A wealth of info and much implications. There's a slightly different tone, but only because I really get into the grit of Shikaku's character. With this chapter, Shikaku's resolve should be firmly established, along with his character/personality.
No gore this time...even though I miss it like a second arm. The 'truth' about the copycat comes to light. My darling Nara's going to throw you all for a loop.
"...It reeks of his M.O.. Check it, the linked cases a decade ago."
"What, again? To the same damn kid? What's so special about him?"
"I think we're all getting tired of hearing the kid's name." A pause. "Hey. Nara, you lazy bastard. Stop sleeping. I know you're awake."
"...mmphuh..."
"Nara. Get your ass over here, we've got a copycat on our hands."
"Is that guy...really my superior?"
"The department only sends us the best." A roll of the eyes. "This division alone is swamped with nutcases. Send crazies to deal with crazy murderers, they say. You're new here, but don't underestimate Nara Shikaku if he'll get off his lazy fucking ass."
No response.
An exasperated sigh. "Anyways, we're dealing with a copycat of Akasuna no Sasori, Sasori of the Red Sands."
"Why a copycat? Why not the real thing?
"When you were transferred here, didn't you read the files? Sasori must be well in his forties by now, and he hasn't popped up within the last ten years. And now all of the sudden this shit happens?" A shake of the head. "When the Yamanakas got a hold of the boy, I thought I wouldn't have to deal with Sasori's shit again. Boy adopted, killer gone. Now? Now it looks like I have to—"
"Did you say," a deceptively mild voice says, "Yamanaka?"
"Oh. So you're up. Wait, you know the Yamanaka kid?"
"The boy, no." Shikaku slowly stands from his seat, expression oddly blank. "...Who did you say he was?"
"I didn't." Shikaku's partner flipped through some papers, their subordinate standing awkwardly by. "Eh, Yamanaka Deidara, seventeen, made ward-of-the-state when he was seven until his legal adoption at eight by Yamanaka Inoichi, thirty-eight, who was slated to take in the kid anyway by the father's will. Father died back in '87, the mother at '88. The latter's killer is not confirmed officially. Unofficially, Sasori of the Red Sands got to them both—"
"The mother was not an artist."
"Excuse me?"
"Akasuna no Sasori," Shikaku says slowly, "did not choose his victims unless they had artistic ability."
"...Shikaku," his partner says. "That homicide was right up Sasori's alley. There couldn't have been anyone else."
"Wrong." Shikaku deftly snatches the files from the other man. "...It says here that paintings of Sasori were confiscated eleven years ago. What did the paintings look like? 'A man with the appearance of someone in his tentative late teenage years, possibly early adult. The artwork displays a youthful face without stubble, leading evidence to the former'....Does that sound like a man in his thirties to you? At the time of the father's death?"
"The painter was biased in his perception," his partner argues. "We can't treat the paintings as real evidence because of the nature of the relationship the painter had with Sasori."
"True," Shikaku says softly, "we can't use the paintings officially, but we can't discount the other victims. You know very well another man had drawn Sasori very much the same way in '83. The subject was much younger, obviously, but it was still Sasori."
A twitch, but that is all; Shikaku marvels at the man's cool. His partner goes on. "So all we can rely on is a morbid timeline of artwork?"
"To place his age? It's a start, but I wouldn't trust any old paintings either. It's not important to figure out the mystery of his age anyway."
"Then, why...?"
"The copycat theory you mentioned. Have you ever thought about the possibility of Sasori having had a partner?"
"..."
Shikaku slowly shakes his head. "This Deidara encountered the real Sasori face-to-face in '87 at the scene of his father's death. Sasori was notorious for his ability of disguise. Why do you think he was so good at infiltrating his victims' households and gaining their confidences within years? Intelligent, amoral, and obviously charismatic. There was a kind of...artistry to his kills."
"Captain!"
