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For once, it was Edgeworth’s turn to brace himself before knocking on Gumshoe’s door, as he stood there that cold December evening. “Chief Gumshoe?”
“Come on in, sir!”
He entered cautiously, shutting the door behind himself. Gumshoe looked mostly the same as always, though Edgeworth could see that for once, he wasn't smiling at all.
“Have you heard from Detective Fulbright? He was trying to help with that hostage situation before Prosecutor Blackquill got called in to prosecute, and I haven't heard from him since. No one's giving me a straight answer about it.”
“...That is why I'm here, yes,” Edgeworth awkwardly said, taking a seat across from his old friend. “...How well do you know Detective Fulbright, Gumshoe?”
“Pretty well, I'd say. I saw the guy go from trainee to detective. Even mentored him a bit at the start. Why do you ask?”
Edgeworth felt even worse with that knowledge. Even so, he knew the news had to be broken eventually.
“What's wrong? Did something happen with him?”
“Chief Gumshoe. Detective Bobby Fulbright was found to have been replaced by a man known only as “the phantom” for the past year.”
“Wha-- you gotta be kidding me, sir! How could anyone replace that guy-- everyone at the precinct knows him. He's a swell guy. Someone would've noticed…”
Edgeworth continued, unwilling to stop once he'd begun, with “After I asked for a second autopsy on the victim in the FA-2 case, there was finally a positive match in dental records, though there were a few additional missing teeth in our victim. The timeline matches up perfectly.” He looked at Gumshoe, meeting his eyes. “Fulbright has been dead for almost an entire year.”
Gumshoe barely moved, except to blink. There were tears welling in his eyes, though Edgeworth knew he likely wouldn't admit it.
“...As such, it may be best to inform his next of kin and emergency contacts outside his family. I understand you may need time as well, but sending another officer--”
“Bobby didn't have any next of kin, sir. Closest he had was a dog, and I've been taking care of her since February.”
“What about his emergency contact, then?”
Gumshoe gave Edgeworth a small shake of his head. “...Sir, his emergency contact already knows.”
“What? How can you possibly be so certain of that!?” he exclaimed. Gumshoe didn't even have to answer, only giving a meaningful look before Edgeworth understood. “You're… My word.”
“Yeah. He and I… we haven't talked much this year. The Blackquill case kept him busy on top of the cases you assigned to Prosecutor Blackquill, and he always took on a bit more work than others, but with my promotion and his new workload, we were almost always busy. Plus, without Honor, he didn't go to the dog park to see me and Missile.”
“Missile and me,” Edgeworth corrected automatically. “So… the phantom avoided you this past year?”
“I guess. I'll probably have to break it to the squad… unless they hear it from the news first. Worst is if they hear it wrong…”
Edgeworth didn't offer any counter-statements, despite having quite a few. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Do you know what you'll do?”
“Isn't it obvious? I'm reopening FA-2 and finding exactly who did it. It doesn't matter how long it takes.”
“And who, pray tell, are you assigning to that case? It's almost Christmas. No one will want a bigger workload this close to the end of the year.”
“Isn't it obvious? I'm taking the case myself, Mr. Edgeworth. He was my friend.”
Not friendly enough to recognize anything was wrong, though… and if the phantom only avoided him, then what does that mean about the others?
“...Do you seriously have time to take a case around your other duties as Chief of Police? Need I remind you, you have far more people to worry about than only him?”
“No one else is gonna care.” Gumshoe stood. “...I knew that guy, Mr. Edgeworth. I knew him about as long as I've known your husband. He's-- he was--” He sighed, and walked to the door. “...I should check the body again, if it's still in the morgue. Pay my respects, too.”
“It should still be there. The second autopsy was just today.” Edgeworth rose. It was hard for him to know what to say. “...Is there anything I could do to assist?”
“Nah. This… this isn't your job, sir. I don't even know if any prosecutor would be interested in taking a case like this.”
“I disagree. I know precisely to whom you should send a note about this as soon as you have even an inkling of an investigation.”
“Huh?” Gumshoe looked at Edgeworth. “Who?”
“Prosecutor Blackquill, of course. If you prefer, I could ask him instead.”
“You sure he’s not busy? The guy just got out of prison; he’s probably trying to relax.” Gumshoe rubbed the back of his neck. “And if this guy was impersonating Bobby for a year, then…”
“Exactly why he'd want to know. The man he thought he knew was dead. Even if he hasn't realized what that means yet.”
