Competition #8: Sic Semper Tyrannus
Apr 2, 2015 22:46:18 GMT
Crimson Amarone, Nikudou Natsumi, and 5 more like this
Post by House of Mystery on Apr 2, 2015 22:46:18 GMT
I'll be up front with you, folks: this might be the grimmest thing I've written on this board (so far). I fiddled around a couple times with the setup, fearing it might be too disturbing, but I ultimately stuck with my first idea. I mean, there's not really any explicit content here, but... well, consider yourself warned.
That said, it's also the closest thing I've ever written to a mystery. See if you can solve the case before the end!
My lawyer is punctual - I hear the Bar's very serious about that these days - and walks over to the double-layered glass with the kind of dignity that His Majesty would've been jealous of. She bows and sits down, her brown eyes hard and bright, her pantsuit looking respectable but not showy.
I'm already on the other side of the glass, of course. I've been sitting here for the last five minutes, trying not to think about how the guard in the doorway behind me so dearly wants to strangle me.
(As opposed to all the other guards, who would've actually strangled me by now. But I digress.)
She takes out her notepad, clicks out her pen, and looks at me like I'm a cockroach she'd just scraped off her shoe. And I'm paying her to be on my side. But then, what did I expect?
If I'd wanted sympathy, I would've known better than to get caught.
And I'd definitely have known better than to get tossed into the Tokyo Detention Centre.
"Good afternoon, good afternoon." I clap my hands together and lace my fingers. "So... I'm guessing you can't smuggle me out of here and on the next boat to China."
She doesn't laugh. Neither do I.
"My name is Suzue Masao," she says, not breaking eye contact. "I am your attorney, Mi-"
I hold a hand up. "I know what my name is, Ms. Masao. Everyone in Japan knows. The media's done a wonderful job of that."
She instantly stops, actually looking relieved.
I lace my hands together again. "Shall we begin?"
Her eyes grow just a little colder. "You killed Conan Edogawa, a six-year-old child, in cold blood. Why don't we start with that?"
I shrug. It's about all I can do at this point.
Then I roll my tongue around in my mouth and say what I'd said to the police. To the reporters. To the "victim's" - to my - friends and family. To anyone who'd wanted an answer.
"It was self-defense."
A muscle straightens in Ms. Masao's jaw, but it's all the reaction she gives. They'd trained her well.
"Do you have evidence? Anything we can use to convince the judge?"
I move my hands to my lap. "Just this. If I hadn't killed him, he would've definitely killed me."
She writes... something in the notepad. It's a bit too small for my eyes, and I was never any good at reading upside-down. When she's finished, she looks at me again.
"Let's go over the facts, shall we?"
I shrug again.
"On the evening of September 4, you ambushed Conan Edogawa as he was returning home from a late-night book signing. The streets were nearly abandoned, but two witnesses saw you dragging him into a nearby alley. While one dialed the police, the other-"
"-tried to stop me, but he was already too late," I finished for her. "I know. I've got the bruises to prove it."
I throw my head back and remember the cold, cloudy Tokyo night.
And the hunt.
And the screams.
And the thick, wet joy dripping through my fingers.
"He didn't like being erased, you know," I volunteer. "Then again, they never do."
Ms. Masao's composure starts to crack. She pinches the bridge of her nose to steady herself.
When she speaks again, she's much, much quieter, and I know I'm not talking to a lawyer anymore. Just a woman who wants answers.
"You knew each other better than either of you knew anyone else. He trusted you. What could've driven you to this?"
I don't answer. I have an answer, but not one that I think she - that I think anyone - would understand. So I sit there, remembering all the good times that I'd had with the kid.
And I try to feel sorry.
Emphasis on try.
"This isn't just murder," she says after two minutes of me saying nothing. "You owed your fame to him. You owed your fortune to him. And you betrayed him. Do you have nothing to say for yourself?"
A vein throbs in my temple. I think about cursing her out then and there, but then I think better of it. It wouldn't solve anything, and the guard is probably looking for an excuse to "restrain" me.
"I betrayed him?"
My voice is lower than it's ever been, and I know she's hanging on to every word.
"I guess I did. But he betrayed me first."
