The Next Day: Genta's Investigation

Genta woke up feeling very sick the next day. He swallowed a bottle of corner store hangover cure but it was doing little to ease his misery as he walked into the police station. He slunk down into his desk. A stack of papers waited for him but a rising commotion caught his attention.

A few desks away from his, Kubota stood over a young police cadet. She had tears in her eyes. She was nodding and giving Kubota periodic shaky "Yes, Keibu-san" responses as he spoke. He was getting louder, drawing most of the attention in the room. Kubota tossed a handful of papers to the floor. The sheets fluttered down around the two of them.

"This is the worst police report I've ever seen!" He shouted "It isn't worth the paper you wrote it on! It's worse than trash! If you don't straighten up, I'll have you written up. Do you understand me? Now, clean up this mess and do it again!" With that, Kubota turned on his heel and stalked away. The cadet kneeled and started to pick up the papers.

Genta stood from his chair and approached her. He knelt down and began to help her retrieve her papers.

"Thank you, Keiji-san," The woman said, fighting back sobs. Genta handed her a stack of papers and offered a bracing smile.

"Don't worry about him. He always treats everyone like this. I'm sure your report was just fine." Genta told her.

"Thank you, Keiji-san," She said again, clutching the papers with one hand and wiping her face with the other. The two stood. Genta despised the way Kubota threw his weight around. Sure, Genta was no stranger to making new recruit fetch him coffee or sending them on tedious calls. However, unlike Kubota, Genta knew that a strong police force was built on a strong community within the station. While a little bit of initial teasing built officers up, Kubota seemed intent on tearing them down.

"Ah! Kojima-keiji! I was looking for you. Why aren't you at your desk?" Sato was walking towards them.

"A cop can't walk around the officer anymore?" He replied, half-serious. Sato held back a smile. The new recruit looked terrified. Genta forgot that most people only considered Sato as a boss. A fierce one, at that.

"Have you gotten any more information on that special assignment I gave you?" She asked.

"I'm looking into it today," he said.

"Be sure that you do. Give me a report as soon as you have anything new." She turned to leave but Genta stopped her.

"Would we be able to get a copy of the collected surveillance?" Genta asked. Sato considered a moment.

"I'll see what I can do." She promised and left him at that. Genta bid goodbye to the new recruit. She turned a deep red before mumbling a goodbye and taking off to her own desk. Genta retrieved what he needed and headed out to look into the two most recent Vampire murders.

Genta stepped into his police car. He wondered if it were a good idea to be driving in a cruiser but since he was on the clock he didn't have much of an option. He pulled out of the station parking lot and onto the busy city streets.

The scene he was going to investigate involved a 22-year-old woman named Domen Kotone. She had been stabbed 17 times with the peculiar u-shaped weapon, consistent with the other murders. However, she had been in her room when she was murdered. The killer had broken into her apartment building and then into her home to kill her. The blood evidence also showed that she had remained alive much longer than the other victims. The coroner estimated she had been alive for as long as thirty minutes before the final wound was inflicted. She also had bruises on her wrists and ankles that indicated that she had been bound.

Genta knew the escalation was dangerous. The first victims has been frail or young, had been in isolation and the crime was committed quickly followed by the Vampire immediately fleeing. Then the areas became less isolated, the victims less vulnerable. Now he was planning ahead, being more methodical. He was getting better at what he did. Genta gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. It should never have been allowed to go this long. Someone should have caught him. The Agency should have been brought in sooner.

The traffic inched forward and eventually Genta reached the apartment building he was looking for. It was a high-rise not too far from the station. He'd been inside a few times on noise complaints and some domestic violence calls. It wasn't a terrible neighborhood. People were comfortable in their homes. Genta buzzed the door and was let in by the care taker.

The red crime scene tape still sealed the door, meaning the scene hadn't been released yet to the clean-up companies. The scene was getting old, already nearing its sixth day, and would have to be released soon but Genta had a feeling that Sato had pushed for the extension. A police officer loitered near the door, phone in hand. He called out.

