THE KNIGHTS JUSTICE:
DIVINE PUNISHMENT PART 10
Why did he discard the pen so
violently after completing his task?
The question gnawed at Conan's psyche as he scrutinized the bizarre biomechanics of Mr. Manaka's final moments. To the untrained eye, it was a frantic gesture of a dying man. But to a detective, it was a glaring inconsistency. The killer was inches away; wasting motion to hurl a pen and create a clattering ruckus was illogical. Then, the realization struck him with the force of a lightning bolt.
Wait... when I discovered that golden pen, the tip was retracted.
A chill raced down Conan's spine. It was utterly unnatural. A man in the throes of a brutal execution, gasping his final breaths, would not take the painstaking time to twist the barrel of a ballpoint pen to conceal the nib. It was a mechanical impossibility in such a frantic context.
"Because it doesn't work," a hoarse, sickly rasp vibrated from the shadows behind him.
Conan's breath hitched. He spun around to find Leon standing in the dim light of the monitoring room, his features still masked by the funereal veil. The boy had been observing him in silence, his presence as weightless as a phantom. The English words hung in the air, providing the final, jagged piece to the puzzle.
"Then that means..." Conan murmured, his voice trailing off as the full scope of the deception crystallized. He searched the dark lace of the veil for any sign of Leon's eyes. The boy gave a singular, slow nod—a silent confirmation that he had reached the same grim conclusion.
An unspoken understanding passed between them, a bridge of intellect spanning the gap between the child of mystery and the detective in a boy's body. Conan returned the nod, his expression hardening into one of grim resolve. He leapt from the chair and bolted toward the exit, racing back to the Hell Gallery to confirm the physical evidence of his theory.
He skidded into the gallery, his eyes darting through the throng of forensic technicians until they landed on Inspector Megure. The Inspector was in the process of handing a small, translucent evidence bag to a subordinate.
"Secure this immediately and ensure the laboratory conducts a thorough analysis," Megure commanded.
"A-ha!" Conan shouted inwardly. There it was—the parchment.
Without a second's hesitation, he dived through the legs of the officers, snatching the plastic-wrapped evidence from the startled policeman's hand before he could stash it away.
Conan held the note up to the dim light, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the surface. Heh. As I suspected. There's a distinct indentation on the paper. He wasn't the only one who had seen through the charade; Leon's cryptic obsession with the word "pen" from the day before was now revealed as a profound warning. Omoshiroi. Truly fascinating, Conan thought, a sharp, predatory glint reflecting in his spectacles. Now, with this discovery, the elaborate artifice the killer constructed will be shattered into a thousand pieces.
He gripped the evidence bag tightly, but his investigation was rudely interrupted.
"Hey! You brat! What do you think you're doing with police evidence?" Mouri Kogoro's voice thundered. The detective snatched the paper back and hoisted Conan into the air by his collar, danging him like a misbehaving kitten while unleashing a barrage of scolding.
The reprimand was cut short by a shout from the entrance.
"Inspector! We've recovered it!" A group of officers emerged, lugging a heavy, sapphire-blue equipment bag. They set it down with a dull, metallic thud. "We discovered the suit of armor stashed within Kubota-san's private locker!"
The gallery fell into a suffocating silence as the bag was unzipped. Inside lay the silver plate mail, now a grisly tapestry of dried, blackened gore. The metallic tang of blood, thick and cloying, overwhelmed the scent of old oil and stone.
"T-THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE! I KNOW NOTHING OF THIS!" Kubota shrieked, his voice fracturing into a jagged sob. His pupils contracted into pinpricks as he stared at the blood-drenched evidence planted in his locker. He screamed his innocence, his legs finally buckling under the crushing weight of the accusation. He collapsed into a heap on the floor, still wailing that he had been framed.
"We possess two pillars of evidence that dictate your guilt, Kubota-san: this blood-smeared armor and the victim's own dying message," Megure declared, looking down at the broken man with cold, unwavering authority.
The gathered spectators stared at the cowering suspect with undisguised contempt. To them, the case was closed.
No... that wasn't a dying message at all, Conan thought, his gaze flickering toward the crowd. It's a masterfully orchestrated trick. The killer didn't just murder Manaka; he constructed a stage to bury Kubota under a mountain of fabricated proof.
"It truly is a bloody, infernal affair," Mouri remarked, peering at the ruined armor. "A shame this magnificent suit was desecrated by such filth."
"Actually, that particular set is merely a replica intended for atmospheric decoration," Iijima explained, stepping forward to stand beside Mouri. "If my memory serves, it was the very same suit Kubota-san was mishandling so violently earlier today."
"Ah, that time?" Mouri recalled the image of Kubota casting the helmet aside in a fit of pique.
So that's why Manager Ochiai remained so composed during that outburst, Conan realized. He wasn't bothered by the mistreatment of the armor because it held no historical value. It was a disposable prop.
"Well, it is a small mercy that a replica was utilized for this atrocity and not a genuine relic," Iijima continued, glancing around the chamber. "It appears the rest of the collection remains untarnished. Nothing was damaged save for the masonry where the murder occurred."
Conan's eyes flickered with a sharp realization as the fragmented clues coalesced in his mind. His gaze became predatory, scanning the confines of the room with renewed intensity. His attention drifted toward the wall where Mr. Manaka had met his gruesome end. Upon that surface, the victim's lifeblood was splattered like a chaotic, macabre mural of crimson and obsidian against the somber grey-black backdrop. The viscous fluid meandered downward, weeping onto the floor in dark, pooling stains.
He scrutinized the scene. Though numerous pedestals and placards remained, the wall itself was strangely barren.
AM N. NOT.(っ－＿－)っ♤♤DRAFT♤♤