“The victim is Ryuuichi Kurimoto. 26 years old. The damage sustained is the same as Dr. Mizuno’s - an explosion from inside his abdomen.”
A dark red exposed abdomen. The burned skin. Wato remembers Mizuno’s crumpled body and without thinking, averts her gaze. Graffiti covers the concrete walls and a sour smell permeates the air. In a blind spot in the metropolis not that far away from Shibuya’s train station, a young man had suddenly lost his life. The inside of his stomach being blown up - a truly cruel way to go.
“It is unknown how he is related to Dr. Mizuno. According to witnesses, he was muttering something or another about a devil,” Shibata continues Reimon’s explanation reluctantly. Perhaps he couldn’t stomach the “consulting detective” who had rudely crossed the police line and was now asking questions with an air of having every right to do so, as well as the “witness” who had accompanied her and is sticking close to her now. Without knowing why, Wato shrinks into herself, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice Shibata’s resentfulness.
While looking at the corpse, she asks, “His personal belongings?”
“A wallet with a driver’s license. A keyring. And a cellphone.”
Shibata raises a bag containing said belongings to eye-level. Sherlock snatches it and fishes out the keyring. There are multiple colorful keytags on it, making it quite gaudy.
“Don’t touch that with your bare hands!”
Shibata roughly takes it back. Sherlock bluntly says, “The victim was a former drug addict.”
“You get one of these keytags for every month of treatment at a rehabilitation center.”
Reimon lets out a whistle. Sherlock does not answer, leans over the body and begins prodding with the stiffened lips. Shibata’s face becomes red.
“Stop messing around with the corpse!”
“Are there any wounds inside the mouth? You studied forensic medicine in school, right?”
Hearing Sherlock address her, Wato points at herself. She looks at the detectives for permission. Shibata scowls, but Reimon says nothing, only waving her on, as if telling her to go ahead. Sherlock’s eyes focus intently on Wato. This person - is she testing me? Is she testing my abilities as a doctor? Stubbornness and a mysterious sense of duty fills her, and Wato takes a long, deep breath. She approaches the corpse. Feeling three pair of eyes on her, she pries the stiff lips open. Yellowing teeth. A paling tongue. However, there is nothing that looks like a wound.
“I don’t see anything in particular.”
“The victims didn’t know they were swallowing bombs.”
Sherlock crouches low on the ground again, but this time starts sniffing after a scent like a dog.
“It smells - not of something rotten. A sweet smell. Fog liquid. The stuff used on stage productions for effect. That smell.”
“I see. Kurimoto was a stage actor!” Shibata claps his hands together.
Sherlock ignores him and says to the forensic officer, “Hey. You have a black light don’t you? Give it to me.”
Sherlock takes the black light from the puzzled officer’s hand and shines it on the back of Kurimoto’s hand. Wato peeks at his hand too. On it, a dim blue mark appears.
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