After that, the two of us left the Ogawa Investigation Office together. Master only said, "Leave it to the experts," and didn't tell me where we were going. I simply followed him. I felt a little nervous when we headed for the JR station, but we didn't go near the lockers. Instead, we bought tickets and went through the ticket gates. They were the cheapest tickets available. The regular train wasn't very crowded. Master stood near the train's entrance, holding onto a hanging strap, so I did the same. Wondering where we could be heading, the departure chime began to ring. And then, the exact moment the doors started to close: "We're getting off." As he said that, Master grabbed my hand, forcefully pulled me, and leaped off the train just as the doors were about to shut. I thought for a second we had boarded the wrong train, but the moment his feet hit the platform, Master quickly scanned left and right. "No one else got off, did they?" "No." Master gave a hum of approval. Could it be—I thought—wasn't this a trick to shake off a tail? "Were we being followed?" "No, just in case." According to Master, there was a chance Matsuura had put someone on our tail. Suspecting that we were connected to Tamura, they might have let us wander just to catch us the moment we made contact. Given that things had almost turned out that way, I couldn't exactly call it a stupid idea. However, there didn't seem to be any followers. "You're still an amateur. If I had mentioned being tailed, and someone actually was, there would have been a risk of letting them know we noticed. In that case, an old trick like using the train might not have worked either, but... well, I suppose you could call it unwarranted worry." Master said that a truly skilled tail is impossible to spot easily, even if you're on your guard. Since Master, who had peered at least a little into this world, said so, I had no choice but to nod.
After that, we didn't get back on a train. We left the station using the tickets we had already bought and headed toward the downtown commercial district. Along the way, Master stopped in front of a vending machine—a Sangaria machine, the kind you don't see very often. He bought three melon sodas there, and when I asked what he was going to do with them, he said they were a gift. "That fatass loves these, you see." With those few words, I suddenly understood where we were headed. We walked down a street branching off a bit behind the commercial district, stopped in front of a dingy, small apartment—or rather, a mansion-style apartment—and went inside. We took a rather squalid-looking elevator, and our destination was a room halfway down the third floor. There was no nameplate on the door. A few small stickers were pasted on the edge of the door, likely left by newspaper solicitors or door-to-door salesmen. It was the room of a man they called the "Photographer." His real name was Amano, I believe. True to his alias, he made a living taking and processing photographs, but he wasn't your average photo shop owner. He was the kind of businessman who would take films that ordinary photo shops in town would refuse to develop, and develop them without asking any questions, for a slightly higher price. Well, at least that was simply what I had thought at first. This "Photographer" was favored by the Ogawa Investigation Office for developing evidentiary photos related to affairs and the like, but Master also had a personal, friendly relationship with this denizen of the underground world—you could even call them bad influences on each other. "Photographer, you in?" After ringing the bell, Master began pounding heavily on the door. After hearing some commotion from inside, the door cracked open a short while later. "Was there ever a time I wasn't?" Dark eyes peered from behind glasses through the gap in the door. The door chain was unhooked, and we were invited inside. Once inside, an odor hit my nose that could only be described as a foul stench. Garbage was scattered everywhere in the room, but that wasn't the only source of the smell. The master of this room had converted one of the chambers into a darkroom and carried out his developing work there.
The smell of the chemicals used for that was the primary culprit behind the stench. The "Photographer" walked past the darkroom door, dragging one leg as he moved deeper into the room, and sat down at a desk surrounded by three computers. "A gift." When Master handed over the three melon sodas, the man accepted them with a faint smile. Or rather, instead of smiling, it was probably just a habit. Even while speaking, strange, hiccup-like puffs of air resembling a smile kept leaking out. Sounds like "hee," "hee." His hair was overgrown, and he had an unwashed dirtiness about him that was obvious at a glance. And then there was his stomach, his chin, and the flesh on his upper arms, all puffed up as if ready to burst. Between the smell permeating the room and the odor drifting from his own body, he was a man who provoked pure physiological revulsion. "And the assistant is here today too, detective." I couldn't bring myself to like this man, but I offered a noncommittal greeting: "Hello." "I came today because there's something I want to ask." Master took off the rucksack he had been carrying on his back and fumbled around inside it. "Whoa, before that, why don't we decide on the payment?" "Huh?" Master stopped moving his hands, his face turning menacing as he glared. When Master puts on a menacing face like that, he really looks the part. "It's shady material anyway, right? The only thing that seals my lips is the amount of money. Who would bring a film capturing the true form of humanity to a 'Photographer' who claims he doesn't need money?" "What true form of humanity? The perverts bringing their stuff to you are just taking plain old porn pictures." "How rude. That, too, is one of the true forms. In a photo of some idiot couple pressing their faces together in the middle of town, making idiotic expressions and going 'Yay!', the thing that genuinely ought to be captured is a single rod and a single hole." *Hee, hee.* Sounds of air leaking mixed in even while he spoke. "But the human truth lying in the deepest place... hee... is something mystical, far removed from such base things." Just like this.
