It hadn't taken long, in the San Quentin State Prison, for Beyond Birthday to go visibly insane. He hadn't put up much of a fight on the way down to his maximum security cell—probably due to his still painful third-degree burns—except for turning to the warden guiding him on the left and saying pleasantly, "You have three years to live, Joseph Nikolai."
And with that, the wardens immediately tranquilized him. It wasn't necessary, of course, but they knew that Beyond Birthday was the man who had gruesomely killed all the victims of the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases and they weren't about to take any chances. Who knew what a psychopath would do next?
He would do nothing, actually, at least for the first few weeks in imprisonment. Mostly Beyond Birthday sat on his metal bunk and stare at his burns for hours until he began to scream, enraged and desperate. The wardens did nothing, because his howls mixed in with the cries of the other deranged prisoners. But after those 'peaceful' first weeks, Beyond Birthday's last remaining bits of sanity collapsed into nothing. He seemed to have perfected the laugh he had worked so hard on in his earlier days, and he would often be heard demonstrating it maniacally in his cell. Again, the wardens did nothing, because they were already used to the other criminals' cackles.
But then Beyond Birthday would detach himself from that uncomfortable steel shelf and latch onto the bars of his cell, casting his eerie red-eyed gaze on everyone in the room. "You're going to die in exactly eighty-nine hours," he'd scream to a homicidal man being considered for death row in the adjacent cell. "Did you hear me, William Applegarth? Eighty-nine hours until you die and go to hell!" Or he would sometimes calm himself down and turn to another prisoner and speak peacefully, "Hey, hey, Mathieu de la Beau. You have a long life ahead of you; forty-six years." And then he would lose control and shake the bars of the cell and laugh his death-god chuckle, "Henh henh rah ha, ha-ha! But who knows what you will do until then! Maybe you'll be back here again, and I'll let you know how many years you have left! Die! We're all going to die!"
Sometimes he would get so out of control, trying to claw at his own flesh or assault a guard that he would get the tranquilizing needle again. Or sometimes he'd be sent to solitary confinement, until he was reported to be well enough to return to his cell. Nothing helped. His once-brilliant mind had already found a permanent residence in the soothing grips of madness and it obviously wasn't returning.
A year after Beyond Birthday's imprisonment, a young warden about twenty-three years old and more than a little nervous about getting reassigned to watch over the craziest criminals was getting the full tour. He was visibly shaking, and his hand kept twitching towards his hand gun. The other residents paid no mind to him, but Beyond Birthday stepped over to his cell door and watched the man in what might pass for innocent curiosity, if it wasn't for his blood-red gaze staring at the young man's head.
"Bliss Burgenstein," he greeted the warden amiably, smiling toothily as he passed. Bliss, as the man was named—for obviously Beyond Birthday wasn't lying—visibly jumped and jerked his head over to Beyond Birthday's cell. Fear was etched into every inch of his face. "If I had known about you in the days when I was free, I would've killed you," Beyond Birthday continued in a soothing voice, "but it wouldn't have been useful, see? You're going to die at eight o'clock in the evening today, and I would've been too early. Best to let it happen naturally, eh?" And then he laughed some more until the older warden impatiently rapped on his cell door with his gun, like one might do to an irritating stray dog clawing at your door. Beyond Birthday immediately stopped snickering and instead sent a dark glare in the warden's direction.
"Ignore Beyond," the older warden informed the absolutely petrified Bliss Burgenstein. "He's flat fucking crazy, like all the idiots here."
"I may be 'flat fucking crazy' but I'm anything but an idiot! If only you knew…A, B, L! Henh, henh! You're going to hell in fifteen years, Christopher—"
"Ignore him, I said!" the warden snapped to the newcomer, who was continuing to stare, horrified, at the red-eyed creature he was supposed to guard. "He does it to everyone, telling 'em they're going to die…"
At eight o'clock that evening, Bliss Burgenstein hanged himself in the faculty restroom, unable to cope with being surrounded by the howls, shrieks and cries…and of course, every time he walked past Beyond Birthday's cell, the man would shout at him "Eight o'clock, Bliss! Don't be late!"…
Even Beyond himself was unable to keep from tormenting himself with thoughts of death. Sometimes he would feel lucid enough to remember his brilliant plan to surpass a certain detective, and how it had gone horribly, horribly wrong.
"I should be dead!" he would sometimes shriek inside his cell, twisting a particularly nasty burn on his left wrist. "Kill me! They should've let me die!" The other prisoners and jailors were, of course, in perfect agreement and rather enjoyed hearing the demented man wish for his demise.
"Shut up, BB!" one warden shouted at him gleefully during one of these episodes. "Quit your bitching! Most people would be glad to have such a damn fine lawyer!" And then all the wardens laughed as Beyond Birthday's screams ceased to sound human.
Beyond Birthday should have been executed for his horrible crimes. Criminals with not as grisly offenses had been sentenced to death, and it was only because BB's defense attorney made such a convincing argument, despite the fact that Beyond Birthday introduced himself by saying to the judge, "Two more years, Your Honor!" and grinning so widely that his blackened skin cracked and bled. Beyond Birthday was given a life sentence in prison, and the entire state of California was astonished, and by all means the convicted man should have been relieved. But the humiliation was too great, and Beyond Birthday's dream—to die—was taken away yet again.
Fortunately, his death wasn't too far off. But even with his all-death-seeing eyes, BB could never know when the day would arrive.
Almost two years into Beyond Birthday's life sentence, the Kira case began. The warden guards had all been gibbering about some serial killer going by the name of "Kira", who used heart attacks to kill criminals. No one knew how this was possible, and it had all the free countries of the world in an uproar. Rumors were going around, of course, and the situation was only worsened by the fact that several inmates or so a day would die mysteriously.
Of course, Beyond Birthday was delighted. He knew his death would come soon—he was a criminal, wasn't he?—and this was cause for celebration on its own, but was almost as entertaining was watching the prison physicians running between the cells, checking on each prisoner as if by doing so would save their lives.
"As if you really care, Derek Tenet!" Beyond Birthday shrieked at a passing doctor, who merely glanced up and continued on his way. BB sunk onto the floor and rested his hands on his knees and bit his tongue until it bled. L had finally decided to get on the case, he had overheard. He sent an off-kilter grin at the security camera with blood running from between his lips, hoping Lawliet would see the footage.
From across Beyond Birthday's cell, he heard a choked gurgle, a thud, and the clack-clack sounds of frantic doctor feet. He laughed his death god chuckle a few times. "We're all going to burn in hell," he snickered to himself.
"Go ahead, Kira!" he added loudly, his sneer twisting his features into a scarred grimace. "Beat L when I failed! Kill me!" He spread out his arms to the cracked concrete ceiling, insanity etched in every mangled bit of his face, his heart thudding loudly as if to make Kira's target more apparent.
Beyond Birthday could tell each man the day of his death, but he was unable to see his own.
Across the ocean, a teenage boy read the profile of the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases and wrote down the name of the serial killer in a little black notebook before moving onto the next Internet tab.
"What a rotten world."