THE KNIGHTS JUSTICE:
DIVINE PUNISHMENT PART o
Kubota's eyes distended as the foundations of his secrecy crumbled. The revelation that the exhibits he had clandestinely sold were now being framed as a lethal motive struck him with the force of a physical blow. Perspiration cascaded down his pallid features, drenching his collar as the gravity of his predicament set in.
"W-well, y-you s-see..." he stammered, his tongue thickening as he struggled to articulate a defense. His plea was severed mid-sentence by Inspector Megure's razor-sharp gaze.
"Is the information provided by Iijima-san factual?" the Inspector demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.
Terrified by the scrutiny, Kubota stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. "B-but that has nothing to do with this!" he gasped, desperate to detach his petty larceny from the act of homicide. As the weight of their collective condemnation bore down on him, a surge of raw, unadulterated frustration erupted. "I WASN'T THE ONE WHO KILLED HIM! IT WASN'T ME!"
His shrill, frantic denial echoed through the vaulted arches of the Hell Gallery, sounding like the lament of a condemned soul thrashing against the infernal heat. All eyes remained fixed upon him—predatory, judgmental, and cold. Their silent stares seemed to flay the skin from his bones.
"If that is the case," Megure said, halting his advance and folding his arms, "the truth will manifest the moment my officers locate that blood-soaked suit of armor."
While the confrontation reached its fever pitch, Conan was crouched low, prowling the floorboards. He was scouring the shadows for the instrument Mr. Manaka had discarded. Leon's cryptic mention of a "pen" from the previous day resonated in his mind like a persistent hum.
He crawled alongside the perimeter where the silent, stone-faced statues stood in a grim procession. His eyes suddenly caught a glint of metallic luster. Nestled against the gray plinth of an armored effigy lay a slender, golden-brown object.
"So, this is the one," Conan murmured, his lips curling into a sharp, knowing smile. He stood up and projected his voice across the chamber. "Inspector Megure! I found a ballpoint pen over here!"
Megure pivoted, his brows rising in surprise. "What?" He strode toward the boy, kneeling beside the pedestal to retrieve the evidence. "An exceptional discovery, Conan-kun."
As the Inspector hoisted the pen into the light, he observed its burnished golden-brown finish and the elegant calligraphy etched into its barrel. "This is a remarkably sophisticated writing instrument," he remarked.
"That pen was commissioned this year to commemorate the Beika Art Museum's 50th anniversary," Manager Ochiai interjected, his voice soft yet authoritative. He recognized the specific hue instantly; a matching one resided in his own pocket. "Every permanent staff member was issued one as a memento."
"So, an employee inadvertently dropped it here?" Megure mused. He gripped the upper casing and gave it a firm twist. The internal mechanism clicked, and the writing tip emerged.
Conan's eyes widened behind his spectacles as he watched the tip extend. A shadow of doubt crossed his face.
Megure extracted his pocket ledger and flipped to a pristine page. He scrawled a few experimental loops across the paper. The ink flowed smoothly, leaving a dark, indelible trail. Satisfied that the pen was functional, he tucked it into the pocket of his leather jacket and withdrew the crumpled note bearing Kubota's name for a side-by-side comparison.
"The pigment and the stroke width are an identical match," Megure declared, his eyes scanning the two samples with clinical precision. "This is undoubtedly the instrument the victim used to pen his final message."
That's bizarre, Conan thought, his mind racing through the logic of the crime.
If the perpetrator truly was Kubota, he would have been intimately aware of the surveillance array in this chamber. Why would he choose the only room with a camera, even if he intended to wear armor to mask his identity? Was it an act of hubris? To mirror the 'Divine Punishment' painting? No... that man doesn't possess the aesthetic obsession required for such a theatrical murder. Conan watched Kubota, who was currently reduced to a shivering wreck, his head hanging low as he avoided the scorching gazes of those around him. Would a man this cowardly truly execute such a high-risk, elaborate scheme? A sudden memory flashed through Conan's mind—an anomaly in Mr. Manaka's expression during the video playback. Without a word of explanation, he turned and sprinted back toward the monitoring station.
He burst through the doors of the security hub, breathless. Sonoko was still ensconced in the chair, her head lolling back in a state of total lethargy, while Leon remained a silent sentinel, nursing his black flask.
"Ale? You're both still here?" Conan asked, coming to a halt.
Sonoko merely offered a languid, dismissive wave of her hand, too drained by the day's horrors to formulate a verbal response.
Leon capped his flask with a rhythmic click. He slid off his seat and began pushing a chair toward the primary monitor, positioning it directly in front of the controls.
Conan paused, his eyebrow twitching. Does he already anticipate my next move? Leon turned and offered a silent, solemn thumbs-up.
Conan nodded, a grim smirk touching his lips. Yeah, he knows exactly what I'm looking for. Matching Leon's gesture with a thumbs-up of his own, Conan scrambled onto the chair. His fingers danced across the console, toggling the rewind and slow-motion buttons. He zeroed in on the moment Mr. Manaka first laid eyes on the parchment atop the table.
This is the catalyst, Conan thought. In the decelerated footage, Manaka's reaction was jarring—a look of profound, staggering shock.
What could have been written on that paper to elicit such a visceral response?
He allowed the clip to progress to the moment Manaka seized the pen and frantically scribbled the name.
And why did he hurl the pen away the second he finished writing? The killer was right there. Throwing the pen only created unnecessary noise and wasted precious seconds of his waning life. Conan scrutinized the bizarre, frantic movements of the dying man. Then, a cold realization washed over him like ice water.
Wait... when I discovered the pen on the floor, the tip was retracted, Conan realized, his heart hammering against his ribs. The golden pen I found was closed... its point was hidden inside the barrel.
AM N. NOT.(っ－＿－)っ♤♤DRAFT♤♤