My first non-Zelda fanfic! Enjoy, and don't forget to review!
"He is on the move again." The laptop spoke in that eerie, high-pitched voice. It was a voice that the FBI agents on the Nineteen Killer case had grown to recognize, but it always sent chills down one's spine. Most voice-synthesizers were easily broken by the FBI – and if they couldn't break it, the NSA could. Neither could touch this one. The code was like a maze with no way out: needlessly complicated and redundant, it seemed to have totally unnecessary functions to the point that it would almost crash any computer that tried to break it except for the ones over at NASA. It was clear that the intention was to make it foolproof; it may have even been a higher priority than masking the voice. L often worked that way. His intentions rarely seemed to be necessity as much as an effort to prove that he was smarter than his "clients".
"With all due respect, sir, there's no way you can know that," Agent David Brigham said to the laptop. After two months, the self-consciousness in speaking to a computer had faded.
"Yes, I can," The laptop replied. "The Nineteen Killer is – obviously, at this point – obsessed with the number nineteen. He has moved from city to city in Idaho, killing two people in each city by stabbing them nineteen times and cutting off the hand of one victim. One-point-nine victims in each city, so to speak."
The voice quieted for a moment, giving the FBI agents time to consider what it had said, then continued. "The killer has just taken his nineteenth victim in Idaho. He took his victims in pairs until now—he killed only one victim in Preston. This, coupled with the fact that he has steadily been heading southeast, lead me to the conclusion that he will be leaving Idaho for Utah to murder his next nineteen victims."
Agent Brigham spoke up again. "Utah isn't southeast of Preston, sir – Wyoming is. Why Utah?"
"Utah's population is considerably higher than Wyoming's. Although the obsession with the number nineteen is certainly a symptom of the killer's psychosis, it is also a challenge to local law enforcement. Like most serial killers, this one wants to be pursued. He will head into an area where the population is highest; the police in such an area will be more competent and his chances of being arrested will increase. Idaho, with its small population, was nothing more than upping the ante – now he's playing his hand."
Again the voice paused, then spoke again. "Of all the cities in northwest Utah, Ogden has the largest population. If we are in agreement, post agents around the Hampton Inn and Suites at 2401 Washington Boulevard, especially in all rooms containing or adding up to the number nineteen. Monitor these rooms at all times."
Another agent began to speak, but the voice interrupted him. "There are many hotels in Ogden, including the Hotel Marriot, the Days Inn, the Ogden Lodge, and several Hotel 8's. Of all the hotels in Ogden, The Hampton is the only hotel with a name containing nineteen letters."
The old man – Watari, the voice called him, a Japanese name – entered the room for the first time since L had been put on the case. He took the laptop off of the tray that it had sat on, never turned off, closed or even on screensaver for the last two months, and closed it. He tucked it under his arm and walked towards the door.
"Hey!" An agent spoke up. "What if we need his help on the case again?"
"From what I understand, the case is closed," Watari replied. "L is certain you will find your target where he has directed you. He has instructed me to extract him from this case." Without another word, he was gone.
True to his word, the Nineteen killer was caught in room 919 of The Hampton and Suites in Ogden, Utah. He had stabbed his victim – a nineteen-year-old prostitute – only once when the agents reprimanded him. She survived, but was out of the prostitution business for good.
The case was unsolvable without L to direct the FBI. The killer did not rape his victims, did not touch them with his bare hands, did not show his face or speak to anyone after he had found his victim. He never used the same knife twice. After he was caught, it was discovered that he had an IQ of 168 and showed very few signs of psychosis. He was a genius, invisible and uncatchable. Only L even stood a chance, and he performed with aplomb. He always did.
L liked the darkness.
It surrounded him like a blanket on a winter night, keeping him safe and warm. There were no distractions in the darkness, no wisps of movement, no obnoxious sounds. Darkness was foolproof, fire-safe, could not be scathed or eradicated by any man-made weapon, contained any fear or fantasy men could dream up. It was warmth and safety incarnate, and more than that. It was concentration. It was focus. And under its reverent cover, L could work in utter peace.
L's face floated like the face of a banshee above his laptop in a sky-blue spotlight. It sat on the cold hardwood floor; a single laptop, a single speaker, a single microphone, and nothing else.
His fingers moved with eerie quickness above the keys. In a blur of motion, the START menu opened, several dozen applications flicked by, and one was highlighted. It opened. A picture from each channel on television in the country of America appeared on the screen; the small, dark room was suddenly filled with a buzz of white noise.
L closed his eyes and hugged his knees a little closer to his chest.
"Mmm…"
In this state, this ultimate mode of concentration and meditation, the white noise slowly filtered out like a snake shedding its skin. Everything became clear. Each word was audible, if only one could concentrate hard enough. L lowered his head. His raven hair flopped down over his eyes.
He could hear every… single… word.
"But my scooter insurance hadn't kicked in yet…"
"Onions? In the peas? What the hell?"
"We're all on the same list, all of us!"
"So, so you think you can tell…"
"Visuals have been vastly improved…"
L sat in this state for nearly four hours. Every word said on television he heard and filed away. Four hours of television he processed, and none of it at all relevant.
Wait…
Something's changed.
"Baghdad has finally been… wait. Breaking news."
"Just a moment, folks, we appear to be having technical difficulties."