The "Photographer" pulled a single photograph from his desk and showed it to us. Sensing what was depicted, I instantly tried not to let my eyes focus, but I still caught a glimpse of it. It was a photograph of a human head smashed open, with blood and brains splattered across the asphalt. This was the "Photographer's" real business. There are people in the world who pay double the regular rate to get pornographic pictures developed—things ordinary photo shops refuse to touch. Yet, there are photographs in this world that even those special photo shops won't process—truly underground photographs. And there is a "Photographer" with a sense of morality miles away from current laws and common sense who accepts several times the standard fee to develop them. That was this man's livelihood. "Hey, is that what you call a photographer's duty of confidentiality?" Master chimed in, but the "Photographer" put the photo away, saying, "This is my personal property." Well, whatever. After letting out a sigh, Master changed his tone and said, "Hey, Amano." "Aren't we old friends? Don't be so rigid—just cooperate with me, come on." "No, can't do it. Decorum is important. I only trust money." He was saying the exact same thing Matsuura had said earlier, but considering the difference in their humanity and visual appearance, it felt somehow absurd. "No, can't do it. Hee. Decorum is important. Hee. I only trust money. Uhee." Master mimicked the "Photographer's" words, exaggerating them to mock him. Teased like that, the "Photographer" naturally looked put out. The moment he tried to talk back, Master slammed the palm of his right hand over the man's half-open mouth. It looked like an iron claw hold. "Hey, I know damn well you're jerking off to my photos. Having grand principles is fine and dandy, but if you don't want those photos burned, you better shut up and do what I say, you bastard." A moment of overwhelming pressure, you could call it. Threatened with such a sudden, drastic change in demeanor, the "Photographer" darted his eyes around and instinctively nodded. An expression of "dammit" flashed across his face, but it seemed too late to take it back.
"Ugh, gross." Master shook his right hand, which had saliva from the "Photographer's" mouth on it, and pulled a few tissues from the box on the desk. "Damn it," the photographer muttered under his breath, before he began cleaning up the desk, pulled out two folding chairs, and placed them side by side. "So, what is it you want to ask?" Sighing in resignation, the "Photographer" finally got down to business. The air in the room was completely stagnant, and not only was the window closed, but the curtains were drawn shut as well—thick ones of an unidentifiable origin—making it impossible to tell under the electric light whether it was currently day or night. When I glanced at the clock, it was still just a little past noon. "It's about these. I want to get an expert's opinion." Master pulled an envelope from his rucksack and drew out the photographs. The one Tamura had, plus the four Matsuura had entrusted to him. All five of them together. Donning thin gloves he pulled from a drawer, the "Photographer" picked them up with both hands. "Psychic photographs? Aren't the experts... hee... on the other side?" "Don't be like that. I'm bad with psychic photos." "Hmph." After giving them a light glance each, he lined them up at the edge of the desk. Then, despite it being spring, without even moving his body, sweat beaded on his forehead as he popped the tab on one of the gifted melon sodas and chugged it down vigorously. "Hey, some of these are precious photos. Don't dirty them." "Hmph. I'm already done looking." With an exaggerated gesture, he pulled his chair backward away from the photos. "Let's see. First, the drinking party photo. This is probably just cigarette smoke. Look, that bald old man is sticking his right hand unnaturally out over the table." Pointing with a maggot-like finger from afar, he continued: "Though blocked by the person in the foreground, there's an ashtray just beyond that hidden hand. The smoke rising from it is just catching the camera's strobe light and showing up. That it looks like a human face is, well, probably a coincidence." "I see." Master nodded with unusual enthusiasm.
