Chapter One : Correspondence

Memories are strange things. There can be events so fundamental to the path your life has taken, such vital pivoting points, yet you hardly ever think of them. Living in the now is a skill, and one highly praised at that, but sometimes memories come unbidden. They do not knock politely at your door but kick it in and stomp into your drawing room, demanding to be entertained. One such memory attacks me now, as the door to the surveillance office slides open and L—or 'Ryuuzaki', in his present disguise—looks at me in silence. There is something wrong; I can see it in his face. My assumption is confirmed when I ask and he does not reply. He stands just inside the door, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor. Twenty-five years old, the world's most renowned and respected detective, heir to a fortune (mine), and the leader of an elite task force committed to catching the most dangerous criminal of our time— Kira. But today, as the rain lashes down outside, he stands inside the door of what currently passes as my office, and stares at the ground like a lost child. The cold light from the surveillance monitors makes his pale face even more ghostly, and that's what brings the memories, replays the past like a digital home-movie of my mind. The first time we met. The first case he worked on as L. The series of events that the media came to dub 'the Winchester Mad Bombings'. Rightly so. It was madness.

I am known now as Watari, but the first time I met the boy who was to become the world's greatest detective, I was only Quillish Wammy, a fifty-four year old inventor with an amateurish interest for mysterious and unsolved crimes. It was in October of 1987, and the world was still recovering from the third Great War. We had been enjoying a fragile peace for some eighteen months, people were starting to relax, the blackout curtains I remember from my childhood were taken down again and curfews were abandoned. Things were looking up for the people of my hometown of Winchester.

There had been one bombing after the end of the war; on May 26, 1986, a car bomb had gone off near Oram's Arbour, at the junction of High Street and Clifton Terrace. Nobody had been injured, except the driver of the car who died immediately, and it appeared to everyone as a senseless and singular crime. People had enough of death and destruction, they were worn out after the horrors of the war, and the car bomb, although never explained, was quickly forgotten by the general public, dismissed as some random lunacy. Then, on the fourteenth day of the new year, 1987, the bomber struck again. Of course, at the time, nobody knew the same culprit lay behind the deeds. Nobody, perhaps, but a seven-year-old boy. Although, it does seem unbelievable that even he should have reached that conclusion after only two bombings.

The second bombing was more dramatic. At eleven o'clock in the evening, a man identified as Diego Garcia rang the doorbell of a private home on Alresford Rd. When the house owner opened the door, according to witnessing neighbours, the man took one step into the house and exploded. The senseless suicide mission shook the country like the previous car bombing had failed to do, and for the first time since the war, fear started seeping back into the hearts of the townsfolk. And when a similar incident occurred on the 7th of June—a man with explosives strapped to his right leg chased visitors around Winnall Moors Nature Reserve in hysterics, only to eventually clutch onto a tree and detonate—the media started spreading the panic in earnest, dubbing it with traditional hyperbole as The Winchester Suicide Bomb Epidemic.

The fourth bomb was on the 4th of September. Oram's Arbour again, now on the other side of the complex near Clifton Rd. Nobody seems to have witnessed the actual detonation, but it was revealed to be yet another suicide bomb, and the remains found at the scene were identified as belonging to a man by the unlikely name of George Gregory Goldfish. Still no organisation claimed the attacks. In fact, they could hardly be labelled as attacks, because they did not attack anything specific. Apart from the house on Alresford Rd, all three other bombings had claimed no additional victims, and resulted in no structural damage. It was a mystery, to the police as well as the public. And it was as a mystery I thought of it when I received the letter. The letter that would change the course of everything, the town's fate, my own life and that of one of the greatest minds of our time.

I still had my workshop at this time, although I was in the process of selling the premises and move temporarily into the basement of the Wammy house, my newly established orphanage. The inventions were really a hobby at this point, my patents already guaranteeing me a more than comfortable pension, and it seemed unnecessary to keep the workshop separate to the massive mansion I had purchased. But this particular day—the 27th of October 1987—my mail was still delivered to the workshop on Canon street. And it was there, on a day much like today, in the dusky hall with the rain lashing down outside and water dripping from my coat to soak into the carpet, that I first became aware of the existence of L.

