Pathway to Japanese Literature

K.

I was delighted to read your kind get-well letter.
I was utterly at a loss.
I had been terribly busy with funerals and other matters—and him—but when I finally had a couple of days free and was feeling disheartened, your letter arrived, filling me with a gratitude so profound it brought tears to my eyes.
As you say, our forensic medicine department—bereft of Professor Mohri—is in darkness.
Not only that, but T University—bereft of Professor Mohri—has become gauntly desolate.
Furthermore, the Japanese academic world—bereft of Professor Mohri—suddenly became apprehensive.
To have first lost Dr. Kario and now encountered Professor Mohri’s passing—what a misfortune for Japan this must be.
Professor Mohri and Dr. Kario were not only the two leading figures in Japanese psychiatric academia but were also both world-renowned scholars.
That those two should have succumbed to illness and passed away in rapid succession within barely over a month is a tragedy too profound even for grief.

K-kun.
You would fully comprehend my current state of mind.
Somehow I couldn't shake this feeling that I too would catch pneumonia like the Professor and die.
When I lost my father during my middle school days, I had felt at that time that I too might perish; now I found myself experiencing that same sensation with piercing intensity.
Even when I went to work at the classroom building, I couldn't focus on anything.
Fortunately there were no troublesome forensic analyses requiring attention at present—but had someone assigned me some urgent difficult case then, there was no telling what errors I might have committed.
Returning home brought only listless staring into space.
Yet even while adrift in that void, some restless compulsion drove me toward action—any action—rather than remain inert.
Had I possessed any creative faculty whatsoever, I surely would have drafted two or three short stories by then.
But regrettably such creation lay entirely beyond my capabilities.
Yet letters at least remained within my power; tonight I resolved to write you an extended response—this very missive serving both purposes.

As written in your letter, Professor Mohri had indeed been depressed recently.
Not only you, but other friends had noticed it too, and some had immediately questioned me about it during the Professor’s lifetime.
I had long understood the cause of his depression—particularly the extreme melancholy during that final month before his death.
Yet while he lived, I had resolved never to speak of it to anyone.
Now, however, I find myself not only permitted to reveal it but compelled to do so.
And so I shall endeavor to write of it in fullest detail henceforth.

And another thing—as a preface to this account, though abruptly mentioning “that newspaper advertisement” I imagine you must be eager to hear about would make little sense—there was this mysterious notice that appeared about one and a half months ago in the three-line classified sections of major newspapers across the metropolis.

PMbｔDK

I intend to explain the secret behind PMbｔDK. When I say this, you will surely find it suspicious, but that advertisement was actually placed by me. Now, you mustn’t be surprised. You with your inquisitive nature would often come to my classroom back then and present various speculations about who had placed it, for what purpose, and what meaning it might have. I made every effort to feign ignorance so you wouldn’t catch on, for that very matter was connected to the cause of Professor Mohri’s depression—and as it required absolute secrecy at the time, I exercised such remarkable self-restraint that even I was impressed with myself. But now, I can freely speak of it. You will surely be pleased, and I too feel happy.

K-kun.

You probably remember well the suicide case of young businessman Kitazawa Eiji, who had built a Western-style house in suburban M. Once buried as a suicide, due to police efforts, Widow Masako and her lover—the novelist Midorikawa Jun—were arrested on suspicion of murder and subjected to a re-examination of the corpse; yet the analysis ultimately reaffirmed suicide, leading to their release and the case being resolved in a relatively mundane manner. While I primarily conducted that forensic analysis, in truth, there was something far more profound concealed at the heart of that case—something that would come to bear an intimate connection with that enigmatic advertisement. Given your perceptive nature, you must be thinking now that perhaps it was indeed murder after all.

That’s right.
To put it bluntly, it was indeed a form of murder.
However, since this differed fundamentally from ordinary cases—and consequently became that enigmatic advertisement—in any event, for these reasons, it could be said that Professor Mohri’s depression had been indirectly rooted in the Kitazawa incident.

Admittedly, this refers to the extreme depression immediately preceding the Professor’s death; indeed, Professor Mohri had already been depressed long before that period. I studied under the Professor for exactly five years, and during the first four years, he was truly vivacious—a scholar who seemed impervious to fatigue. His jet-black hair that defied his age beyond fifty, broad forehead, sunken eyes, and tightly pressed lips all bespoke an inherently keen intellect; yet it was particularly during forensic or psychiatric analyses that his attitude became so solemn it commanded one to instinctively straighten their posture. That was only natural. The Professor’s analytical conclusions concerned not merely matters of individual life and death but carried profound societal implications; thus he approached them with the full extent of human intellect at his disposal. Moreover, he engaged in this work not solely from a sense of duty but with genuine intellectual passion.

However, for about the past year, for some reason, Professor Mohri had lost interest in his work as much as before.
The Professor—who had previously insisted on infusing even the smallest forensic analysis with his personal touch—had recently begun leaving nearly everything to us assistants.
Though he delegated tasks completely, he would still review all forensic reports himself and never hesitated to tackle problems beyond our capabilities; yet no matter how closely I observed him, his former fervor was gone, and he would often spend hours sitting idly in the classroom.
I even considered whether he might be deliberately holding back to nurture his juniors, but that alone couldn’t explain it.
This was because the shadow of depression had gradually begun creeping across Professor Mohri’s face.

