[From the journal of Captain Arthur Hastings]
I must confess that of all the peculiar turns my life has taken since my association with Hercule Poirot, our sudden precipitation into the 21st century has been the most unsettling. To be whisked from a world of steam trains and wireless sets to one of horseless carriages that move with terrifying silence and speed is enough to unnerve any man of steady constitution.
Our new employers at Interpol, having decided that the Kanto region of Japan was to be the centre of our investigation, bundled us onto a flying machine of prodigious size. The journey was, I admit, smoother than a Channel crossing, but the sight of the world below us, a mere patchwork quilt, did little to soothe the nerves. Upon our arrival in this city of Tokyo, I was entirely dumbfounded. Buildings of glass and steel pierced the very heavens, a canyon of light and colour that made Piccadilly Circus look like a village fete. I saw my own astonishment mirrored on the faces of Watson and even my good friend Poirot, who for once seemed at a loss for words.
It was a curious thing, but the two youngest members of our strange fellowship, the peculiar young man who calls himself L and the frankly astonishing automaton, Connor, seemed entirely unmoved. They surveyed the glittering metropolis with a profound disconnect, as though it were all a rather dull painting. When Poirot made a remark on the sheer scale of it all, L merely grunted from behind a ridiculously oversized lollipop. "Let us focus on the task at hand," he mumbled, his manner, as always, bordering on the impolite.
Before our departure, we had been subjected to what the officials termed a 'crash course' on the essentials of modern life. We spent days in a classroom, having the workings of the 'internet', 'computers', and 'mobile phones' explained to us. It does not need saying that it took… quite some time. To my surprise, the ones who proved most adept were not the men of science, but Mr. Holmes, whose mind seemed to absorb the cold logic of it all, and Miss Marple. The dear old lady simply nodded along, occasionally asking a disarmingly simple question that cut to the very heart of the matter, likening the global network to her village's intricate web of gossip. It was a comparison that, strangely, seemed to help us all. As for myself, Poirot, and Watson, I fear we remain mostly in the dark, nodding along and hoping we do not press the wrong button and cause an international incident.
Our new headquarters, we were told, would be at the National Police Agency's temporary command centre. I had envisioned a grand, official building, but instead we were shown to a suite of rooms atop a luxurious hotel. L had apparently insisted upon it, a decision that baffled the Japanese officials but one that our own party, accustomed to a certain degree of eccentricity in our leading minds, took in its stride.
It was there we met the Japanese task force. A collection of grim, determined-looking men, led by a Chief Soichiro Yagami. He was a man of immense dignity, with a face carved from granite and eyes that held the weary weight of the world. Here was a good, honest policeman, and I felt an immediate kinship with him.
Chief Yagami and his men laid out what little they knew, their voices heavy with frustration. They spoke of the timeline of Kira's killings, the patterns, the lack of any conceivable evidence. They then showed us the gruesome file for the killer B.B., the theatricality of the crimes painting a picture of a deranged madman.
After they had concluded their bleak report and departed to follow some new lead, a sombre mood settled upon our suite. The evidence, it seemed, was entirely non-existent.
It was then that Mr. Holmes, who had been silently poring over a copy of the B.B. file, suddenly spoke.
"They have missed it," he said, a spark of his old, fierce energy igniting in his eyes.
"Missed what, my dear Holmes?" Watson asked.
"The dust, Watson! On page seven of the forensic report for the politician crucified by office supplies. The report mentions 'trace amounts of unusual mineral dust' found on the victim's shoes, dismissed as ambient city pollution." He tapped the tablet computer—a device I still do not trust—with a long finger. "But this is not the dust of Tokyo. The spectrograph shows high concentrations of orthoclase and albite. This is the dust of a specific type of granite, a granite used almost exclusively in the construction of traditional Japanese cemeteries and crypts."
He stood up, his tall frame electric with purpose. "Our B.B. is not merely a performer. He is a ghoul. He spends his time amongst the dead."
We all stared at him. In a matter of moments, with a single, overlooked detail, he had given us the first tangible clue as to the nature of our phantom. It was a staggering display of forensic godhood. Even Poirot, I noted, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of grudging respect.
It has been a long and trying day, and there is much more to recount. But my pen grows heavy, and my mind is awhirl with flying machines, talking boxes, and cemetery dust. I shall have to continue this record on the morrow.