Summary: Hakuba is murdered after Conan refuses to help him with a case. While the circumstances surrounding his death seem straightforward enough, things become complicated after Conan begins to receive letters from Hakuba 45 days later. Using the clues and journals left for him, Conan must forge unexpected alliances to discover the truth behind their shared ‘Boscombe’ secrets.
Chapter one can be read on tumblr, fnet, or ao3. Many thanks to my beta readers! <3
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Chapter 2
It’s strange, the concept of truth.
Proving the physical, the act of what happened, is a simple matter: if a person has ended the life of another person, they have killed. There is no question about that. Remove the bias of human emotion and motive and you are left with nothing but the concrete facts that can be used in court, all of which fits very neatly into the standardized reports that we’re required to fill out at headquarters.
Distancing ourselves from the human element allows us to accurately determine these things, yes, but leaves no allowance for justified circumstances; no exceptions for the Boscombe secrets that we come across in our work. It’s the letter of the law versus the spirit of the law. Yet the process of this, which allows us to decipher such events, jeopardizes the very point and purpose of law, and our meaning and worth as detectives.
It’s not enough to have the concrete. This is what sets the true professionals apart from the amateurs. Those who can separate the id and the super ego, filtering through the relative truths according to each perspective, and resolve it all into one: the fullest truth.
We detectives are, in the end, the seekers of that whole and complete truth.
Conan read the hand-written words in the leather-bound journal, glossing over its proposed meaning, then turned the page. It was just past 7 am, no more than fourteen hours since Hakuba had left the Mouri Detective Agency. Each attempt to call the foreign detective had taken Hattori to voicemail. He didn’t answer for Conan, either; not from his phone, nor the one listed for Kudou Shinichi. Megure had his team call the Hakuba house phone and the personal line of the Superintendent General.
In the end, it only took about an hour to confirm what he had feared: Hakuba was already dead. He’d been strangled in his own bedroom while the staff and his governess slept in the rooms nearby. Once the word got out that the Superintendent General’s son had been murdered, the best in their fields had been called in.
This, fortunately for Conan, included Mouri Kogoro.
The first entry in the journal was dated fifteen days ago, the second entry fourteen, and so on. He turned the page again, noting the dates, and continued to flip through the book. Black ink; neat and orderly. Each word written in careful English. There were fourteen in total; an entry for every day, except for yesterday. Some several pages long, some only a single sentence.
He flipped to the last entry in the book.
I’m being watched. Contingencies remain. Take care.
“Oi, little boy, what are you doing here?”
Conan glanced up from the book to find a white gloved hand, palm up and expectant. His gaze traveled up the arm and to the face of the officer who’d questioned him. “Eh? I’m Mouri-san’s apprentice!”
The young officer kept his hand extended, waiting, apparently unimpressed by the explanation. “Is that evidence?”
“Yeah.” There was something distinctly off about him that Conan didn’t quite trust. He turned the book over in his hands, then flipped it open to a random page. “It’s Hakuba-niisan’s journal, I think… but it’s written in English, so I can’t read it.”
“You shouldn’t be touching it, apprentice or not.”
Conan let his eyes stray to the writing on the page— I wonder, sometimes, how the criminals stand us detectives, doling out judgments and facts without understanding circumstances –then back to the man, tilting his head. “I don’t recognize you.”
The fraction of a second longer that it took the officer to respond than he should have told the young detective everything he needed to know. “…I’m new.”
No. He wasn’t new. Conan had seen him many times before, though it usually wasn’t at murder scenes. “Oh! Did you just get here?”
“Yeah.”
Conan could see it all, then. The disguise was rushed, the man pale, trembling in his uniform that was just a little too big for his frame. No time for additional padding? He smirked, fingers curling around the journal in his hands. Of course he would come. Hakuba was one of the detectives on the forefront of the task force; he probably had a ton of information about Kaitou KID. Why else would he risk coming to his house with cops swarming all over the place?
Bastard.
“I can fill you in if you want!” Despite the burning temptation to expose the thief right then and there, he forced himself to stay calm, instead giving that sickeningly sweet smile, chipper. Too chipper for being in the bedroom of the detective who’d just been murdered.
It shook KID, who blinked at him several times before nodding, distracted. “Uh. Sure.” His voice was strained. Tense. He was nervous.
Good.
“Hakuba-niisan was attacked last night… strangled to death by his necktie, right there in that armchair.” Conan watched his expression carefully, noting the thin line his lips had become. “They came in through that window. It was kind of weird, though…”
“Weird?”
“Yeah. The officers said there was no sign of forced entry and that the window musta’ been unlocked. And there’s no security footage, ‘cause even though there’s a camera right out there,” he pointed through the open window to the dormant camera wedged under the overhang, “it’s been off for weeks. So no one knows who came in.”
A few more seconds and the officer nodded, looking from the chair to the camera, then back to Conan. “Ah,” he said, voice distant.
“A couple of the officers think that it might have been Kaitou KID.”
There was a twitch at the faux-officer’s eye and he hesitated again, gaze growing colder. Obviously, he’d hit a nerve.
“And why is that?”
“Well…” Conan rocked back and forth on his heels, tucking the journal under his arm, and brought his other hand to his chin. “Think about it. Hakuba-niisan’s one of the few people who’s ever come close to catching KID, so it makes sense that he’d get rid of him, right?”
When the officer only tugged at the brim of his hat, Conan continued.