Edgeworth knew the panic in Athena’s eyes as she stood on the stand, speaking fearfully about how she might've killed her only parent, just as he had a decade before her. She would heal, as he had, thanks to friends and loved ones that would never give up. He knew the excitement in Simon's voice as he finally closed in on the one who'd tormented him for years. But after the dust settled, there was always the crash, and it would likely hit Simon as hard as it had him. Recognizing that his mentor had murdered his father had been difficult. Facing a friend he'd trusted and having to realize the same… it would have killed him. Not to mention how Simon had spoken of the detective in the reports, using the same phrases he recognized from his younger days as he strained to convince himself he had no romantic feelings towards Wright. He twisted the ring on his finger, and looked at Gumshoe.
“...I'm certain he'd prefer to hunt down the killer than wait and see.”
“Alright. If you can tell him, be my guest. I'll be… I'll be in the morgue.”
With that, the two each left the office, and went their separate ways. The case was already cold as ice. It'd take a miracle to bring it back.
Gumshoe descended the stairs to the morgue to find a doctor still there. His tired eyes looked at Gumshoe, and he nodded, sending the thin white hair on his head bobbing ever so slightly.
“You'll have to excuse me for not saluting, sir. I haven't had a chance to wash my hands since I got them out of the gloves.” He looked more like he'd pass out on the countertop himself than be much help, but that didn't stop Gumshoe.
“Is the victim from FA-2 still on a table?”
“Closed him back up an hour or two ago, but he's not yet in deep freeze. I can get you a copy of the latest autopsy, unless there's something you want to check for as well.”
“...I wanted to say something to him, if that makes sense.”
“Oh, I see.” The doctor nodded, and he walked out from behind the counter. Though he was short, he still walked quickly, making it difficult for Gumshoe to keep up. The man walked to a set of doors on the wall before choosing one, typing in a code, and pulling it out. The roll-out cabinet looked almost exactly as it had the night it'd first been filled, and the corpse… Bobby… looked the same.
His head had been smashed in, likely by a rock, but that was only the killing blow. His arms were severed at the elbows, and it had been nearly impossible to find both arms, until one was found nearly a mile downstream. The other was located an hour later, though by that point, it was nearly impossible to grab it without the thought it'd be too bloated to stay together. They'd still eventually gotten it out, but neither hand gave them any difference: Both had every fingerprint burned off, slashed to pieces, and destroyed. If there was even a scrap of a print, would they have recognized him earlier? His face gave no answers, since he lacked an upper jaw or eyes to even blink in Morse code. His entire outfit-- a t-shirt and sweatpants with no identifying features-- had been soaked with gasoline when they'd found him, although that was gone now. The hair, the feet, the hands… The phantom had used every little way to hide Fulbright’s identity. Even during the first autopsy, the DNA had been unhelpful, thanks to the waterlogging.
“Here you go,” the doctor said, tossing a clipboard to him. “That’s from earlier.” He skimmed it-- nothing too new, since they’d known the severed arms were pre-mortem and the smashed head was the killing blow for almost a year. The only new parts were the identity of the doctor (“Dr. Mort Necrom”) and that of the victim… Robert “Bobby” Fulbright.
“...How did you figure it out?” Gumshoe asked. “He’s… Everything is…”
“Funny you ask,” Dr. Necrom said, and he took a small hooklike tool, pulling down the bottom lip on the right side. “There’s something strange about his dental work. The right second bicuspid, this tooth right here--” he took a pen, pointing to a tooth halfway back in his mouth. “There was pulp capping done sometime in his youth to prevent the need for a root canal, but, despite how mineral trioxide aggregate has been in use since the 90s, and he’s only 33, his was done with calcium hydroxide, interestingly enough. Even though that’s more popular in some situations, there’s no reason I could find that he would’ve had it done with calcium hydroxide instead of MTA, so--” Necrom looked at Gumshoe, and took a breath, recognizing that he didn’t understand most of that. “...Alright, basically, his dentist made a really weird choice, and that, with the lack of a bottom retainer, makes it pretty clear that it’s him.”
“Ohhhhh.” Gumshoe nodded. “...How come no one noticed before?”
