Evening. Hayashi Shuichi fought off yawns, pushing the izakaya open until ten before exhaustion won. He was dying to close up and crash.
Inside, he, Eri, and Mouri Kogoro cleared tables. Reiko—too young and wiped from last night—had been sent upstairs early.
A screech of tires shattered the quiet.
Moments later, Officer Megure burst through the noren, face etched with fatigue and urgency.
"We're closed," Kogoro said, pausing mid-wipe.
"Not here to eat," Megure panted, eyes locking on Hayashi Shuichi. "Lin-kun, come with me. Case needs your help."
"…Fine." Hayashi Shuichi slapped his cheeks to chase the fog, set down the dishes, and moved to follow.
"Shuichi," Eri frowned, worry creasing her brow. "You haven't rested properly. Can you handle this?"
"I'm good, I—"
Megure cut in, voice dripping resentment. "He's not the only one who didn't sleep! You kids at least napped at school. I pulled a full shift! Keep this up and I'll drop dead."
Hayashi Shuichi and Eri exchanged an awkward glance, cheeks heating.
Kogoro blinked. "Wait—another case kept you up last night?"
"Move it," Hayashi Shuichi said quickly, shoving Megure out before he spilled. "Let's go."
"I'm coming too," Eri called, stripping off her apron and hurrying after them.
"Hey, you two…" Kogoro stared at the half-cleared mess, smiling bitterly. "Guess I'm on cleanup duty alone?"
…
Sirens wailing, the patrol car tore toward the scene. Megure briefed Hayashi Shuichi en route.
Victim: Nakajima Ryosuke, 28. Girlfriend: Ota Yuka.
Found dead in Yuka's mother's bathroom.
"Cause: severed carotid, exsanguination," Megure said. "Mrs. Ota confessed."
Eri frowned. "Then why drag Shuichi in?"
"Something's off," Megure admitted. "She claims she used a kitchen knife. Forensics says the wound's conical—nothing like a blade. We tore the place apart. No match."
"Why hide the weapon if she's confessing?" Hayashi Shuichi mused. "Who called it in?"
"Yuka," Megure replied. "Only three in the apartment: mother, daughter, victim."
"You think Mom's covering for her?" Hayashi Shuichi asked.
"Exactly. Plus, no weapon means the prosecutors will nitpick."
The car screeched to a halt outside a weathered apartment block. Dim hallway lights cast a stale, yellow glow.
Megure led them upstairs into the Ota residence.
Hayashi Shuichi's gaze landed on the entryway shoe rack: women's heels, two pairs of men's shoes.
"Mr. Ota?" he asked.
"Dead years ago," Megure said. "Those are Nakajima's. Size matches."
"Why two pairs?"
"Probably left from prior visits," Megure shrugged. "Boyfriend dropping by his girl's mom—normal."
"Yuka live here?"
"No. Rents her own place."
In the living room, Officer Sato calmed a frantic middle-aged woman—hair wild, eyes manic, arms flailing.
"I told you—I killed Ryosuke!" she shouted, voice raw with resolve. "Stop badgering Yuka!"
"Ma'am, we need evidence," Sato sighed. "You say knife, but the wound doesn't match."
The woman—still striking despite her age, curves hugged by a fitted dress—radiated desperate fury.
On the sofa, a twenty-something girl clutched her skirt, knuckles white, eyes swirling with turmoil as she watched her mother.
"Noisy one's Mrs. Ota," Megure murmured. "Sofa's Yuka."
Greetings exchanged, Hayashi Shuichi followed Megure to the bathroom.
The air reeked of blood and steam, thick enough to choke on.
Nakajima lay shirtless on the tile, neck a mangled ruin. Water pooled everywhere; his body glistened.
"Post-mortem shower with hot water," Megure said.
"Trying to screw with time of death?" Eri asked. "Didn't you say heat speeds rigor?"
Hayashi Shuichi gloved up, crouched, and traced the wound. Edges blurred, tissue peeling.
Megure waited. "Anything?"
"Edges ragged, tissue separation," Hayashi Shuichi said grimly. "Have forensics check for layered tissue damage around the wound."
(End of Chapter)
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