasn’t good either; it had become an empty “ghost apartment” two years ago.

This kind of thing was common in small cities. When the Shinkansen train line opened, it divided the city into two parts—the other side flourished, and the other declined. Even though Sendai was the biggest city in northern Japan, it had the same problem. The west side of Sendai Station became busy, but the east side remained farmland and didn’t change at all. So, not many people liked moved in.

Teruyama lived in Wakabayashi Ward, which still had many old houses. This contributed to the unpopularity of the area. I even considered demolishing the old building and converting the land into a paid parking lot. This could potentially generate more revenue.

He could have made some minor repairs, but he lacked the funds to rebuild it. With no tenants, he was unable to collect rent, but due to the low property tax, he decided to leave it as it was.

Soon after, Teruyama arrived at his rental apartment building, “Sunrise Manor.” The walls had cracks, and the paint had faded. The iron staircase looked outdated. The place was in terrible shape—completely opposite of what its name suggested. Every time he saw it, he sighed out of frustration.

As he got closer, a strong stench hit him in the face—it was the sour, rotten smell of spoiled fruit. It looked like someone had dumped kitchen waste near the building. The smell was coming from Room 103 on the first floor. Teruyama walked into the apartment and opened the door to Room 103—and let out a groan of despair.

There was something on the floor. It looked like a dead body.

On October 15th, Detective Shoichiro Tashino from the Prefectural Police’s Investigative Division quickly finished his late breakfast and went to the scene after receiving a report of a body found in Wakabayashi Ward’s Arai-Katori area.

Even though it was already cold in the mornings and evenings, the midday sun in October still made people sweat. The old apartment where the body was found reportedly had a terrible smell. With that kind of heat, it wasn’t difficult to guess how badly the body had decomposed.

They didn’t know who the dead person was or how they died yet. But based on the way the local police were reacting, there was a chance it was a murder. Still, they couldn’t rule out the possibility of a lonely death—an elderly person dying alone. After the earthquake, many elderly people who had lost their families and homes passed away quietly. Even though the city centre had recovered, this area was still full of ruins. The slow pace of recovery and deep sadness had left many people in Tohoku with heavy hearts. Tashino was one of them.

When he arrived at the scene, blue waterproof sheets had already been set up at the apartment entrance—this usually meant that the autopsy had begun or was finished.

“Good work!” someone called out.

It was Hasuda, who had arrived earlier. He had been part of sports clubs since middle school and was very serious about respecting ranks within the police system. His overly formal attitude sometimes annoyed Tashino.

“Did they finish the autopsy?”

“Just finished. However, the forensics team is still gathering evidence.

Tashino walked with Hasuda behind the blue sheets. The terrible stench hit him immediately. The smell of a dead body was something his instincts still rejected, even after nearly ten years in investigations. He had never gotten used to it.

The layout of Room 103 was old-fashioned: a small room about 9 square meters, with a barely usable kitchen and bathroom. Three forensics officers were squatting inside and inspecting the area. Inspector Karasawa was standing over them, looking down at the body in the centre of the room.

“Oh, Tashino-san. Good work,” Karasawa greeted him.

But Tashino’s attention was fully on the body.

The person’s arms and legs were tied, and the mouth was sealed.

Tashino first clasped his hands together in a short prayer, then looked at the body more closely. The arms and legs had been wrapped many times with packing tape. The mouth was also sealed, but the nose had been left uncovered. What struck him as strange was the condition of the tape—it was wrinkled in several places.

“This is a classic case of death by starvation,” Karasawa said flatly.

“All the muscles have shrunk unnaturally, and the body weight is clearly reduced. This suggests that the organs may have also lost weight. The body was probably already dehydrated before starving to death. I’d say it’s been dead for about two days.”

Were the wrinkles in the tape caused by the muscles shrinking?

“Well, I can’t be completely sure until the formal autopsy result. I haven’t seen many starvation cases myself,” Karasawa added, sounding like he would rather not take full responsibility.

In the past, death from starvation was rare. But in recent years, lonely deaths had become more common, especially in this region.

“Let’s remove the tape.”