Chapter Text
...
Several of the patrol officers looked ill as Naomasa approached the crime scene. Their normally composed faces pale under the harsh emergency lights. It was barely 3 in the morning and he was half way through his shift for the evening, exhaustion settling into his bones like old weather. With a vigilante on the loose, one they called "Quip," Naomasa had been working more nightshifts than days. His circadian rhythm completely shattered. The bitter taste of cold coffee lingered on his tongue as he surveyed the scene.
There was a single body laying in the back of the alley, only the legs visible. He approached the body giving the officers a glance. As he got closer, he could see what had frightened the others. The body had two marks on the side of the body's neck. The victim was a male in his mid to late twenties with mousy brown hair. The man's skin was pale and had a sickly, waxy appearance to it. Blood had dried on the front of the shirt and there was a small puddle of it under the head.
Naomasa crouched down next to them, the knees of his worn work trousers pressing against the grimy pavement that was damp from a recent rain shower. The sticky, metallic smell of blood mixed with the alley's usual stale odors of trash and decay assaulted his nostrils. There were no other injuries that he could see, no signs of a struggle or defensive wounds on the victim's hands and arms. Just the puncture wounds on the neck, two precise holes about an inch apart. It wasn't swollen from healing which meant it was fresh. Almost like he was a victim of a bad horror movie. Like someone bit him.
Biting his lip, the detective stood up, joints protesting slightly. It was odd. Too clean, too theatrical in its horror, too lacking in the messy reality of most violent crimes he investigated. The blood at the scene told one story, but the victim's peaceful expression told another entirely. Naomasa didn't trust this.
"Detective," called an older officer, "I was the one who found him. I sent the prints in and we are waiting for it to come back."
Truth.
Nodding at the information, Naomasa gave the body another look over. He would have to wait for the autopsy report before making any conclusions. Maybe the ME would find something that would explain all of this. But, in his gut, his instincts screamed that this wasn't a run-of-the-mill murder. This was something different.
...
When Naomasa came in the next night, he was a little surprised to see Chief Tsuragamae waiting for him in the bullpen. It was quieter when he came in, only a handful of officers worked the overnight shift. The older man had a frown on his face, wrinkles and creases on his brow deepened. He was wearing a suit and tie, his dress shoes were perfectly shined.
"Detective Tsukauchi with me," ordered Tsuragamae, his tone clipped and professional.
Naomasa gave a nod, setting the thermos of coffee on the desk. He followed the chief down the hall to his own office. Closing the door behind him, the sound of the latch clicking shut seemed to echo in the room. There was a file on the desk, the folder unassuming and not very thick. There was a picture of a young man on the front of it and it took him a moment to recognize him. It was the victim from the night before. He frowned, the uneasy feeling in his chest grew. Tsuragamae picked the file up and opened to the first page.
"The victim was Nishimura Masahiro, age 29," read the chief, his voice heavy. "His death was caused by exsanguination, his body drained of blood. His parents reported him missing 3 days ago, last seen at his place at a bar with friends. There are raised endorphins in his system not from drugs however."
Truth.
"Okay?" questioned Naomasa.
Why was the Chief telling him this? He would've read the file when he got to his office. That's how these things went. The detective would investigate. Tsuragamae rarely got involved unless the investigation for too long. Unless there was a major villain involved. Or it was one of their own. Something was wrong.
"I am authorizing Special Investigations to be brought in," said Tsuragamae gravely, "This is the only authorized Private Investigator in Musutafu to work Special Investigations. Apparently he is young. Our previous contact has apparently retired and this is his apprentice."
Truth.
"Chief," interrupted Naomasa, the uneasy feeling morphing into confusion, "Its only a few hours into the investigation. Surely we don't need Special Investigations."
Special Investigations were only spoken about in whispers in police departments. Hushed conversations in break rooms and late-night bullpens. They operated outside the normal chain of command, not affiliated with any department or agency. Instead they were hired on a contract basis when things ventured beyond the realm of normal criminal investigation. No one really knew where they came from or how they were chosen. Just one day they appeared in cities that needed one, materializing like shadows in the night with a card bearing a special watermarked insignia.
