The Case-Book of Kakashi Hatake

The Beginning {Part 8}

It was late as I walked back through the mostly empty Konoha streets; all of the sane people had already retired to the safety of their homes.

I had enjoyed my visit at the Hokage's office and felt a pang of guilt when I thought about what an irreplaceable father-figure Sarutobi had been for me ever since my own had died. It was something that Asuma, his own son, never got to experience, and the tragedy of it all nearly knocked my breath away.

Deciding to take a route that might prove helpful in the murder investigation, my swift strides carried me past the Daimyo's palace as I began to retrace Asuma's fateful walk home. Scurrying around like rats in the dark, the city's underbelly churned in the dim light of the gas lamps along the roads, homeless huddled together and scantily dressed women standing sentinel at a few street corners. Most people would have felt unsafe traveling through such a neighborhood at this time of night, but luckily for me, I'm not most people. Those who make a living through violence tend to acquire an important skill for their line of work: figuring out if someone will be an easy target. To the trained eye, the way someone carries themselves, the way their eyes look about, the way their feet move against the ground can all be read an interpreted almost as if passersby are wearing signs denoting how easy they would be to rob. Some saying, "I'm gullible and easy to mug," or, "I'm very lost right now," or, "I'm definitely armed and would not appreciate being messed with."

I could see the shifty eyes of those lying in wait around dark corners and behind crates in alleys, looking for easy prey, and they would land on me before looking the other way. There would be the briefest moment of eye contact, the cries of drunken revelry echoing in the background, before we would go on our own way, completely ignoring the existence of the other. I'd like to think that my metaphorical sign says, "Was an assassin for ten years, do not engage at all costs."  It was almost enough to make me laugh; the average citizen would look at me and my shabby clothes and scar and think that I was some harmless nobody, but a killer can almost always spot his fellow killer. Then again, maybe I'm just flattering myself and one look was all the thieves needed in order to know that I had nothing on me worth the trouble of robbing.

I reached the site of Asuma's murder, cast in heavy shadows from the flickering gas lamps spread down the street. The moon and stars were hidden behind the heavy smog that hovers above the city, choking out the night sky. The cotton factory was dark inside and eerily silent, too silent. The tenement building on the other side of the alley was also dark and almost as still, some sounds still seeping into the shadowy realm of the night from the other side of the brick walls.

I walked into the narrow lane, standing exactly where Asuma had been when he had died before walking in a circle to pace, think, envision. My feet ghosted soundlessly against the packed dirt, fingers thrumming a constant tempo on my chin.

Why here? What made this location so special? Why Asuma? Assuming that the killers were members of the violent discontent that had worried Sarutobi so, then what message could they have been sending the Hokage by killing his son like this?

No, there was something more going on, and I just couldn't see the big picture yet. And it was driving me up the wall with frustration.

There was a logical answer to all of this, and I just had to find it, to pull it out of the tangled web of details and speculation. All I had to do was think.

"You trying to die like tha' fren' of yours?"

A small chuckle slipped past my lips, "It's a bit past your bedtime, don't you think?"

Konohamaru Wiggins shrugged as he melted out of the shadows along the building he'd been invisibly standing in, "Couldn' sleep." Sticking his hands into worn pockets, he looked up at the window of his home above him, "I saw you ou' and about, and I thought I'd come say 'ello."