She flinches, surprise on her face. I know it's not because she believes what I say, but because she doesn't know how anyone could delude themselves enough to say it.
To be honest, I don't either. All I know is that it's very easy to say when it's the truth.
And if she - and for that matter, most of Japan - didn't like that, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.
"What good's money if I never get to spend it? What good's fame if I'm reduced to sleeping four hours a day? That's what happens with people like him. First they take over your job. Then they take over your life. And they take and take and take until..."
I stop when I hear the scrape of steel on tile.
Ms. Masao's stood up, and she's gathering her things. Just as well. She looks like she's about to have a coronary. I don't want her death on my head.
"I'll be back tomorrow," she says. "With the rest of the plan. If we're lucky, we might convince them to lock you up for the rest of your life."
"Do your best," I reply. And I plaster the biggest, cheesiest smile I can muster across my face.
I swear to God that she actually flies over to the door on the other side of the room. I hear the guard approaching me from behind, but he stops when she turns around, her body already halfway outside.
"My colleagues have been passing around a little phrase they've learned from American TV lately. I don't usually say it to my clients, but in your case?"
"Yes?"
"May God have mercy on your soul, Mr. Aoyama."
... well, I said it would be grim. I didn't say it wouldn't be a comedy.
Please understand that I've got nothing but the highest respect for Gosho, and hope that he gets well very, very quickly. But... well, I've been rereading "The Adventure of the Two Collaborators" (a Holmes pastiche written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's one-time collaborator, J.M. "Peter Pan" Barrie) lately, and one thing basically led to another. I admit that that story is far more blatantly humorous than mine, but I didn't want to rip it off wholesale.
In my mind, Gosho didn't so much kill Conan as he simply reduced the little guy to a puddle of ink with his Almighty Author/Artist Powers (TM). Like that's going to make much of a difference to the Mouris, the Kudos, the MPD, Heiji and Kid... (not to mention Conan's millions and millions of real-life fans...). Still, I tried to keep the language ambiguous so it could suit those of you with more grisly imaginations.
(As for the setup: an earlier draft had Gosho not arrested, but instead on the run and having the above exchange with an old friend in a bar. I nixed that because I'd wanted to keep the suspect pool as big as possible. Being in a bar would've excluded Ran, Sonoko, the Detective Boys... oh, come on, someone must've suspected them!)
That said, it's also the closest thing I've ever written to a mystery. See if you can solve the case before the end!
My lawyer is punctual - I hear the Bar's very serious about that these days - and walks over to the double-layered glass with the kind of dignity that His Majesty would've been jealous of. She bows and sits down, her brown eyes hard and bright, her pantsuit looking respectable but not showy.
I'm already on the other side of the glass, of course. I've been sitting here for the last five minutes, trying not to think about how the guard in the doorway behind me so dearly wants to strangle me.
(As opposed to all the other guards, who would've actually strangled me by now. But I digress.)
She takes out her notepad, clicks out her pen, and looks at me like I'm a cockroach she'd just scraped off her shoe. And I'm paying her to be on my side. But then, what did I expect?
If I'd wanted sympathy, I would've known better than to get caught.
And I'd definitely have known better than to get tossed into the Tokyo Detention Centre.
"Good afternoon, good afternoon." I clap my hands together and lace my fingers. "So... I'm guessing you can't smuggle me out of here and on the next boat to China."
She doesn't laugh. Neither do I.
"My name is Suzue Masao," she says, not breaking eye contact. "I am your attorney, Mi-"
I hold a hand up. "I know what my name is, Ms. Masao. Everyone in Japan knows. The media's done a wonderful job of that."
She instantly stops, actually looking relieved.
I lace my hands together again. "Shall we begin?"
Her eyes grow just a little colder. "You killed Conan Edogawa, a six-year-old child, in cold blood. Why don't we start with that?"
I shrug. It's about all I can do at this point.
Then I roll my tongue around in my mouth and say what I'd said to the police. To the reporters. To the "victim's" - to my - friends and family. To anyone who'd wanted an answer.
"It was self-defense."
A muscle straightens in Ms. Masao's jaw, but it's all the reaction she gives. They'd trained her well.
