What Karasawa said just now… honestly, sounded like the kind of cryptic nonsense that makes people want to punch you.
Still, considering Conan's own father, Yusaku Kudo, was a world-class master of vague, convoluted half-truths—practically allergic to plain language—Conan had long since built up a high tolerance for this sort of riddling speech. Within seconds, he'd come up with several possible interpretations of what Karasawa meant.
"Is it because of your case?" he ventured, the most likely connection clicking into place. He figured Karasawa meant that justice had somehow failed him, that the system had broken down in his case. Following that line of thought, Conan pressed gently for more details—perhaps there was still a way to talk him down, to show him another way. "You never really told me what happened in full."
"I'd meant to organize it into a proper document for you. I've been trying to recall and piece together the details," Karasawa said seriously, pausing a moment to think. "But if you're willing to hear me talk it through, that works too."
He began with the hardest part: "I think you'll have a lot to investigate. Because I don't know who the plaintiff was. I don't know who the witnesses were. I don't know which officers or judges handled the case. I was the accused, but you could say I know absolutely nothing about the case itself."
"…Huh?" Conan blinked. Karasawa's response was so absurd it stopped him cold.
Karasawa rubbed his chin. "Hard to believe, right? But I really don't. I can give you a rough description of what they looked like, but I doubt that'll help much."
And then, Karasawa began to walk him through the whole case.
As Conan listened, his brows involuntarily furrowed. Then he glanced down at Karasawa's shoes—he was wearing soft canvas sneakers, the kind with absolutely zero combat profile. But not ten minutes ago, those same sneakers had dented a metal door several centimeters thick.
"…Your physical skills," Conan said tactfully, "I can't quite tell what style you trained in, but you seem quite skilled. Are you sure you only pushed him, and the other guy just scraped his forehead?"
Given Karasawa's strength, he could probably punt a person three or four meters without breaking a sweat. That door? He could've kicked it a meter across the hallway.
"Kickboxing." Karasawa had barely finished the word before he noticed Conan eyeing him oddly—his gaze shifted from Karasawa's feet to his hands. The implication was obvious: if his legs were that strong, his fists must be worse. So Karasawa quickly added, "But I hadn't started learning back then. Maybe I was a bit strong, but I really didn't hurt him. After he hit the ground, he got up and started yelling at me…"
Conan hesitated, but accepted it—for now. "You haven't been learning kickboxing long? You seem… pretty advanced."
"Just a lot of practical experience," Karasawa replied, completely unfazed and clearly prepared for this line of questioning.
"…Do you get into fights often?" Conan was momentarily thrown off.
"On the contrary. I used to be a model student." Karasawa reached over and flicked him on the forehead. "You're thinking something rude, aren't you? I spent over two months in detention—if I hadn't learned how to defend myself, I'd have been beaten to death."
That was Karasawa's chosen explanation for his suspiciously well-honed combat skills—an excuse that wouldn't fool someone like Furuya Rei for a second. The man only needed to watch Karasawa fight twice to know something was off, so around him, Karasawa had no choice but to play the weakling.
Thank goodness it was Shuichi Akai who'd been tailing him instead. No chance those two would share intel willingly—his exposure risk was minimal.
But Conan was stuck on something else entirely. "Wait… You were beaten up in custody?"
"Not officially, no. I doubt they'd leave any paper trail. It just so happened that I got put in the same cell as lowlifes and thugs every day—and it just so happened that we kept getting into 'conflicts.'" Karasawa absentmindedly rubbed his ribs as a phantom ache flared up.
The worst injury the body had sustained was a likely cartilage contusion to the ribs. The pain had lingered for more than half a month.
Conan rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Maybe Karasawa really didn't know anything about the case. From what he could tell, the entire trial process had been disturbingly… clean. The case looked polished, tidy, by-the-book. And yet—false charges, fabricated evidence, manufactured witnesses—it was all fake. A perfect miscarriage of justice wrapped in legal correctness.
Conan: "…"
Great. The more he heard, the harder it became to tell Karasawa not to go rogue. Frankly, the only reason the guy hadn't snapped already was probably because he'd received a pretty solid moral education growing up.
"Alright," Karasawa said, giving Conan a light pat on the shoulder, trying to cheer him up. The kid had been silent and frowning the whole walk. "No point spinning our wheels on this—once you have a way to investigate, we'll talk again. I might remember more details by then."
"…Huh?" Conan blinked as he finally looked up and realized Karasawa had brought him to a bookstore in the shopping district. Then it hit him—oh right, Karasawa had used book shopping as an excuse to "borrow" him from the Mouri Detective Agency that morning.
"You said you wanted to pick up some books. Go on and take a look," Karasawa said, gently nudging him toward a display of new releases.
Conan looked up and, right in front of him, spotted a newly stocked mystery novel. He instinctively reached for it, but then paused and shook his head. "Wait, no—I can't. I didn't bring any money." His voice dipped slightly, a little embarrassed.
Since shrinking, he couldn't carry much cash around without raising suspicion. He did have savings, but asking Karasawa to take him to the bank just to buy a book seemed… a bit much.
"No worries. I've got it covered." Karasawa waved a hand like it was no big deal. He reached over and pulled two more hardcovers from the shelves: The Complete Works of Agatha Christie and The Collected Stories of Edgar Allan Poe. He handed them to Conan.
Just judging by the heft and binding, they were clearly expensive. Conan waved his hands in protest. "No, no, I really can't—this is too much…"
But then he caught sight of the covers and remembered their earlier discussion about Murder on the Orient Express. He paused.
"If we go home empty-handed after using book shopping as an excuse, it'll look fishy," Karasawa said breezily, checking the price tags and stuffing the books into Conan's arms. "If anyone asks, just say these are mine and I lent them to you. That way you'll have an excuse to come out again next time."
Books were expensive in Japan—authors earned anywhere from 5% to 15% in royalties, and Karasawa strongly suspected that part of why writers were so respected in Japan was because it was one of the few creative professions that actually paid well.
But how expensive could books really be? One night of grinding for a new Persona mask cost him a cool million yen. A few hardcover novels? Pocket change. Worst case, he'd go beat up some Shadows and earn it back doing heroic vigilante work. Totally fine.
Conan clutched the books tighter, the scent of fresh ink rising into his nose. He was a little… touched.
Ever since he'd become a child, he could feel it—how little people listened to him, how easily he was brushed off. It had been a long time since anyone treated him like a peer, an equal, let alone a friend. And here Karasawa was, worrying that if he didn't bring books home, he'd get scolded…
And…
Conan glanced at the price tags again, and held the books even tighter.
He really had given a lot.
Maybe he'd been overthinking things. Karasawa had gone through something traumatic—of course his mood would be all over the place. But look at him now: solving cases, helping find missing kids… Even if he was a little twisted in his worldview, at heart, he was still a good person.