Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Lies, Crimes, and Punishments ❯ Weak ( Chapter 4 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Lt. Detective Shinseki Abe was a delicious little invention of mine. He's in his late twenties in this story, and he's a multi-faceted character. I hope you'll grow to like him as much as I do. ~_^
Notes: The Miranda Rights we all know and love here in the US do not technically exist in Japan. I've referenced it here only as part of my all-encompassing "literary freedom". So there. :P

The door closed with a heavy thud behind the police officer. Good God - what was wrong with him?!

'I'm so stupid. ...Telling him my real name. ...Letting him toy with me, me with him. God... Why?!' Izzy leaned forward into the wooden door, closed and imposing like a wall. A wall for him to bring his sins and shame to. A wall to cry for forgiveness at.
"...Stupid." All he wanted to do was weep, unbidden images in his head of running his fingers through Shinseki's blonde hair, watching his prominent adam's apple quiver. The air thick around them and their shallow breaths, lips hovering in excited tension. Waiting for what they knew would follow.
"Dammit!" Frustrated, he let his head bang against the door. Stupid. All these stupid thoughts. And he couldn't escape them, though he desperately wanted to. Was it Ken's fault? Was it his own all along? Was this some kind of forgotten and hidden medical condition that made him regard everyone he met as a potential sexual partner? And had he always been like this, even in grade school? He didn't remember it, but memory was so fickle, satisfying the psyche by forgetting that which made it miserable.

And he was a policeman, for fuck's sake!

Little tears passed down his cheeks. He didn't remember being this way! When he was out in the sinful world, this never happened. He was always perfect Izzy. Now here, in the most holy of places, he was corrupt to the core. What had happened? What was the one action somewhere in his life that had brought him down this path?
The images. ...Yes, Koushiro! No!

"Father Izumi?" A soft voice crept from behind him.
"Yes?" He cleared his throat, trying to mask the tears.
"Um, are you alright?" No.
"Yes, well, I think so... Not really, I just-" The other father, whom he now recognized as Achikawa, stopped him, resting his hand on his shoulder. Izzy wasn't at all comforted. But the hand bade him turn, so he did - albeit reluctantly. He hated anyone to see him vulnerable. Crying. Like this.
"Izumi..." Achikawa's face wore a bit of shock, seeing the reddening eyes, the tears that spilt faster with embarrassment. "I'm sorry-"
"No, no, it's not your fault. Shin- Um, Detective Abe just... I mean, it wasn't the most pleasant of interviews."
"What did he ask?"
"No, no, it-it wasn't that, it was just..." He didn't want to go into detail, and now that he couldn't speak, sincerely doubted he could. The quiet grey eyes probed into his own, needing to help. Existing to help. "...it's just me. I don't know, Father. Perhaps I'm having a crisis of faith." The hand moved up and down his arm in comfort.
"I think I know how you feel. There's been an aura of impurity hanging in the church. This terrible crime, the loss of the bishop, ...everything." Izzy sadly, slowly, shook his head.
"No, it's more than that. I felt this even before he was killed. I-I just am questioning my place within the church. Maybe this isn't my calling. Maybe you'd be better off without me..." Achikawa moved both hands to his wet cheeks, cupping his chin so Izzy had to look at him - their eyes fastened together.
"Don't say that," the grey-eyed man whispered.
"Why?" His eyes were beginning to fill again.
"Because. This place wouldn't be the same without you. The church needs you. The community needs you. Father Isoroku needs you. I need you. Can't you see - this place wouldn't be the same without you." Their gaze was so intense, it shut down Izzy's thoughts. He was in that place again, where resolve and sense left him. Where he loved to be at that moment. Where he always did things that made him hate himself later.

Izzy brought his face, LET his face be led by Achikawa's hands back to the other's face. He watched as Achikawa's eyes closed in reflex, watched as he kissed the man he'd slept next to for so long.

Then watched the reaction unfold.