I initially thought the cause of the Professor’s depression might lie in some ordinary personal trouble that had arisen for him.
Though terribly impertinent of me—given his unmarried status—I even wondered if he might have been facing romantic difficulties.
Of course I now regret those baseless suspicions, but at the time there was no other way to think.
Yet as I gradually deepened my observations, I came to realize that while this wasn’t the full picture, it represented a state akin to intellectual fatigue.
Admittedly, the term “fatigue” sits rather awkwardly here, but lacking better alternatives, I must reluctantly employ it—to signify what might be called a state of relaxation in mental activity.

It may be presumptuous of me to say this to you who specializes in physiology, but when observing the blood pressure curve of the heart, there exist what are known as Traube-Hering waves.
Since the heart must continue beating from birth until death, paired organs—such as the kidneys—cannot have one resting while the other remains active.
This results in fluctuations that have been termed Traube-Hering waves, but I came to believe the same phenomenon might occur in mental activity.
In brains capable only of ordinary function, such fluctuations may escape notice; however, I theorized that the more intense the mental exertion becomes, the more pronounced the subsequent state of relaxation would appear.
I once conducted research under this premise into the biographies of history's great intellects.
Indeed, I discovered that many prodigies exhibited striking gaps between periods of ferocious mental activity.
Biographers through the ages have proposed various explanations for these lapses, but ultimately they arise physiologically—naturally occurring phenomena rather than conscious creations of the minds themselves.
Those geniuses who encountered such periods invariably succumbed to melancholy.
Reflecting upon their prior bursts of intellectual vigor, they would gradually descend into profound despondency.

At times, physical defects can induce this state of relaxation.
In the early stages of tuberculosis, mental activity is actually stimulated, but in later stages, it seems to induce a state of relaxation.
Chronic nephritis and similar conditions cause marked slackening.
At that point, I even considered whether the Professor might have contracted some illness, but ultimately concluded it was more appropriate to view it as a physiologically arising melancholy particular to brilliant minds.

Looking back now, there may indeed have been other worries—those most natural and loftiest concerns for a scholar—but it would be most appropriate to view these not as causes but rather as phenomena that merely coincided with that period.
In any case, Professor Mohri had fallen into a depression that even he himself could not overcome, let alone something we could do anything about.

However, circumstances arose that unexpectedly allowed him to escape from that depression. Looking back now, this proved temporary—Professor Mohri subsequently fell into even fiercer depression—yet had Dr.Kario not died suddenly of cerebral hemorrhage (that academic rival who alongside him was called one of Japanese psychiatry's two leading figures), he might have returned to his former active state as he was. And depending on how matters might have unfolded, the Professor's death too might not have occurred so soon. But now it was too late for regrets. Moreover, there would be no point in listing my complaints and boring you. Therefore I think I shall promptly recount the circumstances that temporarily rescued the Professor from his depression. Needless to say, that was none other than the Kitazawa incident.

K-kun.

The Kitazawa incident was reported in detail in the newspapers at the time, so you must be generally aware of it.
The thirty-seven-year-old businessman Kitazawa Eiji had built a Western-style house in the suburbs where he lived alone with his wife Masako in thoroughly Westernized fashion, but on a certain day in late October two months prior, he committed pistol suicide in his study during his wife's absence.
That day, the couple had lunch at 1:00 PM, after which his wife soon went out shopping. Having been delayed by various errands, when she returned around 5:30 PM, she found her husband lying dead in his study—slumped over his desk along with his chair, blood soaking the floor—and in shock reported it to the police.

As a result of the investigation, since what appeared to be a suicide note was found on the desk with no discernible signs of murder detected, burial was permitted the following day.
Under normal circumstances they should have cremated him, yet they specifically had him interred because what passed for a suicide note—though indeed in his own handwriting—proved not to be his original composition but rather a verbatim transcription of the opening passage from "A Memorandum Sent to an Old Friend" by Mr. A, a young literary figure who had taken his own life years prior.
In other words, the police had preserved this avenue for future forensic examination.

Then, sure enough, about a month later, an anonymous letter arrived at the police. It was a postcard bearing only the words “There are suspicious circumstances regarding Kitazawa Eiji’s cause of death.” This led the police to secretly monitor the widow, through which they discovered her affair with a young novelist named Midorikawa Jun. When they abruptly searched the lover’s residence, they found not only the same pistol Kitazawa had used for his suicide but also—as one would expect—Mr. A’s complete works containing the “suicide note.” Consequently, the police arrested both the widow and Midorikawa on suspicion of murder and requested that our department conduct a re-examination of the corpse.

The one who came to request the forensic analysis was Inspector Fukuma of the Metropolitan Police Department. He was a familiar figure to us. I listened to the forensic analysis requirements and all circumstances from Inspector Fukuma, received the exhumed corpse that had been transported, sent Inspector Fukuma back, and visited Professor Mohri’s room. Perhaps owing to that day’s strangely gloomy weather—the sky threatening rain at any moment—Professor Mohri’s face bore an unusually dark expression I had never seen before. When I entered holding the documents, the Professor set aside the magazine he had been reading mid-page and looked up,

“Another forensic analysis?” he blurted out brusquely.

“Yes.”

“What sort?”

There I narrated everything I had heard from Inspector Fukuma, but whereas a year prior his eyes would have sparkled as he listened—especially given this was a significant case where the forensic determination of suicide or murder could determine two lives—the Professor merely nodded with uninterested “Hmm”s, his attitude so listless that one might uncharitably think he was pondering other matters entirely.
When I finished speaking,

“So, what are the items requiring forensic analysis?”

