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Recherche	By : Eggburtshamslice Category: Naruto > Yaoi - Male/Male > Kakashi/Iruka Views: 4188 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
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Recherché: Then and Now
Paper lanterns of orange, tan and yellow shooed away night’s lingering shadows as the ritual convoy wound through the orchards and groves in the west. Long before the morning sun shook off its slumber, the tinkle of tiny brass bells and the thunderous plodding of hooves against old stone pathways rustled the citizenry of Konoha from their comfortable beds. The rumble of forty-seven ox drawn carts laden with timber would grow louder as they neared the central point of the territory and so too would the indistinct voices of stout workmen marching alongside the carts.
Residents raced to their windows and flung open the shutters - not to shake angry fists against the noisemakers, nor rain down dark curses on the heads of these roisterers as they traveled through dusty streets. Instead, a tidal wave of cheers, whistles and applause swelled behind this ragtag caravan, nudging them onward, growing in volume as the people lifted their voices in a refrain of joy; this symphony of exuberance reached its crescendo as soon as the last wooden wheel of the forty seventh cart rolled into the town’s square. With the somber ringing of the temple bells west of the downtown area, a reverent hush would fall; the fragrance of sandalwood and myrrh mingling with the prayers offered by a coterie of monks.
The procession was but one part of a time-honored tradition in Konoha, one heralding three nights of festivity. Once prayers concluded, the monotonous drone of saws and the clangorous rhythm of the carpenter's hammers began; the earthy scent of sanded lumber igniting a sense of expectation and wonder throughout the town. Over the next fourteen days, the community Konoha swelled and as the inns filled, homeowners extended hospitality for those who’d made the sojourn from other parts of the territory.
Finally, on the fifteenth night of the eighth month, the downtown area was aglow with a sea of paper lanterns; ornate booths lined the lanes, vendors hawked their wares and proud farmers displayed the first fruits of their harvests. Warm eventide air transported pungent aromas of roasting sweet potatoes, pumpkin, taro and chestnuts; beside every open window stood artful arrangements of pampas grass and bush clover, Tsukimi dango and raw chestnuts adorned family altars. These too were integral parts of the tradition thought to make the wishes and prayers of that household come to fruition.
It was a simpler time; children stayed up past their bedtime, scampering over cobble stoned streets, playing hide and seek among the booths - strolling musicians charmed the adults into forgetting their cares, to sing and dance with abandon. Young lovers jockeyed for space along the rocky shoreline admiring the beauty of the rising harvest moon’s reflection on the water’s tranquil surface; others spread blankets atop grassy knolls and hillocks, waiting for the moon to reach its zenith in the cloudless, indigo sky.
Ah yes, that’s how things used to be.
But on this, the first night of the great festival, there was only a melancholy chorus of lupine howls from the dense forests. Devoid of adornment, the town square lay lifeless, dark and cold; from the hillocks where fragrant wild grasses sway in the wind, fat black crickets provide the night’s music.
And before the only unshuttered windows in town, a commanding figure stands, awash in the soft yellow moonlight.   A mountain of a man, Chief Inspector Ibiki Morino was hard to miss. His eyes, black as coal and keener than a night heron’s, he scanned vacated pathways and side alleys hoping to capture movement of any kind ...
there was none.
Tonight, every family huddled together, trembling behind bolted doors. There they would remain until morning light, kneeling before family altars, chanting prayers and whispering petitions to their ancestors for a form of protection, a sense of security Ibiki could no longer provide. He understood their fear … he shared their sense of helplessness, but he alone bore the brunt of their anger.
And as he stood silent vigil, Ibiki prayed as well;
for wisdom,
for favor from the gods who’d forsaken his people
and failing those two . . .
he prayed for luck.
In the days of his youth, the full moon’s monthly appearance signified a time of renewal, rebirth and hope for the future. But these last seven months, the full moon was but an omen of brutality; a clarion call to the depths of hell to let loose a foul scourge from its darkest recesses.