"Yes. Okay. This just in!"
"Breaking news, it seems… oh… Oh my god."
Every channel cut off. L's room went pitch black. Every channel across America was dead.
After nearly a full minute of this, the screens blinked white once. Twice. Three times. The room filled with a high-pitched squeal. Finally, every screen was taken over by two words:
New World
All the channels spoke with a single voice. It was masked with a simplistic voice synthesizer.
"Hello, citizens of the United States. This is The New World speaking." It went silent for a moment. "We are currently in control of forty-nine commercial aircrafts. They will be flown into forty-nine capitol buildings in the continental United States. We wish for no unnecessary deaths during this exchange; we suggest that the capitols and those buildings nearest to them are evacuated immediately. You have approximately thirty minutes. Make no attempts to interfere; we're afraid the fate of these buildings is sealed." A few seconds passed. The channels again went black.
L concentrated on this message for a moment. This was a very brave attack. Not only did they announce their plan to the entire nation before they executed it; they suggested evacuation. It didn't match Al-Qaeda's pattern, or with radical Muslim beliefs. It wasn't a religious assault.
The voice that spoke during the message, although rudimentarily masked, was clearly American. It wasn't a foreign assault.
That left only one option. It was an American terrorist group; a rebellion. But if it wasn't about religion, and they had no wish to kill the politicians contained in the capitol buildings, then what were they attempting to gain?
L's fingers flew across the keyboard again. A new application opened, this one containing the status of every flight in America. There were sixty-seven currently in flight. All were on course and reporting in at regular intervals. Then was it an empty threat?
Yes, that made sense. A nationwide prank, shake up the nation's leaders.
But anyone that could simultaneously hack every broadcasting station in America would be sure to alter the flight stats and reports.
That could mean only one thing. They wanted the nation to believe it to be a prank. The politicians would be evacuated to be safe, but no further precautions would be taken. For instance, the buildings would not be checked for internal threats.
They didn't have thirty minutes.
L opened a third program. A list of government agencies from every nation in the world appeared on the screen. L clicked the one marked "Federal Bureau of Intelligence". A black screen opened; the sound of a dialing tone filled the room. Finally a ring began. I rang once... twice… three times… and then was picked up. "FBI secure line, Agent Brigham speaking." In the background other phones ringing could be heard, along with shuffling papers, agents speaking across the room, and the low hum of a red-alert alarm. "Sorry for the wait, as you can imagine we're really-"
"David, have the politicians been evacuated?"
"L? Um-- of course, they're following standard evacuation procedure, but no planes have been reported off-course. We think-"
"A prank, I know. Listen, I need you to send bomb squads to the capitols being threatened. Make sure the buildings are evacuated in the next ten minutes. They're not going to give us thirty."
"Bomb squads? But—Oh my God."
"Hurry, David."
He closed the program.
Just as L expected, they weren't given thirty minutes. In seven, the buildings exploded. Nearly everyone had been evacuated by then. Twelve senators and three congressmen were killed, as well as thirty civilians nationwide. A sweep from forensic scientists showed that the bomb-squads never stood a chance; there was not a single bomb placed in any building, but several sets of binary explosive placed throughout them. Most looked like mugs full of pens, but there were others; cardboard boxes underneath drinking fountains, electrical boxes packed with red-and-white liquid, bombs stored in filing cabinets… there were at least twenty bombs in each building. At 8:32 p.m., on August 24, 2008, America was brought to its knees by the most powerful terrorist attack in the history of the world.
By the end of that day, the laptop had reclaimed its place in the FBI headquarters. It wasn't the same place it was a week ago – where everything had been neat, efficient and well organized there was now a constantly shifting mess of papers, wires, and agents. The phones hadn't stopped ringing since the bombs had been detonated. Riots were breaking out in the city; the doors of all the government buildings in the D.C. area were protected by military personnel, which had had to use force twice already since the detonation. The attack lasted minutes, but the nation had continued to tear itself apart from the inside since.
"Especially relevant to this case right now is the use of binary explosive," the laptop said. "Binary explosives are cheap, extremely effective, and, most importantly, easily obtained in the United States. Make an immediate search nationwide for large orders of isopropyl alcohol, excluding orders made by hospitals and nursing homes."
"Right away, sir," an agent answered.
A rectangular splash of light spilled into the pitch-blackness of L's room. Watari's silhouette materialized. He placed a bowl of Reeses' Peanut Butter Cups next to L and turned back towards the door.
"Watari."
"Hmm?"
"If the situation arose, how quickly could the clothes of an…" L paused, then stuffed a peanut butter cup into his mouth. "Adolescent… be acquired?"
"Immediately, I'm sure. Will it be necessary?"
"I don't know yet." L hummed deep in his throat, then took a handful of peanut butter cups from the bowl. He placed one on the ground in front of him, then another. Next to those, he stacked two more. "But I suspect that the assailants are an organization of students." He stacked three more peanut butter cups, and then five next to those. "Especially evident towards this conclusion is the fact that it's a domestic threat. The attack was meant to make a statement—" he picked up the first peanut butter cup and ate it, then stacked eight more. "A statement exposing immature ideals. Youth is the obvious answer."
"But the planning involved… is it really possible for--?"
L turned to look at Watari. "I could have done it at that age."