A/N: Just so everyone remembers, this is a murder mystery. Every little detail means something, and they're all going to come into play later. Of course, I might have thrown in some red herrings to throw you off … Also, I know Amon is absent from this chapter. Again, there are reasons for these things. Just bear with me.


"Sugimura?"

The police officer turned around at the sound of his name.

"Yes?"

He saw the speaker was a really young kid – not more than a couple years older than Sugimura's own son.

"Hi, I'm Haruto Sakaki, from the STN-J. I just need to get your official statement, real quick."

Sugimura had to pause to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head. This boy was with the infamous STN-J? Was that why the organization was so secretive, because they were using child labor?

"Yeah," Sugimura said slowly. "Are you old enough to be working on a murder case?"

The boy laughed.

"My boss seems to think so," he said. "Now, to go over your story …"

Dutifully, Sugimura repeated the events of that morning to the boy. He had already gone over this same series of eventsin hishead all morning, so the description was mechanical but detailed, absent of pauses or thought.

"Ok," Sakaki said when Sugimura had finished. "That's all I needed. Thanks for your cooperation."

Sugimura nodded, staring at the boy.

"Say, uh," Sugimura had to stop himself before slipping up and calling Sakaki son, "I figured, since I found the bodies and all … I could do more to help."

Sakaki shrugged.

"If we can think of anything you can do, we'll be sure to call."

"Yeah …" Sugimura said carefully. "But I do a lot of experience in police work. I was thinking –,"

"We'll call," Sakaki said, with what Sugimura thought had to be the most annoying, condescending smile imaginable. "Thanks again."

"No problem," Sugimura answered, getting into his car.

Fifteen years on the force, a shitty marriage, a boss that he hated and now life handed him this. A kid half his age was working a murder case as a detective, and probably getting paid three times his salary. A damn little kid, who should be out surfing and chasing skirts. Sugimura shook his head, starting his car. Who were these STN-J creeps, anyway? Why did they get to take a case this big away from the regular cops, guys who could use the morale boost a big case like this would bring when it was finally closed? Why couldn't he get do to something useful with his life, for once?

Shifting into a higher gear, Sugimura tried to imagine a bunch of fresh-faced, idealistic children with everything to prove and nothing to loose out solving murder mysteries, having wacky adventures. It just wasn't right, he decided.

It just wasn't right.


Doujima had been pleased to hear that the bakery where Kayoko Inada had worked was only two blocks away. She could walk the distance easily, even in her low high-heels. She set out immediately, not wanting to hang around that house for longer than necessary.

It would be hard to call the walk scenic. The neighborhood was trying to be suburban, and not quite succeeding. The poverty of these houses was like a physical presence. She could almost see a thin, shadowy figure wrapping fingers around these little desperate homes, stripping off the paint and the hope, exposing only the worst. Grass died under bony feet, cars broke under the weight of a life that wasn't asked for. Darkened windows felt bad, light was almost worse, the idea that people still went on through rent, electric bills, medical expenses.

So, Doujima thought, this was what Kayoko Inada saw every morning.

The bakery was on a street corner, small and shabby, but cheerful enough from the outside. A large, colorful sign advertised gourmet coffee and fresh, homemade pastries. Doujima pulled open the glass door and walked inside, greeted by the stores warmth and the smell of coffee, baking, sugar, comfort. The store was clean and cheerful. Behind a large glass counter two sullen, bored teenagers stood serving the morning customers, ringing up orders on the register, fetching coffee and pastries. Off to the side Doujima could spy a woman of about thirty, who was busy pouring powdered sugar over a pan of freshly baked donuts. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her body language tired and sad. It was this woman Doujima decided to start with.

"Excuse me, ma'am," she said, approaching the woman. "I'm investigating the death of Kayoko Inada. I understand she worked here. May I ask you a few questions?"

The woman looked up from her work, pained.

"I'm not the manager," she said. "But if it'll help, I'd be happy to."

She picked up a napkin and a sugared donut, and lead Doujima to one of the small tables by the windows of the shop. She placed the donut on the napkin in front of Doujima.

"Please," she said, gesturing towards the confection, "compliments of the house."

Doujima's appetite was diminished from the murder scene that morning, but she thought it would be rude not to accept the treat. When she tore off a piece and bit into it, she found it was absolutely delicious, and she was in fact hungrier than she imagined she would be.

"May I ask your name?" Doujima asked, after she was finished chewing.

"Hirono Yamashi," the woman replied. "I'm – I was Kayoko's cousin."

"I see," Doujima nodded, taking another bite. "How long did Kayoko work here?"

"Off and on, since she was probably fourteen or fifteen," Hirono answered, fiddling with the string of her apron absently. "Our family has owned this business for years, so everybody that's related to us can get a job. We all work here at some point or another."

"Was she a good employee? Did she ever have any problems?"

