Thank You for the Music

Last year, I started with what I have since termed the 'Detective Conan Rewatch and Reread' project—the goal being to consume the entire franchise (manga, anime series and movies) from the very start in a chronological manner. It has been an instructive experience insofar as the evolution of the art-style and the plots are concerned. Although the series spans three decades with more than 1100 chapters and episodes, it still retains a reasonable degree of freshness and originality in both its main storyline and the fillers, which accounts for its rewatchable nature. 

Although a common criticism the series faces is that its central plot is stretching for far too long, creator Gosho Aoyama's top-notch world-building more than makes up for this. The Detective Conan universe is centred mainly around the fictional Beika City, and Conan and gang often travel all across the town and beyond, resulting in a dizzying variety of settings in which each of the stories/episodes are set: from mansions and restaurants to aquarians and museums to studios to camping and festival sites, and many more. And, in a majority of the cases, the locales play as important an role as the actions of the characters in the way the stories unfold.

There are, however, a few scenarios and themes that Aoyama loves to explore from time to time: music, sports and theatre being some of them. That is why stadiums, studios and theatres have formed the backdrop of a number of significant incidents that Conan has encountered. What I have also observed is a certain consistency in the way Aoyama explores these themes. For instance, stories involving musicians and band members have invariably involved tragic deaths borne out of terrible misunderstandings. 

This template was introduced pretty early in one of the more heart-wrenching stories (no, not this one), "The Karaoke Box Murder Case" (manga chapters: 45–48, anime episode: 42). Conan and his girlfriend, Ran, are invited by their friend, Sonoko, to the private meeting of a popular band, Lex, whose lead singer Kimura Tatsuya happens to be Sonoko's latest crush. What they witness, instead, is the animosity-filled break-up of the band, with the drunken Tatsuya announcing his decision to go solo. In the karaoke box, he humiliates each member of the band, past and present, including the manager, by choosing and requesting songs that would have hit a sore spot with each of them. Finally, he sings his heart out to the tune of his hit song, "Bloody Venus"... before dramatically coughing up blood and dying.

Foreshadowing Tatsuya's death

The mystery mostly unfolds as a howdunnit, but the 'why' and 'who' aspects of it are also quite engrossing. The howdunnit concerns mostly around how Tatsuya could be poisoned without the others getting affected. There are a few plausible and well-thought-out false solutions that keep pointing the needle of suspicion towards different members, and a suicide scenario as well. [Unfortunately, these are rushed through and/or ommited in the anime adaptation of the more nuanced manga arc.] The actual solution, however, makes excellent use of the habits and mannerisms of singers while performing—something the killer uses to precise and devastating effect. Ironically enough, the culprit is revealed when Conan (using the voice of Shinichi Kudou) asks the culprit to mimic the exact actions of the deceased, and then produces the two material evidences to decisively corner the criminal.

There is no doubt that an element of fortune is required to reveal the 'who' and 'why' of it all, but it doesn't make the tragedy any less poignant. At the centre of it is Aoyama's reflection on how musical fame and stardom can quietly devastate performers, make them lonely and unable to connect with their near and dear ones and communicate people. There are also two cautionary messages—one on taking one's need to be noticed and loved to extreme levels by making drastic changes to one's personality, the other on masking vulnerability, keeping up a facade, and displaying too much of tough love—both of which play major roles in the unfolding of the tragedy of the karaoke box.

Aoyama takes a shot at the extremes of manipulated musical fandom in "The Devil of the TV Station" (manga chapters: 591–593, anime episode: 488). Conan and his friends Mitsuhiko, Ayumi, and Genta, along with Professor Agasa, visit a TV station to see the studio of a popular kids' show, Kamen Yaiba. The plan, however, fails to materialize, as the actress, Yoko Okino, who had invited them for the tour, mentions that their schedules are tight and packed for the day. Instead, they come across Satan Onizuka, the lead singer of the visual kei band Styx III, in full KISS/Satan makeup, who is scheduled for a TV appearance in the afternoon. Back in his dressing room, Onizuka asks his manager to order food from three outlets as well as a hand mirror to fix his makeup (since the mirrors in his room are broken). He also expressly instructs the manager not to let anyone disturb or enter the room since he would be removing his makeup and take a nap in his room before the interview. The next time, we encounter Onizuka is when Mitsuhiko knocks on the door of his room, requesting an autograph for his sister. Onizuka appears, once again, in full makeup—an appearance that also coincides with the arrival of the police as Tenji Urushibara, the president of the entertainment company representing Onizuka and his band, is found dead in the station with several stab wounds. Suspicion naturally falls on Onizuka who recently had a heated argument with Tenji, but Onizuka has a solid defence—how could he have committed the deed with his makeup on, and with no one in the busy station having observed his movements from his room to the president's, two floors above?

The devil's due: outlining a murder plan

While less musically inclined than "The Karaoke Box Murder", "The Devil of the TV Station" certainly has its points of interest. The modus operandi of the murder is a tightrope act involving multiple moving parts and actors—makeup, impersonation, origami, rulers, raincoats, and restaurant delivery people. In particular, I like the rationale behind the use of three different restaurants to deliver food. However, with a limited cast, the case unfolds much like an episode of Columbo or Furuhata Ninzaburou—here too, the audience is made aware pretty early on who the culprit is; only the method remains to be uncovered. 

