Bungo Stray Dogs - Volume 3 Chapter 5 Part 3

Chapter 5 Part 3

If only someone could just knock me unconscious right about now…
Despite the fact that Fukuzawa had met Ranpo only that morning, you would need to combine an entire life’s worth of exhaustion and multiply it by three to understand how he felt.
Thanks to Fukuzawa’s fatigue, his mind was finally able to catch up with what was going on.
No matter how carrying—scratch that, obnoxiously loud—his voice was, it should be impossible to be able to hear it this well in a massive theater that could hold four hundred people. In addition, the lights hanging from the ceiling couldn’t be controlled from where Ranpo was standing. There had to be someone working things from the control room.
Fukuzawa looked back at the window at the top of the auditorium. On the other side of the dimly lit window before the control panel was Ms. Egawa, smiling and giving a thumbs-up.
They were in this together. Accomplices.

Ms. Egawa must have given Ranpo a small wireless microphone, which was why his voice was projecting so well. From there, she waited for the right moment and used the control panel to turn on the lights just as they had planned.
“Now, join me as I unravel the mystery! I’ll be skipping over the boring synopsis of the murder, solely because it’d be boring. After all, what you sad non–skill users really want to know is what happened to the leading actor who was stabbed in the end. Allow me to explain.”
The nausea Fukuzawa had been feeling reached its climax. Ranpo was planning on unveiling the truth from atop the stage. The spectators were still buzzing, but there was a clear change in the mood now.
The audience’s focus was slowly returning to the center of the stage where the young man was apparently going to solve the mystery, despite the absurdity of an amateur boasting so openly. The decision of what to do with him could be made after he was finished talking, whether it be putting a stop to him or making a fuss.
Without anyone’s knowledge, a deep silence reigned over the crowd. It felt as if the continuation of the play was about to begin. Whether this was Ranpo’s objective or pure coincidence wasn’t clear, but Ranpo surveyed the silent crowd and confidently smirked before saying:
“Listen carefully. I heard a good bit of you in the crowd whispering that you thought an angel killed him. Sounds like your reasoning is that the timing was perfect, and it looked like he was stabbed by an invisible sword from the sky. So let me just take a moment to say this.” Ranpo paused for a moment. “There is an angel.”
A stir rippled through the crowd. Ranpo raised his hand into the air to cease the uproar.
“To back up this claim, the death threat that was sent to the theater the other day accurately predicted that an angel would kill the performer. It was clearly referring to the ‘angel’ in the play when it was written.”
The crowd started buzzing.

It was no surprise because the death threat was never made public. Fukuzawa was at his wits’ end. From the playgoers’ point of view, the fact that people knew there was going to be a murder beforehand completely changed their view of the situation.
Was it really okay to tell them that?
But Ranpo showed no concern for the audience’s worries.
“However, the angel isn’t what you’re imagining. They said it in the play. The angel was invisible to the characters in the story, but the angel could see everything they did. In other words, the angel was the audience. The audience knew almost exactly what was happening but never laid a hand on the characters onstage. It was a metaphor—it meant the angel couldn’t be the killer. If anything, the angel…was a victim.”
Ranpo paused. He surveyed the audience while waiting before he revealed the secret, as if he were trying to build suspense. Then he slowly began to walk across the stage toward the crowd. It was theatrical.
“The murder and the play’s story are connected on a deep level. This play reversed the tide of the narrative. A group of fallen angels tried to return to the heavens, but the angel of judgment tried to stop them. Meanwhile, the angel’s judgment was but a show, and the supposed victim, a human, faked it. The angel’s and humans’ roles were reversed, switching the judge and the judged. That’s the kind of play this was. And this structure isn’t any different…”
After taking in a deep breath, Ranpo continued, “It was applied to the murder itself as well.” He stuck out a finger and pointed at the front-row seats. “As you can see, there is an empty seat here.”
The audience turned their gaze toward the seat. It was where the gentleman suspect had been sitting before running away.
“The city police believe that man was the killer and are looking for him. Why? Because he disappeared right after the murder. I mean, it’s only normal to think that the true culprit ran away. But as I mentioned earlier, the narrative is in reverse. Our structures have been swapped along with the victim and killer as well. In other words—he isn’t the killer, but a victim.”
Thereupon, Ranpo quietly stared into the audience. Nobody said a word.
They got lost in what Ranpo was saying, even forgetting to breathe.
“There is a place in this closed-off theater that not even the police have searched.” Ranpo then turned his back to the audience and started to walk. “Because it’s the worst place for someone who wants to hide. For you see, there would be countless witnesses. Plus, if it isn’t someone who works in the theater, they would stick out like a sore thumb… Just like I am right now. Yes… I am talking about here.”
Ranpo walked to the very back of the stage where there was a white screen to project the backgrounds onto. Then he tore down the cloth screen without a moment of hesitation.

