—Chapter 18—Wednesday, May 11th, Morning—

Dean Giichi Yoshinora sat at his dining table, alone, enjoying a calm breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, and pancakes—all the Western crap his wife would never let him eat. Without her chattering in his ear, he could eat his breakfast in peace. As he chewed, he recalled the look of abject shock on her face as he twisted the knife around in her insides. She really hadn't seen it coming. "I guess we weren't soulmates after all," he chuckled to himself, bacon grease dribbling down his chin.

Theirs hadn't been a bad marriage—it was just… a marriage. Giichi had spent his whole life doing what he was told, and hiding what he wasn't supposed to be doing. For a long time, that balance worked for him—he was able to work what he wanted into his life without sacrificing the power and privilege that came with playing by the rules.

Everything had been just fine—it wasn't his fault that things had gone so sideways. Other people could be such a complication.

The calmness of the morning was ruined by the sound of the phone. The dean blew out his lips, and stood reluctantly from the table—at least his wife had been good at taking calls. This would be something that he would have to adapt to. Stepping into the kitchen, he picked the phone up out of its cradle. "Hello?" he answered.

"Dean Yoshinora, good morning—it's Kaito. I heard what happened… I'm so sorry… How are you doing?"

Kaito Mifune—the head of the Bladed Arts department. The dean rolled his eyes, realizing this was the first of what would probably be many condolence calls he'd have to answer today. He might have to turn off his phone… "Kaito-san, thank you for calling… I'm… I'm doing okay," he said, trying his best to sound like someone struggling to hold on to his strength. "Yuki was just… I just can't believe this happened…"

"I couldn't believe it when I heard it either. The timing was just… spooky."

The dean took a moment to figure out what Mifune was talking about, but then he remembered. "That's right—if you hadn't invited me to watch Amamiya take his test, I might not have realized who was in my office. It's a really amazing coincidence…"

"I actually feel terrible that it had to be one of our students—one of our blades students—who's responsible for this…"

"It's no one's fault, Kaito-san. You and your department do a fantastic job training our students—you can't be blamed for how they choose to use their skills."

"I just can't believe he would target you and your wife… It just doesn't make sense…"

"Serial killers don't have to make sense, Kaito-san."

"I suppose that's true…" There was a lull in the conversation, as Kaito Mifune took a moment to let that uncomfortable thought dangle for a bit.

But the dean didn't like awkward silences. "Anyway, it's just lucky his aim was off, or he'd have gotten me too."

"His aim…? What do you mean? —I'm sorry, don't answer that, sir. I don't mean to ask disrespectful questions…"

"No, Kaito-san, it's fine. I was in my office working when he came in and attacked me. He threw his knife at my head and missed, hitting the photo of me and Yuki on the wall behind me. That photo… It's so hard to look at now that she's gone!" The dean's voice cracked as he spoke.

There was another beat of silence before anything else was said. The dean wondered what he would have to say if the teacher didn't cut in to try to console him, as he'd expected. At this rate his eggs and bacon would be cold. Thankfully, he only had to wait slightly longer for a response.

"Well, Dean, I just wanted to call and let you know how sorry I am. We're all thinking of you today, so, please don't hesitate to let any of us at the Academy know if there's anything we can do to support you. We're here for you, sir."

"I appreciate that, Kaito-san. I just need a little time to recover, but I'll be alright. Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir." There was another semi-awkward silence. "Well, I better go. Be well, Dean."

"Thanks again, Kaito-san. Goodbye." There was a click, and the call ended. With a sigh, the dean returned the phone to the charger on the kitchen counter.

At almost the exact moment that the phone was back in its place, there was the sound of shattering glass, startling the dean. What on Earth could that have been? Annoyed, he went to investigate.

Leaving the kitchen, he walked into the front foyer and was met with shards of glass all over the floor. One of the windows on the front of the house had a gaping hole in it. Scowling, the dean stepped over the broken bits of glass, careful not to get any in his slippers, and peered out the window looking for whatever, or whomever, could have caused it.

