Circle 7 Musebox

Adachi can't exactly say that the work is driving him crazy - there are way too many additional factors vying for that title, but it certainly helps. The worst thing about it is the fruitlessness of it all, filing papers for leads that he knows won't lead them anywhere. Still, if he doesn't, there's no other way to make sure that they'll keep on leading them nowhere. It's a tricky game, and one that he believes takes a certain degree of skill to handle (a smug, self-centered thought, no doubt). At least he takes a particularly sense of pride in that.

He glances up at the clock hanging on the wall, and it reads eleven thirty-nine in plain black letters. Like the rest of the office, there is nothing ornate or decorative about it; it's a bare-bones clock that serves only the most basic of functions. After seven, when the rest of the office had begun filtering out, Adachi had turned on Nakayama's desk radio, and the very faint sounds of the Local Hits are filtering through the space from that end of the table. It is habit by now, a well-practiced routine that both of them fall into without so much as a hitch.

Adachi lowers his eyes back down to the current form on his desk. The segue investigation into the strange herbal remedy store in the Shopping District is another dead end, he knows. That trace amount they found on Konishi Saki's school uniform is a stretch as far as leads go, but the Inaba police precinct is barren of clues, and they are desperate enough in their struggle to not look useless that they'll grasp at even the most obvious of the short straws. It almost makes him wonder if he should just throw something legitimate into the television screen sometimes, just to cut them a break.

"Hey, Dojima-san," he says suddenly, breaking the heavy, depressed silence that settles over the town whenever the fog rolls in. The other man is sitting across from him, their tables facing each other. He waits until the man looks up before continuing. "Whaddya think about this one?" He holds up his folder by the corner, waving it in the air. "You really think that old lady's smelly shop has something to do with the case? If you ask me, it seems like just another dead end. I mean, the victim could've just stopped by the store for some common cold, or something."

[Sunday morning comes quietly, for once (but not too surprisingly for such a small country town). Last night, on the other hand, was loud, because Dojima tended to loosen his lips when he had alcohol in his system, and the lack of coordination didn't do any good for their stumbling over the Dojima residence front stair, either. By the time everyone had been settled, Adachi had been too tired to even lift a finger, all but crashing onto the living room couch and passing out. In fact, you could find him in similar position come dawn - sprawled out with one arm thrown over the back of the chair and the other suspended like a bridge between seat and coffee table, mouth open and, for all extensive purposes, dead to the world.]

...mmmno don't want...mmn n'more coffee sir...