"..." In contrast to the newbie's shout, Shikaku's partner says nothing at all. He listens to the Nara, stone-faced. Stoically.
The air is suddenly tense.
Shikaku frowns, rubbing at a throbbing temple. "Anyway," he says, "Sasori didn't bother to discredit his own homicides. He didn't leave a calling card, but he made it pretty plain what killed who, where. Why come back to kill the mother? To finish the job? What job? In his mind, the job was already complete. Killing the mother had no point to him, no merit. It was the same with the kid."
"Are you saying that Sasori, the real one, is not alive?"
"In all honesty? I haven't the fucking clue." Shikaku yawns wide, missing the flash in his partner's eyes. "I don't even know if this copycat killer is the one in the same as Sasori's supposed partner or if Sasori even had a partner at all. However, it would explain why Sasori wasn't portrayed as an old man in the paintings from a decade ago; his partner must have been training him as his protégé."
He feels rather than sees his partner's shock. The bespectacled man gathers his cool remarkably well after being thrown that bombshell, but Shikaku notes the hands his partner has placed in his pockets. Deceptively casual, deceptively slow, but it may as well as be a shove for all the tension running through his partner's arms.
It would've fooled anyone else, but Shikaku is anyone but anyone else.
He goes carelessly on, lazily watching his partner. "This damn M.O. has been going on even when Sasori should've been a kid. Could a kid kill like that, honestly? Makes sense if the little psycho was being taught by the elder psycho, doesn't it? Ultimately, if you think about it...Sasori may have been the copycat this whole time, with our present copycat being the real thing."
How disappointing. He's given his partner too much time and now that perfect emotional fortress is complete; Shikaku's latest speculation doesn't even faze the man
He speaks after a pause, that bespectacled man. "Something doesn't add up. What was the partner's motive for killing the mother?"
Shikaku shrugs, shooing the newbie out of the room. He is already bored with the conversation, tired of hearing himself speak. "Poontang?"
"Nara. Be serious."
"I am serious." Shikaku sighs, reluctantly biting out each word. "So serious, in fact, I've already taken control of this whole investigation."
Shikaku sees the fortress crack. "Nara, you can't...!"
"I don't think you understand, Yakushi." He turns surprisingly cold, apathetic eyes onto his partner. "I was sent back over here for a reason, not to be wasted on minor crap. Much as I would love to get my ass out of this troublesome case, it was deemed that with your personal involvement with a victim, you can no longer make objective decisions as a leader. Do you understand?"
Shikaku sees the moment the fortress is forged anew.
Kabuto's face has gone utterly blank.
"Do you understand?"
"Per...fectly. Sir."
Shikaku shakes his head, pulling out a cigarette pack. "You're not my subordinate, Yakushi, but neither are you my partner." He thumbs it open, then shoves it away. "Not until this mess is over."
In his pockets, Kabuto's hands clench into sudden fists. His voice is wrought with tension. "The bastard killed my mother, Nara. I want him dead."
"No. We may not even be dealing with the real Sasori in the first place. Killing a copycat or a potential partner is not going to bring back your father, Officer Yakushi."
"Deidara survived. Three fucking times."
"And suffers for it. Don't begrudge him for having the same thing as you did—an adoptive parent. Now, his is dead. How will you respond? Your place on this team is already suspended, but if you do anything troublesome your position will be jeopardized. They'll pull you out of this department entirely."
"I don't sympathize with the kid."
"Good. Don't. Any more involvement and someone high up will go anal retentive on us. You've seen the shit Danzou can pull." At Kabuto's closed expression, Shikaku slaps himself on the head and scratches at his hair. "Che...you can stop with the attitude now, Yakushi. You're a goddamn profiler. Give me some of that professionalism. Like it or not, I'm stuck with you until this whole mess is canned and dumped."
Kabuto sighs, glaring at nothing in particular. "Aren't I kicked off the team?"