An examination of the front yard revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Too god damn many trees…

Frustrated, the dean stepped away from the window and out of the blast zone. Didn't whoever broke his window know that he was a grieving widower? His eyes roamed the foyer, looking for the cause of the damage.

Under a table on the far wall, the dean spotted something out of the ordinary: A rock, with something tied to it. Perplexed, he stepped over to the table and plucked it off the ground. There was a small envelope tied to the rock with a piece of pink ribbon. He took it with him back to the dining room table and set it down next to his cold pancakes and congealed eggs, taking a seat.

Intrigued, he carefully untied the bow holding the note to the rock and lifted it up to inspect. The flap of the envelope, also pink, was folded inside. The dean opened it, pulling out its contents. He almost laughed. Greeted by a piece of Hello Kitty stationery dotted with hearts in the corners, he read the following message:

Dean Giichi Yoshinora,
I know you're the one who killed Tetsuo Watanabe. I have more evidence where this comes from. You know I'm innocent. If you're willing to help me, I will destroy what I have. Meet me on campus in Blue Square at 10pm tonight. If you don't, I will take what I have to the police.
Don't be late.

More evidence? The dean set the note down and looked inside the envelope, spying something else. He pulled it out and unfolded it, looking it over.

His eyes went wide. Oh fuck.

After just a moment of hesitation, the dean stood up and pushed in his chair, carrying the photo and note upstairs with him. It was time to get dressed.

—

Being on campus—his school bag swinging from his shoulder like everything was normal—felt like the weirdest thing Jiro had ever done. Were this a normal Wednesday morning, he and Ren would be walking together, idly talking about stuff and things as they people-watched on their way to class. On this Wednesday, however, Ren was in hiding, Jiro was sweating, and the only people-watching available was of plainclothes detectives—or at least, it seemed that way, for all the paranoia he felt. He was trying so hard to appear nonchalant that he may as well have had the words 'Question me' tattooed across his forehead. He kept his eyes glued to the pavement as he walked.

Things in the lecture hall began as they usually did. Students were milling about in the aisles chatting, or sitting in their seats staring at their phones. Ren and Jiro were creatures of habit, so, to help maintain the illusion that everything was normal, he took his usual aisle seat in the back third of the room. For today, Jiro's school bag would sit where Ren typically did.

Like many others, Jiro pulled out his phone to have something to look at while he waited for class to start. Students around him got quieter, and he could swear they were looking at him, but he didn't look up from his phone. Maybe it was just his imagination.

After a single bell tone, the students took their seats and got quiet, and the professor stepped through the door at the front of the class. Let the Evidence Handling begin…

All throughout the hour, Jiro took notes—more notes than usual, he realized. Without Ren by his side, he paid both better attention to the lesson, and no attention at all. He was only half-sure that the words he was writing had anything to do with evidence handling whatsoever—but the sheer quantity of words was impressive.

When class was over, he closed his notebook and slipped it back into his bag. Standing up, he made eye contact with another student, someone who also made it a habit to sit in the same place every week. The student waved awkwardly at Jiro, giving a crooked smile, one that said, 'Yeah, I know who you are and who you usually sit with, but I'm just waving to be polite—I definitely don't want to talk to you'. Jiro didn't want to talk to him either. He returned the wave with a nod before standing up and walking away, out of the classroom.

Out in the hall, students were bunched up in groups, standing around talking, or weaving their way through those same masses of people on their way to their next class. Jiro and Ren's schedule gave them a break at this time, so they usually headed out to Blue Square to chat in the sunshine for a bit before heading off to their Firearms course. Today, he headed into the bathroom, found an unoccupied toilet stall, shut the door and sat down. He pulled out his phone and opened Google Chat. He fucking hated Google Chat, but at least you could access it from any device.

