Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Your detective games are over!”

The lead pipe made a dull, greasy thump when it struck the back of the teen detective's head. Kudou Shinichi stumbled forward a few steps before face-planting into the ground.

The big guy dressed in black spun around, shocked. “B-Bro!” he stuttered, gaping at the limp teenager whose head was leaking blood onto the grass. The skin was split open, showing the bone beneath.

The CEO turned tail and ran in terror.

Satisfied with his work, the skinny one tossed aside his improvised weapon – a metal pole pulled from a rusty guard rail.

“The kid's famous, right?” the big guy said. “Isn't there going to be a huge fuss over his death?”

The skinny one cracked a smile. “Help me riffle through his pockets. They'll think it was a robbery.”

“That's brilliant, bro-heme!”

Kudou Shinichi, meanwhile, was trying his best to play unconscious and dying. He didn't react to the hands probing his pockets, taking even the five yen coin that had probably been in his jeans' pocket through several wash cycles. Then the big one roughly kicked him in side to roll him over, forcing a small, faint groan from his lips.

“He's coming around,” the big one said, turning his attention to the front pockets. “Can we shoot him?”

The skinny one abandoned his search, reaching into one of his own inner jacket pockets. “No guns. The police are still hanging around because of that shitstorm earlier.” He pulled out a case of carefully packaged pills and a water-bottle. Shinichi watched from his barely open eyes, as the man put on a surgical glove before taking out the pill. “This is a perfect opportunity to try out the organization's new untraceable poison. Sherry's been having trouble finding human test subjects, and we can see if the police can detect the poison when they autopsy him. Then she can nab the body for dissection.”

This the teen reacted to, trying to squirm away from them. The big guy was on him right away, pinning the teen's legs with his own body-weight and immobilizing the arms with his mitt-like hands, squeezing so hard that it hurt. The skinny one grabbed a fistful of the teen's bloody hair to keep him from turning away. Not about to make it any easier for them, Shinichi clamped his mouth shut. Unfortunately, it seemed that the skinny man knew enough about anatomy, or perhaps, enough about forcing people to take poison, that he was able to push the pill into the boy's mouth behind his molars. As its encasing dissolved, his mouth began to burn, and he gave little fight to the bottled water that the man poured into him mouth through his clenched teeth. The skinny man pinched the teen's nose shut, and waited. It was either drown now or die of poisoning moments later, and he knew what his victims always ended up choosing.

Shinichi could feel the poison burning his esophagus on its way to his stomach. He retched and thrashed, but the pain told him in exquisite detail that it was too late. As though from a great distance, he heard the skinny one joke about rats squealing. The men flipped him back onto his front, shoving his face into the ground, giving him a gag of dirt and grass. Their hands left him. He convulsed and screamed into the gag, but it did little good, as his body was quickly becoming paralyzed. The burning of the poison was traveling along his major arteries, his bones... He realized then that he was dying. Really, truly dying. Mercifully, he lost consciousness at that point.

He was cold. That was probably what woke him up. Reluctantly he opened his eyes. He blinked, confused. This wasn't his bed. It wasn't covered in cold, damp grass. He was outside, but why? He gingerly lifted his aching head, scanning his surroundings. There was a strange taste in his mouth, and it felt like sand between his teeth. The rollercoaster was a dark outline against rainclouds glowing from the city-lights below. He might have found the sight beautiful, if he hadn't in that moment recalled the terror-filled minutes before he'd lost consciousness.

Frantic, he reached back to feel his head, but his hand was caught in his sleeve. He looked down at his sleeve, intending to roll it up better so he could use his arm, but there was something very, very wrong with it. His his hand wasn't caught in the sleeve, it was caught in the shoulder. Had someone changed his clothes? His eyes ran over the soggy jacket and the worn, fake-fur collar. This was his jacket, these were his clothes. Somehow, he was smaller.

But that's impossible, isn't it? As far as he knew, no one had actually invented a shrink ray. He stuck his hand through the now gigantic collar and stared at it. It was small, fragile, and chubby, like a little kid's hand. The poison though, that horrible burning sensation... it had to have been the poison. He carefully ran his hand over the back of his head, but instantly regretted it as his battered flesh gave him a sharply punctuated update on the fact that indeed, someone had split his head open with a metal pipe a few hours prior. His hand came back bloody.

He needed a doctor. He also needed to get out of these soggy, over-sized clothes. For that, he needed to get home. But, they had taken his wallet. In it was his student ID, with his home address. They might have someone watching his house in case he returned, especially if no body showed up. They had taken his phone too, so there was no way he could call anyone. That also meant that they had a list of all his friends and family members. He didn't have any money either, recalling the discovery of the five yen coin earlier.

Withdrawing his hand, he fumbled around underneath the soggy clothes, measuring his body shape to see if he was child-like or just small. To his relief, and dismay, his body was lacking the characteristics it had gained during puberty. He checked his teeth too, and found that he had a jaw full of baby teeth. He could pass as a child. Slowly, a plan formed. He could get medical treatment for his head pretty easily as a child. Everyone goes crazy when they see a hurt kid. But first, he'd have to make all traces of Kudou Shinichi disappear. That shouldn't be to hard. All he had to do was stuff his clothes in a dumpster. No one would be looking for them if there was no corpse of Kudou Shinichi to make them look, and the trash would be gone by the time anyone knew to look for him. Once he was healthy, he could find himself an abandoned building – there were plenty of empty buildings around thanks to the depressed economy – and make himself a base of operations to find and expose those two men, and whatever “organization” they'd mentioned that made poisons that killed or shrank people and that “Sheri” person who dissected corpses of teenagers they'd murdered...

He shuddered. Before he could do any of that, he needed to escape the dark, empty theme park. He climbed out of the cold, wet clothing through the neck hole, onto the frigid, muddy grass. A light breeze full of tiny droplets of drizzle on his tender, wet skin felt like he'd stumbled into a blizzard. He'd have to wear some clothing.

His T-shirt was too thin; his jacket was water-logged and far too recognizable, same with the yellow sweater. His dark-blue hoodie though, it didn't have any logos on it, and its hood would be really nice in the slowly increasing rain. After fishing it out and putting it on (it fit like a robe, the hem brushing the ground) he folded his clothes and gathered them up mournfully. He was throwing away the last pieces of his identity. Couldn't he just hide them away someplace safe? No, that was too risky. This had to be done.

There was a kouban, or police box, a block away from the themepark. Between there and here, there were at least two large dumpsters. Trash pick-up for the park was probably in the early morning hours, and daily, because of the massive amount of waste it produced.

