Conversation · Kim Kitsuragi

"All I ask is the chance to close this final case so I can go to the chaise with a clean conscience." His voice is filled with mock pathos. "Let's hurry, I'm living on borrowed time."

"Let's move on. This has been enough of a detour."

"Agreed." Only a fraction of a smirk in the corner of his mouth betrays his amusement. "Was there anything else?"

"You're serious right now?"

"Yes." He nods. "Let's hurry now, I'm living on borrowed time."

He's not. It's all but a ruse, sire. The lieutenant's peculiar sense of humor.

"Relax, Kim. I'm down with hemp."

"I appreciate the honesty, lieutenant."

"That's not a secret. Everyone has smoked cannabis."

"No, there are couple of people who haven't smoked cannabis. I'm sure of that."

There's a hint of defensiveness in his voice. Even this minor act of rebellion is important to the lieutenant's self-construction.

The lieutenant is a narcomaniac!

"You mean cannabis?"

"Yes, cannabis. The hemp. I rolled it into a small paper tube and lit in on fire. Then I inhaled the fumes. I was young."

"Is that enough of a secret for you?"

He's waiting for a reaction.

"Smoked... what?"

"The hemp," he repeats. "Cannabis. Is that secret enough for you?"

Snowflakes fall and immediately melt in the heat of the colliding eyebrows. Nothing exists outside this moment.

It's as if the entire world is frozen solid in awe of this great clash of brows. Nothing exists outside this moment.

An almost unbearable tension fills the room. The hairs of your back stand up.

Keep your brow steady, but slowly nod your head as a flourish.

This seems dangerous. What if someone gets hurt?

Too late. The die is cast. This is street-style brow-fighting. Two of a kind but one won't survive.

(Raise it smugly.) "I don't know, is there?"

Reflexes take over, the lieutenant's brow meets yours: His fierce counter nearly tears your face off. This could get ugly...

(Jerk it like a powerlifter in a squat-cage.) "Your secrets, lieutenant -- Now!"

After decades unchallenged, the lieutenant is caught off-guard by your brazen provocation, but his counter comes fast and hard. This could get ugly...

(Slowly raise your eyebrow.) "Nothing at all."

The lieutenant immediately grasps the stakes. His gears turn as he prepares a devastating counter. This could get ugly...

This guy's got Authority off the charts. With just a flick of his eyebrow he's able to make you his thrall.

So what can I do about it?

Nothing. You better hope he doesn't abuse his authority. There's a lot of it.

Silently scream for help.

If the lieutenant were an evil man, who knows what sort of havoc he could wreak?

Fortunately he is a committed officer of the RCM. He'll only use his powers for the good of the investigation.

The lieutenant relaxes his eyebrow, and you seem to regain control of yourself.

Accept your thralldom.

The lieutenant relaxes his eyebrow, and you seem to regain control of yourself.

What's going on? It's like you're a puppet in his hands.

Give up. There's nothing you can do.

"Oh, okay."

The lieutenant nods.

"That's all for now." (Conclude.)

"Good. Let's change the subject."

"Do you ever talk with yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, when you're thinking. Do you ever have conversations with, like, your brain?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

The lieutenant's Conceptualization skills must be rather rudimentary.

The lieutenant is a police officer of the old school. His concerns are material and extrinsic.

But this isn't an old school case.

"So you're saying your brain never just chimes in with advice or warnings or anything?"

"I can't say that it does, no. When I need to think, I just use my notebook..."

The lieutenant produces his small blue notebook and idly thumbs through a few pages.

That's where his conversations with himself take place.

We all have our different mediums. His is written.

You're super lucid -- yet psychedelic. You don't need office supplies to connect to your nervous system, you're special.

"So how do you... you know..." (Tap the side of your head.)

"What, think? I do most of my work inside my notebook..."