“There are three points.
“The first is to determine the time of death from the stomach and intestinal contents.
“The second is whether the bloodstains at the scene and on the suicide note are natural or show signs of artificial arrangement, and the third is determining from what distance the pistol was fired.”

“Do you have that suicide note there?”

I took out the suicide note from the paper bag and presented it to the Professor. It was a light blue letter sheet folded in two, with several bloodstains adhering to the outer side, while the inner side bore the opening passage of “A Memorandum Sent to an Old Friend” written in pen. Though it may seem tedious, I shall transcribe its full text here for subsequent explanation.

No one has yet written about the suicide’s own psychology as it truly exists.
This likely stems from either the suicide’s self-respect or their own lack of psychological interest in themselves.
I wish to clearly convey this psychology within the final letter I send you.
Of course, there is no particular need to inform you of my motive for suicide.
Renier portrayed a certain suicide in his short story.
The protagonist of this story himself does not know why he commits suicide.
You will find various suicide motives in newspaper third pages—financial hardship, physical suffering, mental anguish.
Yet according to my experience, these do not constitute the entirety of motives.
Moreover, they mostly merely indicate pathways toward motives.
Suicides likely do not know why they kill themselves, much as Renier depicted.
This contains complex motives, as do all our actions.
But in my case at least, it is merely vague unease.
You may perhaps be unable to believe my words.
However, my decade of experience teaches that unless those close to me share circumstances akin to mine, my words will vanish like a song in the wind.
Therefore I do not reproach you.…

Even so, the Professor had gone through all of these passages.
And then, having finished reading,

“Is there no doubt that this handwriting is his own?”

he inquired.

“They say there’s no doubt about it.”

Needless to say, the Professor was an authority in handwriting analysis.
If it had been the Professor of old, such an unusual suicide note would surely have aroused his interest,

“I see,” was all he replied.
And then, while handing the paper back to me,

"In that case, Dr. Wakuii, I shall have you conduct the forensic analysis of this case," he declared, turning back to his magazine once more.

It was later understood that it was no wonder Professor Mohri had been drawn to that magazine. For there, published within its pages, was a paper by Dr. Kario with whom the Professor had engaged in that great debate at the recent academic conference.

Here, by way of preface, I shall delineate the relationship between Professor Mohri and Dr. Kario. While I have previously noted that these two stood as twin pillars within Japanese psychiatric academia, if one were to liken Professor Mohri to a courtly aristocrat, Dr. Kario would embody the wilderness scholar. Their academic pedigrees alone revealed stark contrasts—whereas Professor Mohri emerged from the university system, Dr. Kario had graduated from Saisei Academy before immediately embarking on rigorous overseas study in England through considerable hardship. Subsequently establishing an expansive cerebral hospital in S Ward, Dr. Kario proceeded to announce successive groundbreaking research findings. In demeanor too they diverged: Professor Mohri maintained an air of solemn dignity, while Dr. Kario—bald-pated and ever possessed of roguish wit—cut a markedly different figure.

Furthermore, their theories stood in complete opposition.
Professor Mohri inherited the German school, whereas Dr. Kario inherited the British and French schools.
By their later years, both had become scholars so unique as to have no peers even abroad, with Professor Mohri representing what he called the "brain materialist school," while Dr. Kario represented what he termed the "humoral school."
In contrast to the brain materialist school, which explains human mental states through brain matter, the humoral school explains them through bodily fluids—specifically endocrine secretions.

Dr. Kario's humoral school was also called the endocrine school or constitutional school, and according to Dr. Kario's assertions, all mental abnormalities were determined by one's constitution—moreover, this constitution was something that presently could not be altered by human means. For example, those possessing a murderous constitution would inevitably commit murder within a certain period. Therefore, if one could observe that they had entered this period, it was posited that even a slight suggestive stimulus could make them commit murder. In other words, it posited that even individuals who appeared mentally sound could be driven to commit horrific crimes depending on their constitutional makeup, and to avoid confusion with previous suggestions, Dr. Kario named this stimulus "incendiarism."

Against this theory, Professor Mohri asserted that mental abnormalities only manifest after changes occur in brain matter, and that as long as no such changes arise—that is, as long as no psychiatric symptoms appear—it would be absolutely impossible to make someone commit murder through suggestion.
At the recent academic conference as well, there had been a heated debate regarding this point.
To tell the truth, Professor Mohri’s position was somewhat unfavorable at that time.
Whereupon Dr. Kario,

“How about it, Prof. Mohri?” he pressed repeatedly in a thoroughly sarcastic tone.
However, unless he conducted a direct experiment on a human being and demonstrated it, even the Professor could not remove his helmet.
In the end, the debate concluded without resolution, but since Dr. Kario’s speech from that time had been published in the magazine, Professor Mohri found himself more preoccupied with that than with the forensic analysis.

K-kun.

In this manner, I came to take charge of the re-examination of the Kitazawa case.
In our department, even when forensic analysis concerns localized matters, we must perform meticulous full-body autopsies, so that day we immediately conducted a careful dissection.
Through this, we learned that Kitazawa Eiji had a thymic lymphatic constitution.
That is to say, it is a constitution nearly always found in suicides.
We then examined the relationship between the cranial gunshot wound and bone fractures, and analyzed the stomach and intestinal contents. From this, we confirmed that the pistol had been fired approximately five centimeters from the right temporal region, and that death occurred one to two hours after lunch.
Afterward, I visited the Kitazawa residence to examine the scene and inspected the bloodstains on the suicide note, but found no evidence of artificial manipulation.