No more time to waste. He stood up, took a moment to steady himself, as his apparent concussion was making his legs wobbly. Or maybe it was an after affect of the poison? He slowly picked his way across the themepark towards a small hole in the fence that he and Ran used to use to get in for free when they were little kids. He couldn't risk being caught on camera at the gate. The detour he took for tossing his clothing was brief, but he took care to open up a partially full trashbag that was leaning against the dumpster and stuff his clothes into it before retying it.

The rain started coming down in sheets. The hoodie hadn't been that badly soaked when he began, but now, the little protection it had to offer was against the wind alone. To make matters worse, the ground by the gap in the fence was more water than earth, forcing him to almost swim across to the fence. When he came out the other side, he was covered in mud, from head to toe, and scratches from the brambles that grew along the fence and had been submerged, invisible and waiting to cut into his tiny feet. It was a relief to make it to the concrete, even though it made his feet numb and someone had smashed a glass bottle on the ground here, he could see little shards of glass glittering in the streetlights. He tried to step around them, but he couldn't tell if he'd missed a few, because his feet were too numb to notice any new injuries.

Only a few meters more to the kouban. It was like running a long distance. Only a few more. You can make it. He could see two policemen working the night-shift. They had cups of coffee. Hot liquids would be really, really nice right now. One more step!

He leaned against the fiberglass door. The handle looked so high up, so far away. Instead, he banged his fist on the door, leaving muddy smears, then rested against the door, the child's hand – no, his hand pressed against the glass. The policemen's heads jerked up, and they spotted him right away, their faces twisting with shock. He must have been quite a sight: mud from head to toe, no shoes, wearing nothing but an adult-sized hoodie. They opened the door for him, their faces showed that they were assuming the worst.

“Boy, can you tell us your name?” asked one, doing his best impression of a preschool teacher. “Can you tell us what happened to you?”

He opened his mouth, then stopped. He hadn't come up with a backstory, he realized. He was too tired and sore to think of anything creative or plausible. As he pondered this, he realized that he hadn't responded to their questions, for about a minute. Maybe he could just not answer. That sounded like something that a traumatized little kid would do, right? That'd give him time to come up with something, once he'd had a little rest.

The one trying to question him suddenly grabbed for his chin and exclaimed, “There's even mud in his mouth! See? There's some grass caught in his teeth!” Shinichi jerked his head back, startled, as though the man has tried to strike him. The hood slipped off his head, revealing the bloody mire that was his hair.

The man's face went white. “Call an ambulance!”

They cut the hoodie off of him and wrapped him in warm blankets, grabbed towels and pressed them to his injured head, to make the injury bleed less. Out of the cold, finally warming up, he could relax. The exhaustion and pain of the ordeal, with the promise of safety, pushed him under. He slumped limp in the policeman's arms in a dead faint.

Chapter Text

The scent of harsh cleaning chemicals stung his nose. He didn't react, and let himself slowly float to the surface of consciousness. His plan must have worked, was the first coherent thought that made it through. Now what?

He opened his eyes. This was, judging by the skyline, the Haido City Hospital, and the sun was just starting to rise. That meant he'd slept two or three hours. There was a small forest of machines attached to him. That one was pulse and blood-oxygen levels, that one was piping oxygen into his nostrils, that one was on his head... for brain-waves? That one was an IV, (yikes, one for blood too) and that one... he didn't want to know. One of the machines must have alerted someone that he'd woken up, because as he blinked in the morning light, some nurses, a female doctor, a female police officer he didn't recognize, and a lady in her forties with a stern expression and a manila folder tucked under her arm all promptly entered.

The doctor spoke first. “Hey little guy! Welcome back!”

Shinichi blinked. It had been a long time since anyone had used that tone with him. “Good morning,” he answered, his voice high and hoarse.

The adults let go of their breath, as though they had been waiting for some sign that the child wasn't brain-dead.

“Do you know where you are?” the doctor asked, pulling a chair to the side of the bed.

“A hospital?” he responded, deliberately vague.

The doctor smiled at that, as though figuring out he was in a hospital was some grand achievement. “My name is Nishiyama. It's a pleasure to meet you. What is your name?”

Whoops. He didn't have an alias ready yet. His mind fell back to his usual internet alias – Doyle's Apprentice. Doyle wasn't all that pronounceable in Japanese, but the author's middle name, Conan, was easy to say. After puzzling this all out, he said, “I like the name Conan.”

The adults exchanged worried looks. “No, I'm asking for your name, young man,” Dr. Nishiyama said.

Shinichi shook his head. “Call me Conan.” Little kids could be stubborn about weird stuff, right?

“Okay, Conan...” the policewoman smiled like she was looking at a puppy. “Can you tell us your parents’ names so they can come and get you?”

He shook his head, biting back a strange cocktail of longing and fear. Even if his parents could believe he was their son and even if they wouldn't be targeted by an evil poison-making organization, they couldn't come. His mom had a guest appearance in some show, and his dad was dodging due-dates. They'd been gone for a few weeks, and weren't going to be back for at least a month.

“What about guardians? Who do you live with, and who takes care of you?”

This at least he could answer honestly. “I live by myself. No one takes care of me.”

Their faces were becoming worse and worse at concealing worry and rage. “Conan, where is your home?”

“I don't have one,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse again. Then it struck him. He really didn't have a home. Conan was a homeless, parentless child, without even a shred of clothing to his name. The cold hands of panic slipped through his damaged ribs and wrapped around his heart. He had nothing but a name that had taken all of thirty seconds to come up with. “What's going to happen to me now?” He asked, looking up at the adults.

They fidgeted, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. The older woman spoke first. “Well, you'll stay at the hospital until you are well enough to leave. Then you'll go to a children's home until a guardian for you can be found.”

He nodded. Living in an orphanage sounded unpleasant, but it wasn't as though he had any other options.

“Do you remember what happened to you last night?” the officer asked, smiling again.

He studied her critically for a moment, then attempted to roll over onto his side, only to be caught by the nurse, who said, “No no no! You don't want to do that! You bruised a rib on that side; that will hurt!” He let her readjust the pillows and angle of the bed, and re-tuck the covers.

“What did happen to me last night?” Conan asked looking down at himself. Scratches littered his arms and hands from crawling through the brambles. The little ones had been left without bandages. Through them, he could see the bruises on his arms where the fat man had restrained him. Because his body had shrunk, the bruises had shrunk too, making it look like the handprints belonged to an older child, or maybe a small woman.