A dash of tragedy is added in the murder motive—it is here that Aoyama critiques the excesses and manipulation of musical fandom. At a time when Onizuka had lost his voice three years ago, a young girl took her own life and 'offered her blood' as a sacrifice to aid Onizuka's recovery—a horrific event stemming from a stunt by Tenji who left messages in Onizuka's name (unbeknownst to the singer himself) on online forums and message boards exhorting the followers to offer sacrifices. The event leaves a terrible scar on Onizuka himself, who visits the girl's parents, then spirals into depression, and loses his creative songwriting impulses, leading to a dissociation between him as a person and the persona he portrays and the lyrics (on curses, death, destruction, and violence) that he sings as Satan Onizuka. He is further trapped between a rock and a hard place when Tenji denies him permission to hold a farewell performance for Styx III, instead threatening him with legal action if he chose to walk out before the contract extracted. It is this toxic cocktail of tipping points that ultimately leads to the events of "The Devil of the TV Station".

Tragedy strikes again in "The Unfriendly Girls' Band" (manga chapters: 936–938, anime episodes: 836–837), which begins with the big-mouthed Sonoko all gung-ho on starting a high school girls' band. After being embarrassed in Café Poirot (below the Kogorou detective agency) for not being able to play the guitar, Sonoko saves face due to the intervention of Tooru Amuro (or Rei Furuya), another notable detective in the Detective Conan canon, who instructs her on the need to practice. An inspired Sonoko proceeds to drag her classmates, Ran and Sera Masumi (yet another detective), along with Tooru and Conan, to a recording studio. Unfortunately, the rooms all being booked, they have to wait for a fair amount of time during which they encounter a girls' band whose guitarist rebukes all the members for their flawed rehearsals in preparation for a funeral concert for their deceased bandmate, a singer. They adjourn for a 10-minute break, and during which interval Sonoko tries to select the preferred members and their roles for the band. Their reverie is rudely interrupted by a scream—and when Conan, Tooru, and Sera rush to the scene, they find one of the members of the girls' band they had seen previously slumped over the drum set, after being strangled. The CCTV camera footage should have captured the scene and action of crime—either directly or through a reflection on the mirror behind the performance area—but half of the camera was covered by a phone on a selfie stick attached to the mic to record the rehearsal, while curtains had been drawn covering the mirror, on the victim's request. As a result, the footage captured only the victim's slumped-over state without a trace of the perpetrator.

The investigation in progress

While "The Karaoke Box Murder" exploits the habitual itches of performers, "The Unfriendly Girls' Band" makes great use of positional awareness and knowledge of how a band sets itself up on the stage, to figure out how the position of the recording phone was manipulated and whodunnit in the absence of proper CCTV footage. I am less sold, however, on the mechanics of making the murder weapon disappear—a method which, while admittedly inspired, seems improbable to pull off perfectly, without hiccups, in that short a time-frame.

Like the previous two stories, "The Unfriendly Girls' Band" also unfolds as a revenge tragedy due to the underlying motive and backstory. At the centre of it all is a dual misconception regarding the death of their previous bandmate, the singer who had damaged her voice while acting on the advice of the current case's victim. The singer patched things up with the bandmate who had erroneously guided her, and started following the instructions to heal herself up to a t. However, she died while trying to save a boy from a car collision, instead of shouting to warn him—an incident that leads the present case's victim to feel even more guilty. Another bandmate (the perpetrator of the current case) remains unaware of these details, having gone into shock, and solely blames her fellow performer for driving the singer to commit suicide. This intersecting maze of emotions and mistaken beliefs ultimately culminates in the tragic events seen in this storyline.

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Songs and music tunes are often believed to bring out human emotions and sentiments in a manner that connects, either viscerally or transcendentally, with the audience at large. However, as these three stories depict, Aoyama subverts these expectations by turning music, songs, and the musical persona into tools of miscommunication and misunderstanding that shed a light on the blind spots that even music and songs cannot illuminate. By purposefully showing the pressures and strains that come with musical performances and showmanship, Aoyama skilfully explores what happens when the musical product is based upon foundations of tragedy, mistaken perceptions and the unpredictable human nature—and how these murky associations can cause a presumably liberating force such as music and songs to be bogged down by the all-too-sordid reality of crime and murder. 

A Matter of Inheritance

It is often said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. But, how relevant is this adage for a genre such as crime fiction, where tropes abound and the charm, in many cases, lies in the variations of a common core idea or the diverse ways in which the works treat a particular, familiar theme? Is there a case to be made for a distinction between good and bad imitation in crime fiction? And, to what degree and what kind of imitation can be considered permissible in the first place?

This isn't the space for discussing the intricacies of Aristotlelian thought, but his contention that a poet is both a creator and imitator may serve as an important clue to the questions posed above. Unlike Plato, Aristotle does not consider poetry to be inferior to the 'ideal', especially as he posits imitation to be a human instinct via which people, particularly children, learn more about their surroundings and reality.

It's not quite in the same context, but a similar argument can be made in the case of crime fiction. After all, discerning readers are often able to point out the oddest commonalities between works separated by decades and countries. It is the reason why the genre is particularly prone to being categorised—in John Dickson Carr's The Hollow Man (1935), for instance, Dr Gideon Fell delivers a most memorable locked room lecture, where he lists the miscellaneous possible ways in which a near-perfect crime can be committed in normally impossible situations. The chapter would pave the way for contemporary and future authors to put forth their own theories in a manner similar to Carr's—Clayton Rawson's Death from a Top Hat (1938) and Abiko Takemaru's Shinsoban 8 no satsujin (1989, translated as The 8 Mansion Murders in 2018) come to mind. An even more commonplace example would be the classic 'no footprints' scenario—a trope that has seen numerous variants and received multiple treatments over the ages from authors as varied as Carr, Keikichi Ōsaka, Gosho Aoyama, Seimaru Amagi, Paul Halter, among others. Or, if one is looking for a more specific example, how about the mechanism used to murder Louise in Agatha Christie's Murder in Mesopotamia (1936)? A more modern treatment of the same trick can be found in episode 31 of the Detective Conan anime ("TV Station Murder case", an adaption of chapters 102 to 104 of the manga), set in a TV studio where the culprit uses a pistol instead of a block of stone.