Most detectives didn't trust the mysterious organization; their cases were closed quickly, too quickly sometimes. They came with explanations that felt more like fiction than fact. But even more unnerving was the fact that the Chief had to approve their involvement. It was rare enough that Naomasa could count on one hand the number of times it happened on one hand. With plenty of fingers of leftover.
"Better bring them early than late," answered Tsuragamae, "This is exactly the kind of thing that we have brought them on before. I don't like it anymore than you do but if I am wrong then I'll gladly accept the scolding of the Commissioner. If I'm not, well, its better to not think of that now."
Truth.
Naomasa ground his teeth but gave a sharp nod. It seemed he didn't have a choice. Now he was regretting even taking the call for this case. Still, the victim and his family deserved answers, the justice that the courts would give. If that meant working with a weirdo then he would do it. For their sake.
"Where do I find him?" asked the detective, accepting the folder.
Tsuragamae handed him a piece of paper with an address on it. Under the address was a name, Izuku Midoriya Private Investigator. The address made something itch in the back of his mind. Like he should recognize it. After a moment of thought, he realized it was in a neighborhood full of hole-in-the-wall bars and clubs. In a less than savory part of town. With a resigned sigh, he left the office and went to his car.
As the older man drove to the address, he could feel himself getting tenser and tenser. The people on the street became a little rougher looking, a little more jaded. This was the side of town that Quip usually patrolled and thus so did Eraserhead. The hero had barely seen the vigilante in the two years that he'd been active. Only hearing his voice on a few occasions and the odd glimpse of him in the distance. Despite the fact that the vigilante was technically a criminal, the detective was certain that the area was safer because of him.
Pulling up to a parking spot, Naomasa turned the engine off and climbed out, the car door groaning in protest. The cool night air carried the faint acrid smell of stale cigarettes and something like cheap disinfectant. Looking up at the building, he saw it was a rather plain and nondescript blocky structure. Its brick facade darkened by years of exposure to the damp city air. A flickering neon sign above the door, spelling out "The Last Drop," cast a sickly purple glow onto the cracked pavement below. People were outside smoking cigarettes and vaping, their faces illuminated by the cherry-red tips of their cigarettes or the blue light of their devices as they huddled in small groups. Others were stumbling around, some leaning against the grimy wall for support, their movements sloppy and uncoordinated as they laughed loudly into the night. Definitely a bar then.
He hoped that the Investigator wouldn't be drunk inside. Stepping carefully to avoid the various puddles and debris that littered the sidewalk, Naomasa made his way towards the entrance. The metal doors were heavy and worn, the paint chipping in places to reveal the rust beneath. He pushed them open and stepped inside, the scent of alcohol and smoke assaulting his senses immediately. Dim lights cast a soft, almost intimate glow over the interior, which was filled with the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. The walls were adorned with faded posters and framed photographs of old movie stars. Tables were scattered throughout the space, occupied by patrons who sat alone or in groups.
There were about a dozen patrons who all gave him wary looks. He definitely stood out from them in his suit and trench coat. They probably thought that he was there to arrest someone. As the detective headed to the bar where there were two male bartenders. One of them was a tall man with short brown hair and hazel eyes. He was wearing a white button down shirt with a vest over it and black slacks. There was a silver band on his left hand. Married then and not the person he was looking for.
The other was a bit shorter at maybe 5'9 and had messy green curls and bright green eyes. He was dressed the same of the other bartender but with the sleeves rolled up. He had a large scar across his right cheek and a smaller one on his chin. This bartender was younger than everyone else in the room by at least a decade. There was no way this was the Private Investigator that he was here to meet.
Reluctantly Naomasa approached the bar. It was a solid slab of wood, smooth and polished from years of use. There were tabs for the beer on tap and behind the bar an assortment of bottles neatly lined up. The mirror behind the rows of liquor reflected the dimly lit interior of the place. There were only four stools up at the bar and they were all occupied currently. Three men and one woman were sitting and drinking. All were silent, their eyes watching him suspiciously.