Times like these call for a stiff shot of brandy
to calm the mind and settle the stomach,
that’s what he told himself over an hour ago, as the liqueur flowed from its decanter. Just something to keep my hands engaged and mind distracted, he reasoned. Can’t afford overindulgence ... must needs keep my wits.
In those first few hours, he kept his promise, but as time dragged on, he feared crushing the fragile crystal with every step he took. Unanswered questions swirl through an overwrought mind ... the repeated cries for swift resolution to this menace echo in his ears; his thoughts, plunging him deeper into depression’s miry clay.
A final swish of the amber liquid inside the snifter’s balloon released a heady bouquet of peaches, pears and a hint of aged wood, calming rattled nerves.   The mellow heat smoothly burned down his throat as he emptied the glass in one gulp.
So much for temperance.
Savoring the sweetness, he closed his eyes for a moment, as if to push back against the unrelenting darkness welling up in his soul;
yet the darkness would not yield.
Triumph or tragedy - no in between, nowhere to run ... nowhere to hide should tonight’s carefully laid plans fail.
No, we will succeed, he thought as he refilled the snifter.   We must!
I have thirty mounted constables patrolling the western end of town, thirty more walking beats along the wharf area on the eastern flank and fifty deputized men scattered by the mills and through the forests.
We cannot … will not fail!
Yet his thoughts wander ever backward, making him acknowledge an unwanted possibility. Deep down inside, he knew; the bony finger of death would indeed beckon another eternal captive ere the dawn, as it had these past months.
The alcohol roving about in his system was bringing down his defenses and slowly targeting his insecurities.
He turned away, temporarily abandoning his post. Soft moonbeams illumine a path through the spacious and sparsely furnished living area which doubled as his bedroom and remote command post; a lightweight wool overcoat, draped over the back of a chair near the couch and his heavy black boots stood in readiness beside the front door. With another gulp of brandy working its way down his gullet, Ibiki carelessly loosened the narrow black tie and itchy starched collar as he wilted into a buttery soft brown leather couch and closed his eyes. Immediately, images of seven young women splashed over his mind, their throats shredded, their bodies drained of their life force, save for tiny droplets of blood on their clothing.
No need for investigation after the first victim’s discovery - a common prostitute; an unfortunate, not unexpected end - a hazard of her chosen profession. A month later, victim number two - another prostitute, found outside the bordello that masqueraded as a boarding house near the port. Assuming the perpetrator a seafaring man, he’d doubled the amount of constables assigned to the docks; that proved a waste of time and manpower. With his own officers convinced these murders were the victim’s due for pursuing an immoral lifestyle, their ‘investigations’ were halfhearted at best and rotting corpses lay unclaimed in the morgue for weeks, ultimately relegated to the potter’s field.
The only things linking these women were occupation and where their bodies were dumped; the eastern edge of the town where transients found a night’s lodging and men of a coarser nature lived and worked. His constables again dismissed these acts as the work of a lone, disgruntled customer and at first, Ibiki was inclined to agree.
But the next two murders ripped holes through that theory.
The third victim, a washerwoman - her body left in an alley behind the laundry, ten feet from the Administrative complex. The next one, a talented, comely seamstress, propped up at the base of an apple tree, mere steps from Ibiki’s backyard. With no family to claim their bodies, they too were interred in pauper’s graves.
With the next three victims, the murderer again changed tactics.
All of them, well-educated and respectable young women from noble families; when news of their deaths were made public month after month, the halcyon town was thrown into an uproar. Paranoia cut a swath through the tight-knit community like a stiff breeze through fields of white headed dandelions; wariness unknown before, turned even the most mundane social interactions into waltzes of polite unease.
‘This isn’t the work of your average thrill killer,’ he remembered telling his men. ‘Instead, we’re dealing with someone of great intelligence and extreme precision.’
But to what end? he wondered.
What’s the angle and why was Konoha the target?
Ibiki knew there were factions both political and religious inside the territory which opposed dealings with the Western world. Had they orchestrated the murders, hoping the Governor and Advisory Council would abort trade negotiations? Or … were the gods truly angry ... was this divine retribution because Konoha was about to bow the knee to the god of greed?