"Father Izumi?" Those grey eyes were open now, shock radiating through his pupils. "I..."
No. Shit. He hated himself again. He would burn in hell and would sincerely enjoy it. Fuck this.
"I-I-I'm sorry! I- I wasn't thinking and I assumed and I- Forgive me!! I..." The tears! He couldn't hold them back and he left Achikawa standing dumbstruck by the doors, bolting for the false sense of security the priests' quarters held. He ran through the hallways, blind to anything outside of his turmoiled mind. Isoroku was sitting on his bed, reading from the Bible as he swung through the door. No! He'd didn't want to deal with anybody now, especially someone in the midst of their own piousness.

He ran into the bathroom, fixing the lock behind him, safe for now with the tile and his sobs.

The day was bright and welcoming, but he shut out the sun's clamor of happiness. There were few things to be happy about.
One: he'd woken up in that same room in a sour mood. Two: he didn't have enough cash in his pocket for a decent meal - forced into eating a greasy Egg McBreakfast. And three: he hadn't seen Izzy in over a week and now there were five or six policemen buzzing around an apartment building near where he worked/dealt/lived. Beautiful day.

He tried to look unassuming as he passed them by, but curiosity got a hold of him and he had to slow down and gawk at the activity. Two were on cell phones and radios, no doubt in contact with their superiors, speaking in the dry, quickstep pace that came with the badge. One was on the left, dealing with passerby like himself who'd gotten a little too close and a little too inquisitive. Another stood on the right, doing the same job. Then there were the two coming down the steps of the brick building, handcuffed perp between them still struggling lightly and saying things under his breath that could and would be used against him in a court of law. The last descended behind them, sullenly nursing an arm that must've gotten injured.

Poor bastard.

Ken wasn't sure who he was referring to - the injured policeman or the black haired captive. Over the years, he had grown to see both sides of the story, and was only recently beginning to wonder which side he'd take. As a child, he'd always loved power. Yes, even after the whole emperor bit was dead and done and nothing but a deep wound inside his heart.
Power. The police had that. Legality and justice was on their side, the defenders of society. And he'd wanted to be them. Even if it didn't mean shooting it out in a tense and satisfying gunfight with a crazed lunatic but instead sitting at some desk, asking after a stolen car. It was the badge, it was the gun, it was the honor and title that society bestowed upon you and that you were more than obliged to do your damnedest carry out.

But that hadn't happened, now had it, Kenny-boy?

And now he stared at the man in custody, his head being guided - forced - into the back of the black and white. Just another misunderstood soul, down on his luck, trying to get by with any means necessary in a wild, blood-sucking world that didn't give you a second chance. He'd gotten a second chance, even though he was less deserving than anyone.

Whose heart wouldn't go out to him? The man in handcuffs was probably living paycheck to paycheck - if that - perhaps feeding the leech of child support or simply an unemployable bastard, the only joy in an otherwise bleak life being provided to him in powder form by one of the competitors to yours truly. What a shame. It would be redundant to say he felt pity, but he did. Pity to the perp, jealousy and contempt to the cops.

And yet there wasn't too much pity residing in his heart. The guy had made one too many mistakes. It didn't take a genius to outsmart the donut squad. He was living proof that cleverness was all it took to get away with your crimes.
Ken continued on his way, peeling his eyes from the spectacle of flashing lights. The day was wasting itself and he needed to make a few bucks. He wasn't up to feeling compassionate anymore.

"Sit down!" So he did. Rather heavily though, because he was sick of these guys and their holier-than-thou attitude.
"You're going to talk, okay? Because if you don't, life is going to be much, much more miserable for you to slog through, got it?"
"Meh."
"I don't think he understands, do you?" The first man's voice was edgy and not to be trifled with, but he didn't care.
"No, I don't think he does. I don't think he understands that if we don't hear exactly what we want, he'll be spending every single one of his golden years as first-string bitch to the biggest, wickedest guy we can find. How'dya like that? We'll set you up with a grade A cell mate!"
"Why don't you start asking me, and we'll find out?" Junichiro was acting far tougher than he felt, sitting handcuffed to a cold hard metal chair, being peered down at and pecked over by two cops.