What these examples illustrate is a cardinal advantage and privilege exercised by crime-fiction writers—that it is possible to be immensely creative while borrowing influences, cues and prompts from sources not their own. Or, rather, to use an Aristotlelian conception, it is possible to see and understand the genre as it is, as it was and as it is likely to be, through a study of the ways in which a core theme or trope (the 'ideal', so to say) has been addressed over time.

But, there's also a pitfall associated with mimesis. Once in a while, however, there comes an idea so unorthodox, immaculate and complete in its conception and execution that it is not easy at all to creatively imitate it. Any effort to borrow such inspired plots/tricks/settings without a similar inspired vision to take it in a new direction is more than likely to end in disaster. In this rarefied category, I would probably include the likes of Soji Shimada's The Tokyo Zodiac Murders and Masahiro Imamura's Shijinso no satsujin (2017, translated as Death Among the undead in 2021). Which is why, every year, during my annual Kindaichi Shounen no Jikenbo binge-reading and -watching phase, I remain ever perturbed by the presence of that exceptional anomaly called the "Ijinkan Village Murder Case"—a story that dared to copy and depict, in this entirety and most faithfully too, the central dismembering trick employed in The Tokyo Zodiac Murders. My observation, thus, on this unmitigated disaster of a storyline is limited to the following—what in the world was the mangaka thinking? I mean, there may have been a dozen different ways in which they could have employed the backgrounds, settings and plot to good effect without going the route of imitating, to the point of plagiarising, Shimada's creation. 

Usually, I need a palate-cleanser to rinse off the bitter aftertaste of labouring through the Ijinkan chapters. This year, my choice was the "Russian Dolls Murder Case" arc—and, as luck would have it, this happened right after I had completed reading Seishi Yokomizo's The Inugami Curse. Which may as well have been one of the happiest coincidences imaginable, for I now consider the "Russian Dolls Murder Case" to be a masterful and most innovative and subtle tribute to the essence and spirit of Yokomizo's original—one that borrows and subverts elements from The Inugami Curse for its own purposes.

***

Inugamike no Ichizoku (1950–1951, translated first as The Inugami Clan, retitled The Inugami Curse later) is one of the most famous and recognisable works of detective fiction both in Japan as well as the world outside—and for good reason. To me, it is a novel that can be sufficiently appreciated by both Western and Japanese audiences. Of course, Yokomizo pays homage to Western influences in his previous works such as The Honjin Murders, but the influences are much more visible here from the word go and in the way the plot progresses. In The Inugami Curse, you instantly have a setup that screams classic, Golden Age Detective Fiction even though it is used in a typically Japanese setting with a number of references to Japanese culture, mythology and contemporary events (World War II, for instance). But, at the heart of the book is the good ol' intergenerational struggle for inheritance between the members of a clan triggered by the provisions of an extremely complicated will left by a dying business mogul, Sahei Inugami. It's a trope common to detective fiction since the publication of Anna Katherine Green's The Leavenworth Case (1878).

What follows is an extremely well-paced and competent mystery that reads far less pulpish than other offerings such as The Honjin Murders and The Village of Eight Graves. The breakneck speed at which things happen in the other two novels is replaced here with pregnant pauses that somehow contrive to make the atmosphere far more foreboding and sinister than it otherwise would be. The body count may be paltry compared to that seen in The Village of Eight Graves, but when it delivers, The Inugami Curse does so in spades. And part of it has to do with the fact that the novel takes its own sweet time to build up to its own unique crescendos which are not disparate but are instead connected by a common thread—that of mitate satsujinjiken (themed murders), the framework and seeds of which Yokomizo painstakingly and admirably builds in the aforesaid will and then proceeds to scatter throughout his work.

Yokomizo also employs a host of familiar tricks and elements to enhance the mystery quotient—mistaken identities, missing and confusing fingerprints, the disfigured body of a war veteran, impersonations, a complex family tree with hidden relations still to be unearthed, among others. But, these are not used at random. It is all logically reasoned out at the end, but at the moments when they are used (in an incredibly timely fashion, one must add), they create this sensation of things being premeditated and plotted from one character's perspective with other developments, part of another person's plan, being outside the control and vision of the former person, all at the same time. These individual, yet co-dependent, plots intersect during the aforesaid, timely pregnant pauses and are masterfully hidden (but hinted at) from the reader—a ploy that serves to enhance the levels of suspense and foreboding, while also adequately conveying a sense of inevitability at the end of it all.

A still from Kon Ichikawa's 1976 film, The Inugami Family. Ichikawa would remake the same in 2006, this time titled as The Inugamis

What also strikes one is how visually enabling The Inugami Curse really is. The striking visual characteristics of some of the characters, the picturesque environs of Lake Nasu and some of the most stunning scenes and sequences surrounding the murders of some of the characters ensure that one will not forget the novel in a hurry. It is also one of the reasons why The Inugami Curse is one of the most widely-adapted works in Japanese media, with subsequent creators paying homage to its elements, plots, tropes and scenes in the form of manga, TV episodes, films (Kon Ichikawa's adaptations for instance), and more—either in the form of a plain adaptation, pastiches, or in the naming and visual descriptions of characters, or by subverting the usual Yokomizo-esque elements to create a unique work of its own. In fact, the far-reaching influence of the book and the movies can even be found in a mecha anime such as Neon Genesis Evangelion that recreates the iconic 'frozen lake' scene.