"Hey! Keiji-san! How's it going?" He said affably. The man looked up from his phone and smiled. What a boring duty, Genta thought to himself.

"Hey there!" The man shook his hand heartily. "Does this mean I'm relieved?"

"Afraid not, I'm here to check the scene," Genta said.

"They've already had forensics in and out. Kubota-san's been here a few times. I can't imagine there's much left for you to look at," The man said. Genta nodded.

"When was the last time Kubota-san was here?" He asked. The cop picked up his clipboard and checked the log.

"Not for three days, according to this," He replied. Genta took the clipboard and signed himself into the crime scene. The officer took a moment to check the form. He handed Genta a facemask and a pair of disposable booties and gloves. Genta put on the protective gear and braced himself as the officer cut open the tape sealing to door shut.

The blood didn't surprise Genta the way it used to when he was a rookie. But the terrible stomach churning smell of death and decay, that still hit him every time. It took the air out of him. Even through the mask, the smell was pungent. He took a step into the room and took a moment to adjust himself.

The cast-off blood had been well documented by the forensics team. The act of swinging a weapon around left a plethora of evidence. The futon on the floor had been left, which surprised Genta. It should have been bagged and taken as evidence. Who knows what sorts of traces were left on it? It could contain hair or DNA or fibers. He made a note to send someone to come pick it up. As it lay, the middle of the futon had a deep pool of old blood where the woman had finally bled out and died.

Genta started at the doorway. It was determined that the window didn't open wide enough for anyone to enter, as the wood had swollen in the humid weather. The killer would have stood where Genta stood now. He checked his notes. The killer had entered at approximately 11:30pm that night and woke Domen. No one heard a scream and it was likely her lungs were punctured before she had the opportunity to call out for help. The lock and door handle were both intact.

Genta moved forward and examined the futon more closely. There was a phone charger plugged into the wall that ended at the pillows. She was probably on her phone when the attacker entered. There was a rectangular void in the blood near her pillows. Genta looked but didn't see the cell anywhere in the apartment. He didn't remember a phone being listed with the collected evidence. He looked away from the bed at the small television stand. The TV was old and clunky. The bookshelf contained mostly textbooks and cheap novels. The table was littered with soda cans and fast food wrappers filled the trashcan. Genta felt a cold chill. This could easily be a recreation of his own apartment. He turned his attention to the kitchen.

It didn't look like the attacker had entered this room at all. The dishes were drying on the rack, waiting to be put away. A grocery list, never to be attended, was left hanging on the fridge. A small ceramic pig rested on the back of the sink. No cell phone anywhere. He opened one of the kitchen cabinets. Rice, packaged meals, boxed dinners. He returned to the crime scene.

A small potted plant rested in the corner of the room, near the door. Some soil had been knocked onto the floor. He inspected closer. A few of the tendrils were bent. He knelt next to it and saw a small black scuff mark on the wall behind it.

"Look at that," He said to the officer. The officer peered over his shoulder. Genta lean closer and found a small black piece of plastic in the dirt of the pot.

"What's that?" The man asked. Genta only shrugged and bagged it.

He had reason to believe the phone had been thrown from the bed to where here. Someone picked it up. The killer? Why hadn't anyone tried to trace the number? He felt a twinge of anger. How did the officers on scene miss such a basic clue? He made a few notes in his own pocket notebook. He looked around the plant a little more and saw a small strange pair of scissors on the floor.

"What're those?" He asked. The handles were thick and plastic. The blades were short but pointed. The blades looked like two half circles.

"Garden snips." The officer said "For trimming plants."

"Really?" Genta said.

"Sure, hand-held ones like that are good for little houseplants or bushes." The officer said. Genta felt a nagging sensation about them. He instructed the officer to bag them as well.