“The victim was here all along.”
The gentleman from earlier was tied up and unconscious on the floor. He’d probably been injected with something. Sweat ran down his pale face, and his closed eyes showed no sign of opening anytime soon. Nevertheless, it appeared he was still alive.
“This is the reverse. The killer became the victim. Now…curiosity begs us to ask who was this man, and why was he kidnapped? Of course, all we would have to do is ask the killer that. Isn’t that right, killer?” Ranpo yelled out into empty space, but nobody answered. “The audience is waiting for an answer. A murder story cannot be complete without a killer, and there’s nothing worse than an incomplete story!”
Ranpo roared. It was as if he were a performer himself. A good one, at that. Did he learn how to do this from watching today’s performance? Or… was there a reason why he had to do this?
“This story reversed the tide of narrative. The killer became the victim.
So then…what will the victim become? It’s time to bring this story to its climax. Nothing else matters at this point. This story won’t be following your script anymore!” Ranpo stomped the floor with the sole of his shoe, and the thud echoed throughout the theater. “This child of God demands you to show yourself, fallen angel! You may be able to fool them, but you cannot fool me! This is the climax! There will be no other ending to your story! Let the truth be revealed to the angel, the son of God, and the blameless people seated here!”

The echoes of his voice gradually died down until the room was overcome with perfect silence. But only for a moment, until another voice soon broke that silence.
“What a marvelous ending!”
The owner of the voice suddenly appeared onstage. Astonishment fell over the entire theater. His voice echoed with full-bodied resonance. Every part of his body was brimming with life as he moved. It was, without a doubt, the tragic hero.
“I never expected an actual skill user, the stuff of fairy tales, to show up and solve the mystery. After all that, you left me with no choice but to show myself. But how did you know? The police, that bodyguard—not even my fellow performers figured it out.”
Murakami appeared onstage as if he had come back from the dead to play a character. He smiled. Ranpo pushed up his glasses and replied, “That’s my skill. The blood was real, the weapon was real, and the surprised reactions of the bodyguard and performers were real. But nothing gets past my skill. There was never a murder to begin with.”
“How long did you know?” questioned Murakami sonorously.
“From the very beginning.” But there was no emotion attached to Ranpo’s blunt tone. “When I first met you in the dressing room, you were really pale, and extremely thirsty. That was because you had your blood drawn a little earlier. When blood leaves the body, it almost immediately begins to degrade. Plus, you would be surrounded by a bodyguard and the police, who’ve seen their fair share of blood, when you ‘died.’ That’s why you couldn’t use theatrical blood to fake anyone out. You needed to use your own, fresh blood. And the reason why you wore loose-fitting layered clothing was that it was the perfect place for hiding the blade and bags of blood.”
“I see.”
Ranpo and Murakami faced each other with the center-stage spotlight dividing them. Each stared at the other in silence.
“It would probably have been harder to fake your death without preparing the blood in advance, but you are a professional, after all. All you had to do was put on some makeup to hide your pale complexion, then let your acting do the talking. Also, this is how you faked your pulse. I found it hidden in the trash can near the service entrance.”
Ranpo pulled out a skin-colored rubber-made sheet of film from his pocket.
“It’s a piece of silicone rubber that actors use to change the shape of their body or face for a costume. I found five times this many torn up in the trash. A quick glance was all it took to see there were enough pieces to cover your wrists and around your chest and neck to make it hard to check your pulse.”
Fukuzawa thought back to the incident.
Had the actor’s skin felt odd when Fukuzawa checked his pulse? Even looking back, it was hard to tell. At the very least, he was more concerned about Murakami’s fate. Fukuzawa had paid no attention to how the actor’s skin felt after briefly touching it.
Most convincing was Murakami’s expression. Even Fukuzawa, who had witnessed many deaths before, and the actress who rushed over were fooled. One glance alone was enough to see that it was “too late.” Murakami’s acting carried complete conviction. Perhaps Fukuzawa would have figured things out as well if it weren’t for that.
Ranpo continued his sonorous speech.
“The only thing I had left to do was call the hospital you were transported to. There was an emergency patient named Tokio Murakami who died of his wounds, but when I asked what he looked like, they told me he was an old man in his sixties. You probably switched out IDs with someone who just happened to be similarly injured like you. The police would’ve figured it out soon enough.”
“I had an accomplice.” Murakami smiled.
“Figured.” Ranpo nodded as if it were obvious. “The playwright?”