Shikaku's lazy, slow grin is feral. "Not unless the team leader sees that you're unfit for the job. They can't do anything to my kiddies without my go ahead."
Unwittingly, Kabuto smiles. "You mean, they can't afford to piss you off."
"Or lose me. Hhm, yeah, that pretty much sums up everything...oh. Right. Are you unfit for the job, Yakushi?"
Kabuto is grinning now. "Fuck no, sir."
"Hope that's in the positive because your shitty grammars implies differently."
"Same to you, sir."
Shikaku coughs, fumbling for a cigarette. "Just call me by name, moron."
--
When Shikaku first learns of an artist's death eleven years ago, he admits he'd been the first one to say 'I told you so' to any passerby who'd listen.
It's not that he has a callous outlook on life, a jaded lifestyle full of hate, or any sort of that nasty business. Nara Shikaku thinks he has a rather healthy respect for life, actually.
He'd gone and impregnated his wife, hasn't he?
And because he has such a healthy respect for life, he realizes quickly to stay out of her way without letting the wife catch onto the fact that he is treating her like a pariah. Of course.
But it's true, he argues. Who else but a man with a healthy respect for life would value his own oh so very much? And during a woman's pregnancy? He has self-preservation instincts, doesn't he? He just exercises them more often than most people.
Most people are shitty idiots who don't deserve his respect anyway. The more they die off, the less stupidity in the world. And the world needs less stupidity, Shikaku thinks. Life is too short without it coming and screwing things over.
Take Yamanaka Inoichi for instance. Great guy. Great friend—well, fuck it, the best damn pal in the whole of the goddamn universe. Does that make the man a smart man? No, it does not.
Too kind, too gentle, too...well, this Nara has just seen already too much of the world to be a philanthropist in any way, shape, or manner. Inoichi is like that cotton candy. You really want to eat it, a lot...maybe even the whole damn thing, but is it good for you? Not in the long run: it'll rot your teeth.
Thinking like this doesn't make him cruel, angry. Crazy. It just means that his humor is darker than most, his language coarser than most, his attitude lazier than most...the list goes on.
Because when a man has seen too much of the damn world, enough to be sick of walking out that front door, Shikaku figures he has a right to be lazy. Bemoaning the troublesome aspects of life, flitting about his peers, mocking them with his easygoing attitude...what amazes him is that they actually believe all of that. This farce. They don't bother to see underneath the underneath—when they look at him, they believe his farce. This stupidity abound in his workplace frustrates him.
Because Shikaku is not a damn lazy sonuvabitch: he's damn scared.
He's scared that he'll have to bury his wife someday or that she'll have to bury him. Either one of them has to happen, and he doubts she will commit suicide with him. A lover's finest death, but Yoshino isn't so melodramatic.
He's also scared whenever he thinks about what the world will throw at his hapless son, all the shitty crap and tumbles Shikaku doesn't want to wish on anyone's brat. He's scared shitless, he is. Too many alternatives, too many variables...there just isn't one math algorithm to trap the confines of the world to, no magic solution to all of life's aches and pains.
So, yes, Shikaku is afraid. He's frightened by the possibilities he can't bear to see play out before his eyes.
Is it such taboo to laugh at the long ago dead? Because Shikaku wants to do that, badly, when he thinks of the events of eleven years ago. He wants to laugh hysterically, uncontrollably because he's a regular Cassandra, he is, a regular cheap mystic psychic to have foreseen what everyone has closed their eyes to.
Eleven years ago when Shikaku had less standing, less power, and a hell lot more idealism, his intelligence was a goddamn curse. What was the use of being born a genius if he couldn't even use his intellect for good? To save lives? When no one would believe him, even laughed at him? Mocked him? What good was it to have the passion—compassion—for anybody when all they did was spit back into your face?
Of course things have changed within the last decade. People actually listento Shikaku now. They are terrified of losing his opinions. But a Nara never forgets, much less this one.