There were also those of the opinion that a ravening pack of wolves or other woodland creatures were responsible for the recent avalanche of misfortune. It’s the influence of the moon’ they said, which allegedly fueled the lust for human blood, driving these beasts into a cyclic feeding frenzy. Still others believed recent renovation and excavation near the old manor house north of the cemetery had somehow angered a powerful spirit being; destroying young lives was its way of ‘exacting revenge on those who dared disrupt its eternal sleep’, or so the rumors went.
Guileless townsfolk, he chuckled to himself, so quick to believe outlandish things.
But with a deranged misogynist on the loose, there was little time to entertain baseless conjecture and silly superstitions. Ibiki trusted his gut which insisted this killer walked on two legs, not four and that this so-called phantom possessed a physical body – one that could be apprehended and eventually executed for his crimes.
All that was left him now were incongruent facts and an eerie pattern of behavior.
First off, it was physically impossible to leave nothing behind or take nothing away from any crime scene. He knew that. Yet, neither footprints or wagon wheel impressions were found near the corpses indicating the path taken to or from them, nor was there evidence the body had been dragged to its final location. No scraps of clothing or strands of hair clutched in the victim's hands either, which signified the women knew and trusted the assailant or the attack was so sudden they didn’t have time to fight.
The wily mongrel didn’t even leave a scent behind for the bloodhounds to track.
Second, the killer was very particular about when he struck; the murders always occurred once a month during the three-night phase of a full moon. Yet, no one ever reported hearing a scuffle nor panicked screams in the night. Next, the murderer was particular about who he killed. All the victims were between the ages of seventeen to twenty-five and though the first two were ‘sex-for-hire’ workers, there was never any evidence of rape or carnal activity of any kind prior to their deaths. Obviously, the killer derived a perverted form of sexual gratification by overpowering defenseless women. He also took great care to lay the victim's' hands in their laps, intertwining their fingers as if in prayer.
Lastly, though their throats were savagely slashed open, the carotid artery was always cleanly cut, as if by a surgical instrument. How this maniac could drain all the blood from their bodies without splattering it over the crime scene was still a mystery. Ibiki allowed himself another chuckle, remembering the fallout after interrogating every physician and surgeon in the territory. Questioning those upstanding men, treating them like common criminals earned him a good scolding from the Governor, but he had no regrets.
“You sick bastard,” he snarled, raising the snifter to his lips once more, “you will slip up and I’ll be there to catch you.”
Coming face to face with a psychopath of this caliber, probing the depths of a reprobate mind, perchance discovering the motives behind the madness contorted Ibiki’s lips into a crooked grin. He’d admit it to none other, but the sheer bravado this killer possessed garnered his grudging respect. What angered him was the realization that bringing this madman to justice wouldn’t give him the peace of mind he needed. Wrapping his hands around the neck of this cold-blooded fiend, feeling his last breath escape from his body and insufflate against his skin, that had become Ibiki’s obsession.
“Ah well,” he said lifting the nearly empty glass in mock salute to the moon. “I always did enjoy a spirited game of cat and mouse.”
Recherché
The crunch of gravel beneath heavy boots stirred him from a light doze long before the frantic rapping at his front door would have; expecting a report about the killer’s apprehension was why the slight bit of rest he got was fitful. He was alert and on his feet in an instant, his overcoat clutched in his left hand.
“Inspector,” the man’s voice pled from behind the oaken door. “Inspector, please … come quickly!”
Ibiki ground his teeth and took a deep breath. Judging from the panicked tone of voice, he knew it wasn’t one of his constables.
Damn it! This wasn’t supposed to happen again!
The ornate brass doorknob slammed against the interior wall when he flung it open revealing a distraught and barely recognizable fisherman; his trademark sunglasses sat crookedly atop the familiar blue bandana, and his sweat soaked blue shirt, flecked with vomitus, heaved with every nervous breath.