“Precisely,” answered Murakami. “We planned this together. Probably at home relaxing as we speak.”
A few officers rushed out of the theater. They probably left to give orders to apprehend Murakami’s accomplice.
“The silicone padding, the hospital, the blood—there was so much evidence that you didn’t even have to go looking for it. All that’s left is a confession. That’s why”—Ranpo suddenly paused before his lips mischievously curled—“I prepared a place better suited for you than a dismal, boring interrogation room with the police. Enjoy.”
With that, Ranpo pointed into the air, and the lights went out. The theater was devoured by darkness. Without even a second to react, a thin pillar of light rained down over Murakami’s head, and Ranpo vanished into the abyss, as if Murakami were the only one left onstage. Everyone’s eyes silently focused on him.
“I…,” muttered Murakami in almost a whisper. He raised his voice and continued, “I am an actor! I become someone I am not and live a life that doesn’t exist! My job is to expose what it means to be human! It doesn’t matter if I play the lead part or a minor part. It doesn’t matter if I am a villain or hero. I become them with every part of my body! There is no other job for me! This is the only way I can live!”
The audience was captivated. Murakami, who had played and spoken as countless characters onstage, was now speaking genuinely from the heart. His sincerity was so great that the pain accompanying it was palpable. The audience couldn’t look away.
“But there is one thing that cannot be avoided while acting on the stage of life, and that is death! Death is not the opposite of life; it is life’s symbol and banner. However, it also provides a great paradox! Nobody alive has every experienced it! That’s why to me, the greatest job of all would be performing the death of a person. Not death as a device or a mere convention, but real death that I could convey to the audience. That was the pinnacle of theatrical performance to me. And this is the outcome of my toil.”
Murakami took a step toward the crowd, then yelled:
“Could you see it? Death is always hanging over our heads! Without a voice, it quietly waits for us! Theater and movies desperately try to express the idea with their structure, editing, music, and thoughtful dialogue.

However, they can never express death itself! I am the first to ever perform death! And that is something I wanted everyone who came here today to behold!”
The audience was speechless. Fukuzawa probably felt the same way.
So that was his motive… He sent out a fake death threat and got innocent people involved. He played the victim and fooled the police. He drew his own blood and created two scripts to deceive his colleagues. All this trouble he put himself through…
That was just how important this was to him? Or were performers simply born this way?
“I have no regrets,” stated Murakami. “This is the way I live. Performers do not need a stage. I will live on from the fruitful outcome of today, performing in others’ hearts until eternal rest is granted unto me.”
Silence reigned. Nobody said a word. Eventually, the police slowly climbed to the stage and handcuffed Murakami. He didn’t resist. He even seemed cheerful. It wasn’t any surprise, though. He had accomplished his goal.
“I thought you were amazing,” Ranpo suddenly said from behind as Murakami was being taken away. “I didn’t quite understand all of it myself, but I don’t think it’s something that just anyone could do. By the way, take a look at the audience. Look at their faces.”
The light from the stage dimly illuminated the crowd. It probably looked like rows of countless faces to Murakami. And everyone’s expression…was the same.
“There are people here from all ages and genders, but they have two things in common. One is that they love your troupe’s acting, which is why they came. The other is they all witnessed the moment someone was killed right before their eyes.”
Murakami stopped breathing. His eyes were glued on the audience. “You said your job was entertainment, right? But could you really call it
that…when you look at their expressions?”
For the first time, Murakami’s eyes showed a sign of weakness. “…I see.”
A small voice, unlike what one would expect from a stage actor with a powerful voice, fell from the stage.
“I was…only performing for myself.”
Broken in spirit, Murakami retired from the theater. The lights on the stage disappeared, and only silence followed. There was no drawing of the curtain or curtain call. There was no applause from the audience and no finale to end the play. Only silence.