Prosecutor Edgeworth began around-the-clock surveillance on Phoenix Wright by the next morning. He knew it was hardly practical to have surveillance on such an infrequent criminal, but justified the expense with the certainty of the detectives' report identification and by the extreme nature of the case.
Your Honor, this man is a serial murderer, who I will most likely be indicting on 23 counts of aggravated first-degree homicide, he'd said that past evening as he got his warrant. I do not wish for that number to climb to 24.
This morning, he was back behind his desk, looking through the detectives' files again. He was trying to review the past cases to find new connections, but his eyes kept drifting to the information file on Phoenix Wright. What's wrong with you? he admonished himself mentally. You are here to do your job. He is a stranger to you. A stranger.
To punish himself, he forced his attention through a review of all the materials but Wright's profile. Once he'd started, it went smoothly—Prosecutor Edgeworth's powers of will and focus were unrivaled in the D.A.'s office. Throughout his review, he received updates from the surveillance team through short, secure emails.
S is going to work.
S is going to lunch at the café on 24th and West, accompanied by supervisor.
S has returned to work.
S is leaving work and taking a different bus than this morning. Will update.
S took the bus to UCLA and is walking onto campus. Will update.
S is meeting with known associate Butz. Will update.
Edgeworth took the stab of recognition he felt without blinking. It was 7 p.m., and he'd been reviewing the case since he'd sat down at 8 a.m.. Now, it was time to look through Wright's—the suspect's—information file. But first, he cleaned up the Chinese takeout he'd ordered for dinner and took it out into the hallway to throw away. The 12th floor was as silent and still at 7 as it was at 3 in the morning. He looked up and down the hallway, then went into the bathroom to wash his hands.
When he was done, he straightened up and looked at himself in the glossy mirror. His gaze darted away from its own reflection to his hair, which he neatened, and his jabot, which he tugged into place. He brushed off his jacket sleeves, and looked at himself in the mirror again.
Yes, that's it.
He returned to yet another email back at his desk. It read, S and Butz have entered a nearby bar.
Edgeworth scooped up the information file and settled back with a sigh. Drinking at a college bar on a Friday night? How childish.
He took in each detail carefully, evaluating himself for any reaction and storing the facts impartially in his memory once they had passed inspection. Yet he allowed himself a chuckle of disbelief when he read OCCUPATION: LAW STUDENT. Good luck with that after I'm through with you.
/
Prosecutor Edgeworth's surveillance paid off. He got the call from Detective Gumshoe three months after starting, on a rainy January afternoon.
"Boss," he said from across the valley near Griffith Park. "The suspect's been following this guy in a car for hours, on a bike no less. What should we do?"
"Stay close," Edgeworth responded at once. "I have a feeling he's chosen his next victim. And, Detective…" he trailed off, attempting to evaluate the reason he would utter his next words. Curiosity, most likely.
"Yes?"
"Keep me updated on the situation. I'm going to take a squad car out to witness the arrest." Edgeworth stood, and began cleaning up the surveillance notes from the past three months on his desk.
"Boss! Are you sure you—"
"I'll see you in about 30 minutes, Detective Gumshoe," he said, and hung up. He stacked the surveillance notes on Phoenix Wright—the suspect—in chronological order. The suspect's life was a metaphorical merry-go-round of innocuous, inane activity—work, lunch, home, shopping, the weekly visit with his friend, work. In three months, he hadn't done anything more wild or expensive than visit Chinatown with his only friend.
The suspect was leading a normal, if lonely, life, and yet it was probable that he had killed 23 people for no reason at all. Something doesn't add up. I need as much information as I can get, and regrettably, that includes information from the suspect.
Careful, Edgeworth, he heard in his mentor's voice. His neck and shoulders tensed, drawing him to stand up straight. If you let this slip from your control even a little, there will be hell to pay. Don't disgrace yourself.
Prosecutor Edgeworth put on his black wool coat, and called dispatch.
/
Thirty minutes later, Prosecutor Edgeworth was climbing out of the patrol car and into a damp, misty rain on Western Canyon Road.
"I have some bad news and some good news, boss," Gumshoe said as Edgeworth approached.
The prosecutor fixed him with a glare strong enough to make the other man look away. "What?"
"The—um, I'll start with the bad news." Detective Gumshoe swallowed tightly. "The surveillance spooked him. He noticed us, and went off course. I had to call off most of the team, or we could have lost him."
Edgeworth felt his fists tighten in his coat pockets. "You didn't think it necessary to clear this maneuver with me first?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't have a choice. Uh, however, I only cut the team down to four, and sent the others to possible points of egress. That's four now, including you and me, sir."
Knowing well and rationally that his frustration was pointless at this stage, Edgeworth stared at the dim afternoon sky gathering around them. "And the good news?"