"She never had any problems," Hirono looked out the window now, looking everywhere but at directly at Doujima. "Kayoko was very smart, even though she didn't really do anything with her life."

"What do you mean; she didn't do anything with her life?"

Hirono sighed.

"When Kayoko was younger, she wanted to be a singer. She has – had a really beautiful voice. Of course, once Kazuo got her pregnant, she couldn't exactly have a career in show business. I think it hurt her, that she never got to live out her dream," Hirono sighed again. "But what can you do?"

Doujima nodded, killing off her donut with a big bite.

"Did Kayoko have any enemies?" she asked around the food.

"No," Hirono shook her head. "She was a really sweet person. Nobody ever fought with her or anything, except Mitsuko, her daughter. We all liked it when Kayoko was working, because she was so good at decorating cakes, it was like an art --,"

"Wait --," Doujima interrupted. "Why did Kayoko and Mitsuko fight?"

"Sorry, I suppose I was rambling," Hirono muttered, and then spoke up. "It was just because Mitsuko was getting older. She was going through a rebellious phase, and Kayoko didn't know how to handle her."

Doujima nodded.

"So … there's no reason you could think of why anyone would want to hurt Kayoko?"

Now Hirono looked Doujima in the eyes.

"No, not a single reason," she declared.

"What about the other members of her family?" Doujima asked.

"Well … Kazuo was kind of a jerk, sometimes. I guess he was a real tough guy to work with. His employees all hated him, I hear," Hirono's eyes were focusing out the window again. "I guess Kayoko didn't approve of the kids Mitsuko was hanging around with, but it didn't sound to me like they did anything bad," Hirono shrugged. "None of that seems worthy of … well, you know."

Doujima absently wiped off the table with the napkin, her other hand reaching for her purse.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Yamashi. You've been very helpful," she opened her purse. "I'll give you my card, in case you or anyone else in your family can think of anything that would help the case." Doujima handed the card to Hirono, who looked at it for a long time. "And thank you very much for the donut, it was delicious."

"Yes," said Hirono Yamashi very quietly, tears filling up her eyes. "They are good, aren't they?"


Robin found the school that Mitsuko Inada had attended drab and lifeless, the walls and floors devoid of color or cheer. The lady at the front desk had given Robin a visitor's pass, and a matronly school administrator had provided her with a list of Mitsuko's teachers. The administrator lead Robin to the classes one by one as she interviewed teachers, standing a little too close with a little too much interest in her eyes. The whole time, Robin could feel the woman's determination to defend the school, to keep up the reputation of the staff.

The first three interviews were uneventful. The teachers had not been especially close to Mitsuko Inada, and knew little of her personality. They revealed a little; she was a good student, not the best in her class, but good enough to be impressive. She had been shy, mostly, especially around her teachers, but she had a few friends that she was frequently quite talkative with. The teachers dutifully named the students she had known, pointing out that though they were rebellious and occasionally mischievous youngsters, none were really that much trouble.

Robin had nodded politely and taken down the students' names, wondering if the team would be disappointed in her if she didn't find anything useful. As she was trying to decide how she would report that her task had failed, the administrator led her into Mitsuko's fourth class, art.

The administrator pulled the frazzled-looking art teacher away from her class, hushing the protests that she had a job to do.

"Ms. Kitano," the administrator said gently. "This is Robin Sena. She's investigating the death of Mitsuko Inada."

"Oh!" the woman cried softly. "Yes, I understand." She turned to Robin. "How may I help you, dear?"

"If you could tell me about her," Robin began. "Or if you have any of her artwork I could see …"

"Yes, of course," Ms. Kitano nodded, gesturing toward the classroom, "I have a painting of hers in here, if you could just follow me."

Robin obliged with the administrator so close behind her the woman was stepping on the hem of her dress.

The classroom was slightly better than the rest of the school. Paintings adorned the wall, most amateurish and quickly executed, but some with talent shining through. It smelled of a large number of people in a small space, of paint and talent. Scattered at randomly placed work tables were students completing collages, magazines and clippings and glue crowding the tables. Some were chatting and joking as they worked, others bent close to their posters in intense concentration. Only a few looked up as Robin entered, and none seemed to care. Examining them quickly, Robin wondered if she would have been one of these children, had life gone a different way. Would she have worn glitter makeup like these girls, or focused more on boys than her assignment? Would she have fit in here, in another life?

Ms. Kitano led Robin to a large cabinet at the back of the room. She shuffled through canvases for a few moments, until she selected the one she wanted. As she pulled the canvas from the stack, Robin saw Mitsuko Inada's name scrawled on the back.

"This was her painting final from last semester," Ms. Kitano explained. "I thought it was quite well-executed, and interesting."

Robin examined the painting, her brow furrowing.