“Hard to tell what material’s used in a pulp capping. No one really wanted to look in the mouth if the rest of the body was anything to go off. Plenty of folks without bottom retainers.” Necrom moved the pen and the hook. “Plus, having a body that came in that bad a state… I’m one of the few with the stomach for it. Most doctors prefer it cleaner, or at least in a state that doesn't seem like someone hit them with a car and made sure to back over their head a few extra times.” He shook his head. “...Still just as clear that whoever killed him wanted his identity hidden and for him to be dead. They knew most of how to stop identification-- Waterlogging made DNA harder to get and the body decay faster, fingerprints were removed and made even harder to find, the face was caved in, hair burnt off, he's in unremarkable clothes with no identification…”
That part gave Gumshoe pause. “...Wait, are you saying…?”
“Didn’t you read the report? Some blood got on the body underneath when the head was hit first. Most likely hit him from behind, started to take the clothes off, then hit him again when he started to wake up. Whoever killed him dressed him in something that wouldn't be noticed. They knew what they were doing.” Necrom shook his head. “Honestly, it might be easier if I made my autopsies into bullet points… at least then, I'd know people read the whole thing…”
Gumshoe felt ill at the thought. This wasn't a simple murder, no. This was something out of a horror movie. A brutal death, limbs removed, his head bashed in to likely stop him from moving or resisting… and, in the middle of all that, they'd even stripped him of his clothes and privacy?
“...And no, before you ask. That did not occur, thankfully,” the doctor said, finishing his talk as if Gumshoe had been paying attention. Even so, he could already guess what “that” meant.
“What kind of sick person…” he muttered, setting a hand on his forehead. The same place where the fatal blow likely struck. He pushed that thought away. “...They wanted him gone. It wasn't a clean job, so it might've been a sudden decision to act on a plan the perp hadn't really put together… and they knew what they were doing when it came to corpse disposal. Around that time of year… the case came in during late January, so he must've died in January…”
“Around the sixteenth,” Necrom commented.
“January 16th. He wasn't out for any long period of time around then… so the phantom knew pretty early on when he died…”
“Could've been them,” Necrom pointed out. “Or someone they were working with.”
“Could be…” Gumshoe sighed. “...Feels like the case just got worse. How am I supposed to fix this?”
“You might’ve known him, but if not, I met him once or twice. Always rambling about justice and whatnot.”
…That sounded exactly like him, but… How much was the fake? How much had actually been Bobby?
“I asked him about his will once, when he was here, already waffling on about another case. I remember his face. Looked horrified I’d even mention him dying.” Necrom chuckled. “Like he’s not in one of the more dangerous professions. You lot kick the bucket like you’re going for a field goal.”
“Hey. Hasn't happened anywhere near as often for a couple years--” Gumshoe started, and Necrom pointedly tapped the cabinet where Bobby's body lay.
“You know what he said when he came up with an answer? He said he'd want his stuff to go to anyone who needed it, his dog to find a happy home… and for others to keep trying for real justice.”
Gumshoe wasn't sure whether to smile or cry.
“Of course, I told him that's not how a will works, and that he was being denser than a black hole, but the guy was adamant. So I gave him the autopsy report, reminded him to look both ways before crossing the street, and sent him on his way. Feels like I need to warn the detectives more often-- most of them would forget their heads if they weren't attached. Present company not included, sir.”
“...Can I have a second alone with him, pal?”
“Oh. Yes, that was what you said you wanted.” Necrom nodded. “Or at least to talk to him.” A beat of silence. “I'll leave you to it.” He finally left, giving Gumshoe a pat on the back as he went. Finally, there was quiet, and he sat next to the cabinet.
It hadn't sunk in yet. It hadn't struck him just yet. He'd heard the words, but it took that whole hour for it to finally feel real.
That's him.
How could it be him? He'd been talking to him that morning. This was the corpse, dead and cold, of a John Doe. He wasn't Bobby. He wasn't anyone he knew.
It's him. The doctor told you how they recognized him.
Anyone could have weird dental work. Anyone could be missing a bottom retainer. Anyone could be there on that slab.
The killer purposefully obscured Bobby's identity. They didn't want anyone to know the victim. I've seen Bobby in that exact outfit when he's working out. He's always doing risky things to help others.
But out of everyone, out of every officer he'd met, out of every person he'd watched grow up into better people, Bobby…
Gumshoe knew some people hated Bobby Fulbright. He knew that there were always rude nicknames and insults from officers that found him to be too happy, too naive, too whatever for them to get along with him. Even though he'd told Bobby time and time again that it was best to bring concerns to him or HR, Bobby never mentioned any of that in any meetings. He'd always grinned, given a salute, and promised to do better next time, even if he was already giving 110% of himself to the job. Gumshoe had tried so hard to help him, every time, but it had been a struggle to get him to ever admit he needed any.