I had my a newspaper clamped under my arm, my briefcase in one hand and a folded umbrella dripping rain water in the other as I pulled the front door shut. The hall was dark, the grey rain light of the evening barely making it through the window above the door. A window that—I admit—needed cleaning, but what else could you honestly expect from a bachelor inventor's workshop? The mail was on the doormat inside as usual; a pile of bills and miscellaneous correspondence. I left the umbrella in the stand by the door and flicked the light switch, making the worn burgundy carpet come to an iridescent life, interwoven fibre optics illuminating the flock wallpaper with an almost psychedelic glow. Not one of my more commercially viable inventions, and one I often thought to do away with, but it had seemed like a good idea in the 60's when I installed it. Granted, a lot of things had seemed a good idea in those days. The smell of exotic herbs never did quite go out of the carpet pile. But I digress.

The envelope itself was unremarkable. Small, white, locally postmarked. No return address on the back, but somehow it caught my interest. I dumped the rest of the mail on the little wooden table in the hallway and took of my coat and hat, hanging them up in the closet with the inbuilt hot air fan to dry them, and went through to the sitting room. The rain was falling outside the window like a silver drapery, a streetlamp throwing wet shadows across the room before I turned the ceiling light on. Home sweet home. The room contained only the bare basics; a leather armchair, a low and wide oak coffee table, worn from years of use, and a fireplace that I tried to keep stocked with fresh dry wood at all times. The petal shaped glass of the lamps chased the dreary evening away and, after making a detour to the kitchen to put the kettle on, I sat down in the chair and opened the white envelope. The letter inside was handwritten, the script rather crudely rendered, and read as follows.

"Dear Mr. Wammy;

You come highly recommended. I am writing you regarding the possible commission of a device for the interruption of a wireless signal. If you agree to take on this task, it will have to be a highly secret development, as it is connected to a local current police investigation. If this is of interest to you, you can contact me via Mr. Smythe at the Milesdown Children's Home at your earliest convenience.

Your sincerely,

L"

I read the letter twice. It was without a doubt the strangest piece of communication I had ever received, and the most intriguing. In the kitchen, the kettle clicked off as the water reached boiling point, and I put the note on the table along side the newspaper as I went to make myself a cup of Earl Grey. Perhaps it was a prank, I thought. No name on the letter, except for this highly cryptic 'L'. No telephone number or even address. No mention of who exactly had 'highly recommended' me. The whole thing sounded dubious, I thought as I dunked the teabag in the porcelain cup, watching the deep brown colour unfold into streaks and swirls in the hot water. 'L'. That one initial preyed on my mind. A current local police investigation, the letter had said. A wireless interruption device. Could it possibly have to do with the case that the newspapers referred to as the Mad Bombings? There was some evidence to suggest that the suicide bombers had not been volunteers for their missions, although this was not common knowledge. I had a friend in the force however, who sometimes let slip information in return for a pint of two down the local. Nothing vital or top-secret, but little bits of knowledge that interested me and harmed nobody else. So, perhaps the explosives that had been strapped to the victims/perpetrators had been remote controlled in some fashion? In any case, my curiosity was thoroughly roused.

I skimmed through the letter one more time, sipping my tea, and then looked at my watch. It was nearing half past seven in the afternoon, and it was dark outside now and still raining heavily. I had no particular desire to brave the weather a second time, but my curiosity would not let me rest. It would appear my earliest convenience was right about now.

I grabbed my copy of the yellow pages from beside the phone and rifled through the thin pages for the address of the Milesdown Children's Home. It was on Northbrook Rd, less than two kilometres away as the crow flies, and would not be a long walk even the roundabout way. Reaching a decision, I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, which in turn I put in the pocket of my jacket. Back in the hallway, I put my coat on—it was still wet from the rain—and took my umbrella out of the stand. I had a strange, excited flutter in my stomach; the feeling that I was standing, still quite ignorant, on the brink of something very big. If I had only known.

Popping open my umbrella, I switched off the carpet light and pulled the door open on the stormy October night. Although I didn't know it at the time, I was on my way to meeting the single most unique individual I have ever known. I locked the door securely behind me and walked down the drenched deserted street, every step fuelled by curiosity and purpose. I could already feel it; I was walking into history.

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Disclaimer: Please note that, although most of the place and business names in this story do/have exist/ed in the real world, this is only an indication that I'm too lazy to make up fictional names and simply resort to using google. Alot. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Watari's name in this is Quillish because it is in the book and it sounds more like a real name to me than 'Quillsh'. Timeline taken from the manga/book, not the anime. Some scenes taken from the anime. No offence meant to people living in Winchester or anywhere else. The political views of anyone in this piece of fiction is not necessarily shared by the author. Death Note is the property of people who aren't me. No animals were injured in the making of this fic. Watari may or may not have invented a glow in the dark carpet.. Article is provided "as is" without any warranties. Some in-jokes may occur. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Subject to revision without notice. Feedback is appreciated. Thank you very much reading this fic.