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"I didn't know you could read," said Miles Edgeworth, casting an eye down on the waiting detective.
Dick Gumshoe startled and jumped to his feet, closing his book with an audible thump. "Mr. Edgeworth, sir!" But just as the noise echoed across the precinct hallway, his heavy eyebrows drew into a grimace and his mouth dropped open. "Oh jeez, the bookmark!"
Edgeworth looked distastefully at the old Samurai Dogs receipt that was apparently supposed to be marking Gumshoe’s place, but was instead fluttering near the legs of the plastic chair. “You just had the book open. Can’t you find your place again quickly enough?”
The big man sighed heavily. “You’d think so, but it’s not that easy, sir.” He held up the hardbound text, which, even in Gumshoe’s large hands, was the size of one of the cement blocks that eternally held up the detective’s car in the back lot.
Edgeworth blinked at the picture of the impoverished child on the book’s cover. He had been expecting a pulp crime novel, or, on the outside, some bit of pop culture vampire drivel. “I apologize for surprising you, Detective. I must admit, though, I’m surprised myself. I didn’t realize you were a fan of French literature.” Edgeworth preferred Dumas to Hugo, but, with the current case weighing on his mind, was not in the mood for a debate with his devoted subordinate. Perhaps another time.
“It’s...” Gumshoe hung his head. “Les Miz is my favorite book, sir. It’s not the first time I’ve read it, so it’s okay.” His big, open face lit up. “If I can’t find my place, I’ll figure it out, just find a place that’s close enough. Have you read it, sir? All those pages with the bishop make me cry every time.”
And he wasn’t even basing it on that pedestrian (but annoyingly catchy) musical. Edgeworth felt a strange bubbling of respect in his chest. “The version of the text that I have primarily calls him the Monseigneur,” he replied as dryly as possible, flipping his bangs and looking askance to avoid the palpable enthusiasm emanating from the other man.
Gumshoe scratched the back of his head. “Mine does too, sir; I just can’t pronounce it.”
Ah, now there was the Detective Gumshoe he knew. His faith in the world restored, Edgeworth gestured with the folder he held to the door of the High Prosecutor’s office. “Anyhow, I hope that you can find your place, but I was wondering if you had had a chance to look over these files. Come in.”
“I was just at the part where my favorite character in all of literature comes in, too, sir.” Gumshoe said, grinning in that overgrown puppy way about him. His rough voice went up slightly. “I bet you could guess. ‘His name was Javert, and he belonged to the police.’ Like me. Isn’t that a neat way to put it, sir? I’m thinking of growing chops myself, but every time I try they come out uneven.”
Edgeworth poured tea and sat down at his desk, while Gumshoe hung up his trenchcoat near the door. The prosecutor had never dreamed that he would have such a conversation with this man. “They probably wouldn’t suit you anyway, Detective,” he said absently, and the big man’s shoulders slumped as he sat, though Edgeworth had meant to be consoling.
Since it was clear that the other man still wasn’t ready to discuss business, and was instead sadly stroking the sides of his fringe, he continued. “Anyway, if you’re at one of your favorite scenes, shouldn’t it be easy enough to find your place? The good inspec- detective, that is, not having the page numbers of key scenes memorized, for shame.” He hoped this time the teasing in his voice would come through.
“Ah, well, it’s a new copy, sir. Trying out a different translation, ‘cause I always like to see--” Abruptly, Gumshoe looked down at his teacup. “Do you have any sugar, sir?”
Edgeworth delicately handed over the porcelain bowl and frowned. Okay. He would take the bait. The case was barrelling headfirst into a dead end anyway, so he could use the distraction. “What do you like to see?”
Gumshoe raised his face and beamed. “Different ways the people -- translators, I mean -- handle Javert, get it? There’re so many little details that can be looked at differently, ‘cause he’s such an interesting an’ complex guy. Cop through and through, kind of like -- well, I mean, heh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say, but you know. He doesn’t question stuff, doesn’t think too hard; he just does what the Law says, because he trusts it to be right. Just like I trust the prosecutors to be right, right? And then I do what’s gotta be done, because of that trust. I really relate to the guy. Sir.” His fingers stroked an imaginary sideburn again.
Edgeworth raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his tea. It really didn’t need sugar. “I’m not certain that such an -- interpretation -- aligns with Hugo’s intent, but you give an interesting perspective, Detective Gumshoe.”
The detective sipped his tea as well, then made a face and spooned in another heap of sweetener. “That’s funny. I thought someone like you would be more into a character like him, sir.”
“Someone like me?”
“Well, I mean, yaknow, someone who is all about the truth and the law and-”
He couldn’t help rolling his eyes. He was not about to get into a literary debate with Dick Gumshoe. “Detective. Your favorite character does not care about the truth; he is as blind about crime and punishment as I used to be about guilty verdicts.”
Gumshoe tilted his head, but Edgeworth was not about to be stopped. As soon as he could get this off his chest, he was confident that the conversation would end and they could get back to work. His words took on the rhythm of a closing argument.
“And to top it all off, when he finally is forced to accept that there are moral grey areas in life, and that the legal system in which he has placed his faith is not absolute, what does he do? He writes a toothless and rambling complaint to the authorities and jumps off a bridge, Detective. To his death. Since you’re here ruining my expensive tea and not floating down one of the canals, I should say that your grasp on the fallibility of the system is much more reasonable than your idol’s. Honestly, Gumshoe, do think about the message that is being conveyed through this character. Is that something we should strive to emulate?”
To Edgeworth’s surprise, Gumshoe looked not dejected, but amused, and even a little starry-eyed.
“What?” he snapped.
“Oh, nothing, sir. Just... I remembered something.”
There was something about that tone that Edgeworth did not appreciate. “You remembered what.”
“Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death,” quoted Gumshoe, and shrugged, smiling. “What can I say? I admire who I admire, sir.”
While Edgeworth sputtered that that was not at all the same thing, Gumshoe glanced down at his feet and picked up his book, humming slightly to himself. “I think I’ll just start over from the beginning anyway. Get the build-up back. What case were we talking about again?”