Kim Jongdae was far too cheerful for somebody with a bad arm injury.  Miran had gone in very early the next morning, her nerves jittery despite a good night’s sleep (and being able to return to her apartment, which had had everything put neatly back in order), because she didn’t particularly want to confront the forensic officer.  It was in part because he was so nice, and in part because it would be genuinely horrifying if he was in league with the enemy.  After all, outside the little rookie group, Jongdae was probably the one who knew the most about their investigation since he did most of the forensic side of it, and the potential he had to be planting information or sending them barking up the wrong tree was infinite.  If there was one person in the building Miran wanted to be dead certain was clear, it was him.

Happily, Jongdae also arrived early and was happy to oblige, an endearingly nonplussed expression on his face that Miran hoped wasn’t fake when she dragged him off to the investigation’s little room, where a tired Chanyeol was already sitting, waiting (Miran had dragged him in early too, and Soojung was on her way).  Kyungsoo had confirmed just before he got off work the previous night that Jongdae was indeed the person who had clocked out during the lunchbreak, according to the electronic turnstiles, and Jongdae blithely agreed that he’d gone to the hospital when Miran asked him.

“Why, though?” he asked, looking from Miran to Chanyeol.  “You can’t have brought me here just to ask me that.”

“We need to see your injured shoulder,” Chanyeol told him, sparing Miran the embarrassment of telling Jongdae she needed him to strip down.

Looking a bit baffled, Jongdae acquiesced and started ing his shirt.

“You’ll have to help me,” he told Chanyeol.  “My collarbone’s broken and I’m not supposed to move my right arm or it won’t set properly.”

Chanyeol moved to help, his big hands making quick work of the shirt but taking care not to jostle the man as he helped him out of the sling.  The cotton shirt slid away to reveal a bandage around Jongdae’s shoulder and a very, very nasty bruise surrounding his collarbone.

“And how did you do that?” Miran asked Jongdae, gesturing.

“I was asked to go through some stuff in the archives,” Jongdae replied.  “We store stuff in there – I needed to get out some of the broken heavy machinery samples for the invention department.  It was all on the top shelf and I fell.  It landed on top of me, broke my collarbone, and a piece of metal went through my shoulder.”

Chanyeol and Miran exchanged glances.  “Can we see the puncture?” Chanyeol asked.

“What time did this happen?” queried Miran.

“Late the night before last.  I was doing overtime.”

Miran scratched her head and turned to her computer as Chanyeol unwrapped the bandage and inspected the injury carefully.  She didn’t particularly like hacking her own workplace’s systems, but she wanted to put her mind at ease as quickly as possible, and it wasn’t that difficult to access the information for the turnstiles.  After all, it was technically information they could all get if they went to reception… but Shin Gayoung was on reception and Miran didn’t particularly want to face her.

“That’s nasty,” observed Chanyeol, attracting Miran’s attention.  There was a soft grunt of pain that must have come from Jongdae before Miran turned fully around.

“It doesn’t particularly look like a bullet wound to me,” Chanyeol said to Miran’s relief, causing Jongdae to look even more perplexed than before.  She made herself get an eyeful of the injury, which looked from the pustules gathering around it that it might be infected, before gesturing to Chanyeol do redo the bandages and turning back to the computer screen.

“He’s clocked in for overtime on the turnstiles,” she told Chanyeol, feeling much more relaxed that she had been when they first arrived.  “I reckon he’s safe.”

“Safe?” echoed Jongdae.

Miran swung her chair back around and snuggled back in it comfortably as she watched Chanyeol help Jongdae back into his sling as the latter buttoned up the front of his shirt singlehandedly with surprising ease.

“The night you injured your shoulder,” Miran explained, “somebody attacked me, probably trying to kill me.  I know it was a man and I know he was under six foot, and I shot him in the shoulder, at which point he ran off.  When I saw you with your right arm in a sling yesterday at the hospital, I automatically assumed it must have been you, except you left before I could catch up with you.”

Jongdae blinked for several long moments at this revelation.  “Oh,” he said eventually.  “I’m so sorry.  I wasn’t sure if I was the one being called and I was in a hurry to get back to work.”  He checked his sling was secure and then spoke up again.  “You said you shot your attacker.  Did any of his blood get on you?  We could do a DNA check.”

Miran grimaced.  “The hospital cleaned me up and sent my clothes off to get washed before anybody managed to get out of me what had happened.  I was unconscious for the first hour or so I was in there.  Thanks, though.”

Jongdae looked about as bummed about it as she felt.  “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

“What about the break-in?” Chanyeol asked suddenly.

Jongdae turned to Miran again.  “What break-in?”

“Someone trashed my apartment,” Miran explained, “but when I spoke to the police commissioner last night, he said it was a neat job and no evidence had been left behind, which is a real irritation.”

Jongdae glanced between Miran and Chanyeol again.

“Should you be getting a bodyguard?” he asked.  “This sounds pretty serious.”

Miran’s mouth twisted into a thin line.  “I don’t trust anybody enough to let them that close to me.”

Jongdae had no answer for that.  A rather awkward silence elapsed as he looked around the room; then he got to his feet, bade them a good day, and trotted back off to work.  Chanyeol had barely sat down and opened his mouth to start discussing it with Miran when the door opened and Soojung slipped inside.  Her hair was a little unkempt and her lips plump and rosy, presumably from the sudden contrast of the cold outdoors and the warmth of central heating.

Once the pleasantries were over, though, they found themselves talking about Miran’s conversation with Hyeri.

“So we’re looking for a sharpshooter,” said Soojung, “who is either lying about or concealing their talents.  That’s scary.”

“Any suggestions?” asked Miran.

Half-slumped over his desk, Chanyeol tapped his pen against its wooden surface.  “I kind of want to know who Kim Jongin is dating.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Soojung.

“A hunch.”  Chanyeol started spinning his pen between his fingers, gracefully dextrous.  The pen dissolved into a blur.  “He somehow seems to have his finger in every pie, does Kim Jongin, but with precious little to pin him down.”

“Aren’t lots of people in that situation?” Miran groaned.

“Yes,” admitted Chanyeol, “but even you have to agree he pops up more often than most without necessarily having a reason to be there or know what’s going on.”

“Wouldn’t that count as evidence?” Soojung asked.

“Nope.  That’s just circumstantial.”  Chanyeol sighed.  “At the moment, nothing we have is concrete.  It’s all circumstantial, which means we can map a theory onto the evidence we have and it could still be completely and utterly wrong, however much it might look completely and utterly right.”

“Then what has Kim Jongin’s girl