“But who knows. It’d be kind of ironic, though, ‘cause we think he fell asleep in front of the fireplace reading A Christmas Carol when he was attacked. The book was still open on his lap when we got here, right at the part about the ghost of Christmas Future. Ghosts, phantoms, phantom thief…” Conan gestured to the little end table where the book had been placed, then turned back to KID, who stared on in silence. “You shoulda seen the body.”
“Where is it?” he whispered.
“They took it away hours ago. It only takes, like, 10-15 seconds to fall unconscious when being strangled if you put the right pressure on… whoever did it was a real expert. He probably didn’t even have a chance to fight.” Conan shrugged and shook his head, as if it were a shame. “His nails were scrubbed clean, too. No evidence of who was in here. He was probably dead within two minutes. There was hardly any blood.”
Fake or not, the officer looked distinctly ill.
“I got lots of crime scene photos on my phone, though. Look.” Conan dug out his cellphone with one hand, but he scarcely had time to log in before KID snatched the journal away.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, gripping the book in desperation. Blackmail?
“Oi.” Conan held up his phone, and the officer turned away. “Don’t you think KID will be relieved that one of his detectives is gone?”
“No one would be pleased…”
“So why are you here, KID? Had to see for yourself that this threat was gone?”
“Death isn’t something to ever be celebrated!
With a snort, Conan nodded at the journal. “And that? Making sure that there’s nothing in there about you?”
“I’m just being thorough.” His voice turned cold, harsh. “Put your phone away.”
The boy gave a bitter laugh. “Can’t handle it, KID?”
“You don’t have any idea…” KID stopped, glancing up and over at the rest of the room as two more officers came in to continue the investigation of the normally orderly room, forcing filing drawers open, digging through the compartment under the window bench seat.
“Oi!” Conan called to one of them, waving an arm. “Oi, I think this officer’s a fake!”
It drew immediate attention, but by the time Conan turned around, KID was gone.
Dammit!
They combed the house for clues, tore apart the bedroom, confiscated Hakuba’s laptop and many other personal effects, but there was no more evidence to be found. He hadn’t been lying about it having been a professional job; there were no footprints, only the slightest traces of mud in the windowsill from the hedges just outside; no finger prints, no torn skin, no loose hairs, nothing. Just quietly murdered in the safety and comfort of his own home.
And while the Superintendent General barked orders at Megure and his team, Kogoro falling into step like old times, Hakuba’s Baaya stood in the hallway and sobbed into a handkerchief.
The autopsy report indicated that Hakuba Saguru had ingested a shot of scotch that night, which was stated to be normal behavior by his governess. There were no other drugs or toxins in his system. Other than the bruise on his cheek from the previous night, the only injury he’d sustained was the crushed windpipe from the tie garrote. Uncomfortable, yes, but an almost merciful death from an assassin.
They had no leads, no witnesses, and no ideas – other than the organization’s potential involvement, but even then, who did Conan know who used strangulation as their method of choice? Not Gin or Vodka, probably not Vermouth… most of the organization members he knew preferred to use guns. It was a dead end.
“The Metropolitan police are scratching their heads at the disturbingly quiet murder of the Superintendent General’s son, Hakuba Saguru, a famous international detective, who was strangled to death in his own home the other night… It seems that despite having all of their homicide detectives working on the case, no headway is being made, so it’s no wonder General Hakuba has allegedly called in some private investigators to continue looking into things on the side…”
It’d been days since the murder, and Mouri’s part in the investigation was still ongoing. They’d turned the briefcase in, given their statements of their personal involvement, and had agreed to stay on to help look for any more leads. But Conan already knew that if there had been anything of use, it’d have been in that journal, which Kaitou KID now had.
“Look! Look, Ran! Your old man is almost on!”
Ran and Conan both turned away from their homework to glance at the newscast on TV, which now had a photo of Kogoro among some other, more famous private investigators.
“They better use my voice clip!” Kogoro was in rare form.
“It’s a real tragedy,” the voice of one Mogi Harufumi took over, and footage of him speaking soon followed. The man wiped a tear from his eye, then shrugged, hands up. “He was a good kid, a real fine detective. Always willing to lend a hand or a few bucks when needed. We detectives look out for each other. He’s really going to be missed… but don’t worry, buddy, we’ll catch that bad guy for you!”
Just behind him in the background, Souda Ikumi was in the middle of rolling her eyes before the video feed cut back to the news reporter, who looked professionally sympathetic.
“Although the Superintendent General was unable to be reached for comment, we have been assured that the rest of the Hakuba family is, in fact, safe… and that they wish to thank to all of the hardworking men and women who have been on the case, as well extend their gratitude for all of the well-wishes and support in this troubling time.”
As the newscaster gave her closing statements about making offerings at local shrines, Kogoro slapped a hand on his desk and shook a fist at the television. “They didn’t even let me speak! I was at the scene!”
“Tou-san…” Ran chided him gently, tired.
Conan glanced to where the briefcase had been tucked away and frowned at the aching lump in his throat. He’d been there, sitting across from him on that couch. He’d asked for help. Was there something he could have done?
“Oh—we’ve just received notice from a special guest,” the reporter said, abandoning the discussion of ribbon day when a crew member pushed a white card into her hands. “It seems that Kaitou KID has condolences to offer, himself… Can we get this on screen?”
The card took over the broadcast, written carefully, caricature in the bottom right-hand corner as usual.
“The upcoming heist has been canceled in light of the recent tragedy,” she read. “It has become clear to me that everyone’s time is far better spent hunting the bastards responsible instead of chasing a silly thief. Rest assured, I will return, and that there will be justice for death of my detective.”
But there would be no justice for Hakuba Saguru… not for a long time.