Of these, the examination of the stomach and intestinal contents revealed various interesting facts. Of course, this had no connection to the case and was merely of interest from a digestive physiology perspective, but I cannot write out the detailed findings here. You may come to the department another day to review the autopsy report. In any case, according to the results of my analysis, I did not discover a single piece of evidence that would suggest murder.

The following day, I visited Professor Mohri’s office and reported the autopsy findings and other details in full.
True to form, he listened intently at that time, but the moment I finished my report, the Professor—

“In that case, there’s no problem deeming it a suicide.
If that were murder, it would indeed be a miracle,” he said.

However, K-kun.
That very miracle—ironically—came to pass just one hour later.
To put it that way might sound a bit odd, but in reality, Inspector Fukuma came calling because the suspect Midorikawa Jun had confessed to murdering Kitazawa—he came to request that Professor Mohri come to Metropolitan Police Headquarters to interrogate Midorikawa and conduct his psychiatric evaluation.

Upon hearing this, Professor Mohri's attitude underwent a sudden transformation.
In that instant, he reverted to being the Professor Mohri of old.
Given circumstances that left no conceivable opening for murder theories—indeed, he himself had declared "It would be nothing short of miraculous if this were homicide"—the confession now delivered must have ignited his scholarly curiosity, driving him to personally conduct the interrogation.

“Inspector Fukuma. You haven’t informed Mrs. Kitazawa about Midorikawa’s confession yet, have you?”

“I have not informed her.”

“Very well—we shall depart at once.”

The three of us soon sped toward the Metropolitan Police Department.
In the car, Professor Mohri asked Inspector Fukuma about Midorikawa’s confession.
According to Inspector Fukuma’s account, Midorikawa had long been in a romantic relationship with Kitazawa’s widow and had heard from her that Kitazawa purchased a pistol and half-jokingly kept a copied passage from Writer A’s suicide note.
Resolving to secretly eliminate Kitazawa with an identical pistol, he sneaked into the study after she went shopping.
Finding Kitazawa dozing in his chair after lunch, Midorikawa crept up from behind and shot him dead with his own pistol.
After watching him fall, he made Kitazawa’s hand clutch his weapon.
He then retrieved Kitazawa’s pistol and suicide note from the desk drawer.
Pocketing his own pistol and placing Kitazawa’s note on the desk, he slipped out unnoticed.

“Where does Midorikawa live?” Professor Mohri inquired upon concluding his hearing of the inspector’s account.

“He keeps a small cultural residence about four or five blocks from the Kitazawa home, living there alone.”

No sooner had we reached Metropolitan Police Headquarters than Professor Mohri and I entered a chamber to await Midorikawa being led in.

The one eventually led in by Inspector Fukuma was a twenty-four or twenty-five-year-old, long-faced young man with thick, disheveled hair.

Professor Mohri, for reasons unknown, had Inspector Fukuma withdraw to another room and made Midorikawa recount the details of the crime.
It did not differ in the slightest from what Inspector Fukuma had reported in the car.

“Then, please demonstrate Mr. Kitazawa’s demeanor at that time here in front of this desk.”

With that, Professor Mohri stood up, gave Midorikawa the chair he had been sitting on, brought over a thin mat from the corner of the room, and spread it on the floor.

Midorikawa apprehensively sat down in the chair.

“Now, close your eyes and feign dozing.
I shall play your role from that time.
Ready?
There! Bang went the pistol.
What did Mr. Kitazawa do then?”

“Being in such an agitated state, I can’t clearly recall the precise movements.
I believe he rose up like this.
Then surely twisted his body thus, collapsed downward, and lay sprawled in this manner.”

As he said this, he demonstrated each movement in detail.

“Very well. If you wouldn’t mind, could you please demonstrate that once more?”

The experiment was conducted once again.

“Was there any difference in his posture when he lay down?”

“I certainly remember that.”

“That will suffice.”
“Please return to the original room.”

With these words, the Professor summoned Inspector Fukuma and had Midorikawa taken away.

“Dr. Wakuii. When you went to investigate the Kitazawa residence yesterday, you demonstrated for Inspector Fukuma how Kitazawa died, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought as much.”

Before long, Inspector Fukuma returned,

“Inspector Fukuma.
‘Confessions’ aren’t something you should be feeding them from your side.
You need only listen quietly to what the other party says.”

“Did Midorikawa say something?”

“When we had Midorikawa demonstrate just now, he merely performed as you instructed—he didn’t reenact reality.”
“That leaping up was an outright lie.”
“Only the way he lay down was genuine.”
“Though he claims not to remember anything from leaping up to twisting his body in collapse due to excitement, he distinctly recalls only his final posture.”
“Midorikawa’s confession is false.”

“Then why would he make such a false confession?”

“You’ll understand that later.”
“Bring the widow here.”

Before long, the Kitazawa widow, dressed in black Western-style mourning clothes, was brought in. The dark rims of her eyes made her look all the more charming, but indeed, her being over thirty was discernible in the texture of her skin.

As was customary, once Inspector Fukuma had withdrawn, the Professor—

“On the day your husband took his own life, what time did you return from your errand?”

“I believe it was around five-thirty.”

“That is not the case.
“It was around four or four-thirty, wasn’t it?”

“No, it was definitely five…”

“Please tell me the truth. We already know everything here.”

“................................”

