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Gumshoe’s sprinting as fast as his legs can carry him.
The stakeout of the plane is in shambles, they don’t have enough people for this, because something happened, the suspect’s run off and now it’s unclear what the situation inside is.
There’s a woman outside, panicking and confused, what was her name again? Nicole? Tabby? The reporter. She’s saying De Killer’s done something and ran and Gumshoe barely stops to listen to her, his legs carrying him forward without that much thinking, because danger still hangs in the air everywhere, but especially around the plane.
He freezes in the entranceway.
He knows he's not the sharpest bulb in the pantry. Even if he's not quite as dumb as some people give him credit for he'd really not disagree with the assessment that he wasn't the smartest man in any given group, especially not with the company he usually keeps. Give or take a couple guard break rooms.
And it's not so much that he has an overactive imagination. He'd more adequately describe his mind's eye as muted, colours never quite bleeding through enough, shapes only forming vague outlines of what he knows should be there. Instinctually he usually pictures things more as impressions than full scenes. It’s never too bad, he doesn't have that bad a memory for things, really, but when it comes to things he hasn't witnessed himself it takes a little more coaxing to put all the pieces together into something entirely cohesive.
So it's not his imagination running away with him.
It's that he'd seen enough crime scenes in his life. And that the room in front of him looks way too much like one.
The woman, who's hovering somewhere behind him now, said there was a blackout, but the lights are back on now. His gaze magnetizes to the shapes on the floor, four in total.
There's the man he can assume is Rook, sprawled in the middle of the room, dead since hours earlier in the afternoon, a bullet hole in his side just under his left arm. The detective's eyes slide over him faster than they really should, considering it's his job to inspect bodies like this, but he can't help it.
There's a shape slumped halfway upright against the desk that's pushed against the far wall of the plane, eyes half open but blinking unsteadily, queasily almost, not looking back at him but more just staring into space. Knight's dazed but alive, there's no blood on him so Gumshoe assigns him a lower priority for the moment before moving on.
He turns to scan the other two and finds his breath hitching further.
Mr. Edgeworth is closest to him, just a foot or two from the entranceway, face down and unmoving, arms out like he didn't try to brace for the fall. Kay is a little ways behind him, on her side but facing away.
He can't see their faces, can't discern if they're breathing, and for the moment before he can think, before he can try to shift to denial or whatever else it might be called, he knows this is a crime scene, a different one to Rook's murder. He'd seen them all before and he knows what this looks like.
He can feel his heart threatening to shatter, a glass tchotchke under a meat tenderizer.
It doesn’t, because Kay gives a twitch and an unhappy hurt sound and he's by her side helping her to her feet before he can feel himself take any strides. His voice comes out a little louder than necessary and sounds a bit too much like a sob.
She's disoriented and unsure and has a headache but she's fine. He lets out a breath he's been holding for the past 30-ish seconds as he checks her over for wounds but finds none, sans the bump on her head. He hugs her once he's sure she's not hurt, only for a moment, since she's still dazed and confused.
His heart gets maybe a second of calm before his eyes slide over to the left.
Mr. Edgeworth has yet to move at all, yet to show any sign of life. Gumshoe can't help but assume the worst, because he'd seen this enough times to form a believable sequence of events without much effort.
He leaves Kay to collect herself and slides over to the prosecutor. There's not obvious wounds on him but that doesn't mean anything, what with him laying flat on his front.
The detective's eyes catch on something before he can think to roll the man over. A white card with a pink seashell decal on it.
He knows this decal like most people on the police force with a functional brain know it. He can almost hear Mr. Edgeworth telling him he hardly counts as part of that group of people, and right now he's inclined to just agree.
He should have recognized it a long time ago, back when they first apprehended the ‘ice cream salesman’. No one noticed it right there on his uniform but he's the detective here. He's supposed to be vigilant, it's his job to protect these people. But he didn't, like no one did, and now.
The card is just brushing the fingers on Mr. Edgeworth’s right hand, and Gumshoe can't breathe.
He's not the smartest man, but he knows what this means.
The muting of colours in his mind for some reason doesn't ever extend to blood. He's gotten used to the sight of it over the years but could never quite get comfortable, just like with guns.
He can imagine a gunshot wound clearer than most other things at the moment.
De Killer didn't have a gun. He only smuggled in a knife. He’d seen it, at Knight’s throat, sharpened to oblivion.
A stab wound then. Somewhere vital, somewhere instant, like the heart. Masked by the body laying on its front and covering the bloodstain. It'd be visible on the pink carpet were it uncovered, vivid and fresh. It'd be visible on the white undershirt and the dark vest, maybe less on the suit jacket but it'd be there nonetheless.
Body.
What’s he saying?
He shakes his head and lets his thoughts finally catch up. Because he's jumping to conclusions before he has all the evidence, and Mr. Edgeworth wouldn't want that, had he any comment on the matter.
His hand strangely doesn’t shake as he presses two fingers to the man's neck. The skin under his hand is warm, but it would be still, it's not been long enough for it to start to cool even if-
Jumping to conclusions again!
He holds his breath, despite the fact that he barely had any before anyway, and after a few moments he feels it.
It's a steady pulse. Like Maggey when she's asleep, slightly slowed down but steady and alive.
Steady and alive. Just unconscious.
He sighs deep enough that it feels like it hurts. He's borderline lightheaded and he doesn't know if it's because he's been panicking for the last however long he's been on the plane or because of relief.
His heart doesn't shatter, glass or otherwise.