"I think that's all I need right now." Genta said and bid the officer goodbye. He signed himself out of the log sheet, disposed of his protective gear, and left the officer to resealing the doorway. He waved politely to the caretaker who was now outside attending to the flower garden. Genta spotted several freshly placed shrubs and flowers and the voids were more would be placed. The air out here smelled of earth and coming rain. Genta hoped it would wash away the scent of the crime scene but knew the stink would stay on him for the rest of the day, until he took off his uniform. Death clung to him, even in the beautiful afternoon weather.

"Hope you found what you were looking for." The care taker said.

"I hope so, too. You're flowers look very nice." Genta said. The old man smiled and thanked him. Genta cut across the lawn back to his car and set off for the river, where the fresh graves of the last two victims were waiting for him.

Genta knew the river well. They had played there often as children. He remembered again Edogawa Conan and that girl, Ai. His errands at the river then were preferable to the one he was taking now. They played baseball on the banks, would dip their toes in in the summer time. Would drop in homemade fishing poles with hopes of catching the fish that wouldn't dare brave a city river.

Genta parked and started the short walk to river bank. He took the steep winding path down. The trail was muddied with dozens of footprints by now. A boot print had been found that matched the one in the train station.

The scene, thankfully, had been preserved under a waterproof tent. Like the apartment building, it was guarded by a single bored looking officer on a folding chair. He smiled and waved at Genta.

"How's it?" Genta asked.

"Not too bad. Had to chase away a few sight seers earlier but no one gave me any trouble." The officer reported. Genta, as before, signed himself in on the clipboard, suited himself with booties and gloves. Here, in front of him now, were only two gaping hole in the fertile summer soil. The graves were shallow, barely enough to cover the bodies, and dug with a standard garden shovel. The soft soil of riverbank had made that easy work. The bank was close enough to the road that transporting two bodies down the path could be easily accomplished if the suspect was fit and healthy.

Genta knelt by the smaller of the graves. The two victims were Konda Gidayu, a two year old child, and his mother, Konda Mura. She was a young single mother who was engaged to a nice man. The grave was hardly two and a half foot long. Genta felt a nausea that had nothing to do with his hangover.

The case file said the child was stabbed thirteen times and the mother was stabbed sixteen. By the time they were found here, their bodies had nearly no blood left. Which means, somewhere in the street of Beika city, was a very gruesome crime scene waiting to be stumbled upon. Genta shuddered at the thought.

The larger grave was that of the mother. It was deeper, but not by much. The murderer hadn't taken too much time to hide these bodies. He was looking to discard them as quickly as possible. But why the note to police?

The drawing was crude and childish, in ballpoint pen. Two horizontal lines were labeled "river" and two more lines named the street that ran parallel to the river at this point. There was small indication of a bridge and an arrow pointing at it labeled "1 km East" and then the two x's that indicated the victims' bodies. The map was simplistic almost to being indecipherable. This did not look to be done on purpose but out of ignorance. The characters for "river" and "bridge" were not drawn in an adult like hand, but formed more like a child would do so. The same was said for the threatening letter.

"Not much." He grunted to the officer who nodded in answer. He shed his protective gear and signed himself out of the scene.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he saw a text message from Mitsuhiko, asking for the surveillance tapes. He tapped a quick response, stating he'd already requested them from Sato. Once back in his car, he dialed Sato's number.

"Genta-kun!" She said happily. She must have been alone in her office, to address him as such.

"Sato-san, I'm just leaving the river scene now. Any luck on getting us those tapes?" He asked.

"I'll arrange a viewing for you and the other Detective Boys in about two hours, you'll have to come down here so they can be signed out of evidence and watched on the close circuit television," She told him.

"Sato-san, we're real detectives now. We work for Kudo-san. You don't have to call us the Detective Boys anymore," He said blushing.

"Oh, Genta-Kun. You'll always be the Detective Boys to me! I'll see you all in about two hours, okay?" She said. Genta agreed and hung up the phone. What an embarrassingly sentimental woman she was.