"These." Edgeworth turned back, and saw Gumshoe holding out a police-issue flashlight, a collapsed baton, a pistol, and a police-issue radio. Gumshoe smiled nervously. "You're going to be safe with me, sir."
"Evidently," he snapped, and took three of the objects while eyeing the Glock distastefully. "That won't be necessary for me, Detective, thank you. I don't want to accidentally shoot—" His teeth clamped around the end of that sentence and his mind went blank with violent, blissful ease.
Gumshoe didn't seem to notice, and holstered the gun next to his own. "Good thinking, sir."
"Yes," he mumbled, distracting himself by familiarizing himself with the flashlight. "Now then, were you going to brief me on the situation anytime soon?"
The detective updated him on the past 15 minutes as they walked up the road. The suspect had followed the driver of the car up Western Canyon Road. When the driver had reached a campsite, the suspect had dismounted his bike and, according to the officer, stared straight at her through her cover. He'd then turned and began walking into the trees, off the path, deliberately sidestepping another officer's cover as he went. Gumshoe had made the decision then, reducing the team to three, and recalling the other two to the campsite, betting that Wright would return to the potential victim. And he had been right.
They fell silent as they climbed a steep, low hill overlooking the campsite. Gumshoe knelt down on the damp ground, and Edgeworth followed suit. Quietly, the detective radioed in, and although he couldn't make out their coded statements, the prosecutor heard two equally quiet and calm responses. Then, almost as if on cue, he saw a small movement in the corner of his eye. A composed voice spoke over the radio.
"They've got eyes on, sir," Gumshoe said, and pulled a pair of binoculars from his coat to look. With a flicker of his eyes, Edgeworth followed the sight of the binoculars to the area he'd seen the movement.
"I see him," said the prosecutor, voice low. He held out his left hand for the binoculars, and when he got them, looked through the brush on the hill crest before him. There in the fading light was Phoenix Wright's face, drawn, and alert.
Detective Gumshoe accepted the binoculars when he handed them back. "What do you think, sir?"
That face… Edgeworth's fingers creaked in their fists. "Wait. But close in, if possible." His eyes swept the campsite as Gumshoe relayed the order. The victim's car was parked and silent. Its trunk was open, and a cooler sat on the wet dirt next to a half-removed tent. The driver of the car was nowhere to be seen.
"The driver?" Edgeworth prompted.
"Missing since Wright went off course," Gumshoe answered. "He went in the opposite direction, to the flush toilets, but hasn't returned for…" he checked the time on his radio, "…thirty-six minutes."
"I see."
The two fell silent, watching the empty campground, motionless but for slight waves in the damp air. The prosecutor could see the movement of Gumshoe's face, scanning regularly, from the edge of his vision, but Edgeworth's attention was focused on Wright. The suspect stood with hands in the pockets of his blue windbreaker, and completely still. Can it be that this is the same person I knew as a child? The same old friend? The baton in his lap pressed hard against his ribs. This man will be arrested under my authority tonight, regardless of his violence. And once he's in custody… When I can question him, I—
"Sir, the driver is returning," Gumshoe said, soft and urgent. "What should we do?"
Edgeworth raised the radio and spoke into it. "This is the prosecuting attorney. I am aware that I do not have direct authority to give you orders, but this is my request. If the suspect threatens the driver at all, I request that you incapacitate him, but no more." The other team members radioed their agreement, and beside him, Gumshoe nodded. Then, the driver reached the center of the campsite. Edgeworth could see the whites of his eyes. He's terrified. He knows—
Immediately, Wright—the suspect—moved from his hiding place and toward the driver. The driver spun, saw him coming, and froze in place. Wright drew his left hand from his jacket pocket. There was nothing in it, but he advanced all the same.
Edgeworth raised the radio to his face again and stood, drawing breath to give the order, but it was too late. As Wright's hand overstretched the man's head, a pistol shot broke the silence. A bullet tore across Wright's shoulder and he cried out, turned toward the shooter—
Edgeworth threw an arm around Gumshoe's neck and forced his head down, shielding both their eyes from the searing explosion that followed. He could see the light, pink through his eyelids, and feel the heat wash over his exposed head and neck. It only took a moment for Detective Gumshoe's instincts to take over, and he handily got the prosecutor down low to the ground and shielded him with his body. Edgeworth struggled out from under his protective shoulders-Gumshoe might have been saying something, he couldn't hear anything—and looked down into the campsite.
Phoenix Wright stood there at the center, arms clutched around himself, looking about for the shooter, unburned, and a mound of ash at his feet.
Prosecutor Edgeworth climbed to the other side of the hill crest, though he wasn't sure why. He felt Detective Gumshoe's strong hands try to take his shoulders, and without turning ducked out from under them to step closer to Wright. The man in the clearing noticed the motion, and looked up to him.