That seemed to settle them down, because the second one, the one with blonde hair who he expected would play 'good cop' sat down across the table from him in his own cold hard chair.
"All right, fair enough. Where were you the afternoon of the 17th?"
"17th? What was that, a Monday?" He was playing dumb, but he remembered what the 17th was with perfect accuracy.
"No, a Sunday." He knew exactly where he'd been. Where he usually never was: church. Shit. That goddamn priest must've told them. He'd wring his little limp-wristed neck.
"Oh. Um, lemme see, I was at home, getting pissed off my ass with my friends. Ask em!"
"I think we will because you weren't at home, you were at St. Barnard's church!" Perhaps the blonde wasn't good cop this time, leaning into the table edge and gripping it as if trying to hold himself back from attacking his suspect. He looked to the brunette leaning against the wall for an out, caught in his own pathetic net, but the other cop was silent. "So tell me, what were you doing at Barnard's?"
"Well, if you know, why don't you tell me?" That was a little much. The interrogating cop lunged over the table, grabbing Junichiro by his collar and pulling him towards him, forcing the edge of the table into his stomach, hard.
"I KNOW what you were doing, you sick freak! But I've gotta hear you say it. ...Talk."
"The money? Fine, I was going to take it. I was, but I didn't!" He was a little out of breath from the blow to his diaphragm. He was scared and wary, not only of the physical threats, but also of the way the brown-haired cop in the corner stared at him soundlessly. Through him. It was like they could see every bad deed he'd ever done and never paid for. Every liquor store robbed, every commuter stickup, even the time he carjacked that Mazda, and the several occasions where he'd gotten too drunk and beat the hell out of the closest person he could find. He wasn't a stranger to the worst society could offer, but suddenly, inexplicably, he felt guilty and unclean. Maybe it was the fact that he'd seen a dead priest, maybe it was the fact that he went there with the explicit purpose of beating the bishop half to death and stealing from an institution of God. And there the dead priest lay, murdered before he could kill him? Murdered before he could save him? Could he have stopped it? Would he have?
"IT'S NOT THE MONEY! YOU KILLED THAT PRIEST FOR THE FUN OF IT!" The blonde's hands were around his neck, squeezing to frighten, not to injure. But Junichiro didn't realize that, all he could feel were the fingers sinking into his skin, panicking and jumping to the conclusion that his life was about to end.
"Fine! Stop! I'll tell you everything!"

JT: "I walked in and saw him standing there. Grinning at me. I told him if he didn't give me all the money in the church, I would kill him."

Det. SA: "And what he say to that?"

JT: "He told me that money didn't belong to me, it didn't belong to him, it was God's money. I told him to die."

Det. SA: "So then you drowned him, right?"

JT: "Yeah, I held his head in that holy water until he stopped kicking. But I didn't steal any money. I didn't know where it was."

Det. SA: "And what about the sexual abuse? When did that happen?"

JT: "Huh? Oh, yeah... I guess I was out of my head, cause I'd never think about raping a guy. But I did. Before I drowned him, I covered his mouth - you know, so he wouldn't scream - and held him down. And I raped him. How many years will that add on my sentence?"

Det. SA: "I- uh, I can't say. I don't exactly know. Well, alright. That about does it."

Shinseki sighed and looked up from the transcript. It was a perfect confession. All on tape, witnessed by lawyers: bulletproof. There was just the little matter of the autopsy - results still being processed and finalized - and then off to court to put this menace to society away. He might even get a promotion out of it. And he owed everything to that charming little priest.

What was his name? Ah, yes: Koushiro. He smiled to himself - he'd pay the good father a visit to thank him and use that name. How he was looking forward to it.