***

In the Kindaichi Shounen no Jikenbo canon, "Russian Dolls Murder Case" is one of the cleverer and subtler nods to The Inugami Curse. There are more obvious tributes to Kindaichi Sr. in this series of course, especially with regards to the visual depictions of characters—the "Hida Mechanical Mansion Murder Case" and the "Demon God Site Murder Case" come to mind. But, "Russian Dolls Murder Case" is far above such cursory gestures to its inspiration. 

For one, it recreates the classic inheritance-dispute scenario from The Inugami Curse and the plot is built along the lines of a mitate satsujinjiken as well. But, there are some key differences here. The 'family' in "Russian Dolls Murder Case" is not one formed by acrimonious blood relations; instead, they are brought together in an equally perverse manner as the relations of a famous author. The second point is the question of the will in this story arc. It is played in a relatively straightforward manner by Yokomizo, but here, there's an extra layer. The addition of a cryptic cipher that points to the location of the will gamefies the story and adds unpredictability and a ruthless battle royale-esque element to the proceedings, in which the characters are eliminated one by one in classic fashion. The cipher also ends up inverting the structure of the plot and the sequence of proceedings established in The Inugami Curse. In Yokomizo's work, all the murders, barring one, are carried out after the will is read. However, in "Russian Dolls Murder Case", all the murders take place before the true meaning of the cipher and by extension, the real location of the will, are discovered.

The Russian mansion in the "Russian Dolls Murders Case"

This subversion of key elements from The Inugami Curse, by first acknowledging them and then using them for its own ends, can be found throughout this story arc. 

• For instance, the main setting of Yokomizo's novel—that of a mansion surrounded by an enormous lake—is replicated here, expect that it is a Western-style mansion in comparison to the Japanese one seen in Yokomizo's. As with The Inugami Curse, however, the Russian mansion too plays a key role in the episodes of the story arc. 
• The Russian dolls, which lend themselves to the title of the story arc, are reminiscent of the Japanese doll-set at the scene of the first murder in The Inugami Curse. However, unlike the former, where the Japanese dolls form a part of only that set-up to advance only one particular element of the themed murders, the Russian dolls in the latter are present throughout and form a connecting thread to thematically link the murders, and play an integral role in the final solution of the cipher.
• Other neat tributes to The Inugami Curse are present throughout "Russian Dolls Murder Case". One of the characters, for instance, is named Inukai (literally, "dog guardian") a sly reference to the Inugamis (literally, "dog gods") in Yokomizo's work. There's also a beheading reminiscent of the first murder in The Inugami Curse—but here, it is not played straight and is instead used as a red herring to lure the culprit into a false sense of security and thereby force a confession from the person concerned. There's bodily disfigurement here as well—one of the characters has a significant scar on her face, but unlike Kiyo Inugami, it's hidden in a different manner. The character also doesn't survive till the end. Additionally, "Russian Dolls Murder Case" resembles yet another significant Yokomizo novel—Gokumon-tō (1947-1948, translated as Death on Gokumon Island)—in that the legacy and actions of a prominent deceased character orchestrate the actions of the rest of the cast from beyond the grave. Hell, the only thing missing from these episodes is something akin to the famous Lake Nasu scene in The Inugami Curse.

Messengers of doom: The Russian dolls in the "Russian Dolls Murder Case"

*** 

To return to a point I had made earlier, "Russian Dolls Murder Case" is everything that the "Ijinkan Village Murder Case" is not—and, in many ways, is the perfect antidote to cure the maladies of the latter. It feels almost surreal that both arcs, varying so much in their nuances and treatments, could be part of the same series. Additionally, one can well imagine Yokomizo appreciating and enjoying all that "Russian Dolls Murder Case" has to offer by itself and as an 'imitation' of his own work. After all, Yokomizo himself granted artists significant creative liberties when it came to adaptations of his own works. Incidentally, in my opinion, the comparative analysis of these supremely interesting works seems to speak much in favour of a study of the genre through an Aristotlelian lens. When cleverly and innovatively pulled off, 'imitations' rank no less than 'originals' in the world of crime fiction and therefore, should not be considered as inherently inferior and only worthy of being discarded solely due to that fact.

Back to School

"Who killed Cock Robin?

I, said the Sparrow ... "

—Yoichi Takato quoting the English nursery rhyme "Who Killed Cock Robin" in "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken"

Among longtime fans, "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" (Prison Prep School Murder Case) is considered to be one of the best (if not the best) offerings from the Kindaichi series. There are several worthy reasons for this preference—a devilish performance by the sleuth's nemesis, tricks that are simple in their foundation but sophisticated in their execution, the thematic nature of the serial killings and the slow, deliberate build-up to the settings that make each of the events possible. But perhaps, the most significantly unique quality is that this majestic story arc—in a series reputed for repeatedly setting up impossible/quasi-impossible crimes and locked room murders—does not feature a single incident that can be considered (technically) to belong to either of the two categories aforementioned.

