L knew the dead girl, and that was why he chose to get involved.
She had lived, in fact, at Wammy's House. She had been on her way back from the train station, a short, five minute walk, and her body had been found seven hours later, lying behind an old abandoned farmhouse. She was sixteen years old.
L was almost twenty and he would not tolerate the death of another of his successors. Although he refused to show it, he was angry. He was angry that this girl had to have been from Wammy's House, he was angry that she had gotten herself killed, and she was especially angry that these killings had been going on for months now and no progress had been made.
All the victims were the same: fifteen to twenty years of age, lean, athletic, with dark brown hair. The police had tried to dismiss this as a coincidence but L had quickly sorted that out. It didn't take long to get access to police records. And then it was only a matter of time.
His name was Thomas Matthews; he was forty-one years of age and had an eighteen-year-old daughter named Lauren who looked like all of the victims. Thomas Matthews had abandoned his daughter a year and a half ago, and had since then travelled across the country, occasionally killing someone who reminded him of her.
Why?
L thought it was because it satisfied some sadistic urge in him, to see his daughter die but without having to suffer the psychological consequences, as a parent.
The girl was much more direct about it. "To keep him from killing me."
Once L had discovered the answer to the question, the results had interested him so much that he had invested much more of time and thought into delving deeper into the matter. He did not entirely understand what could drive a man to do such things; and for future reference, it was best to try to understand. The girl seemed to believe that there was some good in her father, and that it had triumphed over the evil in his soul when he desperately resorted to harming other people in an attempt to keep her, his daughter, safe. L thought this was ridiculous. There was nothing noble about killing an innocent young girl, one's daughter or not.
But the girl seemed to genuinely love her father. She didn't weep when he was sentenced, but stayed strong. She didn't speak to him as they led him away; she only locked eyes with him once, and then looked at the ground slowly. L surveyed the way she reacted carefully. He could not puzzle her out. What was she doing? What was she planning? Why did she seem so completely unaffected by the actions her father had taken?
He tried to immerse himself in another case, but after a few days he had to put it aside. He couldn't concentrate. He couldn't think. It was making him irritated and irrational. Finally, he pressed the button on the microphone and said, "Mr. Wammy, I need you to call in some special personnel."
"Oh? What for, may I ask?"
"Important information on the Hong Kong case."
"I see. Who do you need?"
"Weddy."
"...for the Hong Kong case."
"For the Hong Kong case. Please. I'd like to meet with her within the hour."
"I'm afraid she is in America at the moment."
"One day, then."
"Can you not place a phone call?"
"No. I cannot. Besides, the home I require access to is here, in England."
"...once again, for the Hong Kong case, correct?"
"Correct."
Wammy got the feeling L was lying to him.
"I'll arrange a meeting right away."
"Good. Thank you."
And that was the end of the conversation.
The next day marked the arrival of the woman with blonde hair and those omnipresent sunglasses. L swivelled around in his chair. "Good morning," he said to her. "I need you to break into this house and plant bugs in all of the rooms." He handed her a small piece of paper with an address on it.
She glanced up at him. "This is a residential address."
"Yes."
"I thought this was for the Hong Kong case."
"This is more important."
A pause. She scrutinized L for a few moments. Then she said, "So. What kind of bugs?"
"Cameras."
"With sound."
"Of course."
"How many?"
A pause. L considered this.
"No blind spots," he said. "With the exception of the bathrooms. Can you do that?"
"I doubt there will be any serious security in place," replied Weddy. "It should be a very simple job."
"Thank you. When can you have it done by?"
"I'll need two days, tops."
"Go."
L swivelled around in his chair once more to face the computer screen. Weddy smiled, shaking her head, and then left.
Lauren Matthews lived in her family's old house alone. She was perfectly capable of handing herself all alone, and L admired that: it was something he could never do, considering his constant dependence on Wammy. But besides that, she seemed like a perfectly normal girl. She slept. She ate. She did schoolwork for her university. She called friends and sometimes went out in the evenings. L did not understand. What kind of environment had she grown up in, that caused her father to act the way he did? Why was she not affected by it? How had she managed to come out so perfectly normal, where other people in her situation were traumatized for life? These questions would not let L rest.