Class over
Sitting on the can, waiting for the halls to clear out

The 'Jiro' that was at home on his laptop answered:
You're not taking a shit, are you?

No, you asshole, I just need someplace to sit where I won't look weird while I wait for people to leave

Anything interesting going on in Evidence Handling?
Did u take good notes? I don't want to fall behind

You're hilarious…
But seriously, I may as well have written 'notes notes notes', for all the attention I was paying…

I'll bet
Did anyone talk to you?

No, though it felt like *everyone* was looking at me
Probably my imagination

Possibly not

I feel like there are cops everywhere too, but I haven't seen any uniforms

Could be plainclothes all over, who knows
Any students with gray in their hair and ugly Hawaiian shirts?

Yeah, a couple
Anyway, think I've been shitting long enough?

Maybe
Don't forget to flush
And wash your hands, you filthy animal

Two poop emojis followed…

With that, Jiro stood up and put his phone back in his pocket. As instructed, he flushed the toilet and pretended to refasten his pants button before opening the door and stepping out. While the water at the sink warmed up, he scanned around the bathroom, looking for anyone else, but it appeared he'd been 'shitting' for long enough that just about everyone was gone. He finished washing and left the bathroom.

Just a few doors down from the lecture hall was the lab room. In Evidence Handling I, labs involved a lot of role playing and messing around with different tech. This wasn't a lab day, but the room was still open. Looking both ways, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

He took a nervous breath and studied the room, thinking about where to begin. Arbitrarily, he picked the wall on his left and just started opening drawers and cabinets, hunting for what he was there to find. He crossed his fingers that no one would notice the missing items, and that if they did, he wouldn't get expelled for theft.

—Wednesday, May 11th, Midday—

The automatic doors parted like curtains at the theater, revealing the inside of the hospital as though it was a set. Wearing his most officious-looking brown suit, a fedora, and his old badge, he was fully in costume. He was here to reprise his former role: A detective once again.

Like Bacchus himself, he was even wearing a mask. In a hospital, masks adorned the faces of nearly everyone around him—though his reason for wearing one had less to do with the spread of communicable disease than it did with obscuring his identity.

Stepping confidently up to the intake desk, Dean Yoshinora quickly flashed his credentials. "Good day, ma'am. I'm with the Capital Police. Can you please direct me to the John Doe we brought in on Monday night?"

"Oh!" clucked the nurse in response. "You mean the young man who… Of course! He's in the secure wing. Go down that hallway," she said, pointing, "through the double doors at the end, and take your first left. Continue around the corner, and his is room twenty-seven. If you get to the end of the hall, you've gone too far."

"Thank you miss," answered the dean, politely tipping his hat at her as he turned away from the counter.

Following her directions, it took just a minute for him to find the right room. Another plainclothes detective sat outside the room, flipping through a manga. He looked up when the dean approached the door.

"Excuse me, that room is off limits," said the detective.

"I'm here at the chief's request," replied the dean. "Family business…" he added cryptically.

The detective's eyes widened. "Oh…" he said, understanding. "Okay, well, uh, if he asks, who shall I say was here?"

"Just tell him his 'old friend' came by to help," he answered. "He'll know exactly who you mean."

"Okay, sure thing," said the detective, allowing him entry. The dean turned the handle and slipped inside the room, closing the door behind him.

The chief's nephew was sitting up in his hospital bed, watching the TV mounted on the wall opposite. He laughed gruffly.

"Mister Watanabe? We need to talk," said the dean.

"Who the fuck are you? Why are you in here? It's supposed to be family only."

Just as rude as I remember, thought the dean, recalling their first meeting, outside the dorm where he would later try to kill this impudent whelp. "I'm a friend of your uncle's. You can call me 'G'."

"'G', huh? Does that stand for 'grandpa'? What do you want, old man?"