“You returned around four o’clock and discovered the corpse, were startled and rushed to Mr. Midorikawa’s place, then called Mr. Midorikawa over, thoroughly discussed matters together, and only then notified the police—isn’t that right?”

“No…”

“Therefore, Mr. Midorikawa became convinced that you must have killed your husband, and in order to protect you, he confessed today that he was the one who did it.”

At these words, she shuddered violently,

“Is that truly the case?”
“Then I shall tell you everything.”
“It is precisely as you have stated.”
“It was neither Mr. Midorikawa who killed him, nor was it I.”
“When I returned at four o’clock, my husband was already dead.”
“And then I left the house at one o’clock, having been at Mr. Midorikawa’s place until that time.”

“Very well.”
“I acknowledge the truth of what you have just stated.”

With these words, Professor Mohri summoned the inspector and had the wife taken away.

“Dr. Wakuii,” the Professor said with evident satisfaction.
“Knowing the truth can be surprisingly easy at times.”
“Through Midorikawa’s demonstration, I deduced that he must have been shown the corpse—and indeed, that proved to be the case.”
“Even so, love is a terrifying thing.”
“In an attempt to save the wife from guilt, he made a false confession, deliberately sacrificing himself.”

K-kun.
I could not help being surprised anew at the Professor’s penetrating gaze.
Before the Professor, “falsehood” must ever bow its head.

“Now then,” said the Professor, crossing his arms.
“We’ve determined those two are innocent and settled on Kitazawa’s suicide—yet somehow this case doesn’t feel properly resolved, does it?”

“Hmm,” I replied, though I hadn’t the faintest notion.

When Inspector Fukuma entered, the Professor informed him of the interrogation results and insisted that the two should be released—and then finally,

“Yesterday, I refrained from intervening, but wasn’t this renewed investigation into the Kitazawa case initiated from an anonymous letter that came to the police?”

“That’s correct.”

“Have you investigated that anonymous letter?”

“No, since anonymous letters are common occurrences, we didn’t conduct any detailed investigation.”

“That anonymous letter is still preserved, I trust?”

“We have it. Shall I bring it?”

The inspector left and soon returned with a postcard. On it was written in pen, “There are suspicious aspects to Kitazawa Eiji’s cause of death.” The moment I saw it, I gasped and looked at the Professor—his eyes were already glinting sharply.

“Dr. Wakuii. Produce the suicide note.” The Professor compared the handwriting of the suicide note and the anonymous letter—"These documents were written on the same day, with the same pen and ink, by the same hand!!!"

K-kun.

In that moment, I was indeed assailed by a kind of demonic aura.
Inspector Fukuma, too, seemed unable to speak for some time from sheer astonishment.

“Inspector Fukuma.
“I appreciate the trouble, but would you be so kind as to bring Mrs. Kitazawa here once more?”

As soon as the inspector left, I said.

“Professor, does this mean that Mr. Kitazawa himself devised such a devious scheme to frame those two?”

“If that were the case, he should have fabricated more convincing evidence of murder.”

“If he were to fabricate evidence suggesting murder, there would be risk of it being detected instead. So perhaps he entrusted only the anonymous letter to a trusted confidant and had them mail it later, don’t you think? In fact, the very act of not composing the suicide note himself must also have been part of this deeply calculated scheme, don’t you think?”

"That may be the case.
"But is Mr. Kitazawa truly the sort of person capable of such a thing?
"In any case, we shan't know unless we inquire of Mrs. Kitazawa."

When Mrs. Kitazawa was brought in, the Professor showed her the suicide note and asked whether it was indeed her husband’s handwriting.

Mrs. Kitazawa confirmed.
Then Inspector Fukuma reported having compared it with Kitazawa’s other handwriting specimens and produced two or three additional samples he had brought as evidence.

The Professor examined them meticulously, but there remained no room for doubt.
Both the suicide note and anonymous letter had been written by Kitazawa himself simultaneously.

“When did your husband compose this suicide note?”

“I believe it was approximately twenty days before his death.”

“Where was it written?”

“I don’t know about that, but one evening he showed it to me and joked, ‘Now that the suicide note is finished, I can die anytime.’”

“So did your husband show any signs of intending to commit suicide?”

“There were none at all. He was ordinarily a comparatively cheerful person, so I thought it unthinkable.”

“When did your husband purchase the pistol?”

“I believe it was around the same time.”
“He bought it because there were burglars around and things were dangerous.”

“Did your husband ordinarily enjoy playful antics?”

“He was a man who grew up quite indulged, so while he did occasionally engage in playful antics, at times he would become needlessly boisterous, and at other times withdraw into sullen silence for two or three days without speaking.”

“Did your husband have any close friends?”

“I don’t believe he had any.”
“He was by nature averse to making friends, and rarely appeared even at the company with which he was involved.”
“However, he frequently visited only the M—— Club.”

“Regarding the M—— Club?”

“It is a British-style club organized by people who had lived in London, England, located in Marunouchi.”

Thereupon, Professor Mohri concluded the interrogation and dismissed the widow,

“No matter how deeply we probe, it shan’t become clear,” he murmured.

“Then, shall we try to track down the author of the anonymous letter?” said Inspector Fukuma.

“Even if we were to track them down now, it wouldn’t alter the suicide theory. Moreover, unless they come forward voluntarily, we likely couldn’t find them anyway. In any case, this settles the matter.”

K-kun.