“I can answer that,” the doctor said. Everything she said sounded gentle, like he was being given a hug. “Something hit you really hard on your head, so hard it broke the skin. I'm afraid we had to cut your hair so we could sew it all back together.”

Shinichi ran his hand gingerly over his scalp. It was all bandaged up, but he could feel the close-cropped hair around the bandages. He made a face. Well, at least no one would recognize him now. “How many stitches?” he asked.

“37 in total,” the doctor said through her smile, “You can brag to your friends about it when you go back to school.”

“I don't go to school,” Shinichi said. “I don't need to,” he added, observing the adults' faces. “I already know how to read, write, and count. So, I don't need to go.”

They laughed nervously.

“Was there any evidence of se-” the policewoman began, but was silenced by the expressions of the others.

“The tests came back negative,” the doctor said under her breath. They all looked relieved.

It took Shinichi a moment to process what she could possibly be referring to. When he figured it out, he almost laughed. Of course, a bloody, bruised, mostly naked little kid stumbles into a kouban in the middle of the night, that would be their first assumption. Boy he was glad that they were wrong. Really, REALLY glad.

The doctor started up again, as though to distract him from the last question. “You don't remember what happened to you?” she asked, gentle smile back in place.

He started to shake his head, but that hurt. “I don't know what happened to me,” he said.

“Do you remember going to the kouban?”

“No,” he lied.

The doctor took the other adults aside, and started speaking in hushed tones. “He has retrograde amnesia. The scans didn't show any significant brain-damage beyond a mild concussion, so it's likely dissociative. It’s my guess that he found his way to the kouban in what we call a dissociative fugue. His brain forgot what happened to him because the memories are too painful. It's really common in survivors of car accidents and violent assaults. Luckily,” she turned back to Shinichi, “it means that there likely wasn't any significant brain-damage, and your memory will continue to work like normal.”

“Okay,” he said. He'd managed to fool them. Hopefully he didn't look too relieved. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't actually eaten anything more than junkfood and poison that night, and had missed supper all together. Thankful for a distraction, he said, “I'm hungry.” Then he looked up at the adults expectantly.

“I'll go get you some breakfast,” the nurse said. “Is curry okay?”

His mouth watered, thinking of his favorite dish. “Yes please!” he said.

The nurse returned so promptly, barely thirty seconds passed, that he figured the room must be near the cafeteria. The adults filed out of the room, to leave him to his meal. Though their voices were muffled, he could hear them talking in the hallway.

“No offense, Dr. Nishiyama, but I think your diagnosis is wrong,” the policewoman said. “That kid was lying the whole time. Didn't you see him struggling to come up with an alias? And his body – all of those injuries are recent. Not to mention, streetkids have malnutrition problems, bad teeth, poorly taken care of bodies... but he's well-fed, has no cavities, his fingernails and toenails are properly trimmed. Before you cut his hair, it wasn't very long or unkempt. If he's homeless, it is very, very recent.”

“Officer Satou, you're right, but that kid is clearly in no state to answer any more questions. Whatever happened has him scared,” the older lady said. “I've seen kids lie like that before, usually in organized crime cases where the parents are afraid for their kids' lives and abandon them to get them out of the way of some mob shake down. But, looking at the kid's injuries, I'd say that something happened to his family last night. His parents or older siblings told him to lie and run to a kouban.”

“There's a problem with that theory, Mrs. Aono,” Dr. Nishiyama said, her voice much colder than it had been when talking in front of Conan, “The head injury he got was bloody, messy, and definitely would look impressive. Whoever attacked the boy probably thought they had killed him, especially if they didn't have a lot of experience with head-trauma. The injury peeled some skin off the back of his head and split his scalp, showing the skull beneath, but the skull is intact.”

Someone made a disgusted grunt. “No need to go into detail, please,” said Mrs. Aono, her voice huffy. “There's more important information that we need. How old would you say he is?”

“Somewhere between five and seven years old. A first-grader, I’d say,” the doctor replied. “That's far too young, to be so scared.”

“It's always too young,” Mrs. Aono said. She said it automatically, with a slightly rehearsed tone. “I'll put that in my file. He mentioned that he could read, write, and count, so when he's ready to be discharged, we'll put him in a children's home and start him in first-grade. Did you notice that he has blue eyes? That'll come up when I try to place him in a home. If the parents are both Japanese, they won't want a foreign kid, even a half. They'll want a kid who looks like he could be related to them.”

“Is he a half?” Officer Satou asked.

“Blue eyes are a rare recessive trait among Japanese people, like red hair is. It doesn't necessarily mean that he's a half, but it's more likely that he is only partially Japanese, or that one of his parents is a half. You'll need to know that when you're looking for his parents, right Officer Satou?”

“Correct,” the policewoman said. “It'll help narrow down the search. I'm just hoping that I'm not looking for a bunch of corpses.”

Shinichi shivered. They were getting disturbingly close to the mark with their deductions, and they hadn't been fooled by his act. At least he was a little kid, so try as they might, they couldn't make the connection to his real self. He didn't remember ever being finger-printed or having his DNA taken either. In cases he’d worked up 'til now, he'd been pretty hands-off the evidence. He usually was brought in after it had been collected.

Several pairs of high-heeled feet clacked away. That Mrs. Aono was probably a social worker. He likely was going to see more of her in the coming weeks.

A new voice joined the voices outside his door. “Hello Officer Satou! Are you assigned to this case?” It was also female.

Officer Satou answered her, “Yeah. Did they drag you out of bed too?”

“Yeah. My boss said that the one poking and prodding the little kid shouldn't be a man. I think that he actually just doesn't want to be the one to deal with a crying kid.”

There was a brief chuckle. “Well, there is some merit to it. We don't want to mess up the kid any more than he already is,” Satou said. It struck him then that everyone – the officer investigating his case, the doctor, and the social worker, they were all women. They'd been assigned to his case because a little kid would be more likely to trust a woman than a man. Especially if a man had been the one who attacked him.

“How bad is it?” the other woman said softly, right before the door.

Someone sighed loudly. “Pretty bad, but it's not a worst-case scenario. The SA tests came back negative, so that's something. He's not a crier.”

“I fucking hate cases involving kids,” the newcomer said under her breath.

“Everyone does,” Satou agreed.

The door opened, revealing a woman wearing a lab-coat, hair tightly tied back, and a broad smile. She appeared to be in her late twenties. A lab tech, Shinichi decided. She trotted over and bowed politely. “Good morning! I'm Muramoto Kairi. May I ask your name, young man?” She had good bedside manner, he had to give her that, but her hastily applied make-up didn't do a very good job of hiding the evidence of her lack of sleep.

