Tokyo


He moved efficiently through the train station. Inspector Sato admired his style, his class. His ability to blend in, to elude the multitudes who pursued him at all times. On the monitors he appeared as a contiguous form, his short black hair leading to the amorphous mass concealed by his dark trenchcoat. His build was strong and powerful, facilitating his passage.

“He will be out of camera range shortly.” Inspector Sato acknowledged that with a swift bow, leaving the man with his cameras and screens.

He pondered the situation and his blood pressure raised by a considerable measure. With a mere word on his radio he could have the man apprehended on numerous counts. With a mere word he could prevent the almost certain murder of countless more. Yet no word would be uttered, not now, and not tomorrow. Instructions from on high required it.

Sato’s knowledge of the man is exquisite. He knows both the flaccid and erect length of his penis. He knows what the man prefers for breakfast and the brand of shirt he most wears. He knows everything about who the man is, but absolutely nothing about who he was. His origins are as much of a mystery as his motives. The path he cut across the world was evident from the trail of cleverly and boldly mutilated bodies, but it was a path with no discernable beginning…


SMR 99.10.29