Thus, the Kitazawa case was settled for the time being. As you know from the newspapers, that was how matters concluded. Yet what remained unresolved was the Professor’s state of mind. For he who had returned to his former active self could not rest without plumbing the very depths of this affair. Though his words—“Unless they come forward voluntarily, we likely couldn’t find them anyway”—had been directed at the police, he must already have been confident of uncovering the truth himself at that moment. Moreover, the Professor seemed to have instinctively understood that revealing the case’s true nature to the authorities would prove most unwise.

When leaving the Metropolitan Police Department,

“I would like to borrow this suicide note and anonymous letter for a while. I want to study them more closely.”

With that, the Professor took the two documents and returned to his department, but before long summoned me to his office.

“Dr. Wakuii, what do you think?” he asked abruptly.

While I was hesitating over how to respond, Professor Mohri began to explain,

“If this were merely an anonymous letter sent to the police, there would naturally be no need for scrutiny.”
“Moreover, even if it were a letter written in the deceased’s own hand, that too would hardly warrant astonishment.”
“This world contains many mischief-makers—people who might scheme to stir up the police and laugh at them from beneath the grass.”
“Furthermore, even if the suicide note were not original writing but copied from another’s work, this too would not merit particular investigation.”
“There have been numerous such cases before now.”
“However, when these two circumstances—each insignificant alone—converge, they create for the first time a matter worthy of examination.”
“In this instance, the suicide having written both note and letter simultaneously indicates they were composed for at least one purpose—nay, a singular purpose.”
“Thus arises the necessity to investigate that purpose.”

“Wasn’t that purpose, after all, to frame the wife and the lover?”

“If that were the case, they ought to have fabricated evidence more suggestive of murder.”

“Then, is it merely a prank meant to cause a stir?”

“It’s too elaborate for a mere prank.”
“In fact, this anonymous letter was nearly discarded over a trivial matter.”
“If I had not seen this anonymous letter, I would not have taken such an interest.”

K-kun.
I had become utterly lost.
And thus, even Professor Mohri had not yet understood anything at that time.

“This mystery cannot be solved in a short time.”
“You may go home now.”
“I intend to thoroughly study these two documents now.”

K-kun.

Thus I returned home thoroughly fatigued, yet the riddle given by the Professor clung to my mind, and that night I scarcely slept at all.
I turned over various thoughts in my head.
In desperation, I even pored through Writer A's complete works and scrutinized both the phrasing and meaning of the suicide note's opening section, searching for some clue that might lead to resolution—but ultimately found nothing.

The next day, rubbing my sleep-deprived eyes, I went to the classroom to find the Professor already in his office. When I saw his face, I intuited he had stayed up all night conducting research.

“Dr. Wakuii, I have finally solved the problem.”

As soon as he saw my face, the Professor abruptly called out to me, but since none of the usual delight that accompanied solving a problem showed in his expression, I thought this must have been a distasteful resolution for him.

“Have you solved it?”

Having said that, I was at a loss for what to say next.
I simply could not bring myself to say, "That’s pleasant."
Then the Professor picked up a small piece of paper that was on the desk,

"This is the solution," he said as he handed it over.
I looked and there,

PMbｔDK

"PMbｔDK" had been written there.

“I’m afraid this will be quite troublesome for you, but have this advertised discreetly in the major newspapers of the capital.”

I was taken aback.

“Is this a code?”

“I’ll explain the reason after you return home.”

I withdrew in silence as instructed, then made the rounds to various newspaper offices to place the advertisements, returning to the department around 1:00 p.m.
As I walked, I tried various ways to decipher the code the Professor had given me—though of course I initially thought it was a cipher—but it was like grasping at clouds.
Moreover, I had absolutely no idea why the Professor would place advertisements in newspapers, nor how this could possibly relate to the Kitazawa case.
Therefore, when I returned to the classroom, I wanted to hear the explanation from the Professor as soon as possible—I was, so to speak, pure curiosity itself.

When I entered the professor’s office, the Professor stood up, walked toward the entrance, inserted a key into the door’s keyhole, and turned it.

“You mustn’t speak too loudly.”
After saying this, he sat back down at his desk and abruptly asked, “Now then, Dr. Wakuii, have you read Nietzsche?”

“Uh. I have read him before, but…” I stammered in response when the Professor cut me off,

“No wonder. Discussing Nietzsche these days might make one a laughingstock, but if that were the work of a genius—even if inhumane—would you not forgive it?”

“Well, let me see…”

“If I were to say this abruptly, you might find yourself at a loss—but though these days there is much talk about the power of the masses, you would agree that in the realm of science at least, tens of thousands of ordinary people cannot match a single genius.”

“I agree.”

“And since science exists to enhance human welfare, even if a scientific genius’s work is inhumane, would you not forgive it?”

It was truly an immense problem.

"I cannot know without considering it more thoroughly…"

"If you cannot affirm that, then I cannot provide you with the explanation as promised earlier."

That would be disastrous. By all means, I must hear the resolution of the Kitazawa case.

"I suppose it could be forgiven."

“Very well, let us begin the explanation then,” the Professor addressed me with unexpected ease. “Last night, I ended up staying awake all night poring over these two sheets of paper. After methodically layering deduction upon deduction, I uncovered the secret buried at the heart of this case relatively quickly—yet obtaining conclusive proof demanded no small exertion.”