Wammy objected, of course, but L always implied a little more than was necessary, as if this was essential to the case. And Wammy rarely objected after L explained. This case was no different.
This went on for several days. It became something more than a distraction to L; it became an obsession. It took over his entire focus. He stared at her every movement, analyzing her actions and the way she spoke and slept and everything else, trying to find fault with her. And yet there was none. There was nothing. She was healthy as it is possible to be.
It was on the thirty-seventh day that Lauren Matthews brought a friend back to her home. This was not particularly unusual. She and several other girls sometimes watched movies and relaxed with one another. But this was not like this. This friend of hers was male, and he was tall, muscular, and by all standards attractive. Surprising to L. This was not the sort of man that he would have expected her to bring home, if she brought any home at all.
There was a while of what looked like boring talking before he kissed her. And then he did. And then she kissed back. And then they were in the bedroom, stripping off their clothes, and L got a hungry, burning, unfamiliar feeling in his stomach, so he turned all the screens off and curled up in his chair.
He kept the screens off for about twenty-four hours, and by then he expected the male would be gone, and he was.
When he turned the screens back on, she was sitting at her kitchen table, crying.
"Mr. Wammy," said L into a small microphone. "I require transportation.
L arrived at the home of Lauren Matthews at approximately twenty-three minutes past three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. He rang the doorbell. Wammy stayed in the car.
She opened the door rather quickly. L said nothing for a moment. She looked so different than the way she did on those artificially lit screens.
His eyes covered her entire body as he said, "Yes, hello. Good afternoon. My name is L and I am the man who sent your father to prison."
It occurred to L the moment these words had escaped his mouth that it might not be the best thing to say to get her on his side. But she just cocked her head sideways slightly, staring at him.
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"I am L," he said. "Surely you've heard of me."
She looked around slowly.
"Is this some kind of joke?" she asked.
"No," replied L. "But I understand your hesitance. Very wise, not to let a stranger instantly into your home."
She just stared at him.
L produced identification of his authority from six different countries. "If you'll see here," he said, "I can prove to you that I am in law enforcement."
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I want to speak with you."
"About what?"
L was shocked into a short silence. About what? He almost began to panic. What?
"Your father," he replied, remembering what he had told Wammy he was going for. "I've been reviewing the case and I don't understand some important details. I thought you might be able to help me."
"I've already told my story. If you were L, you would know that."
"I understand," replied L. "I know that you have acted as a witness in a courtroom. I have reviewed your testimony." He paused. "It still doesn't explain to me your father's motives."
"I don't know his motives. I'm not the one who killed all those girls, remember?"
"I'm quite aware," replied L. "But I'd like to ask you some questions, regardless.
She looked hesitant.
"By all means," he said, "if it makes you feel more comfortable, I can have you escorted to the police station. But I presume you'd feel better in the familiarity of your own dining room."
She glanced around. "You presumed correctly," she said, stepping aside. "Come in. You don't have a gun, do you?"
"Of course not," said L. "I detest guns. However, I am highly trained in capoeira."
"Excuse me?"
"Capoeira."
"...What is that?"
"A very useful Brazilian form of martial arts. Looks like dancing."
She looked at him dubiously. "Are you sure you're a cop?"
"I'm more than a cop. Like I said, I am L."
It didn't look like she believed him.
As she closed the door behind him, he asked, "Tell me, Miss Matthews, do you customarily let strangers into your home?"
"No," she replied. "But you proper certification. And if you're not lying – which I can't seem to decide – then it is an honour to meet you, L."
"Good," he said. "This should be an interesting experience."
He sat down – in his usual position – at a small table in her kitchen. The table at which he knew she had been crying only a few hours ago. She glanced at him shortly. "Is there anything I can get you?" she offered. "Coffee? Tea?"