Shikaku is a vindictive bastard; he doesn't forget. His intellect doesn't afford him to.
So when rumors creep past the grape vine and entwine the man in old suspicions and thoughts, Shikaku ignores them. Rumors are rumors with only a shred of credibility. Might as well lay back, sunbathe, and raise that tinkling glass of wine until the higher ups comes to him.
And so they do. Shikaku doesn't even needed to lift one finger of effort to catch their attention. The moment the old bastard Sasori rises from whatever hellhole he's buried himself in, I'm your man, he thinks. I'm that old fucking Conscience that says, "Hey, wasn't he the guy who could have saved all of those goddamn high profile lives...?"
Politics, politics; Shikaku once was a slave to its tune, dancing to the amusement of his superiors. Now he's the one in control. He's the puppeteer—at long last.
Only to find the job infinitely tired. Machinations and manipulations are just ridiculously hard to maintain, he finds, and not anywhere near worth the effort. Sure, the results are most likely going to be spectacular and provide rich opportunity to flash a whole of shit eating grins, but it's just too much work.
Why orchestrate the entire operations from behind in a egotistical need to vindicate your ability when you have to juggle everything in the dark?
Why the need to be a control freak when you can just...give the players a little push?
Watch 'em roll, the snowballing bastards. Butterfly and Domino Effects behold.
So instead of chasing after troublesome rumors like a foolish baboon—like everybody seems to be doing, headless chicken routine and all—Shikaku sits back and watches the flames. Meanwhile, old men in new suits that have probably never tasted gore want him to take over a reopened case. Take over Yakushi Kabuto's investigation, to be exact.
Shikaku is wholly unimpressed. Clean up your own damn mess, he wants to say. But of course he doesn't. Who else is going to put the food on the table? His ailing wife?
And when Shikaku picks at his ear until he finally clears a hole, he starts hearing the most interesting of things.
So Shikaku accepts the job. He goes behind his partner's back and snatches Yakushi's case for himself. Because when it's ripe with pickings and opportunities and old unwashed, dirty laundry, who can resist? Certainly not he, even with all the work involved, the work entailed, the work he is obligated to do.
Because when he catches Akasuna no Sasori, he is going to laugh—and laugh hard. It'll be all worth it in the end. Until then, he'll just have to crank his tired old gears and keep his creaking body from toppling on some hapless sap or newbie.
He's not that old, he thinks. But sometimes it doesn't make a difference. Everyone treats him like a holy ancient relic, ready to save them all! Unlikely. Is anyone aware of the work involved—?
His body may be the physical manifestation of his genes and fast approaching old age, but his mind is still pinprick sharp. It isn't going to fail on him anytime soon.
Sometimes, he wishes it would.
He just wants to...stop and see the scenery. Smell the fresh air, take a moment to enjoy the simplicity of inactivity—so uncomplicated. A moment where he is doing nothing at all, fulfilling no obligations or troublesome tasks. That fixed moment in time dedicated to himself, the relaxation of Me. A time when no one expects anything from him at all, when he is beneath the notice of his superiors...
Those flitting moments are long gone, have been for many years now.
The world can go rot for all he cares.
When the artist dies, Shikaku says it just like that.
Go rot, world. Go fucking die.
WHY DID THE ARTIST DIE WHY COULDN'T I SAVE HIM WHY DID NO ONE LISTEN TO ME.
Justice needs a pawn, and Shikaku is a mighty pawn.
Eleven years ago and Shikaku pieces together a puzzle that has the power to stop a massacre. His theory is a simple one, so profoundly obvious that the genius knocks his head into the wall for not thinking of it any sooner.
Twenty-some year old Nara Shikaku realizes that Akasuna no Sasori has a partner. Or, more likely, a master. A trainer. A teacher.
And no one gives a fucking damn.
