Fandom: Detective Conan
Bad Guy: Gin
Theme: #10—a briefcase full of cash
Disclaimer: Own Detective Conan, I do not. Own the characters, Gosho Aoyama does. Making money off them, I am not. Borrow and write about them, I merely do. Talk like Yoda, I must.
Summary: It’s the spice of life…and death.
He had a natural gift for doing things that would make the most seasoned cop tremble, and doing them well. To a normal person, the actions were horrendous; to him, they were business. Life and death were merely part of the currency of that business, a transaction no different from any deal made by in offices by men in suits over desks and financial charts.
His first employ in the Syndicate had been as a killer, and he had proven to be quite skilled in the delicate field of assassination. His stealth was unmatched, despite his rather unconventional appearance of long, fair hair. It wasn’t long before his superiors realized that they had a different sort on their hands, a far cry from a run-of-the-mill agent—one they could use to their full advantage.
They apprenticed him to a senior member who taught him the ropes. This man was his mentor, showing him the best way to fire a gun, training him in the use of firearms and explosives, and guiding him into other forms of crime. It was not long before the student surpassed the master.
One afternoon, he was called before the leaders of the Syndicate. He was given a code name, a symbol of true status within the group. It meant that he was valuable to them. And so he became Gin.
That night, he executed his mentor on the Boss’ order. The older man had served his purpose. His old teacher was waiting for him, as though expecting him. The man died of a bullet to the forehead, the same manner in which he himself had ended so many lives. He dropped to the ground, a strange smile on his face—it was like that was exactly the manner in which he wanted to go.
The remains were unceremoniously disposed of, and Gin went about his work as a newly-minted Syndicate supervisor. He had a great deal of work to do.
Murder remained his operation of both choice and greatest skill. He enjoyed the feel of pulling the trigger, the sight of life bleeding away, the silence of death. But his mentor had shown him other ways, though the gun remained his favored method.
He found he had a great talent for research as well. There were those better in that field than he, and there were agents who sole job was to dig up information, but he did have a surprising knack for finding people’s dirty little secrets and exploiting it to his benefit and the benefit of his superiors. Those secrets could be anything, from things the person had done to playing on a person’s fear of something.
Skeletons could rattle very loudly in one’s closet, and Gin had excellent hearing.
As he continued to display his unmatched skills, his superiors’ trust in him grew, and he was given more responsibility. He became the supervisor of a Syndicate laboratory.
Drug research and development.
It was in that pursuit that he met Sherry, the young scientist who directed the lab. She more or less ignored him and went about her work. She fascinated him, and he watched her. The more he observed her, the more he became convinced that she was, in fact, quite frightened of him and what he could do. She simply focused on her work when he was around, seemingly preferring her microscope to his company.
Her work was making progress, and on the appointed day as set forth by the Syndicate, Sherry presented him with a pill—a poison that would disappear within the body after ingestion, leaving no trace to be found in an autopsy. She cautioned, though, that there were still tests to be run.
Gin brushed off her warnings, pocketed the poison, and went to a meeting with a few other agents. They were in the middle of planning a sizable bank robbery with the potential for a billion yen payoff at the very least. Sherry’s sister, Akemi, was to lead that job.
He was ordered to go tend to a business matter regarding some gun smugglers. They were willing to pay dearly to keep their illicit industry a secret from the authorities. The meeting was to take place outside of a local amusement park, Tropical Land. He took his partner, Vodka, and they headed out. They were to signal from the top of the roller coaster, and then go to meet their contact to exchange their evidence (a roll of film) for money. It was a simple, routine transaction.
There wasn’t supposed to be a death on the coaster.
When the ride came to a stop, he found himself detained as they waited for the police. The thought got his hackles up like few other things could. He was not fond of police. They were the enemy, and while he would have no real issues with removing a few from the picture, it tended to be rather messy—especially in a crowd like this. He would just have to be patient and wait it out.
He passed a few moments by observing the body, that of a man whose head had been forcibly separated from his body. It was messy work, and lacked finesse. He had a guess as to how it had been done, given the circumstances, and while it lacked refinement, it was extremely effective and made for a good, shocking show.
When the police arrived, the case took a startling turn as some kid came out of the woodwork and began explaining exactly how the murder had been done, as well as naming the murderer. He recognized the kid, but it took hearing the name for him to make the connection and realize who it was.
He’d heard of him—some teenager with a knack for solving impossible cases. And it looked like he was going to get a chance to watch the punk at work first-hand. As he watched the punk verbally unravel the entire murder, he had to admit that the kid was every bit as good as the reports said he was.
Which meant that the kid was potentially very dangerous.
That sense of danger doubled when their eyes met.
Kudo had very striking blue eyes, quick and intense. And Gin had the unpleasant feeling that this teenage brat was looking right through him. That notion was solidified when Kudo’s expression changed from suspicion to certainty. It was no longer questioning. His face and glare sent a clear message: I know what you are.
As soon as the murder was resolved, he took his leave. He had an appointment to keep. He lost Vodka in the crowd, but his partner was one of the few people in the world he actually trusted, and so he was certain that Vodka would make it there, one way or the other.
Sure enough, Vodka caught up to him at the bridge, gasping and wheezing from exertion.
Gin handed him the film and sent him to make the exchange. He, in turn, kept watch for any witnesses or observers. Still, even though he was on alert, he almost missed seeing an odd shadow moving by one of the supports. Instinctively, he reached for his pistol, then paused and instead opted to arm himself with a length of pipe conveniently laying on the ground.
It was Kudo. The punk was watching as Vodka exchanged the film for the briefcase of cash—the payoff. The gun smuggler turned and fled as Gin raised the pipe over the teenager’s head. Kudo realized he was there at the very last second, not soon enough to react or get away as the pipe crashed down onto the back of his head. Kudo went face-first to the ground.
Vodka immediately reached for his own gun, but Gin stopped him, citing the same reasoning that had caused him to forego drawing his firearm. Tropical Land loomed over them from across the street—there were still far too many police officers on the scene. A gunshot would bring the police running. They might get away; they might not. It was just too risky to attempt.
He fished into his coat and retrieved the poison Sherry had created. If it was as good as it was supposed to be, why not use it? Sherry’s warnings flickered through his mind, and he grinned. Kudo should feel honored, then—he was to be the first human test subject of the apotoxin.
Illegal drug testing.
It took mere seconds to force the pill down the teenager’s throat, and he straightened. Given the overall circumstances, he would have much preferred to put a bullet in the kid’s head and be done with it.
Still, he was not close-minded. Business was business, and it would be interesting to see what was made of Kudo’s death. It would be sensational—such a famous detective killed by something that could not be traced. The spectacle alone was enough to make him appreciate the poison.
After all, variety was the spice of life…and death.
Pulling the brim of his hat down over his eyes, he and Vodka turned to leave. The only other thing he left to his latest victim were three casual words to carry him to his death.
“Sweet dreams, detective.”
PS. Another one in the Socio series. The sociopathic tendency behind this one was “criminal versatility.” Not much else to say, really. Thanks for reading, all! Much love!