The painting was mostly a field of black. In one corner was a girl, painted in whites and grays. In the center of her chest was a large, gaping hole, done in bright red. The girl's face was plain, staring at her heart like it was supposed to be lying in a pool of blood. Next to the girl was a pool of blood, with a heart resting in the center of the pool. At the top of the canvas was a poem, done in careful calligraphy:

You ripped your heart out with safety scissors/ And the blood dripped down your chest/ Coagulating like rubies/ Sealing in the breath I held/ Deep in my chest like a dull blade/ You said you wanted to see my heart beating/ I closed my eyes, took a breath/ And pain sang in my veins/ Like a sharp knife through glass/ While we sat back and watched with quiet awe/ As our blood and mixed and dried together on the floor

Robin read the poem twice, her brow furrowing as she stared at the words, looking at the phrasing, the vocabulary, the organization.

"May I ask your interpretation?" Robin at last asked Ms. Kitano.

"Well," the woman began. "It's almost a love poem. Look at the last line. As our blood mixed and dried together on the floor. Or the imagery, the heart. Of course, she isn't talking about your usual romance, but that's the feeling I got here."

Robin nodded, her eyes scanning the canvas again.

"May I take this?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," Ms. Kitano said, nudging the painting toward Robin.

"And one more thing, Ms. Kitano?" Robin looked up.

"Yes, dear?"

"Can you tell me the name of Mitsuko's boyfriend?"


Karasuma left the neighbors house knowing not much more than she had when she walked in. The man's story had been consistent with every re-telling. He even had a good memory for details. Karasuma suspected no foul play on his part.

She had asked a little after the family. From the neighbor's description, they didn't sound like a particularly special family. Kazuo Inada had frequently had disagreements with his coworkers, but that was only to be expected, considering his fierce perfectionism. The disagreements never amounted to anything, other than a few disgruntled employees quitting. The woman and the girl had no outstanding characteristics; at least, nothing Karasuma could see that would lead to their murders.

A bit tired, she stood in the front yard of the Inada's house, wrapping her coat tight around her shivering frame. She shook, not entirely from the weather.

Amon hadn't said that she had to read the crime scene. He hadn't said it – but he'd want her to.

The thought brought back memories, things that Karasuma usually only thought about late at night.

-- Wild eyes peered out of a corner, piercing through Karasuma's flashlight beam. They were glassy and red-rimmed. The face around it was crossed with scratches. The hair that framed it was dirty and ripped out in clumps. Hands shook, held out in the air like diseased things.

"I see things," rasped a voice. "I see things I don't want to --,"

They hadn't let that voice speak for long. They drugged the suspect, dragged him away for the Factory to collect. They gave her sympathetic looks, but they didn't say –

He had the same power.

-- There were other times:

The girl that had been raped and killed, parts of her body divided up between sticky black trash bags and thrown in the trunk of her murderer's car, the mutilated skin of her tiny body screaming out, remembering pain long after she was dead …

There were times when she felt the killers, the ones who loved the sensation of flesh and bone parting, of blood pouring in a rush over their hands. She felt their desire, love, insanity, and their need for this blood-drenched ambiance … how human they felt, how human they were …

She learned sorrow through blood-stains on sheets; she learned anger from the crimson on the walls, fear through razors, relief in gravestones. She felt it all, including her own sadness when it all became a blur, all the emotions contained in a splatter of blood on white skin …

Karasuma didn't want to go in that house again. She felt enough of the atmosphere the first time, tickling her fingers, teasing her to come out and lose her mind to blood. She could. Any day, any time, her power could overwhelm her, take her mind away from her.

The body parts had been cleared away. That was a relief. Touching flesh was always strongest, and Karasuma had learned that with these types of cases, it was always a bad idea. It was better to stick with bloodstains – although they too could be overpowering.

She knelt down, her knee resting on the clean tile of the kitchen. The gore had been contained to the living room, which lay out in front of her like the aftermath of a diorama of a horror novel. It felt safer being mostly in the kitchen.

Cautiously, Karasuma lowered her hand to the floor, still tacky with coagulating blood.

It was Mitsuko Inada's blood she touched, Mitsuko Inada's dead eyes she saw through.

There was surprise there, and a lot of fear. She felt the girl thinking about a boy, loving him, wanting his protection. Then she felt just fear, a primitive, all-encompassing need to escape, to flee. She felt the girl's horror that she couldn't get away fast enough. She felt some invisible barrier, something Mitsuko's hands clawed at. She felt pain, fingernails peeling back, fingers twisting in horrible angles. She felt slices of pain, being ripped apart ….

Karasuma jerked her hand back, staring at her rust-coated palm.

No clue. Just fear.

Slowly, she rose, moved to the kitchen sink to wash her hand off. Even though she couldn't see the traces of blood swirling down into the drain, she could feel it.

She knew what color she would dream in.