He nodded his head in her direction in an attempt to bow back, but regretted it instantly. He was still sore all over. “Good morning, I'm Conan.”

If she was affected by his battered appearance, she didn't show it. Instead she looked at his untouched plate and asked, “Not hungry?”

He nodded, pushing the plate away.

“Too bad, it looks good,” she said, getting busy unpacking her equipment. Then she clipped his fingernails and gathered the clippings in an envelope. She used swabs of cotton to collect the last of the mud in his mouth, and gathered his DNA with another cheek-swab and his fingerprints with black ink. And lastly, she photographed his injuries. That was the worst part. The air was a little chilly in the room, and made his skin prickle when she took off the hospital gown. All of the photographs were done twice – with and without rulers to show the scale of the injuries. With every flash he was reminded – this happened. This really happened.

There were livid red and purple bruises on his upper-arms shaped like that man's hands, on the fronts of his thighs shaped like that man's shins, on the back of his neck shaped like the other man's left hand, on his right side the clear imprint of the toe of the skinny man's boot. He stopped answering the lab tech's gentle commands, grit his teeth, and focused on getting through it. Every single one of the scratches he'd suffered from the brambles was documented, as well as a cut on the bottom of his left foot from glass on the street. His head injury was the shape of a つ, and the pipe, on its downwards swing, had nicked his shoulder-blade.

The ordeal somehow exhausted him, as though he'd run for miles. He left his breakfast untouched, and curled back into a ball on his hospital bed, missing his parents for the first time in a long time.

Chapter Text

He woke to a gentle nudge from the nurse. “Conan, time to wake up!” she said with way too much pep. “It's past noon, and the nice lady is here to pick you up.” She nodded towards the door. The caseworker was standing there, a file stuffed full of paperwork clutched to her chest and two shopping bags dangling from her free hand. She tossed the bigger bag onto the bed, letting the contents spill over the covers. Second-hand clothes, it looked like, and a set of cheap, plain white underwear and socks.

“Do you need help changing?” the nurse asked.

He must have hesitated too long, because she shuffled over and spread the contents out. Two pairs of pants, two shirts, a sweater, and a black knit cap. He didn't know why he did it, but he grabbed the hat and gingerly pulled it over his bandaged head before putting on even the underwear.

“You like the hat?” the nurse giggled.

He didn't respond, and instead tore open the packaging for the underwear.

A few minutes of humiliating cooing from the nurse, and he was dressed, and she was gone. The social-worker lady was filling out paperwork, not paying attention to him. Bored, he crawled off the bed, and hobbled out of the room. The cuts on the bottoms of his feet made it slow going.

He didn't make it far. Benches lined the hallways so that people could sit and wait for their loved ones when they couldn't be in the room. He clambered with some difficulty onto the bench opposite his room's door. A discarded newspaper sat on the end of it. He pulled it to him. It was a disreputable tabloid, but the headline sent chills down his spine.

“Tokyo's First Zombie?!? - Boy Crawled Out of Own Grave”

And a picture, obviously taken in the early daylight hours from a distance, of his own muddy handprint.

Heart-hammering in his chest, he unfolded the newspaper to read the rest of the article.

“At 2:30 AM, a small boy covered in dirt wandered into the pictured kouban and collapsed. Police sources say that the evidence suggests that the boy had been beaten unconscious and buried alive in a shallow grave, but awoke and crawled out of his own grave to find help.”

Someone in the police-force was going to get reprimanded for that. Details about children involved in cases weren't supposed to be leaked. From the sounds of it, the culprit had been one of the patrolmen in the kouban. He recalled that one of them pointing out the dirt in his mouth before he passed out.

“There you are,” snapped Mrs. Aono's harsh voice from above. She rested her hand on the collapsible wheel chair before her. “Don't wander off like that.” She pointed sharply at the chair, then caught a glimpse of the newspaper he held. She snatched it out of his hands, ignoring his protests. “I need to make a phone call,” she muttered. “You better be in this chair when I get back.”

“Yes ma'am,” he said in a small voice. Someone was definitely getting in trouble for that.

The seat of the chair and the bench were roughly at the same level. Instead of climbing down and having to climb up again, he pulled the chair over by its armrest and crawled onto the chair directly. It wasn't long before Mrs. Aono was back, muttering under her breath about vultures and snakes. Without addressing him, she trundled him out of the hospital to the street, where she hailed a taxi. The taxi driver hopped out and helped her move Conan into the back seat. The chair was packed into the trunk.

He noticed that she gave the address for the local police station as their destination, but a kid shouldn't be able to recognize that. Once they'd started driving, Conan asked, “Are we going to the place I'll be staying?”

She looked down at him from under her bifocals. “We'll be stopping by the police station first, so you can give an official statement, and, it's lunchtime soon. I'll find you something to eat while you're giving your statement.”

Drowsiness, perhaps aided by the painkillers pressed on his eyelids, which he closed only a moment, and they had arrived. Not good. He needed his wits about him. The associates of the men who poisoned him likely had people in the police on their payroll, if they could observe their investigation of a death and take the corpse away to do their own experiments on it. Once there, they rolled past a set of desks -  one of the desks had a pillows comically piled high on its chair – and Mrs. Aono dropped him off in a brightly painted room, commanded him to stay put, and shuffled her way to the office of the youth division chief. Getting bored, Shinichi absorbed himself in memorizing every detail of the room. Then he closed his eyes, and recalled it.

A set of Barbie dolls had been lined up in a corner. Their hair was so ratty, it looked like they had been there for at least a decade. The back wall was almost entirely one-way glass disguised to look like a mirror. The other walls had a primary-colors mural of various jungle creatures standing around being friendly with each other. The monkey was offering the lion a banana. A creepy teddybear stared at him from across the room, its eyes strangely shiny for how old and beat up it was. Toy blocks overflowed from a plastic bin, one bright blue triangle and a yellow square that had paint so faded the wood-grain was visible. A piece of plywood, the kind used in countertops, with a hard coating that could be easily washed was arranged on the floor with a set of paper and crayons on top of it. They'd been expecting him. Why then, were they making him wait? The door was still open, and he could see the section chief’s office door from where he sat. There was a painting by the door of a lily. He could hear the voices of two women inside the office, talking about what to do about the article. The division chief must be a woman then... was the painting of the lily meant for her? It must have not offended her if she let it stay up so long that it was growing cobwebs. Maybe it was there before she got there. There were three chairs –

“Hello!” a cheerful voice interrupted his meditation.