“Ebisu,” he snapped as he stooped to pull on his boots, “for god’s sake man … catch hold yourself!”
“But, Inspector . . . the boat . . . my boat … there’s a body!”
Running a calloused palm from the nape of his neck, over the smooth skin of his bald head and down a scarred face as he stood, Ibiki calmed himself; it just wouldn’t do to vent his frustrations on a civilian, especially one who just got the fright of his life. He gingerly pushed the other man away with one hand, closing the door behind him with the other as he took off toward the port with Ebisu at his heels, struggling to describe the sight which greeted him before dawn.
“I think it’s one of the . . . one of the Hyuga girls,” he breathed trying to keep pace with the Inspector’s long strides.
When that name rolled off the other man’s tongue, Ibiki felt his stomach drop to the soles of his boots.   Wasn’t it bad enough the killer slipped past my men again last night? And if Ebisu’s guess is correct, I’ll have to contend with that posturing, elitist family breathing down my neck. They’ll wield their political clout and sure as salt, I’ll have to fight off another attempt to remove me from office.   Damn it!
He shook his head and quickened the pace.
The sun’s rays, not yet strong enough to burn off the cool, wispy fog, through it he saw members of Ebisu’s crew on the dock, their heads bowed in respect for the dead. To their left, another constable took statements from fishermen aboard the vessel moored beside Ebisu’s. Suddenly, a figure clad in black from head to foot wriggled free of the fog’s embrace, waving its arms about wildly.
“Oi, Inspector ...over here!”
Dear god, he thought, it’s too early in the morning for this flibbertigibbet! Shiranui Genma, Coroner and mortician, a thin, pale skinned man in his early thirties with kind light brown eyes and a comforting demeanor. Always approachable and easy to talk to, Genma was privy to everyone’s heartaches and dark secrets; on the downside, he was a high-spirited man, enthusiastic about his work to the point of discomfort.   As the territory’s foremost expert in thanatology, Genma delighted in explaining the mechanics of death to all who would listen. To be fair, it was during one of his incessant rants about the life cycle of a blowfly, that Ibiki nailed down an approximate time of death in a cold case, which led to the exoneration of an innocent man.
Maybe in the midst of his blustering he might prove helpful again, but I’m in no mood to hear him prattle on about the marvels of rigor mortis right now.
“Looks like we got another tough one,” he called out.
Ibiki nodded and kept walking, hoping his demeanor would dissuade further inane conversation.   Naturally that didn’t work; soon, Genma was at his right side, peering around him, extending condolences to Ebisu.
“What rotten luck, eh, old man? Not to worry,” he said, gesturing to himself and Ibiki, “between me and the big guy we’ll make this town safe again -- am I right?”
Ibiki uttered not a word, listening intently as Genma continued his line of questioning about the body’s positioning, if a trail or pool of blood was near or underneath the body and so forth. Turning greener with each question, a mush mouthed Ebisu stuttered out his responses.
Hang on, Ibiki thought, here’s a man with an uncanny knack to meet or beat my officers to every crime scene; a man who embraces death like a long-lost paramour and one who has access to surgical instruments used for autopsies or embalming cadavers. Surely, he couldn’t be the one who was ...no, he talks too much … lacks the finesse our murderer’s shown thus far. Still, it might not be a bad idea to bring him in for questioning at some point.
“What say ye, Inspector? It’ll be a proud day when we catch this blackguard.”
Ibiki cut his eyes at the other man though Genma didn’t take the hint; he was still smiling brightly, his brown eyes twinkling as tobacco stained teeth clamped down on a silver tipped kiseru.
Once they stepped on the wooden planks of the docks, they didn’t have to go far to find victim number eight.
There she lay in the bow of the boat, her hands folded on her abdomen, a once beautiful face, frozen in the rictus of surprise. Like the others, her throat was ripped apart and her clothing intact; an expensive jeweled brooch above her left breast sparkled as the sun rose. Long jet black hair pinned up behind pale ears and the family crest etched into the delicate pearl earrings were enough to confirm her identity even at this distance.
Damn it! She is a Hyuga.