The story, the brainchild of the writer–artist duo of Seimaru Amagi and Fumiya Satō, was faithfully adapted as episodes 10–14 of the first season of Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo Returns (2014). After another disastrous performance in his school examinations, Hajime Kindaichi is forced by his 'childhood friend' Miyuki Nanase to come to Gokumon Juku, a prep school as famous for the results it produces as it is notorious for its excessively stringent regulations—the reason why it is also called Hell's Gate Prep School. Right on cue, the cruel machinations of Kindaichi's eternal nemesis, Yoichi Takato, are laid bare early on, when an examinee is killed in the school as soon as Kindaichi and his friends step into its halls to enroll—a crafty piece of business involving something called the magician's select (or the magician's choice). A tense standoff ensues between the mastermind and the detectives when Takato appears before Kindaichi, Nanase, police superintendent Kengo Akechi and police inspector Isamu Kenmochi to dramatically throw down the gauntlet and dare them to prevent his plot from succeeding. It is against this backdrop that Kindaichi and Nanase (with Takato and Akechi, both disguised as teachers, in tow) decide to attend the prep camp that the school is organising in prison-like facilities deep within forested mountains.

The first victim

The importance of the first two, slowly-paced episodes cannot be understated. They lay down the rules by which this game is to be played. The strict and extremely specific rules concerning the diet of the students, their study schedules, the class schedules, the limited paraphernalia of things students can carry with them during the trip and norms governing the conduct of examinations may seem to be excessive and comical, but all of these specifications are used to devastating effect by the perpetrators later on in the story. There's also a fair amount of foreshadowing and clueing in these episodes—for instance, the part which shows a bus travelling in a tunnel under neon light en route to the prep camp location is an important clue that goes on to solve a vital and wonderful bit of misdirection in the last episode. Above all, "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" shines best when it sets up this atmosphere of extreme unease when you are aware that terrible things are afoot but you don't have the slightest idea what exactly they are. The second episode in particular, where not a single murder happens, excels in creating this heavy, brooding and disconcerting atmosphere of perpetual unease. Against the backdrop of seemingly normal classes in session, a number of students mysteriously vanish, but the viewers aren't exactly shown what happens; instead, the scene simply segues into another ordinary classroom scene where the seeds of some other disturbing occurrence are being laid—all cogs in the wheel of a monstrous plot hatched by the dastardly Takato.

As the main antagonist of the series, Takato's moniker of "The Puppeteer from Hell" is well deserved and closely resembles the criminal organisation Pluto, the main villain of Tantei Gakuen Q (Detective School Q), another series on which Amagi and Satō worked. Takato's role is that of a criminal consultant extraordinaire—manipulating the feelings of impressionable people who are looking to seek revenge, organising intricate criminal plans, providing people with the requisite blueprints and tools for the plan's success and then disposing of any loose links should the plan be thwarted. In this story, the blueprint and tools Takato provides his two co-conspirators are for themed murders (mitate satsujin), the most well-known example of which is probably Agatha Christie's The A. B. C. Murders. In "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken", the murders in the study camp are made to mirror the topics of discussion during classes and examinations. One of the student's is found burnt, thereby replicating a chemistry class lecture on spontaneous combustion; another is found dead in a bamboo thicket, associating itself with a literature class on the Japanese folktale, The Tale of the Bamboo Cutter; a third student is wrapped up in a double-helix spiral after her death—a throwback to an examination on the topic of DNA which she had completed; the fourth casualty is hanged to death, much like the protagonist of Fyodor Dostoevsky's Demons, the subject of another assessment where the student murdered was accused of cheating. And much like The A. B. C. Murders, the purpose of resorting to themed murders is to hide and disguise. But unlike The A. B. C. Murders, where the alphabetical killings were orchestrated to hide the actual target of the whole spree, in "Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken", mitate satsujin is used for a far more damning purpose: to shield and hide a vital, glaring flaw in the execution of the perpetrators from prying eyes—something that ultimately costs one of them their life.

The double helix claims a victim

After the sinister build-up in the entirety of the second episode and the first half of the third episode, the body count (a total of eight, if one counts the one in the past and the post-denouement casualty) suddenly ratchets up from the second half of the third episode onwards. The conundrums presented are simple ones—how can so many murders have occurred in the two buildings of the study camp (the Sunlight Mansion and the Moonlight Mansion) at a time when classes and/or lunch hours were in session in both locations separated by miles of forests, a tough-to-navigate road with only a rapidly flowing stream connecting the two? And how come these bodies are surfacing, hours after their death, in such rapid succession? The answers to both questions lead one to marvel at the intricate groundwork laid in the previous episodes and the ample visual foreshadowing employed. There are numerous factors at play here, many of which hark back to the 'rules of the game' introduced before—the architecture of both buildings including the 'sealed-off' portions of one of them and how their floor plans 'fit together like pieces of a puzzle', the complicated but effective scheduling and division of classes and eating/recreation hours in both locations, the true purpose of the extremely limited but 'healthy' food items, the real motive behind limiting the things students can keep during to a bare minimum, two very daring, rope-led nighttime walks through a dense forest that 'mislead' students and teachers alike to a different location only to take them back to where they started after the second walk (after all the mischief has been done) and lastly, an optical phenomena that tricks the people and compliments the misdirection employed during the nighttime walk exceedingly well. What's even more surprising is the number of flaws and holes in this seemingly perfect, multilayered plan that are revealed by Akechi and Kindaichi in the denouement. Going by the variety of tricks employed and the level of deception achieved, too many cooks indeed spoil the broth—just not in the way you would usually expect.

"Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" is not without its share of flaws, however. The sustained focus on the brilliant howdunnit angle results in the motive fading into the background. One of the faults with revealing the motive through flashbacks here is that you will not be able to figure out whodunnit by approaching the case from the motive alone. Even though one gets to know that another student of Gokumon Juku had died in the past, the hints linking it to the present case and the parties concerned are too vague for one to concretely identify the people who were most affected by the past incident. Even the whodunnit reveal leaves something to be desired. One of the students is forcibly made the scapegoat in a unsubtle, heavy-handed way only for them to pointlessly 'commit suicide'. And while one of the actual co-conspirators is revealed through a rigorous chain of logic and deduction, the second culprit is mainly unmasked through a somewhat unsatisfactory method of 'filling the dots' where it is found that one of the victims is revealed to have died unbelievably just before he was able to finish the stroke that would have led him to complete a dying message that would have directly named said culprit. Games of luck and chance in a story of logic and reasoning? Nah, not my cup of tea.

Possessed by Dostoevsky's Demons

"Gokumon Juku Satsujin Jiken" is an amusing case-study for me in some ways. Its sheer brilliance in a few specific aspects threatens to run away with it all, until the flaws surface and weigh it down. Ironically, the genius nature of the plot and the mechanics shines a starker, uglier light on the weaknesses in the execution of the whodunnit and the motive-related revelations, making the comparative imbalance seem more glaring and apparent than it would in a mediocre, by-the-numbers story. None of these drawbacks, however, takes anything away from the majestic and ambitious nature and scope of the groundwork and build-up the story employs, which are, frankly speaking, simply unparalleled. 

They Do It with Mirrors

"A queer thing is a mirror; a picture frame that holds hundreds of different pictures, all vivid and all vanished for ever."
—Father Brown in "The Mirror of the Magistrate"

Mirrors, in literature, often serve dramatical, theatrical functions—that of exposing the vanity of characters, showing the true face of people or revealing a side to a person's nature (an alter ego, if you will) that was hitherto unknown. In crime fiction, however, these props are used for a different, more practical, purpose—cleverly used in the right circumstance, it allows culprits to mislead readers and investigators, allowing them to obtain an alibi, or even more, the means to establish their innocence.

There are a number of tools and tricks criminals employ to wriggle out of a tight situation and to cast suspicion on others. Altering clocks and manipulating the observer's perceptions of time. An alternate location (the real scene) identical, in all respects, to the perceived 'crime scene'—a spatial red herring, so to say. A mutual 'exchange of victims' between conspirators. Bribing witnesses or making use of a 'stand-in' to buy false testimony. Another character willingly or unwittingly covering up for and shielding the mastermind. Stories generally use one or a combination of these devices to further their own ends.

To this list, we must add the simple but effective tool called the mirror as a major player in the misdirection department. Used on its own, the mirror is, perhaps, not a tool to distort your perception of time; instead, it skews your spatial awareness. This is an especially effective trap for those who rely on their keen sense of sight—with a mirror around, nothing is quite what it seems and things that shouldn't be present in a particular place come into view. The best part about 'mirror magic' is its fleetingly permanent nature, used almost in an instant but having a long-lasting, illusionary effect on the eyes and minds of those witnessing it. The challenge lies, firstly, in the creation of the correct conditions for its effective use and then devising ways to break the illusion in a believable, decisive manner.

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In a previous post, I spoke about Detective Conan, one of the pillars of modern Japanese detective fiction. Predating it by two years is another ongoing crime manga and anime franchise that has had an equally lasting effect on the genre. Kindaichi Shōnen no Jikenbo (The Kindaichi Case Files or The Case Files of Young Kindaichi) started in 1992 as a chronicle of the adventures of 17-year-old high school student Hajime Kindaichi (introduced, non-canonically, as the grandson of Seishi Yokomizo's great detective Kosuke Kindaichi) who continuously gets embroiled in and solves impossible and locked-room crimes—a fate that even the 37-year-old Hajime hasn't been able to escape in the new seinen series, Kindaichi 37-sai no Jikenbo (The Case Files of 37-Year-Old Kindaichi). Apart from the sheer wealth and variety of impossible and locked-room crime scenarios devised by the authors, the series is famous for two other eccentricities—young Hajime's iconic catchphrase (unfortunately, no longer a staple) and the laughably cartoonish names Hajime bestows upon his opponents that would give Scooby Doo a run for its money.

The first three episodes of the first season of the anime, "Gakuen Nana Fushigi Satsujin Jiken" (The School's Seven Mysteries Murder Case), are set in Hajime's alma mater, Fudo High School. The story makes excellent use of urban legends and the 'forbidden', 'prohibited' areas in the school to deliver a mystery whose roots and motives are surprisingly dark for a young audience. The body count, both in the past and the present, is notoriously high—and death visits those who try to uncover the seven mysteries (especially those in the older school building) and the truth behind it all, courtesy of the 'After-School Magician'.

The After-School Magician enacts a bloody ritual

The centrepiece of the story is the 'execution' of a student that happens in the biology laboratory in the old building. Hajime and the others around him—all present in the new building at that time— are afforded only a glimpse of the scene but the impossibility of the crime strikes home when they find the doors and windows of the laboratory to be locked with no trace of the candles and other creepy ritualistic decorations they had seen. The old wire trick is found to be applicable for the windows but that soon turns out to be a red herring. More attempts to murder follow, and the case becomes a real puzzler in no time.

The elegance of the entire case lies in the use of a single mirror in brilliantly fitting surroundings in the first case. The conditions for employing a mirror are all there: long corridors in almost pitch-black darkness, the setup the culprit uses to direct the observers to exactly where he wants, the positional awareness of the culprit regarding the witnesses' viewing spot and what their linear line of sight will lead them to believe, an exceptional use of the advantages of the building's layout especially with its sharp corners and ultimately, the absolutely brief period of the view offered. 