He blinked, and turned his tired eyes at the pest.

The voice belonged to a short guy with a round, childish face... a middle schooler? Wait, a small microphone was pinned to the underside of his collar. And his hands were scarred – burn scars? And the way he leaned over, careful of his side, another recent injury. And there were the calluses of someone who spent a lot of time practicing kendou. Now that he looked at it that way – this was probably a police officer. A young one, sure, but Shinichi could see now that he must be in his twenties, as he had the broadened chest that one gains from the last growth spurts of becoming an adult. Sure some teens matured early, but the desk with the chair raised up really high with pillows confirmed his deduction.

“Are you the detective that's supposed to talk to me?” he asked, glaring.

The guy grinned. “You can tell?”

“It's obvious. You're the police officer who belongs to that chair with the pillows. Do you always pretend to be a kid when talking to kids?”

The young officer bowed briefly. “Shibata Taketora, at your service!” He finished it with a salute.

“And Conan, at yours,” he responded with as much of a bow as he could manage in the wheelchair.

Officer Shibata bent to pick up the plank of plywood. Shinichi could see his wrinkled brow in the large two-way mirror. The man balanced the plank across the armrests of his wheelchair. The officer sat down beside him, being sure to bring himself to Conan's eye-level. “Most people think that I'm a kid when they first meet me. Do you think I should change the way I introduce myself?”

“I bet most kids find you easier to talk to, because you look like one of us,” Shinichi answered. “That's why they wanted you to talk to me, right? Because I couldn't tell Officer Satou anything.” He looked down, and studied his second-hand sweatpants. They were a size too big for him, and the waist-band was rippled like a slice of well-cooked bacon from the drawstring being tied tighter than the pants were designed for. “What you did was a lie by omission. That’s often wrong, but if it means kids are more comfortable talking to you, so you can do your job better, it’s alright.”

Whatever answer the man was expecting, that wasn’t it. He took a moment, then asked, “You don’t think that I should have told you the truth right away?”

“It’s complex. Telling the truth is best most of the time, but sometimes you can’t. If lying doesn’t hurt anyone, then it’s okay.”

“How do you know your lie doesn’t hurt anyone? What if the lie hurts you? Don’t you count as someone?”

 “Sorry,” There was a mole in the police department. Telling them anything would get him killed. Shinichi pushed the makeshift desk off his chair. The crayon box broke open and scattered brightly colored crayons on the floor. “I can't tell you anything.”

The officer sighed, and said gently, “You're a bright kid. Do you know why we put people in jail?”

“To punish them?”

“No,” Officer Shibata paused, scratching the back of his head. “Well, yes, but that's not the only reason. We put people in jail so they can't hurt other people, and perhaps give them a chance to become better people. If we can't put them in jail, they might hurt more people. You don't want that, do you?”

Shinichi bit his lip and turned away. He couldn't stop his clenched fists from shaking. He agreed with every word.

“What if you didn't have to say anything – just look at pictures?” Officer Shibata asked, hopping up. He waited for Conan's weak nod before scurrying out of the room. After a few seconds he scampered back, and laid a manila envelope on Conan's lap. “Just look at these and nod if anyone or anything looks familiar.”

Conan emptied the pictures onto his lap and obeyed. The first was a picture of a little girl. She was wearing a pink cashmere sweater, had pigtails with brightly colored hair-ties, and her arms wrapped around a patient bloodhound. The next few were of some school grounds, but no crime-scene-photos. The last group were sneakily taken (none of the subjects were looking into the lenses, and the quality said they'd been snapped with a cellphone) of three suspicious-looking men in a waiting room. One had mud on his knees and his leather jacket tucked under his arm; one had mud on his shoes, covering even the laces, and a heavy wind-breaker buttoned up tight. The last man had an obnoxiously bright shirt on and gold chains on his neck, all proudly displayed with a sheepskin jacket hanging over his shoulder in some weird attempt to be cool. He recognized none of them, but, his mind was already buzzing with deductions. He glanced at Officer Shibata. If they hadn't noticed, he had to say something.

“You wanted me to look at these because this rich girl was attacked here.” He lined up the pictures as he referred to them. “The attack on her must have been similar to mine, otherwise you wouldn't be hoping that I could help, so she was probably kicked and hit with a blunt instrument, like I was. Therefore, you wanted me to single out this suspicious guy as the person who attacked us both.” He pulled out the photo of the guy wearing a jacket.

The officer gaped at him. “H-how?” he managed to stutter out.

“It's obvious. This guy covered his shoes with mud on purpose, and he's refusing to take off his jacket, even though it's hot in the room, and the other guys took off their jackets. There's probably evidence under the mud on his shoes from when he kicked her, and evidence on his arms from when he hit her.” He looked up at the man, who had gained a slight green coloring to his face, and some thinly-veiled horror in his wide eyes. Shit, instinct had gotten away from him there. “It's like the game, 'One of these things is not like the other,' get it?” he added quickly, hoping that they'd take that reasoning.

The officer swiftly packaged up all of the pictures except the one of the suspect. “Are you sure that-”

“I didn't recognize anyone or anything in those pictures,” Conan cut him off.

His frowned, but the officer didn't challenge Conan's assertion. “Well then, thank you for your insight, Conan.”

The young officer turned to exit the room, but Conan stopped him, his little fingers grasping Officer Shibata's shirtsleeve. “Is that girl alright?” he asked. The man turned his eyes down, and continued into the hallway without responding.

In the ridiculously cheerful room, he stared at his little hand, clenching and unclenching, flexing the little fingers. It felt like he was looking at someone else's hand. A woman's voice boomed from the hallway. She didn't sound like she believed him. Perhaps he should have stayed silent, but the moment that thought came up he rejected it fiercely, clenching his hand so tight he could feel his fingernails cutting into his palm.

“Conan?” The woman who'd been shouting at Officer Shibata gently grasped the wrist of the clenched hand, and with her pinky pried his fingers away from his bleeding palm. “Let's get some bandages for that, shall we?”

He relaxed his hand, and let her hold it. “I'm sorry,” he muttered. “I didn't realize that...” he struggled to finish the sentence. It just sounded stupid. He couldn't say that his body still felt like some weird video-game character's, not his own. The sharp pains in his hand felt real. His nerves reassured him as the bitter antiseptic was dabbed on the small cuts. The chief was really good at this. His hand was bandaged up before he could dwell on it any longer.

“So, about these pictures...” she began gently.