He's forty now. Unbelievable, he thinks, that it comes to light only now, that an expert profiler like Yakushi Kabuto is agape at such a simple piece of news. It's all about progression, a train a thought. It's all about the puzzle pieces, and how to put them back together again.
It's all about common fucking sense.
And Shikaku has more. More thoughts, more plans, more theories. He has more, more, more. But he knows no one would believe him so he knows to shut up and stay quiet. They can't handle the truth, he assures himself. Their brains would fucking blow.
Still, leading a team, being at the beck and call of eager fat men in suits?
Nostalgic, bitter irony.
To think, he's been once equated to an insane person. Now, they are letting the lunatic take his pick of the asylum.
To the Trojan woman with the god gifted curse of seeing the future, he salutes her.
I feel your pain, he thinks. But I'm above you, Cassy dearie. I can do things now.
But that doesn't mean Shikaku actually wants this life anymore. It doesn't mean that he's eager for more work.
Because he's Nara Shikaku, a married man. And he can't get any more satisfied than that.
He loves Yoshino. All of her nagging and horrific mood swings is worth it in the end. Shikaku just wants to hold his son, he just wants to...
Yet something about yesterday's murder doesn't sit right with him. It frightens him. He may have made his theory about the supposed existence of Sasori's partner sound reasonable to Yakushi, but...if that's the case then the situation's worse than anyone realizes.
A killer with the exact same methods as Sasori, a genius copycat who has never let on his presence to the world...
An intelligent man knows to hide his intellect.
Yesterday, he had firm suspicions about the murderer not being Sasori, maybe not even being a copycat, maybe being the theorized partner. Now that he has researched the family's background...
The murdered Yamanaka, she wasn't an artist either. And her wealthy predecessor, Deidara's biological mother—she wasn't an artist either. Irrevocable proof that both murders can't be credited to the real Sasori.
The connections between the present and past makes Shikaku cringe.
Partner, copycat...either way that knife in the Yamanaka homicide had been a subtle slip up on the killer's part. A copycat not having had researched his inspiration enough? A partner trying too hard?
Yakushi...is too caught up in the finer details, too wrapped up in his hate for Sasori. Oh, the man may hide it well, Shikaku lazily acknowledges, but Yakushi is too eager to pursue the case to a close. It doesn't take a genius to realize why.
Sasori's partner. It is such a simple concept. Shikaku presents himself confidently enough, but there is that small slip of doubt in him...
No. His theory still holds true. A near thirty years of killing, Sasori being profiled by the victims as a still young man...a wealthy society woman's death following her artist husband's...
A wealthy society woman's death...
Her death.
What is the method of her death? The method of the kill?
Knives emulating scalpels and medical instruments as the society woman is cut up into pieces, abdomen pinned back like a specimen with nearly all of the organs extracted and torn apart, leaving only the heart...as if the killer likes experimenting, reveling in the gore...and now the foster mother dies nearly the same way? Similar level of brutality, same sense of twisted aesthetics in the murder...
Confidential information: no one is supposed to know how the artist's wife died, much less a copycat illogically deciding to show up now.
A copycat...would not have access to that information. Only the boy of seven Deidara and the killer himself saw exactly how the woman died.
Sasori, a copycat, a partner. Sasori is ruled out, notorious for the traits his victims must have. A copycat...a partner...
Shikaku tips back his head and breathes.
He really should be bitter. He should leave right now, screw the consequences. He should damn his job, his superiors, and write them all off as dead.
But he doesn't. He is Nara Shikaku.
He doesn't have the luxury to leave. Sasori's partner is out there, waiting. Nobody else knows what they're dealing with. No one else knows the consequences of leaving this case unsolved.
Steadily typing, Shikaku doesn't let his eyes leave the screen. He is focused, and the work is never ending. He has to research this thoroughly, give his partner theory a strong base of support, still write that assessment of the Yamanaka murder, figure out the...figure out...
Shikaku pauses, letting eyes drift shut.