“After you returned home yesterday, I laid out these two items—the suicide note and the anonymous letter—on my desk and considered in what order to study them.”
“As a result, first by returning my mind to a blank slate, I investigated whether the authors of these two documents were indeed Kitazawa himself.”
“However, by now there was no longer any room for doubt in that.”
“I compared them with various other handwriting specimens of Kitazawa’s and found it absolutely impossible for them to have been written by anyone else.”

“Then I next investigated why Kitazawa carried out such a plan and for what purpose he did it.”
“This very point forms the crux of the mystery—though we had already attempted to discuss it together, this remained the great problem that defied resolution yesterday, causing us to part ways.”
“As I mentioned yesterday, if we examine the suicide note and anonymous letter separately, various purposes might be conceivable—but when combined, only a single purpose becomes possible.”
“Therefore, had we been able to identify that sole purpose, all circumstances would have been clarified—yet given that we were attempting to resolve this using merely these two items alone, it proved exceedingly difficult.”

“Though it remains unclear how many people Kitazawa commissioned to submit the anonymous letter, in any case, it must have been dispatched precisely according to his design.”
“A romanticist like yourself must surely desire to know who received Kitazawa’s commission.”
“You would wish to track down that individual and extract Kitazawa’s true intent from their lips.”
“Naturally, we cannot entertain the notion that this missive chanced into unrelated hands—there must exist someone specifically entrusted by Kitazawa.”
“And that very person undoubtedly lurks somewhere at this moment, sneering as they observe the uproar we and the police have stirred.”
“Contemplating this might provoke your indignation, but I confess utter disinterest in Kitazawa’s commissioned agent.”
“Far more compelling was my desperation to uncover Kitazawa’s singular purpose.”

“Moreover, that purpose was by no means merely to stir up needless commotion.”
“For had simple disruption been the aim, there should exist far simpler—indeed more effective—methods available.”
“Therefore, Kitazawa must have harbored a far graver purpose.”

“Yet for such a crucial objective, Kitazawa’s plan proved alarmingly precarious.”
“As I mentioned yesterday, that anonymous letter would have been nearly discarded had I not taken notice.”
“To stake one’s very life on executing so vital a purpose—this was an outrageously reckless scheme, something beyond mere negligence.”

“When considered, this anonymous letter’s risk must also have been incorporated into the plan from the outset.”
“Therefore, we must consider that Kitazawa had planned for that anonymous letter to naturally come into my view.”
“Now then, Dr. Wakuii—though it may seem straightforward now that I’ve laid it all out like this—I spent considerable time reaching this deduction.”

“The reason he didn’t write his own words in the suicide note was that it was part of a plan to have the police grant nothing but burial permission.”
“There is no room for doubt about this—that sending the anonymous letter to the police would prompt a re-examination, and consequently, my discovery that both the letter and suicide note were written by the same person at the same time was, beyond question now, all part of his predetermined plan.”

“In other words, Kitazawa had also planned that I would take interest in researching from the identical handwriting of the anonymous letter and suicide note, and that as a result, I would struggle greatly to discover what his purpose was.”
“Dr. Wakuii, you must find this statement rather strange, but given that it was Kitazawa—who was certain the anonymous letter would reach me—planning such a thing was nothing out of the ordinary.”
“In short, everything had indeed unfolded precisely according to Kitazawa’s plan.”
“In other words, it follows that Kitazawa has already achieved his purpose.”

“Do you see?
“The very purpose behind Kitazawa’s actions that I had so earnestly sought was simply to make me investigate his purpose.”

“Then arises the next question—why would Kitazawa go so far as to take his own life for such a straightforward objective?”
“Kitazawa only became involved with me through this incident—during his lifetime, he had been a complete stranger.”
“That such a person would act in this manner is impossible.”

“For such an impossible thing to exist, there must be a legitimate reason to explain it.”
“And the sole reason that could explain it must be that Kitazawa himself had absolutely no knowledge of it.”
“In other words, it could only mean that Kitazawa himself remained entirely unaware of the purpose behind writing both the anonymous letter and the suicide note.”

"Moreover, both the anonymous letter and suicide note were in Kitazawa's own handwriting."
"Given this, Kitazawa must have written both in an unconscious state."
"However, since the suicide note had already been shown to his wife during his lifetime, Kitazawa himself must have been conscious of having written it."
"This means we must conclude that while Kitazawa wrote them unconsciously, he believed he had done so consciously."

"Dr. Wakuii,"
"the act of writing unconsciously yet believing one had done so consciously can only occur when someone is made to write under hypnosis and then given suggestions to make them think they wrote it intentionally afterward."
"Thus we must accept that Kitazawa was made to write unconsciously for someone and then given those very suggestions."

“Thus, for the first time, a third party had entered my deductions.”
“In other words, in the Kitazawa case, someone who had remained entirely unseen until now had finally revealed themselves.”
“And it was precisely this third party who compelled me to investigate Kitazawa’s anonymous letter and suicide note—that person had meticulously orchestrated every plan we had until then ascribed to Kitazawa.”
“Moreover, Kitazawa himself had been wholly unaware of it all.”

“Dr. Wakuii.
“Who could that third party possibly be?
“First making someone write a suicide note transcribing another’s words, having the corpse buried, then sending an anonymous letter in identical handwriting to prompt police re-examination—thereby confirming it as suicide—who could have anticipated that only I would see that letter and strive to unravel this mystery? For what purpose did that person force me through such painstaking efforts that kept me up all night?”