"Listen, you drug-addled little shit," said the dean icily, "I know it was you who tried to kill that kid, and I know you fucking failed at it. I'm the one who's going to fix the mess you put you and your whole family in, so how about showing me a little respect before I decide to give up on helping you and instead finish the job Amamiya started when he tried to empty your guts all over that alley?"

Tetsuo's face fell, and what little color there was in his skin bled out. "Uh," he replied lamely, "okay, sorry… What, uh, what can I… That is…"

"Shut up," barked the dean. "Just listen, don't talk. And turn that shit off." Tetsuo nodded, fumbling for the TV remote and turning it off as instructed. "Like I said before, I'm here to help. But let me begin by telling you what a huge fucking hole you've dug for yourself. We've got you on stalking, illegal drugs, domestic abuse, and attempted murder. The way things are right now, you don't have a future—if you're lucky, you'll just be expelled, but most likely, you're going to prison."

"Oh fuck…" muttered Tetsuo, sinking further into his pillow.

"'Fuck' is right," agreed the dean. "Lucky for you, you have people in your corner who actually give a shit if you live or die. Personally, I don't, but I like your uncle, so I'm willing to help out. I can make alllll of this go away…" he said, softening his tone and leveling a long, hard look at Tetsuo, who was uncharacteristically docile. Leaning in, the dean made his last words cut like a knife:

"But I'm not going to do it for free…"

—Wednesday, May 11th, Afternoon—

This fucking case, I swear to God… Detective Hotaru Naabe slammed the door shut on his black, unmarked police car and straightened his suit jacket, looking out at the landscaped front yard of the Yoshinora residence. Just as the case was beginning to look like it was finally coming together, it was getting more and more convoluted. They had an eye witness to one incident who couldn't actually remember anything incriminating—and was himself implicated in illegal activity—and another eye witness whose credibility had just been brought into question. But they also had a knife—two knives, in fact—with the suspect's prints on them. This case should be open and shut, regardless of the shakiness of the witnesses.

So then what the fuck was he doing here?

The detective stepped up to the dean's oversized front door and rapped firmly on its surface. Under his breath, he rehearsed what he planned to say when the door finally opened. "Good day, Mister Yoshinora, I'm so sorry to trouble you, but may I come in? I just have a few follow-up questions I need to ask you…" No answer. The detective sighed, knocking again. "Good day, Mister Yoshinora, I'm so sorry to trouble you…" Frustrated, Detective Naabe pressed the doorbell, and an elaborate song the detective recognized but couldn't name rang out inside. He tapped his foot impatiently, waiting.

"Where the fuck are you?" he muttered to himself, peering through the etched glass in the door. Not seeing anything through the translucent window, he exhaled sharply and walked a few feet into the yard, staring back at the house. "Are you napping? Where would you go after a serial killer gets your wife, for fuck's sake…?"

None of the lights in the house were on, but it was still daytime, so that wasn't that weird. It was weird that he wasn't answering the door though. The detective pulled out his cell phone and dialed the dean's home number. A moment later, he could hear the phone ringing from inside the house.

A little too well, actually—was a window open? Detective Naabe stepped onto the grass to the side of the front walk, and inspected the outside of the house, looking for an open window. He didn't have far to go before finding where the sound was escaping from.

A busted-out window just a short distance from the front door clarified things for him. Stepping through the manicured rose bushes, the detective approached the window, looking through it to the inside. He could see broken glass littering the inside of the foyer.

"Dean?" he shouted, hoping to be heard inside. "Is everything okay in there?" He listened carefully for a response, but none came. He went around and around on what to do.

Cursing, the detective headed back to his car to call dispatch. Reaching in through the passenger-side window, he pulled out the microphone. "Dispatch? This is Naabe… I'm here at the Yoshinora residence. Signs of forced entry—busted-out front window. No answer at the door or on the phone. I'm going inside to check it out—please send backup. Naabe out." The detective hung up the mic and turned back toward the house.