“Constable Sakai … disperse this crowd, the scene now belongs to Mr. Shiranui. And you, Himura, notify the family and accompany them to the Coroner’s office.”
With that, Ibiki turned and headed toward the Administrative center. He’d have to hurry and submit a preliminary report to the Governor before the Hyuga showed up and lodged a formal complaint against him. By the time he found a scrap of paper in his coat pocket and scrawled a note, most of the townsfolk were already gathering in the plaza. He heard their jeers, felt the weight of their angry stares as he slipped the note beneath the door, yet he stood tall, moving briskly through the crowd, his eyes focused on the building one hundred and fifty paces away.
Once inside the constabulary, he breathed a sigh of relief; the station house was quiet this morning, his men wrapped up in their grief and feelings of powerlessness. Down the hall and to the left was his office, a fortress of silence where he could indulge this bitter disappointment in private. But the flickering light of an oil lamp’s flame against mud brown walls and the sound of conversation from inside his office raised his hackles.
Must be the Governor and Advisory Council come to curse me to my face.
Entering the large space, conversation between the three young men came to a halt. Their manner of dress, tailored Western suits, like those the European envoys wore, led him to believe they represented the Hyuga in some capacity; lawyers, no doubt.
"Well that was quick,” he said standing beside the open door. “How may I be of assistance to you gentlemen?"
The young men stood as one turning to face him, each bowing politely. The brown-haired man in the middle, the one with a scar across his nose, spoke first.
“Are you Inspector Morino?”
He maintained eye contact with the man as he stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him. “I am … and who would you be?”
“Dr. Umino Iruka and these are my companions. To my left, Mr. Kotetsu Hagane and to my right, Mr. Izumo Kamizuki.”
Taking care to avoid the sharp corner of his wide, wooden workspace, Ibiki reconsidered his impression of the trio. Fresh faced, bright-eyed, all of them under fifty years of age … probably aren’t connected to the Hyuga, but it never hurts to err on the side of caution. “Thought I wouldn’t see you lot until the family was officially notified,” he said taking his seat. “I can’t release any information just now, so, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I have a great deal of--”
“You were expecting us sir?” the one named Izumo asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kotetsu said. “He obviously thinks we’re somebody else.”
“Yes, well … be that as it may,” Dr. Umino countered, “we’ve come to assist you, Inspector.”
“Of course you have. Just leave your information with the watch commander. Good day gentlemen.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand sir,” Izumo said. “We’ve traveled a great distance to--”
“Oh no, I understand completely and as I have no time for foolishness, kindly dismiss yourselves.”
“Now see here, Inspector Morino,” he heard the good doctor say, “I will not leave this place until you’ve heard me out.”
“Under your own power or with the assistance of my constables ... you will depart my presence.”
Suddenly a heavy, brown leather portfolio fell from Umino’s hand, scattering the pile of papers before Ibiki when it landed with a resounding thump.
“This represents years of research and investigation by my father ..."
Ibiki eyed the thing suspiciously; leaning back with his palms against the edge of the desk, he lifted his head, glaring at this Umino chap who was still talking.
“. . . the same monster. The identity of the murderer you seek is within the pages of this book.
Are you sure you want to dismiss us now, Inspector?”
NOTES:
The Japanese night heron typically inhabits dense, coniferous and broad-leaved forests on hills and low mountains close to bodies of water, i.e. rivers and streams.
In this strange little world, the Hyuga family does NOT have the trademark lilac eyes so familiar to us fans of the anime or manga. The Hyuga however are extremely proud of their lineage in Fire Country and most members of this clan wear miniature replications of the family crest on some part of their clothing or jewelry.
Roisterer: those who revel noisily or without restraint.
Halcyon: calm, peaceful, or tranquil.
Insufflate: the act or action of blowing on.
Flibbertigibbet: a chattering or flighty, light-headed person.
Blackguard: low, contemptible person; scoundrel.
Kiseru: a Japanese smoking pipe.
Thanatology: the study of death and its surrounding circumstances.
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