The defeat hung in the air of the hotel suite, a palpable gloom that had silenced even the most formidable minds of the century. Holmes paced, his energy a furious, caged thing. Poirot sat, meticulously polishing his moustache , his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The autopsy report had been a checkmate, a move so outside the rules of their game that it had rendered the board meaningless.
Everyone was grim. Everyone, that is, except Miss Marple.
She sat in her usual armchair, the case files for both Kira and B.B. spread across her lap, looking for all the world like a grandmother perusing old family photographs. She peered over her spectacles, her expression one of placid, intense curiosity.
"You know," she began, her voice cutting gently through the silence, "it is a very interesting thing. In all my years observing people, one truth always remains. People are the same everywhere, whether in a small village or a great city."
Holmes paused his pacing to fix her with an impatient stare. "And what is your point, madam?"
"My point, Mr. Holmes," she said, tapping a photo from a B.B. crime scene, "is that we are dealing with a very proud individual. Kira acts as a god, passing judgment. B.B. acts as a performer, demanding an audience. They are different, but they share the same beating heart."
"And that is?" Poirot inquired, intrigued.
"A boundless ego," Miss Marple stated simply. "One or both of them has an ego the size of this very hotel. They believe themselves to be the cleverest person in the room, always. And people like that… well, they do so hate being told they are wrong. If one could just find a way to poke at that pride, to suggest they aren't quite as clever as they think… it might make them do something rash."
"Wishful thinking," Holmes scoffed, resuming his pacing. "We are dealing with a supernatural entity, not a boastful schoolboy."
"But not groundless," Miss Marple countered serenely, a hint of steel in her voice. "Pride, Mr. Holmes, is the most supernatural force of all. It can make a man feel like a god, and it can make a god act like a fool."
They were about to delve deeper into this new avenue of thought when the door to the suite burst open. Chief Soichiro Yagami stood there, his face ashen, his usual stoicism shattered by a raw, visceral fear.
"He's killed one of ours," Yagami choked out, his voice ragged. "Officer Takuo Shibuimaru… he's been murdered. In his own home."
A jolt went through the room. The theoretical game had just become horrifyingly real. Poirot was on his feet in an instant, his mind already racing. "A crime scene! We must go at once!"
The others murmured in agreement, the hunt reigniting their spirits. But as they prepared to depart, L's quiet voice intervened. "Chief Yagami."
Yagami turned, his haunted eyes falling on the strange young man.
"The murder," L asked, his tone flat. "Was it done in a theatrical fashion? Did it resemble the work of B.B.?"
Soichiro swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes. It was… grotesque."
L's thumb went to his lip. He was silent for a long moment, processing. "This is a trap," he stated finally.
The conclusion was so abrupt it stopped everyone in their tracks. " Mais oui, A trap? What do you mean, young man?" Poirot asked, confused. "Tiens! The criminal, he has been clever — mais pas assez! He has made a mistake! He has given us a scene to investigate."
"No," L countered. "He has given us a stage. He has murdered a police officer to guarantee that the entire task force will descend upon one location. He wants to see us. He wants to know our names, and more importantly, our faces."
Holmes frowned, entirely lost. "And why, pray tell, would our names and faces be of any consequence?"
L looked at Connor. "Explain it to them. If I say it, they will think I am a madman."
Connor's LED glowed blue as he turned to the baffled detectives. "I have cross-referenced every known victim of the killer known as Kira," the android began in his calm, analytical tone. "There are 1,428 confirmed victims. In every single instance, without exception, the victim's full name and face were publicized in the media or available in a public or government database prior to their death. The statistical correlation is 100%."
He paused, letting the implication sink in. "While the murder weapon remains unknown, the data overwhelmingly supports a single hypothesis: to kill, Kira requires a name and a face."
"That is the most absurd, unscientific piece of poppycock I have ever heard," Sherlock declared.
"It is also a recurring, undeniable fact," Connor replied without emotion. "The correlation exists. We can either accept it as our primary working theory, or we can ignore it at our peril."
Miss Marple gave a small, appreciative nod. "Such clarity. It is very admirable, young man."
L pushed himself off the sofa. "Therefore, we will not be attending as ourselves. We will all be given disguises and aliases. We will also go to the scene in intervals, so we do not appear as a single group."
A small, thin smirk touched Holmes's lips. The art of disguise was a challenge he could appreciate.
"Miss Marple," L continued, "you will need to act as an elderly relative of the family, grief-stricken—"
"Oh, no, dearie," she interrupted politely. "That sounds like far too much work for an old woman like me. All that wailing and fainting. I shall do my best work from right here, with a nice cup of tea and the case files."
L blinked, but accepted it without argument. "Very well. The rest of us will proceed. Connor, you will pose as a freelance journalist; your ability to record data will be invaluable. Monsieur Poirot, you and Captain Hastings will be officials from the Belgian Embassy, paying respects to a fallen officer who once provided security for your ambassador. Mr. Holmes, you and Dr. Watson will be consulting forensic specialists from Scotland Yard, here on an exchange program."
He then gestured to himself. "And I will be an old friend of the family. You will call me Ryuzaki."