"Do you have evidence? Anything we can use to convince the judge?"
I move my hands to my lap. "Just this. If I hadn't killed him, he would've definitely killed me."
She writes... something in the notepad. It's a bit too small for my eyes, and I was never any good at reading upside-down. When she's finished, she looks at me again.
"Let's go over the facts, shall we?"
I shrug again.
"On the evening of September 4, you ambushed Conan Edogawa as he was returning home from a late-night book signing. The streets were nearly abandoned, but two witnesses saw you dragging him into a nearby alley. While one dialed the police, the other-"
"-tried to stop me, but he was already too late," I finished for her. "I know. I've got the bruises to prove it."
I throw my head back and remember the cold, cloudy Tokyo night.
And the hunt.
And the screams.
And the thick, wet joy dripping through my fingers.
"He didn't like being erased, you know," I volunteer. "Then again, they never do."
Ms. Masao's composure starts to crack. She pinches the bridge of her nose to steady herself.
When she speaks again, she's much, much quieter, and I know I'm not talking to a lawyer anymore. Just a woman who wants answers.
"You knew each other better than either of you knew anyone else. He trusted you. What could've driven you to this?"
I don't answer. I have an answer, but not one that I think she - that I think anyone - would understand. So I sit there, remembering all the good times that I'd had with the kid.
And I try to feel sorry.
Emphasis on try.
"This isn't just murder," she says after two minutes of me saying nothing. "You owed your fame to him. You owed your fortune to him. And you betrayed him. Do you have nothing to say for yourself?"
A vein throbs in my temple. I think about cursing her out then and there, but then I think better of it. It wouldn't solve anything, and the guard is probably looking for an excuse to "restrain" me.
"I betrayed him?"
My voice is lower than it's ever been, and I know she's hanging on to every word.
"I guess I did. But he betrayed me first."
She flinches, surprise on her face. I know it's not because she believes what I say, but because she doesn't know how anyone could delude themselves enough to say it.
To be honest, I don't either. All I know is that it's very easy to say when it's the truth.
And if she - and for that matter, most of Japan - didn't like that, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.
"What good's money if I never get to spend it? What good's fame if I'm reduced to sleeping four hours a day? That's what happens with people like him. First they take over your job. Then they take over your life. And they take and take and take until..."
I stop when I hear the scrape of steel on tile.
Ms. Masao's stood up, and she's gathering her things. Just as well. She looks like she's about to have a coronary. I don't want her death on my head.
"I'll be back tomorrow," she says. "With the rest of the plan. If we're lucky, we might convince them to lock you up for the rest of your life."
"Do your best," I reply. And I plaster the biggest, cheesiest smile I can muster across my face.
I swear to God that she actually flies over to the door on the other side of the room. I hear the guard approaching me from behind, but he stops when she turns around, her body already halfway outside.
"My colleagues have been passing around a little phrase they've learned from American TV lately. I don't usually say it to my clients, but in your case?"
"Yes?"
"May God have mercy on your soul, Mr. Aoyama."
... well, I said it would be grim. I didn't say it wouldn't be a comedy.
Please understand that I've got nothing but the highest respect for Gosho, and hope that he gets well very, very quickly. But... well, I've been rereading "The Adventure of the Two Collaborators" (a Holmes pastiche written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's one-time collaborator, J.M. "Peter Pan" Barrie) lately, and one thing basically led to another. I admit that that story is far more blatantly humorous than mine, but I didn't want to rip it off wholesale.
In my mind, Gosho didn't so much kill Conan as he simply reduced the little guy to a puddle of ink with his Almighty Author/Artist Powers (TM). Like that's going to make much of a difference to the Mouris, the Kudos, the MPD, Heiji and Kid... (not to mention Conan's millions and millions of real-life fans...). Still, I tried to keep the language ambiguous so it could suit those of you with more grisly imaginations.
(As for the setup: an earlier draft had Gosho not arrested, but instead on the run and having the above exchange with an old friend in a bar. I nixed that because I'd wanted to keep the suspect pool as big as possible. Being in a bar would've excluded Ran, Sonoko, the Detective Boys... oh, come on, someone must've suspected them!)