“Can I have my lunch now?” he asked.

She sighed and stood up, dusting off her knees. “Shibata!” she commanded, her voice like a drill sergeant's. It even made Shinichi jump a little. “Go down the street and pick up some lunch for us!” She turned her gaze at him, and suddenly, he felt fear rising in his chest. She was so tall, and her gaze was heavy. “Tell me how you knew who the attacker was.”

She was like every intimidating teacher rolled into one. Her voice compelled him to answer.

“I just looked at the pictures... and I saw what you wanted me to see. None of the men in the pictures were the ones that hurt me.” He turned his face towards the floor, trying to hide the panic rising in him. This woman was smart. She seemed to know that Conan didn't want someone to be punished for a crime that they weren't guilty for, and she knew that he had to admit he knew who attacked him. Not to mention that he'd just let slip that there were multiple attackers in his case. There had to be some way out of this... then he remembered the exhausting examination and documentation of his injuries.

“You're only looking for one person in that girl's case, because there's evidence of only one attacker, right? But, when I look at my injuries, there had to have been at least two people. One had fat hands, the other had bony hands. The one with skinny fingers was wearing...” he carefully undid the bandages on his neck and showed her the bruises. “...leather gloves. You can see the stitching in the seam.”

Mrs. Aono shifted her weight uncomfortably.

“This morning,” Shinichi continued, “every single injury was photographed twice, so I got to know them pretty well.” He settled back into his wheelchair and clamped his mouth shut. He watched their faces carefully.

The chief glared at him for a moment, but her brow quickly softened. “You really deduced all of that from the pictures alone?” She bit her lower lip, scrutinizing his face.

He nodded.

She sighed, and finally backed away. The medical tape screeched as some was pulled loose from its roll. “Let's rebandage that neck, shall we?”

Once she was done, she rolled Conan into the office, and she and Officer Satou made some phone calls, one eye on Conan, but otherwise leaving him to himself. Again, he set himself to memorizing the room. A crumpled piece of carbon paper was wedged between the trash-can and the wall. The way it was wedged indicated that someone had tried to throw it in, but missed the basket. There were nine chairs in all in the hallway. One had been removed to make space for his chair. It had left drag marks in the dust, and currently was sitting in front of one of the desks. The desks all were tidy, but had stacks of paper and folders piled high. He could pick out Officer Shibata’s desk easily – it was the one with three pillows piled on the chair. He rested his head on the armrest of the wheelchair, and dozed off, feeling slightly feverish. The stress was probably messing with his immune system. He didn’t wake until Officer Shibata returned with some greasy fast food, and they nudged him awake for lunch.

The food burned in his esophagus, and it didn't sit well in his stomach, nausea rising after only a few bites. He quietly set it aside and went back to dozing in his wheelchair, but he was unable to get more rest. The nausea didn’t go away. Instead it grew worse, making him break out in a cold sweat. The adults were all busy – Shibata was filling out paperwork, perched ontop of his pillows so he could reach his desktop. He would be the easiest to interrupt, Shinichi decided.

Fighting the wave of nausea making his head spin, he rolled his chair over to his desk and tried to speak. Vomit – the few mouthfuls of noodles he’d just taken and bright blobs of blood in various states of coagulation spilled out instead.  The poison burning its way into him came to mind as his stomach acids washed over his raw flesh. He must have chemical burns in his esophagus. With everything hurting so much, he hadn’t been able to differentiate the pain.

The officer leapt up cursing; his colleague called an ambulance.

He wasn’t done with the hospital yet, it seemed.

Chapter Text

‘Kay guys…
I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

So, publishing and promoting a book is a ton of work, and I just haven’t had much energy left for writing. For years. Been depressed and saddened by the world ever since Trump got elected, basically.

It’s been so long, and I still get comments on my fics. I know you guys want me to continue my fics, but at this point, it’s just been too long. The delicate threads of inspiration and drive to continue broke long ago. The most I’ve managed in years is a short story. Everything else that I’ve written has been Elvish textbook stuff – less creative, more analytical.

Anyways, I wanted to chat about the themes and things that I was going for in this story before I put the lid on it… since so many people like it, maybe someone can find inspiration in it?

In Afterlife, the main theme is the struggle to recover after something traumatic has happened, which is one of the main themes of Detective Conan, honestly. The only difference is that it’s a subtle theme in Detective Conan, and I was hitting you over the head with it. It’s simple, but a powerful theme to explore. Pity I didn’t really get a chance to go deeper, but maybe some of my readers can be inspired by this to do their own work?

Really though, one of the things that I wanted to do with this fic was to show that research really can enrich your writing. That unrealistic plot elements can detract from the story. This is something that Aoyama has realized over the years, I think. The tone of the story has changed a lot.

I also just want to see more fics where the Detective Boys are interviewed by officers trained to get testimony from children that can be used in court. In that way, this fic is a subtle memo to my fellow writers.

Oh, and I have some more material that I wrote but never got to include. (Beware, not edited, not finished)

Conan and the other children, got out of the van. They'd stopped at the gates of a western style mansion. “Remember, you're to be on your best behavior,” their sheepdog barked. “If you are good, maybe one of the guests will adopt you!” As Conan passed, she yanked off his stocking cap. “It's bad manners to wear a hat inside,” she scolded.

He felt naked without it. He whined and tried to jump up and get it back, but she lifted it above his reach.

“You'll get it back after the party is over.” She snatched his grasping hand and whirled him around, toward the door of the mansion. “Now get!”

Defeated, his head cold in the wind, he trudged into the brightly lit interior.

It was utterly miserable. Shinichi had never exactly loved parties to begin with. This party, however, was designed to make rich people feel just guilty enough to give money to the children's home, or if the mood struck them, adopt one of the orphans being paraded before them. This made Shinichi feel uncomfortably like he and the other kids were being auctioned off. Every once and a while a jewel-encrusted talon would trace the raw scar on his scalp, accompanied by cooing and melodramatic sighs.

After fending off another glittering claw, he ducked under the table where the snacks had been laid out, and slipped out of the ballroom before anyone could catch him.

The mansion was huge. It had been constructed about twenty years ago, but every effort had been made to make it look at least two hundred years old, and as though it was in the English countryside, not in Tokyo. Tapestries had been hung on the stone walls, and rich, beautifully polished oak was everywhere. It made up the stairs, the railings… truly a work of art. He wandered up the stairs, walked a few corridors full of beautiful old paintings. The paintings all showed the same family, with the same facial features. Then he saw it. The library. Shelf after shelf of neatly lined up books, eerily illuminated by the moonlight. It smelled like home, like ink on old pages. He almost wept, the feeling was so overwhelming.