Wright's expression was one of terrified bewilderment and horror. It stunned Miles in his place—until Wright turned and ran.
Edgeworth's body responded faster than his mind. He skidded down the damp hillside and tore across the campsite into the trees. Far ahead of him, but not too far to catch, Wright sprinted recklessly though the dim wilderness. His shoulder doesn't seem to be bothering him, his brain offered as he followed. His left hand gripped the flashlight, but he didn't turn it on yet. Something, an absolute assuredness that forced his attention forward, kept his arms pumping and feet flying through the messy underbrush. In fits and starts, Edgeworth began to close the distance.
As his hearing returned, Edgeworth could hear Gumshoe crashing along behind. The detective tried to come up beside him but the trees and bushes were too close together. Dimly, Edgeworth saw a clearing coming up ahead, and reached deep for a burst of power to overtake Wright before he could gain too much speed.
Once Wright burst into the clearing, he turned so sharply left along its edge that Edgeworth's head ached sympathetically. Wright ran—and disappeared.
Edgeworth began to slow, lungs and throat burning, but Gumshoe charged past. "I'll find him!" the detective shouted, following along the trajectory Wright would have continued on.
Too out of breath to respond, Edgeworth focused on his cool down breathing routine which he used after workouts. He scanned the clearing and its silent periphery.
A certainty precipitated in the heavy air. He's hiding somewhere.
Edgeworth breathed as deeply and silently as possible, and advanced along the clearing's edge to the spot Wright had disappeared from. His footfalls were muffled by the wet earth. Once he reached the edge of the trees, he stopped, standing still once again, and looked among the bushes. Seeing nothing—yet—he studied the ground for any irregularity.
There? It was a smear in the otherwise undisturbed distribution of January's dead leaves and grass. Edgeworth looked up from it into the trees beyond, and very small in his temporarily traumatized hearing, he could make out frantic, gasping breaths. He looked closer.
Wright was there watching him, and when he saw him look up, turned again and darted into the brush. Edgeworth could see how desperately he was running now. Not this time, Edgeworth realized, taking off after him again.
And it didn't take long. Once moment he was running, and the next Wright had fallen to the ground with a terrible thud. Edgeworth caught up to him, moderately winded, as Wright tried to scramble up.
"Stay right there!" Prosecutor Edgeworth shouted in a harsh, entirely too loud voice he didn't recognize. Wright obeyed, adjusting slowly to sit up, and raising his bloodied and shaking hands as he did.
Edgeworth checked him over for weapons like he'd seen Gumshoe do countless times before, and found nothing. The stench of a fire pit clung to Wright's clothes, and a scrape on his cheek under his eye was already bleeding. Edgeworth crouched down to eye level to look at his face and turned on his flashlight. Wright stared back, eyes bright and unfocused and the same brown from their childhood. His breath wheezed in the air between them. For a handful of moments, Wright tried to focus on Edgeworth's face and struggled to breathe.
"Are you Phoenix Wright?" Edgeworth asked, his voice taut.
Wright nodded, slowly lowering his hands. Edgeworth let him. They braced against the damp earth, fingers splayed and digging into the ground in a way Miles had done many times himself. He's dizzy.
"What were you doing at the campsite?"
"I—I was—I ne—" Wright pressed out the syllables between his gasping breaths. Blood dripped steadily from his face onto his windbreaker. "I'm n—"
"For God's sake," Edgeworth snapped. "Take deep breaths. Breathe deeper. Slowly."
Wright did, gulping lungfuls of air, staring up at Edgeworth as his eyes came slowly to focus. Edgeworth couldn't seem to look away.
Wright had of course changed over the last 20 years, but the person Edgeworth had known remained utterly recognizable, even now in the dark dusk, bloodied and dirty from his encounter with the wilderness floor. He watched the panic in those brown eyes form into more rational fear as Wright's grasp of the situation returned.
When Wright could finally breathe again, Edgeworth shifted from his crouch to kneel across from him, pointing the flashlight in between them. Wright stared blurrily at him, studying his face just as Edgeworth had done to him. Edgeworth's mind worked despite its blankness, trying to think of something to say. Eventually, Wright looked away and down as his own right hand. He began to lift his hand to touch the cut on his opposite cheek.
Edgeworth slapped his hand away with a sudden viciousness. Wright gasped in pain. "Keep your hands on the ground from now on," the prosecutor ordered, finally breaking the silence. He began to pull the radio from his coat pocket, but kept the light trained on Wright and watched him. The other man's eyes wandered up along Edgeworth's coat to his suit beneath, to the flashlight clenched in his pale hand and the radio in the other, along the collar of his coat and his face, and finally to his eyes once more.
"I recognize you now. I know you," Wright said, voice buckling in his torn up throat but his eyes burning with a clarity that made Edgeworth's mouth go dry. Wright said, "I am going to give you another life."