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entire morning was spent fielding interviews, and I didn’t even get to eat a proper breakfast. Finally, a little after noon, I retreated back inside my apartment. I was eating some instant udon noodles and watching TV when I saw a close-up of my face on the screen. I choked on my noodles. I couldn’t believe they were already playing the footage they had taken just a couple of hours before.
    â€œYou were friends from elementary school, correct? What sort of person would you say Mr. Hidaka was?” the female reporter asked in a shrill voice.
    On the screen, I seem to be thinking far too deeply about the question. I had noticed at the time that my silence was uncomfortably long. I guessed they hadn’t had the time to edit out this awkward pause in the footage. You could see the reporters around me growing impatient.
    â€œHe had a strong personality,” the me on the screen said at last. “He was a real individual. Sometimes you’d think he was the most amazing guy, then other times you’d be surprised by his coldness. But perhaps you can say that about anyone.”
    â€œCan you give an example of what you mean by his coldness?”
    â€œWell…” Then the me on the screen shook his head. “No, not off the top of my head. And this really isn’t the time or the place.”
    Of course, in my head I was picturing Hidaka killing that cat, but it wasn’t the kind of thing to announce on the public airwaves.
    After a series of increasingly inappropriate questions, the female reporter asked, “Is there anything you want to say to Hidaka’s killer?”
    This was it, her home-run question.
    â€œNot at this time,” I answered. You could tell she was disappointed.
    After that, they cut back to the studio, where a reporter talked about Hidaka’s novels. Behind the many varied worlds he had created, the reporter said, were the complicated human relations of the author himself. This clearly suggested that his death might be related to the intersection of his literary and private lives.
    The reporter talked about the recent troubles Hidaka had had with his novel Forbidden Hunting Grounds . How the family of the man who was the model for the book’s main character had raised objections. Apparently word hadn’t yet got out that Miyako Fujio had been to Hidaka’s house the day he died.
    Then they went to a panel of celebrity guests they’d brought into the studio, and they started talking about Hidaka’s death. I got a sour taste in my mouth and turned off the television.
    I wished the NHK would cover the situation. For accurate information about something big, one of their networks was usually the best option. Unfortunately, the death of Hidaka wasn’t momentous enough for a publicly funded station to put together a special program.
    The phone rang. I’d lost count how many times it had already rung that day, but I still picked up on the off chance it might be something to do with work.
    â€œYes, Nonoguchi speaking,” I said a little roughly.
    â€œHi, it’s me.” The firm voice on the other side was without a doubt Rie.
    â€œOh, hi. How did you do last night?” It was a strange question, but I couldn’t think of anything else to ask.
    â€œI went to stay at my parents’ house. I thought I should probably call people, tell them what happened, but I just didn’t have it in me.”
    â€œI can imagine. Where are you now?”
    â€œHome. I got a call from the police this morning, and they said they wanted to go over the scene with me and ask me a few more questions.”
    â€œHas that happened already?”
    â€œYes. Though some of the detectives are still around.”
    â€œWhat about the media? They giving you any trouble?”
    â€œOf course. But some of the people from Hidaka’s publisher and some television people that knew him came over, and they’re handling the questions.