He stepped in, and closed the door as softly as he could manage behind him. In a collection this impressive, there might be a Sherlock Holmes novel hanging around. He eagerly set about scanning the shelves for one. It didn't take him long. There was a whole section that was nothing but mystery novels and books about hawking, some in English, some in Japanese. Not as extensive a collection as the one back at home, but still adequate. There he found a well worn copy of “The Essential Adventures of Sherlock Holmes”. He took it over to the window and started reading under the moonlight.

He was so absorbed into the story, so glad to be far from the world and the injustices done to him, that he didn't notice that someone else had come into the room until they rested their hand on his back. Panicked, he jumped up.

“It's okay! You aren't in any trouble,” the culprit exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down. He moved into the moonlight. It was a dark-haired teenager, only a few years older than Shinichi, by the looks of it. He was dressed in a carefully tailored suit in a dull color that the dim light was unable to illuminate, so this had to be a son of one of the wealthy patrons at the party. “I was attempting to escape the party as well.” He pointed at the book at Conan's feet. “Shall we read this book together?”

Conan nodded, keeping his mouth shut, and let the teen pick up the worn book.

“Were you trying to read this?” the teen asked, running his hand over the page Conan had been on. “It's in English, not Japanese, I'm afraid.” He frowned a moment. “It's not a picture book either.” Suddenly he leaned forward, bringing his face close to Conan's. A smile cracked across his face. “You're half-Japanese, like me, aren't you?” he said in perfect British-English.

Conan stared up at him, not sure of what to do. His disguise, the identity he'd been building himself, he'd made no indication of being able to speak English to anyone.

“You don't have to be shy. I won't tell on you. This book,” he held it up, “is one of my favorites. I'd be happy to share it with you tonight.” He bowed, offering the book back to Conan. “My name is Saguru.”

He took the book, bowing as well, “Nice to meet you. I'm Conan.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you Conan. Shall we?” He pointed to an armchair with a reading lamp beside it.

Conan nodded and scurried over. He'd have to keep up his child facade, but that wasn't the end of the world. Both of his parents were half-Japanese. His dad had grown up going back and forth between the Hawai'i and Japan, and could speak English and Japanese fluently. He published novels in both languages. Shinichi's mother wasn't as good at English, having grown up in Japan, but her later career as an American movie star had forced her to become quite fluent in English as well. Both his parents switched back and forth between the languages whenever they felt like it. Talking with someone who talked like that too was nostalgic. Some small part of his mind warned him that he shouldn't let anyone get any closer to his identity, but he wanted this connection too much, and he silenced it.

The two boys settled into the comfortable chair and read the novel together. Every once and a while, Conan would point at a long word and ask what it meant, and Saguru would happily explain. A few hours slipped past them without them noticing.

Suddenly the main lights of the library turned on, blinding them. “Master Saguru!” barked an angry old lady. “You've neglected the guests! Your parents have been looking for you for over an hour...” her voice trailed off as her gaze rested on Conan. “That would be the missing child, I reckon?” She didn't wait for an answer. Instead she whipped out a walkie-talkie. “I found the kid. He was reading a book with young Master Saguru in the library.”

Saguru stood up, holding the novel behind his back, sliding the bookmark to mark their place. He dropped the novel on the chair. “Sorry I got you in trouble,” he whispered.

Together, like captured prisoners, they were marched back into the ballroom.

Saguru Searches

Saguru waited patiently while his father's secretary walked off to find her boss. His mind was occupied with the half-Japanese orphan he'd met at the charity fundraiser. There was something about the way the boy jumped up when Saguru startled him that made him feel uneasy. It'd been too fast, his eyes too wide, like an abused puppy expecting a beating. Whatever had made the kid have that response, it made Saguru's stomach sour. He had to know what was going on.

That scar on the boy's head was brand new, barely healed. It wasn't a surgical scar – those are much cleaner and smaller. That meant it was probably the result of violence, which meant there would be a police report.

As soon as the secretary was out of sight, he jumped up and entered his father's office with the key he'd lifted that morning. What he needed was access to his father's computer. A few days ago he'd been in his father's office, and he'd read the password from his father's fingers as he typed. He typed it in, and gave himself a little cheer when it worked. The rest was simple enough. He set the filter to crimes involving children ages five to seven and assault. Judging from the healing of the scar – one month had passed since the assault, so he narrowed down the time-frame to three to five weeks prior.

He took a deep breath to calm himself. Twenty three. There had been twenty three assaults on small children in those two weeks. He opened the first one – a little girl had been rendered comatose by her kidnapper, and left to die in a middle-school. At least they'd caught the bastard. The next one he opened was about a seven year old kid, beaten half to death by his own father while he was drunk. The guy had been shot by police. The third one was actually four. Four children dead. Their mother had post-partum psychosis, and she'd murdered all four of her children – the three youngest by drowning and the oldest one by crushing the kid's head with a folded up portable music stand. He'd seen a mention of that one in the news. Saguru stopped at that point and got up to walk around his father's office and practice his breathing exercises. He had expected this to be bad, but this… There weren't words for the pain this stirred inside him. He had to stay focused, compartmentalize. Distance himself from the crimes.

Thefts were so much easier than this.

After ten more files and three more pauses to collect himself, he found himself staring at a photograph of a muddy handprint. This was the Tokyo Zombie case, as it had been called by the tabloids and blogs. The victim was the right age… alias: Conan. No real name given. Holy shit. He'd met the Tokyo Zombie.

He was scrolling through lab reports on the case when the door opened and his father barged in, red-faced and panting like an angry bull.

“Saguru!” he bellowed. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

He stomped forward, and spotted the files open on his computer's laptop. Sauguru flinched. “I can expl-”

“Do you know how many privacy laws you're breaking right now?” he snarled. “I should have you arrested!”

Saguru swallowed. He hadn't thought about that. All he'd thought about was his concern and curiosity about Conan's injury.

The secretary poked her head in. “Shall I send an officer to book your son on criminal charges then?”

His father shook his head. “Thank you, but that won't be necessary. I'll handle this myself.” He turned back to Saguru. He was at least a decimeter shorter than his son, but this angry, he seemed like a two meter tall giant. “You're grounded. Granny will drop you off at school and pick you up in the afternoon. And,” he added with his eyes flashing, “no more KID heists.”

“But I can help-” Saguru protested, but his father lifted his hand, silencing him.