"Next, this family photo at the seaside. They probably treat it as a psychic photo because the right knee has disappeared, but it's a common misconception. Because the shutter speed was slow, the moment the boy moved his right leg, it just looks transparent. Take a look at this hand here. He's grabbing the father's waist area. Since he's bracing himself against the shift in his center of gravity, nothing other than his leg is blurred. That makes the transparency of his leg stand out all the more." As the "Photographer" continued his commentary, he picked up the second can of melon soda. "...And then. What about the couple's photo? This has a high probability of being a prank. Right behind the pair, there's enough space to hide about one person. There's a gap between their bodies, so if you maneuver around that cleverly, it requires a pretty acrobatic pose, but it's not impossible. It couldn't be a coincidence, so the three of them were probably playing around trying to take a photo like this. And what about the upper half of a man's body faintly visible in the house's window? It feels like a double exposure, and though I can't quite tell how the indoor lighting is hitting it, there's also the possibility that someone was simply standing there. At the very least, I don't think it's a photo that requires dragging ghosts into it." He let out a burp halfway through drinking his second can. It was a long burp. I couldn't help but admire how Master could remain unfazed hanging out with such a physiologically repulsive man. "And the last one, what the hell is this? It's old, but isn't it just an ordinary photo? Where is the psychic part?" He turned the question back on us. "Is there anything unnatural about any of the people in this?" Prompted by Master, he brought his face close to the photograph once more. After grunting for a while, he delivered the same answer as before. "I'm not great with old photos, but I don't think there's anything particularly weird about it. Even looking at the way the shadows fall." With that, he drained the rest of his second can. I, too, stared intently once again at the black-and-white photograph said to have been taken during wartime. In a neat, orderly Japanese-style room, an elderly man in traditional Japanese clothing sat with his arms crossed, surrounded by young men in military uniforms sitting straight in seiza. They should have been around twenty-eight, twenty-nine, or thirty, but every face looked somehow more childish than modern Japanese men of the same age. Yet, not a single one of them was smiling; their lips were pressed tight as they stared straight ahead.
Whether due to the image quality, their complexions looked strangely pale. "What about this guy?" Master finally singled out Captain Masaoka in the left corner. He had probably intentionally avoided pointing him out until now to prevent any preconceptions. Even at that question, however, the "Photographer" showed no particular interest, merely repeating his answer: "There's nothing weird about it." But Master didn't give up, phrasing his question differently. "What about the possibility of forgery?" "Forgery? You mean photo manipulation?" The "Photographer" scoffed. "I told you... hee... there's nothing weird about it." "Is it impossible to make it look like this guy was here when he actually wasn't?" "Making a fake this seamless is difficult. Whether we're talking about editing the negative or post-print processing—even with modern technology, it's hard. Back then, it would've been impossible." Well, from now on, this thing... he tapped the side of a computer housing with his palm. "Editing any photo however you like is going to become a thing." Back then, word processors were just starting to become widespread, and very few people owned computers. I myself had never even touched a keyboard. "Even if it was shot during wartime, is there a possibility the printing date was faked to create a forgery?" Master was still pressing on. "You mean it was printed recently? Hmph. The paper quality doesn't feel off, either. It's a genuine antique of its time." Hearing that, Master finally gave a single nod of satisfaction and scratched his back. "Coming here always makes me feel itchy. Do you keep mites or fleas or something?" "I don't know about fleas, but I definitely host athlete's foot." With a disgusted grimace, Master stepped back. "I'm clearing out before I catch that, but tell me one last thing." Saying that, Master slipped his fingers into the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper still left inside. It was the copy he had been entrusted with by Matsuura. He held it up toward the "Photographer" and asked: "Is this copy and that photograph the exact same thing?" Suddenly, a doubt welled up inside me. Why on earth would Master ask something like that? Hadn't he just said moments ago that it was a copy? And needless to say, it was the exact same composition, featuring the exact same men.
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