[attr="class","samjermain"]
The Houndstone turned briefly as the girl approached. The gleam in its crimson eyes brightened for a moment—like a lighthouse beam upon contact with an approaching ship. Quickly determining the girl was no threat, the ghost hound would slowly circle the grave before them. Soon enough, his nose would settle on an ectoplasmic trail. This he would follow between the nearest rows of stone.
For some time, it seemed as if Nikita did not notice Shion’s presence. This perception would be quickly proven false. The detective merely wished to enjoy his nicotine infusion in peace. Once he held naught but filter, he would turn to face the junior investigator. Immediately, a salt-and-pepper brow would raise.
“Officer Uehara, correct?” His voice was as dry as the bones beneath the most faded tombstones.
“I was not aware our appointment had moved.” He sniffed.
“Nor that the force had taken to holding meetings in cemeteries.”Exasperation colored his words. Anyone who knew him was aware of his desire for silence. Only a few exceptions had ever made it into his life. His hound was foremost among them. His dearly departed wife—his
Watson--was the other. Still, he did not mind playing mentor on occasion. And, fortunately, this girl did not try and brute force her way into the investigation.
The cigarette was snuffed out between two fingers. If he felt the burn, he made little outward sign of it.
“I am certain your colleagues made a mess of things long before your arrival.” Many police officers reminded him of Bouffalant—one-minded, charging creatures who only left ruts in their wake.
“Still, there may be something of use.” Perhaps a sign of someone hefting a large burden. A bit of blood or gore is out of place.
The time of death was noted with a single nod. The hour lie somewhere between the witching hour and the early riser. A carefully orchestrated attempt to go undetected? It seemed like a strange choice. Then, she pointed out the wallet.
“Hm?” Strange.His pale, gaunt hands vanished beneath kid leather gloves.
“Leave it.” He instructed the younger officer.
“There is no reason to get your hands dirty.” His own were already stained beyond salvation. With a deft movement, he pulled out the little leather folio. He flipped through it with pursed lips. There was a license, three credit cards, and the corner of a family photograph. It reminded him of a corpse picked free by a Mandibuzz’s beak.
“I believe we have a red herring.” Wear indicated their victim was right-handed. His height seemed
off. The item had been hastily stowed in an inconvenient place. Then, of course, there was the matter of the destroyed skull. A crime whose messiness went far beyond simple rage. It was orchestrated in its brutality. In some ways, it was almost
admirable.
A bark from nearby drew blue eyes upward.
“It appears Winters has uncovered witnesses.” Before them—now visible to the naked eye—a Mismagius and Haunter now hung. “Would you be so kind as to examine them?” He wanted to examine the skull fragment more closely. The gentleman in him thought that task best left to a more grizzled, adjusted investigator.
It’d also stop her from hovering.
SKIPPING