Yoshino...is going to be left home alone again.
--
Chouza is looking as fat as ever, Shikaku thinks proudly.
Akimichi Chouza has always been the darling realist of the group. Pensive, thoughtful, the older man has enough hope for the two of them while having enough of that jaded edge for them to really get along. They balance each other's traits, and it is wonderful.
Happily, Shikaku throws himself into the conversation; he honestly wants to know about his old friend, about the darling new wife and the darling new kid. He wants to know everything from his friend's flourishing business to Chouji's first properly pronounced word.
Then things grow a little sour when Inoichi's name is brought up.
"Ah, Inoichi," Chouza can only sigh.
"Yes," Shikaku says. "Inoichi."
True, it is Shikaku who brings the missing man up in the first place, but Shikaku wants...needs to get this out. He cannot concentrate on anything else but the blond man without the Akimichi's counsel. Chouza has been the vital connection between the two estranged friends. Without Chouza's gentle persistence, Shikaku would've long forgotten about Yamanaka Inoichi.
So, like any normal person, the Nara has called him up, one of many phone conferences he's held with Chouza. He should have known it would blow up in his face.
"Oho? What's this? A Nara picking up a telephone cradle, punching in a string of bulky numbers, and bothering to remember telephone etiquette when you call in the middle of the night? I'm delighted. What do you need?"
The worst part is Shikaku still cannot tell whether the pleasant voice that greets him at the other end of a three a.m. telephone call is a sarcastic one or not.
And the jab towards department's technology is just harsh.
It's why he mutters the inane remark of, "We have cellphones, Chouza..."
And now they've finally met. It is their first meeting in nearly three years, and it is personal. The workload placed upon the Nara's shoulders is insane, but Chouza understands. Three years, though...the first meeting in three years and Shikaku can't pretend it's all about the pleasantries.
It's always about work.
Chouza understands. Thank god Chouza understands.
Worn, weary, Shikaku sips his tea. His friend patiently waits in silence, the cup before him untouched.
"It's about my latest case," Shikaku says finally, mouth pausing at the edge of his tea. "Inoichi. I have to be in close contact with him. His wife died, see, and the boy is being targeted."
Chouza shakes his head, sighing, "The adopted son...is that right. He's going to be eighteen soon, won't he?"
The Nara sets down his cup and does not look into his friend's eyes. "There's a chance that my theory holds true, that Sasori has had a partner all this time."
The smile at Chouza's lips is sad. "You mean you know it to be true."
"I have waited for ten years, but I've always suspected that Sasori would never return." Shikaku's eyes close briefly. "...And I was right. To think that it has come down to this. Inoichi's wife is the final proof."
"Yamanaka Chihiro? I have never met her."
"I have. A completely different woman from Yoshino, but my wife was rather fond of her. Called me all sorts of names for letting the rift grow as it did."
"Inoichi has made his own choices. He knew the risks of taking in that boy as his son."
"But is she right, Chouza?" Shikaku's gaze is dull and tired. "Am I at fault for letting this chasm grow as it did? I have not spoken to the man in nearly ten years. I do not know what to say."
"Then say nothing."
"I am the head of this investigation."
"Then turn away."
"I cannot afford to ignore him."
Chouza leans back in his seat, enormous face pensive. "Then, my friend, what will you do? Are you telling me you are going to take the coward's path and ask me to talk to him on your behalf? Are you saying that I must be the one to gather his testimony, precious evidence for this case of yours? What will you do, Shikaku?"
What will you do?
Shikaku doesn't know. He doesn't say a word. His eyes close; he is thinking.
Chouza knows better than to interrupt. He stops nursing his tea and takes in a large gulp, waiting for his friend to finish.
And he does. Shikaku lifts half-raised lids to meet Chouza's eyes. Something twists at his lips until his expression turns wry. "...That boy is my partner now. He has never put any stock in his name."
Chouza nods, motioning him to continue.