“I expect you to write an essay for me, explaining and listing all of the laws you broke when you came in here. I will know if you leave any out.” He held up his hand, palm upturned. “And give me my key back.”

Saguru nodded and gave it back, a heavy sigh rising in him.

“Sawamura!” he called to his secretary.

She poked her head back in.

“Call my housekeeper and tell her to come pick up this delinquent.”

“Yessir!” Her face vanished from the doorway.

He father glanced to the computer screen, scanning the file Saguru had pulled up. “What were you trying to see?” he asked.

“That's what I was trying to explain,” Saguru said as quickly as he could, before his father cut him off and threw him out of the office. “I met that kid at the Haido City Children's Home charity fundraiser, and I wanted to help him out.”

“Did he offer any new evidence?” he father asked, sliding into his desk chair.

Saguru nodded. “There was only one thing – something I don't see in the reports. He's definitely a mixed race Japanese-American.”

His father looked up, eyebrow raised. “And how do you know this?”

“His accent,” Saguru answered. “When Granny found me and him reading in the library, we were reading Sherlock Holmes' stories in English. He was reading just fine on his own. Conan has a thick American accent, therefore he's been raised at least for part of his life in the US. He probably went to school in the US too.”

His father played with his mustache, twisting the ends. “Then you will give this information to...” He paused to find the name of the officer in charge of the case. “Officer Satou. But, you will not be investigating this case. You will go straight home afterwards.”

He looked up at his son, poorly concealed concern in his eyes. “Saguru, this case probably has connections to organized crime. Leave it to the professionals.”

Saguru knew better than to protest that he'd worked organized crime cases before. This was not the time to antagonize his father.

“I’m looking for Officer Satou?”

The investigator looked up from her desk. A tall teenager was looking around the office, scanning the names on the desks. She saved and closed the file she’d been working on, keeping one eye on the young man. Despite his obvious youth – narrow shoulders, lanky limbs held together by nervous young muscle, feet several sizes too big for his body – he had confidence in his pose, as though he belonged there. She didn’t know why that feeling struck her.

“I’m Officer Satou, how can I help you?”

He paused a moment; was he surprised she was a woman? Then he smiled effortlessly, and she saw a glimpse of the handsome man he’d become. It looked familiar, but she wasn’t certain where from. “I have evidence for a case you’re working. May we go somewhere more private?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What case?”

He stepped forward and said in a barely audible whisper, “The victim goes by the name Conan.”

The pen and notepad was in her hands before he could blink. “Your name?”

“Hakuba Saguru.”

Her eyes widened. Now she knew why he looked so familiar. Even though he was obviously half-Japanese, he shared a lot of features with his father – Commissioner Hakuba. The image of his younger self being given an award was on the wall somewhere. She leaped up, beckoning. He followed without a word. She led him to an empty conference room, gathered her laptop, and closed the door. A few clicks later and she had the file pulled up again. After setting up the witness-statement entry page, she clasped her hands together and smiled.

“So, what’s the information that you have for me?” she asked.

He shifted in his chair. Was he uncomfortable? Or was the topic uncomfortable for him?

“I can tell you his nationality,” he said deliberately. “He’s Japanese-American. He speaks perfect English with a heavy American accent, probably west-coast United States, though I’m not 100% confident on that point. He was likely schooled in the US too, because he can read at a high level in English.”

She mulled this over a moment. It made sense, looking at the child’s physical features. “How do you know this?”

“He was at the benefit for the orphanage he’s staying at. He snuck off, and I found him reading a Sherlock Holmes novel in English.” He paused, chewing on his lip a moment. “I’ve consulted with the police on all kinds of cases before. I’m really good at analyzing evidence and finding things that were missed. Most recently, I’ve managed to stop Kaitou KID from escaping with his prize a few times. Could I look at the file? Since it’s been a month since the investigation started, and maybe some fresh eyes would be helpful.”

Her ire prickled at the mention of the lack of progress on the case. Usually this was what they used young Kudou for, but he hadn’t been by in weeks. “I’ll ask my sergeant,” she said finally. “Wait here while I ask.”

He nodded, and gave that practiced smile again. Something about it felt off. He was pushing his way into the investigation, and her hackles rose automatically when a non-policeman tried to involve themselves. To be on the safe side, she took her laptop with her when she left the room. She pulled into her desk, and did a quick search on the boy. As she scanned the headlines, a mess of emotions washed over her, making the color rise in her cheeks and her heart pound. If anything, this teenager, this kid had understated his skills as a detective. He’d broken dozens of cases, mostly in Europe. He’d even worked with Interpol, at the age of 16.

She returned with her laptop and a smile. “We’d be glad for your help, Mr. international detective star.”

He gave her that smile again. “May I?” He gestured toward the laptop. “I’ll only go over this with you present, and this will be informal. I’ve got midterms coming up, and my dad forbade me to get into any new investigations.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He clicked over to the lab reports, scanning until he got to the soil sample analysis of the mud in the child’s mouth and on his clothing. “The news reports said that he’d dug his way out of his own grave, but I think...” he paused to reread the report. “The soil in his mouth is artificial, used by landscapers, the kind found in lawns. The soil on his clothing is natural Tokyo clay, with trace amounts of motor oil and anti-freeze.”

“Right,” Satou said, looking at it again. “That means he was probably buried at a construction-site.”

Hakuba shook his head. “I don’t think he was buried. There’s no mud in his hair, on the top of his head, and very little of it inside the hoodie he was wearing. It says that it was a rainy night?” He started scrolling up to check.

“It was,” she answered, a bit of her curtness slipping into her voice. What was he getting at?

“I think that the soil in his mouth is from wherever he was attacked, and that he was dumped in a vacant lot, one with a lot of mud when it gets rainy. He probably got all of this mud on him when he woke up in the lot, and stumbled his way out. He may have fallen a few times, seeing as he had a concussion.”

“I see,” she said, picturing it in her mind. “So, I should have them treat it like evidence from two different crime scenes: the place he was assaulted and the place they dumped his body.” She looked up at him. “Anything else?”

He checked his pocket-watch. “No, I’m afraid that’s all I have time for. Granny is waiting for me at the car to take me home.” He stood and bowed. “Good luck, Officer Satou.”

“Likewise,” she answered, and bowed to him too.

He hurried out the door, leaving her massaging a growing headache. Now she wasn’t looking for a place with both natural clay and artificial mulch, she was looking for two different places. The number of possible places that could be the crimescene had gone up exponentially.

Anyways, I’m really sorry that I quit writing these fics. I know you wanted more.