"Coffee, please," said L. "With lots of sugar."
A few moments later, she passed a cup of coffee to him. Not as sugary as he would have liked, but he supposed it would do. She peered at him, a crease between her eyebrows.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
"Answers," he replied.
"I don't know them," she told him. "I don't know why my father did anything he did. You should ask him."
"He'd delirious," he said. "He hasn't been answering questions coherently for the past two weeks." A pause. "You have not visited him."
"I was afraid the sight of me would make him try to kill another poor girl."
"You do not seem angry at him."
"I'm proud of him," she remarked, leaning back in her chair. "He exhibited self-control."
Silence.
"He exhibited self-control by killing seventeen innocent women."
"He didn't kill me."
L cocked his head to the side. "That is extraordinarily selfish."
"What?" she asked, staring at him. "And you're not?"
The question unnerved L. This girl had just met him. "Of course I am," he sniffed. "All human beings are. However, usually one does not congratulate a murderer."
"I'm not congratulating him. Did I say that? And I'm not proud that he killed those girls. But I am happy to know that I mattered to him. That he didn't leave because he couldn't stand me." She smiled slightly. "I'm glad that he left in order to keep me safe."
L stared at her. He had never heard such words uttered, certainly not by a witness.
"Fascinating," he murmured, taking a sip of his coffee. "You said you last saw your father when he left you, correct?"
"Yes. He took his wallet, some money, the car keys, and drove off. Without saying goodbye."
"And this, understandably, affected you?"
She tried to smile at L. "I was hurt. My mother died years ago. We'd only ever had each other."
"Miss Matthews, why do you think your father wanted to kill you?"
A pause. "Is this really relevant?"
"Entirely relevant."
"But you already caught him."
"Yes."
She didn't understand. She sighed and swept her long brown hair back behind her shoulders, revealing the areas around her collarbone. "It's not something I care to-"
"Miss Matthews," interrupted L abruptly, an urgent frown on his face.
She looked at him; he wasn't looking at her face, which offended her for a moment, and then she realized what he was staring at and she pulled her hair back immediately, glancing at the ground.
Silence.
L asked, "Miss Matthews, how did you get that bruise?"
"I fell."
"You fell."
"Dancing. High heels, you know. They can be dangerous."
He did not believe her.
"Does this have anything to do with the man who left this house several hours ago?" asked L gently.
Lauren Matthews froze. "How do you know about him?" she asked sharply. "Have you been watching this house?"
L looked at her. Then he looked away. She was disgusted.
"How dare you!" she said suddenly. "I am an innocent civilian, unless you have grounds to do so, you have no right to-"
"At your insistence," said L, "I will remove them immediately."
"Leave."
L looked at her.
"Get out of this house."
He didn't move."
"I said get out of this goddamned house!"
L took a sip of his coffee. "No," he said. "I don't think I will."
The woman looked around a few times, a muscle in her jaw jumping.
And then she reached out and bodily took L at the collar, dragging him to the door, which she opened, and pushed him roughly out. "Don't worry," she called. "I will be calling the authorities. Whether or not this was a sick prank, I'm afraid they won't be quite as interested in working with you, L."
She slammed the door.
The disdain in her voice lingered in L's ears, and it sounded far too much like music than he would like. Her voice. So angelic. So angry. So passionate. Passion – something that L had always lacked. He had always been so detached, so unemotional, so uncaring.
As he slowly walked back to the car Wammy was waiting in, he kicked a stone along the road, and he truly believed that, had he chosen a different path, Lauren Matthews would have been the one to teach him how to care.
L could never be normal without first developing his sense of passion.
Unfortunately love isn't a puzzle to him because I don't quite think he believes it exists. So he will not solve it. He feels little regret over letting Lauren Matthews live her own live.
Although one can assume that the man who caused that bruise of hers won't be seeing her anymore.
Written very late at night when I was very tired, please tell me if there are any mistakes.