“Dr. Wakuii.”
“You must have vaguely discerned who that is by now.”
“But where in the world could there be evidence to conclusively determine it was that person—that was what I pondered then.”
“Considering it was someone who had devised such an elaborate plan, I imagined there must undoubtedly be proof fabricated somewhere.”
“Moreover, I thought the evidence was likely concealed within these two items—the anonymous letter and suicide note.”

“So I began re-examining the two items.”
For instance, I considered whether the wording of the anonymous letter might form a decryption formula that would elicit some phrase from the suicide note, but there were no such traces.
So this time, I conducted various studies to see if there might be some meaning embedded in the wording of the suicide note—that is, the text from the first section of Mr. A’s memoir—but that wasn’t the case either.
However, finally at dawn, I managed to grasp solid evidence from within the suicide note.

“Dr. Wakuii.”
“You must clearly remember.”
“At the recent academic conference—that Dr. Kario and I had a heated debate.”
“At that time, I was indeed on the receiving end.”
Then Dr. Kario pressed in on me with a sarcastic tone, saying, “How about it, Prof. Mohri?”
At that time, I ended the debate by saying, “Unless direct experiments on humans are conducted, I cannot accept your theory.”
“And so I came to believe that any research concerning humans must ultimately involve human experimentation to be thorough—and realizing the impossibility of this—my existing depression grew even more severe.”

“However, Dr. Kario finally dared to conduct that human experiment.”
“Since Kitazawa—according to your autopsy—had a thymic lymphatic constitution, Dr. Kario must have known he belonged to its suicidal subtype. Moreover, Dr. Kario himself must have entered what he termed his ‘special period.’”
“Having ascertained this, Dr. Kario executed his so-called incendiarism—compelling Kitazawa’s suicide—thereby demonstrating to me his theory’s validity.”

“Prior to Kitazawa’s suicide, there should have been absolutely no signs suggesting he might take his own life. If there had been any, he would have bought a pistol or written a suicide note—so the wife would have had to be on guard. Thus there were absolutely no signs of mental abnormality—my theory holds that even if suggestions were given during such a period, one would not commit suicide. However, Dr.Kario shattered that through human experimentation. And to make me realize that, he devised the plan involving the suicide note and anonymous letter.”

“According to the widow’s account, Kitazawa frequented the M—— Club—but given that Dr. Kario considered London his second home, it was hardly difficult to infer his membership.”
Dr. Kario had likely observed Kitazawa there—a complete stranger even to himself—dictating Mr. A’s memoir under hypnosis, compelling him to write the anonymous letter’s text while preserving that portion himself.
It might well have been Dr. Kario who made him purchase the pistol too.
Thus did he splendidly prove his theory while achieving his aim of demonstrating it to me.
“Of course, those suicide notes and letters and pistols served their role as incendiary tools—the Kitazawa Incident amounts to nothing less than a human experiment conducted by a scientific genius.”

Having spoken this far, the professor let out a breath.
I had been listening, utterly captivated by the professor’s brilliant deductions, but when he reached his conclusion, a chill ran down my spine.

“Then Professor—even if he didn’t directly lay hands on him—Kitazawa was Dr.Kario’s…”

The Professor gestured for silence with his hand: “Quiet!”
“Didn’t I warn you about this from the beginning?
Dr. Kario is a genius.
A genius of an entirely different order—utterly beyond my reach.
Such daring experiments could never be achieved by us shackled to academic conventions.
While ordinary society might interpret this in the worst possible light, if one truly seeks to conquer nature through science, these things must be executed without hesitation.”

“Well, I shall not discuss this matter any further.”
To discuss that, I am far too weary.
Therefore, finally, I shall speak about the evidence that I discovered in the suicide note.

“Look here.”
“The characters in this suicide note are written quite neatly, but upon closer inspection, you will notice characters here and there with doubled strokes or dots—that is to say, characters written once then retraced.”
“I focused on those and extracted them.”
“Namely,”

...there is nothing that was written
...no...mo

...is likely due to...
...no...u

……Clearly this……………no……ri

…especially not informing you… …of…you

...depicting...no...i

……whether to commit suicide……………no……ka

……ga, at least……………no……ga

……is unease.……………no……de

……信用することは…………の……す

When combined, these nine characters read: “How about it, Prof. Mohri?”
The one who could have uttered these words was none other than Dr. Kario.

“So I wrote a response to Dr. Kario’s challenge.”
“That text became the newspaper advertisement that perplexed you—PMbｔDK isn’t some cipher or code, but—”

“Prof. Mohribows to Dr. Kario.”

“I took the first character of each word.”
“Of course, had it come before Dr. Kario’s eyes, he would have immediately understood its meaning.”
“For my part, this now constitutes the entirety of my heart.”

K-kun.

Thus, the Kitazawa Incident obtained its true resolution.

After this incident, Professor Mohri had remained in that cheerful state for some time, but within two weeks of its occurrence, when news suddenly arrived of Dr. Kario’s sudden death from cerebral hemorrhage, the professor sank into a melancholy deeper than any he had previously experienced.

For a scholar, there is nothing lonelier than losing their academic rival—the very object of their struggle.
I think the professor’s depression was likely due to that as well, but it was truly an extreme depression.
And thus, he finally contracted pneumonia and followed Dr. Kario in death.

Thus, Japan lost two rare talents at once.
When will such splendid struggles be waged again? When will psychiatry once more advance in this manner? The thought filled me with dread.
Now, having finished writing about this case and looking back, it even felt as if it were an event from centuries past.

K-kun, remain well!

(Published in the May 1929 issue of *Shin Seinen* Magazine)