"What can I get for you, Officer?" questioned the older bartender in an indifferent voice.
"Actually, I'm looking for a Izuku Midoriya," replied Naomasa carefully keeping his tone friendly.
"I am still working until 2 am," said the green haired young man, "If you need something you can come back after that, officer."
Truth.
"Detective actually," corrected the detective, "Chief Tsuragamae has authorized Special Investigations to get involved."
Both bartenders froze, their expressions becoming unreadable. Then the older one sighed and gave Midoriya a sharp nod. The younger man set the glass that he'd been drying down. Strangely he seemed to check the time on a watch that Naomasa hadn't noticed before. His brows furrowed in a slight frown.
"Alright, I'm due for my break anyways," agreed Midoriya with a sigh, "Takao, could you cover the bar while I see what they want?"
Lie.
"Sure, kid," replied the older bartender.
Midoriya nodded indicated for Naomasa to follow him. They headed into the back of the bar and right past the kitchen to an office that held a single desk. There were papers for inventory and receipts all over it in a haphazard manner. It must be the manager's office. Midoriya went to the desk leaned against it. He waved a hand to indicate that the detective should close the door. That was when Naomasa saw the strange tattoo on it. 3 straight lines down the forearm and one curved line that made three lower case ts. It was an odd marking that went almost from elbow to wrist.
Naomasa shut the door as he was bid, the click of the latch echoing in the cramped office space like a final judgment. Turning to the young man, the detective was struck again by his youth, noticing details he'd missed in the bar's dim lighting. When the door clicked shut, a faint overhead fluorescent flickered to life, bathing the small office in a clinical white glow. Despite his slight frame, the way he leaned against the desk radiated an unnerving composure that felt years beyond his physical age.
How was this guy a trained investigator in such a short time? Especially to work on these types of investigations that made hardened veterans lose sleep. Something wasn't adding up. It set his teeth on edge. Midoriya was observing him in a clinical way, his expression giving nothing away. Like a scientist watching a specimen in the wild.
"Sorry about that," apologized Midoriya, his voice casual, "People don't like cops around here. You should have called rather than turn up here."
Truth.
"You're telling me," muttered Naomasa, thinking of the unwelcome stares, "Last night there was a body found in a back alley. When the Chief saw everything in preliminary autopsy report it had him giving permission for you to be brought in. As the current Special Investigator for Musutafu."
The words felt awkward and heavy in his mouth. Naomasa was sure that the other could tell that he wasn't happy about it. Though, the kid didn't seem particularly bothered by his lack of enthusiasm. If anything, he seemed to grow more guarded. His shoulders stiffened slightly, a subtle shift that would've gone unnoticed by a less experienced observer.
"That would be me," answered Midoriya coolly, "If you don't want my help, then you don't have to ask for it."
Truth.
"Unfortunately, we need to figure out what happened," admitted the detective reluctantly, "I am just reluctant to bring someone so... young into a case."
Midoriya's jaw clenched, his gaze hardening as he said, "I am old enough to be a police officer, Detective. Don't insult me because I look young."
Naomasa winced and nodded. He had stepped in it. That wasn't the right thing to say. Young people tended to be sensitive about being told that they weren't old enough to do a job. If he insulted the young man too much then the Chief would have his head on a silver platter. Right next to his badge and gun. Maybe he could still salvage this conversation though.
"I didn't mean to insult you," assured the detective, choosing his words carefully, "I am just surprised."
Green eyes searched his expression for a long moment. Weighing his words and considering them. The silence stretched between them, the distant sounds of the bar filtering in through the closed door. Finally, the younger man's features softened slightly and gave a nod. It allowed him to breathe a little easier.
"Alright," relented the Private Investigator, his voice steady, "Send over the information. Do you have a card?"
Pulling out a worn leather wallet, Naomasa took one of his cards and handed it over. It was a simple white card with his name and title in bold lettering, his personal number and the precinct's main phone number. Midoriya took it and read the information before he stuck it in his pocket. With a sigh, the young man looked at his watch again.
"I still need to finish my shift," he said after a moment, "I'll come by the station in the afternoon."
Truth.