These elements make for a stimulating setup, but I am also happy to note that it is resolved in a satisfying manner as well. What leads Hajime to unravel the deceit is a chance observation by his childhood friend Miyuki, hospitalised following an attack by the 'After-School Magician'. It is an innocent request, and believable too on her part—asking him to draw the curtain so that her eyes can be shielded from the blinding sun, reflected by a building with a glass exterior. But, it is also one of those genuine 'aha' moments that allows a precocious detective like Hajime to completely turn the case around on its head, while offering clarity and joy for the reader too. More brownie points for you if you managed to deduce what had happened, before this point.

When it comes to the resolution of mirror illusions, the same, unfortunately, cannot be said of a rather slow-paced Detective Conan story, "Konan Heiji no Suiri Majikku" (Conan and Heiji's Deduction Magic)—which is a shame because it presents an absolutely compelling, mouthwatering conundrum. After attending a magic show, Conan and his detective-rival Hattori Heiji, along with their girlfriends Ran and Kazuha, are invited by some magicians to the house of their mentor who disappeared 10 years ago. The girls are being given a tour of this house filled with tricks when, fittingly enough, a case occurs. The girls and their guide are in a narrow, dark corridor with rooms on either side when a blackout occurs. When the lights return a moment later, they are shocked to find the corpse of one of the magicians they had met earlier in the dead end of the passage, when the moment before there had been none. The solution is ingenious and makes good use of the magical nature of the house—two identical-looking passages at right angles to each other separated by a double-layered, thick door split in the middle with facing mirrors on the back side of both parts of the door. But, I am afraid that the way the detectives are clued on to this trick is quite the stretch—it relies on the girls observing, in an instant, the changing position of a vase's shadow before and after the incident, at a time when they must have been shaken and scared out of their wits.

The discovery of the magician's body in a dead-end corner—or is it?

In crime stories, when it comes to incorporating believable, optical, mirror-based illusions that do not stretch the limits of 'suspension of disbelief', I believe less is more. Too many mirrors do spoil the broth—as is the case in the Kindaichi story, "Majin Iseki Satsujin Jiken" (Demon God Site Murder Case) where an excessive number of mirrors intricately arranged in the lower floor of a mansion, deliberately smashed, seems extremely forced (even though it have been necessary) when the floor plan still exists and becomes too glaring a clue to decipher a cryptic cipher and discover the location of the treasure at the centre of all the incidents. 

Instead, an elegant simplicity can be incorporated by relying on natural optical phenomena made visible by a single mirror. This is evident in another story in the Kindaichi canon, "Kindaichi Fumi Yuukai Jiken" (Fumi Kindaichi Kidnapping Case), a compact case involving the kidnapping of Hajime's cousin, Fumi. Hajime relies on Fumi's descriptions, relayed unbeknownst to her captor, deduce her whereabouts but that is not enough to pinpoint the exact location even though four buildings, not exactly close to each other, become probable suspects. In a nice turn of events, ironically, it is Hajime's realisation of the 'impossibility' of Fumi's descriptions, and his awareness of the sun's position in each of the suspected locations and the presence of a certain building with glassy, mirrored exteriors that finally helps Hajime find the right location just in the nick of time. The modus operandi of the revelation has parallels to the hint the Miyuki unwittingly provides Hajime in the first story of the anime series, and is, therefore, a kind of in-series commentary and meta-tribute in its own right. For longstanding fans such as myself, these touches are, indeed, most rewarding and satisfying to spot.

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This has been quite a long, rambling post on some thoughts I have had over the past week on the use of certain tools in detective and crime fiction. In fact, the post turned out to be very different from what I had originally intended. I quite like the approach I took here, though—and, moving forward, apart from reviews, I will perhaps publish more write-ups that analyse the elements of the genre and the ways in which they function or are employed, both minutely as well as in a more generalised manner. After all, the genre owes a hefty debt to these elements that have made it so addictive in the first place.

A Nosy Affair

When I first conceived of this blog, I imagined it to be a space where I would talk exclusively about Asian (in particular, Japanese) crime fiction. And while the first post is probably a sign that is no longer the case, much of what I plan to write here will be my thoughts and commentary on books, films and series (animated or otherwise) from said region.

I was introduced to Japanese crime fiction courtesy of a television channel called Hungama TV, which once aired 30 episodes of Detective Conan, dubbed in Hindi, over the course of two seasons. It was a curious choice to broadcast them on a channel meant primarily for kids—most Indian parents I have come across have extreme reservations on letting their children see anything that has blood and violence; Detective Conan has copious amounts of both.

Be that as it may, I remember being pretty amused at the sight of genius high-school detective Shinichi Kudo being turned into a kid (literally!) in the very first episode itself. This happens after Shinichi solves a murder case on a rollercoaster while on a date with his girlfriend Ran Mouri. He then overhears a suspicious conversation between a businessman and two men in black and tails them only to be ambushed by said men in black, which finally leads to the predicament mentioned earlier.

The kid Shinichi adopts the name of Edogawa Conan (a tribute to mystery authors Edogawa Rampo and—you guessed it—Arthur Conan Doyle) to protect those near and dear to him as well as uncover the (many) brains and the mastermind behind the nefarious Black Organisation (who are responsible for his plight) and bring them to justice. And to his credit, Shinichi (or Conan) certainly stands out in a world where every fourth or fifth character (friend or foe) turns out to be a sleuth in some form or the other (hey, you can never have enough detectives after all!).

Shinichi Kudo (left) and Edogawa Conan (right) from the early days of Detective Conan

Conan's quest continues to this day. Gosho Aoyama's Meitantei Conan (as Detective Conan is known in Japan) started back in 1994 as a manga series. Conan and company's adventures have now seen over 1,000 manga chapters, 1,000-plus anime episodes, over 20 animated films, several OVAs and television specials. The prolific nature and high standards achieved make it one of the longest-running, most beloved and acclaimed literary-fiction franchises all over the world.