Shikaku drifts heavy lidded eyes shut. "Why, I wonder, does Kabuto do the things he does. I wonder—have I done him right in any way?"
"Your protégé, am I correct? I was under the assumption that he is grateful towards you."
"...Grateful?" Shikaku leans back, stretching his arms wide and yawning. He looks puzzled. "I suppose the kid's grateful. Truthfully, I can't tell a damn thing that's going through his head. The kid's too enigmatic. Maybe I've trained him too well..."
"Does he have anything to do with Inoichi's boy?"
"No. Different age groups entirely. Kabuto's already working beside me, and he's only twenty-two."
"Shikaku," Chouza says slowly, "are you thinking of letting that boy meet with Inoichi?"
"Not Inoichi. Deidara. Oh, don't look at me like that." Shikaku slumps forward to rest his cheek on top of an upturned hand. "It's going to be troublesome enough dealing with Inoichi and Ino as it is. They're still in the hospital. But Deidara? I need an extra set of hands I can trust."
"And Kabuto, this boy of yours...is he someone you can trust?"
"Ah," Shikaku says, "I think I trust the kid with my life. Maybe more, more less, but it's his control I'm worried about. He's related to a victim, too, see."
"Emotionally involved."
"Yes."
"It's not like you to pull strings," Chouza chides. "I thought you were rather above that sort of thing."
"It is precisely because this is personal for him that I have him on the team. Having Kabuto is a necessity. No one else knows what they're dealing with." His voice is dry. "Of course, I'll be accused of nepotism. But that isn't the case, Chouza."
"I believe you," the other man says, sighing. "I'll always believe you, but I wonder if you're making a foolish mistake this time. You told me once that you were worried that that boy was becoming too hateful, too consumed by revenge. Has the situation eased since then, when we've last spoken?"
"How troublesome. I knew you would ask that."
"Then you should know your answer."
"You want me to say that, yes, he hasn't improved, that he's a loose canon? That he can't be trusted?"
"Shika, you know that's not—"
"Well, you're right, Chouza." Shikaku's barking laugh is harsh. "I said the truth, I trust him with my life. But I don't know if he can even be trusted to not do something stupid again. I can't helphim anymore. Department's already talking about pulling him. If he weren't such a good operative, he'd already been transferred. You'd think he'd use that stupid calm to act rationally for once."
"What did he do this time?" Chouza says quietly.
"...Some bastard got to me. You know. I was only hospitalized for a week, but of course Kabuto had to overreact. The stupid idiot captured the guy, but ended up beating the shit out of him in the process." Shikaku groans. "So much anger..."
"You said he's only like that when you're hurt."
"He was worse in the beginning, but he's not much better now. Too damn mysterious, too damn enigmatic...what will happen if I die tomorrow, Chouza? Today? It can happen at anytime. I can't live forever. I'm fucking old."
Chouza stills. "What are you really trying to say, Shikaku? What aren't you telling me?"
The Nara slants him a look. "This insanity has to stop. The police has been chasing this guys for practically thirty years. I intend to end this, Chouza. I intend to finish Sasori for fucking good."
"But why are you willing to be driven to such lengths?" the other man says softly. "Who are you doing this for?"
"For Inoichi, Kabuto. For all of the victims." Closing eyes. "For myself."
Shikaku and Inoichi had a falling out indirectly because of Sasori; chew on that.
Kabuto is not an 'avenger.' Oh, gods, no. His relationship with Shikaku is very casual, easygoing, but strong.
For Shikaku's character, there's a lot of Hibiki54's The Lazy Uchiha Itachi in there (sardonic, lazy, calculating), along with Greek mythological Cassandra of Troy and a bit of Death Note influence, too.
Shikaku never explicitly said that he himself believed the current killer was a copycat. His strongest belief is that there's a serial killer partner involved. Meanwhile, no one knows what's happened to the real Sasori...