He'd helped Bobby move into his apartment, and even then, the detective was hesitant to ask for help carrying his couch up three flights of steps. Gumshoe had given him guidance on things to get if he was going to take care of a dog, but it took Bobby a few more weeks to finally ask for help finding something he hadn't been able to. Even the week they'd first met, when Bobby was obviously living out of his car, going without food to save for somewhere to stay, and barely sleeping more than a few hours a night, he'd had to drag Bobby aside and convince him to come home with him and stay there for a while. He knew better than anyone how Bobby acted. He'd lived with him for a few months. He'd mentored the man before he was a detective. He'd seen Bobby through all sorts of cases-- the time that Ms. von Karma was shot, the whole mess with arresting Prosecutor Godot, even the moment that Phoenix Wright had finally returned to the courtroom after seven long years, Bobby had tried his best to support his fellow officers, his fellow people.
When it came to Bobby trusting him about his hunch with UR-1, there was no other choice for Gumshoe. If any detective was going to find a new angle on the case after seven years, then he would've bet Fulbright would've been it.
…That case could be what killed him. If it was that “phantom” person who did that crime, and Bobby was looking into it… was that why he… Why this person was…
He still couldn't bring himself to connect the corpse to his friend. Somewhere along the way, the red string unraveled, leaving a tiny thread, far too weak to tie anything together. But at the same time…
“Hey, pal,” he said softly. “I'm sorry it took so long for us to know.” Gumshoe couldn't look at the body. He couldn't bring himself to.“I know, you'd tell me it's not my fault, and I couldn’t have done anything. No one could’ve. I know that.” He leaned in slightly, still not looking in the drawer again. “If what Mr. Edgeworth said actually happened, I… I can’t believe that someone got away with it for that long.”
Maybe if he’d been better. Maybe if he’d paid more attention. Maybe if he hadn’t been busy keeping track of so much, he could’ve saved Bobby.
Maybe didn’t matter now.
“...I promise, I’ll find who did this. I’ll bring ‘em to justice for you, pal.”
Gumshoe finally stood, giving one last glance at the body, before he walked towards the front of the morgue. Dr. Necrom had already latched onto someone else, dragging them into a conversation, and Gumshoe met the eyes of the newest victim for just a moment.
“You must be the chief of police,” the victim-- a rather tall British man-- interrupted. “Otherwise, I doubt you’d be here to talk to Fool Bright.”
“His name’s Bobby Fulbright, not foolbright.”
“Yes. Fool Bright.” The man crossed his arms. Gumshoe huffed.
“Oh, you two haven’t met? Chief of Police Dick Gumshoe, Prosecutor Simon Blackquill,” Dr. Necom said, gesturing between them. “Good luck, you two. Morgue’s about to close for the night, so… Get outta here. I’ve still got to put your pal in deep freeze.”
“I need the autopsy report and a thorough explanation of the case immediately,” Simon declared. Necrom rolled his eyes and pushed his glasses up slightly before they fell down his crooked nose again. “What?”
“Ever heard of talking to your investigation partner? I’m busy, kid. Some of us have big things on our minds. Like dinner. Like getting home before the road freezes over. Like checking on my birds.” Dr. Necrom leaned on the desk. “Unless you’re going to sit here and wait for me to leave, by all means, but that just means I get overtime billed to the prosecutor’s office.”
“What?!”
“If prosecutors come down here outside of my hours, I get overtime pay billed to you lot.” The doctor grinned. “Up to you.”
“...Fine. Go home to your birds. They likely could use the company.” Simon turned on his heel, facing Gumshoe fully. “And you. You have the autopsy, correct?”
“Yeah, ‘course I do.”
Simon opened his mouth, then sighed. “...I would like to read it, Chief Gumshoe.”
“Oh, right, I outrank you, don’t I?” Gumshoe chuckled. Simon rolled his eyes, but Gumshoe still handed over the autopsy report. “Good luck getting through it. It’s… There’s a good reason that Bobby wasn’t identified until now.”
Simon looked at the papers, suddenly understanding the weight of what he was holding. “...I’ll see you tomorrow. There’s no time to waste.”
“Yeah.” Gumshoe forced a small smile. “...In justice we trust, right?”
“Don’t. Don’t say that,” Simon grimaced. “I… don’t.”
“Alright. Take your time, Prosecutor Blackquill. I’ll see you tomorrow.”