In my early university days, though, when I was first able to appreciate the nuances of Aoyama sensei's work, I failed to see it as anything beyond a creative and faithful tribute to the past doyens of mystery fiction. This was especially true in the case of the first few volumes of the manga and the first 50-odd episodes of the animated series, where I could spot fun, sporting and subtle nods to your Conan Doyles, John Dickson Carrs and Ellery Queens, but not much else besides.

My opinion changed drastically, however, when I saw episode 52—an episode I still believe really helped the series stand out on its own and conveyed the message that it is a masterpiece like no other. This one-hour TV special, ominously titled "Kiri-tengu Densetsu Satsujin Jiken" (The Mist Goblin Legend Murder Case) (an adaptation of chapters 108–110 or volume 11, files 8–10, of the manga series) opens in a relatively peaceful fashion. Ran, Conan and Ran's father, the 'great detective' Kogoro Mouri, are watching cherry blossoms on the mountainside. As evening descends, they try to make their way back home—but as is often the case when Kogorou and travelling are involved, the trio manage to get themselves stranded and lost in the deep forest amidst pouring rain. They are, therefore, forced to take refuge in a temple, with a waterfall running past it, that Conan spots. In the Sandeiji temple, the group meets with the caretaker and head priest Tenei, a long- and sharp-nosed, suspicious-looking figure who agrees to accommodate them for the night for a hefty fee. They also come to know of the legend of the kiri-tengu (the mist goblin, a figure from Japanese folklore), who, in this story, is believed to kidnap young women and feast on their flesh after hanging them from trees.

The four Buddhist monks in training—Kannen, Tonnen, Mokunen and Shunen—take Conan, Kogoro and Ran on a tour of a temple. Here, Conan's attention is drawn to a small room with an extremely high ceiling, a window near the top and a gap near the bottom guarded by a door. On asking, they find out that the room is a 'training room' for monks who isolate themselves to observe penance after being punished. There's also talk of a certain 'incident' in the room some years ago, which seems to have been the handiwork of the kiri-tengu, but Tenei abruptly and angrily brings a halt to all discussions on the subject. All the characters pass restless nights—and the unease deepens further the following morning when the head priest is found hanging from a beam high up in the ceiling of the training room. It's as if the kiri-tengu itself had hung Tenei there—and when the police arrive, Conan and Kogoro learn that, two years ago, another monk Chunen had been found hanging from the very same beam in an identical fashion, a case the police had ruled out as suicide. Can Conan and Kogoro solve the mystery of both murders and unmask the kiri-tengu?

The dastardly kiri-tengu 'hangs' Tenei Oshou

Seasoned readers of Japanese detective fiction will probably realise that this somewhat long and elaborate setup screams 'Seishi Yokomizo' from the get-go. Elements from the works of this master of crime fiction are all here in this episode. A remote location? Check. A case with links to Japanese folklore? Yes. And just as a waterbody plays a major role in Yokomizo's The Honjin Murders (more precisely, the mechanism of a waterwheel on a nearby stream), here too, the waterfall adjoining the temple plays a very influential part here.

And yet, Conan solves the case not in the manner of a Kosuke Kindaichi (the detective from Yokomizo's series) but in his own characteristic way. The 'howdunnit' aspect of the story is a sheer delight, the solution to which will logically lead you to find out 'whodunnit'. It's all fair and above board too—what I like most about the culprit's plan is that it uses the natural features and the 'potential' of the 'training room' to maximum effect by using tools and tricks (none too fancy) that are present in the temple and won't leave you wondering, "Hmmm, how and from where could they have procured these tools in such a short time?" 

The main trick is a variation of one that I have seen executed successfully in a horizontal space (say, a crop field for instance) but never in a vertical space. It is quite unique, but never for a moment does it feel forced or that it does not belong or feels out of place in a setting such as a mountain temple. There is a meticulous yet commonsensical, DIY nature to the physics and dynamics of the tricks here, all of which are neatly tied up and explained in the end.

The episode plays it very fairly with the viewers as well. It invites them to completely immerse themselves in the story being told and pay particular attention to every conversation and scene in order to pick out the select clues that can solve the crime. By the time the deduction starts, you have in your possession all the information, visual and verbal, to unravel the mystery, even though you will probably need to exercise your imagination judiciously to get you started.

The kiri-tengu baffles Conan and the others

The most damning clue that specifically reveals the culprit is also presented in a most human manner. Quite refreshingly, this is not a case of the detectives intellectually outsmarting the criminal hands-down; neither is it an 'oversight' by the murderer. In the course of the episode, both the criminal and the detectives are evenly balanced and look for the same clue—it's just that the sleuths get to it and understand its significance faster than the criminal can hide or destroy it. Perhaps, the only 'unfairness' I can think of comes when the culprit falls into a trap in the first place by incorrectly guessing something that happened while they were busy preparing the scene of crime so elaborately.

In an episode that is a fair-play mystery on so many levels, it is perhaps a tad bit unfortunate that the tragic motive takes a backseat. But it's really a minor peeve, especially when one considers that the episode sets so many of the rules of the game for this series—ones that defined the series and stands it in good stead even today, nearly three decades after its start.

Lastly, there's something really fitting in the use of traditional cel animation in a series such as Detective Conan. The dark tones enhance the atmosphere and feel of the mysteries in the manga so much so that it becomes all the more easier to be invested in them—wouldn't you agree?