—

"God, it's boring not having a phone," said Makoto, flipping through channels from the couch. Ren was laying down, partly next to her, partly on top of her, his head level with her chest. With her free hand, Makoto twirled his hair around her fingers.

"It's kind of sad, I know," agreed Ren. "Now that it's off all the time, I realize just how much I use the stupid thing…"

"Seriously."

The two perked up at the sound of a key slotting into the front lock. The door opened, and their three friends entered, one after the other. Emiko was the last one through the door, and she turned and locked it behind her.

Jiro looked accusatorily at the two lovebirds snuggling on the couch. "What the fuck are you two doing? Does this feel like makeout time to you? I hope you've both got your jobs done, because some of us have been in the lion's den all day, sneaking around on your behalf!"

Guiltily, Ren tried to sit up, groaning as he nursed his injured left arm. Makoto pushed him from behind, trying to help him up. The two looked sheepishly at their friends.

"Never mind him," said Naomi. "He's just stressed out."

"Subterfuge makes him nervous," added Emiko, teasing.

"'Nervous'!" parroted Jiro, dropping his bag to the floor with a heavy thump. "Let's just say, I've figured out which character from The Wire I am, and it's not McNulty!"

"Are you the doll-furniture guy?" asked Ren. He'd actually seen The Wire.

"YES!" cried Jiro, agreeing enthusiastically. "I'm the guy who wants to sit and listen to the bad guys, narcing on them anonymously. This walking around being sneaky shit is not for me… I feel like I'm having an ulcer…" He leaned the bo staff he'd checked out from the gym against the wall with a sigh.

"Well, some of us were able to get what we were looking for without sweating through our clothes," said Emiko, showing off the collapsible wheelchair she'd checked out from the medical wing.

"That's entirely because of your lady-antiperspirant. They think sweating is manly, so our shit does nothing…"

"Okay, anyway," said Makoto, "do we have everything we said we needed?"

"I think so, yes," answered Emiko. "I just hope we thought of everything ahead of time, and don't end up getting there, wishing we'd thought of something else."

"Don't think about that," said Makoto, slipping out from under Ren so she could check out what Jiro had brought back. "Second-guessing will get you nowhere at this point."

"I sent the calling card this morning, so by now he must have seen it," said Naomi.

"No going back now, that's for sure," said Jiro, flopping down in a kitchen chair. "Jesus, I hope we're doing the right thing…" His leg was bouncing up and down nervously.

Makoto shook her head. "Like I said, don't think about that, it will only make you crazy. Campus closes at nine o'clock. We should get to Blue Square early and make sure we have all the points of approach staked out. I don't want him sneaking up on us."

"True dat," said Jiro. "Ren? You feeling chummy?"

Ren looked at him quizzically. "'Chummy'?"

"Yeah," Jiro nodded. "Like, chum, like shark bait."

"Shark Week is coming!" Naomi squealed excitedly.

"Jesus Christ…" moaned Emiko.

Ren snickered mildly. "Yeah, I'm ready. You said you brought back everything we wanted, so I should be good to go. Can I borrow your bo staff as a walking stick?"

"You're supposed to use a walking stick as a bo staff, not a bo staff as a walking stick—but I guess."

"Thanks. Then yeah, I'm good." Ren took a deep breath.

"You won't need it that much anyway," said Emiko. "That's what I got this for." She wheeled the chair over to the couch, engaged the brake, then she and Naomi helped Ren up and into the chair. "The battery's fully charged," she added, "but let's try not to use it unless it's totally necessary—I don't know how long these batteries last."

"We'll wheel you around until then," said Naomi, smiling.

"Thank you," he said, looking appreciatively at them.

"Alright," said Makoto, pulling things out of Jiro's bag. "Let's make sure this stuff works and do a dress rehearsal. We only have a few hours left…"

"Yup," said Jiro, smacking both hands on the kitchen table. "Then it's showtime."