Kiichi Higashino had long since come to terms with why he didn't consider himself a particularly brilliant detective.
It wasn't because he was one of those overly cautious protagonists from the novels of his past life, the kind who underestimated themselves due to a lack of situational awareness. No, his reasoning was far simpler. In Beika Town, where people obsessed over the hundred bizarre uses of fishing lines or piano wires and the thousand ways to fabricate an alibi, Kiichi saw nothing but sheer idiocy.
These fools were addicted to playing with time gaps, pulling off petty tricks to commit crimes in front of others. To Kiichi, that was practically begging to get caught.
The perfect murder? Find a secluded spot, deliver a single clean stab, and hide the body somewhere no one would ever look. No need for convoluted techniques or locked-room mysteries. No need for absurd alibis. The later the body was found, the better.
Overly elaborate methods only left more clues. Committing a crime in a tight time window only robbed the culprit of the chance to destroy evidence. Give a murderer ten years to prepare, ten years to act, and ten years to cover their tracks, and even a pig could erase every trace.
That was a perfect crime.
So, catching Beika's parade of dimwits? Hardly an accomplishment in Kiichi's book. If you were going to boast about your deductive prowess, your opponent should at least be on the level of the Zodiac Killer from his previous world's reality. Anything less than matching Dr. Henry Lee's expertise didn't qualify as mastery.
Kiichi knew his limits. He wasn't some prodigy. He just paid closer attention to details, studied a bit more criminal psychology, and observed crime scenes meticulously, sticking to the fundamentals rather than chasing wild theories.
And now, standing before him, was yet another self-proclaimed genius who'd outsmarted themselves.
"Take her away," Kiichi said, waving a hand to signal the officers to escort Eiko Toya to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department for a less-than-appetizing meal of katsu rice.
Eiko Toya's face twisted in panic. "W-Wait, Inspector! There's no way Ms. Toya could've done it!" Kogoro Mouri piped up, launching into one of his theories. "The elevator from the 15th floor to the 8th—there's no time to take the stairs round-trip, and—"
Kiichi had no patience for useless chatter. "Mr. Mouri," he cut in sharply, "Eiko Toya didn't need to kill the victim on the 8th floor. All she needed was for the victim to take the elevator up to the 15th."
He continued, voice steady but laced with disdain. "Those so-called footprints on the ground? A distraction. Here's what happened: Toya called the victim, probably with some flimsy excuse, luring them to the 15th floor via the elevator. She stabbed them at the elevator entrance, propped the body against the door, and sent the elevator back to the 8th floor. When the doors opened, the body slumped out, jamming the elevator. Simple."
It was a trick that only worked because of the era's less sophisticated elevator sensors, which required something to physically block the doors to trigger a reopen. A few years later, with smarter sensors, this method would be obsolete. A very period-specific gimmick.
Not that it mattered. It was still pointless.
"Check the 15th floor," Kiichi added. "You'll likely find traces of whatever she used to tamper with the elevator buttons to ensure the doors stayed jammed during the crime."
"Impossible!" Eiko Toya blurted, her voice edging toward a desperate self-incrimination. "If I took the elevator to the 15th floor, my fingerprints would be on the 8th-floor button!"
Kiichi stared at her, incredulous. And this woman is a top designer? Her professional skills clearly didn't extend to logical thinking.
Before he could respond, a forensics officer chimed in, "We didn't find any fingerprints on the 8th-floor elevator button."
Kiichi's temper flared. Was this what passed for a trained officer? "Use your head!" he snapped, rounding on the forensics team. "An elevator button with no fingerprints? Have you ever seen that? Even if the victim didn't use the elevator today, they never used it before? Moron! An elevator button should be covered in prints—so many you can't sort them out! The culprit is an idiot, and you're what? Just as bad? Or do you think the building's cleaning crew wipes down elevator buttons daily?"
Conan, used to the mild-mannered Inspector Megure, froze. Watching Kiichi tear into the forensics team felt like being back in school, cowering under a teacher's wrath. His wide-eyed expression could've been ripped straight from a sticker pack. "S-so… intense…" he muttered, gaining a new perspective on the sharp-tongued Inspector Higashino.
Kogoro Mouri's face wasn't much better. Though Kiichi's tirade targeted forensics, Kogoro couldn't shake the feeling that "idiot" and "moron" included him by proxy.
"Inspector Higashino…" Ran ventured, trying to smooth things over. "I'm sure the officer didn't mean anything by it… He's probably just…"
Kiichi ignored her. Ran wasn't his subordinate, and her kindness, while admirable, was irrelevant. As a member of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police, he wouldn't tolerate such amateurish mistakes from his team. Limited talent? Fine. Fooled by a clever criminal? Acceptable. But failing to use basic common sense? Unforgivable.
Eiko Toya stood frozen, realizing her attempt to wipe the fingerprints only made her look guiltier. Kiichi barely restrained himself from saying what was on his mind: If you lack the brains and nerve to kill, don't bother. Her "meticulous" plan—fake footprints, wiped fingerprints—was a masterclass in self-sabotage. Next time, pick a dark, windy night, stab someone when no one's around, tie a rock to the body, and toss it in a river. Simple, efficient, and a hundred times more likely to succeed.
"Since you're so eager to dig your own grave," Kiichi said, his voice cold, "let's put this to rest. A chest wound like that would've caused significant bleeding. To avoid bloodstains, you probably used a raincoat or gloves. After the murder, you rushed to establish your alibi, so those items are either still in your 15th-floor office… or on you."
See? Kiichi thought. Time-gap crimes are idiotic. Give yourself a few days—or even hours—and you'd have disposed of everything.
True to form, Eiko Toya collapsed to her knees in classic Beika fashion, handing over her bag. "The evidence… it's in here."
What followed was her motive: the victim had stolen her latest design, sold it to a rival company, and then mocked her with a resignation letter, claiming that even if she went to the police, the fashion week would be canceled, costing her brand dearly.
Kiichi couldn't wrap his head around it. Exposing the rival's theft would've ruined them, not her. Cancel fashion week, play the victim, hire a decent lawyer, and leak the story to the press—her rival would be socially and financially obliterated. Industrial espionage, caught red-handed, and arrogant enough to leave evidence? That was a dream scenario.
Record the confrontation, preserve the original designs, and hire a halfway competent legal team, and even a lawyer of Eri Kisaki's caliber wouldn't save the rival. How did Toya fumble a winning hand so spectacularly? In Beika's twisted logic, she should've been the one framing the rival as the murderer.
If Kiichi were in her shoes, he'd have the victim on a pedestal. The victory party against the rival wouldn't start until Miwako Satou showed up to clink glasses. And yet, Toya killed her golden goose?
The woman's intellect was clearly defective.
Meanwhile, Conan reached a different conclusion. This ferocious Inspector Higashino was, without a doubt, a deductive master on par with his father. Next time, Conan vowed, I'll prove myself!
His eyes burned with determination.