L is on a case. He is on several cases, actually, but this one is the most important. Someone—he has narrowed it down to two possibilities, a man or a woman—has murdered twelve people, all homeless children living on the streets of Munich. L is close, very close, and he sits in his hotel with piles of local sweets, nibbling on his thumb and staring fiercely at screen that connects him to the local police. He is so close…
But the police have already been working for two days straight, and most of them cannot function as well as L can on two hours of sleep. So L gives them permission to go home. He severs the connection and tells Watari to return to the hotel.
He watches Watari as always, tracking him on security cameras all the way home. Watari doesn't see the boy following him, but L does. His hand twitches towards the phone, intending to warn him, but he stops. The boy is nothing but a grey blur, sometimes barely visible. He blends in with rough stone buildings, disappears around corners and behind automobiles. Sometimes he goes in the wrong direction entirely, making note of where Watari is heading and catching up with him later. He is clever. L likes clever children.
"Watari," he says quietly into the cell phone, once the man enters the hotel lobby. "There is a boy following you. Bring him up, please."
On the camera, he sees Watari's eyes widen, but otherwise his expression remains unchanged.
"Of course. Where, exactly?"
"Outside the doors."
Casually, Watari turns. The boy is gone, of course, but Watari is also clever. He fixes his gaze on someone walking past the hotel—someone whom he has never met—and walks quickly after him, raising a hand to give himself a reason to exit the door he just entered. The boy is too smart to fall for that, but at least he thinks that the wisest course of action would be to remain still and not draw attention to himself. When Watari reenters the hotel, the boy is being led by the elbow. He is also kicking, screaming, and attempting to bite and scratch at his captor.
The horrified hotel manager hurries around the desk, but before he reaches them, Watari leans down and mutters something into the boy's ear. He stops fighting instantly, glaring at Watari with suspicion written all over his face. Finally, he nods and follows Watari into the elevator, leaving the poor, confused manager in his wake.
Watari raps on the door sharply three times before entering, as he has done ever since they first met.
"Hugo—" he begins, addressing him with the fake name he uses in Continental Europe. L waves him away.
"I don't believe that is necessary, Watari," he says. "Leave him with me."
Watari exits obediently, and L turns to examine the boy. He is young, dirty, and very thin. A matted, knotted mess of hair falls to his ears, and his clothes are faded and torn. His teeth are biting the corner of his chapped lips, and with his left hand he tugs insistently at a hangnail on his right index finger. It is starting to bleed again, around an old scab. L winces at the dirt that is ingrained in the folds of the boy's knuckles, in the calluses on his hands and feet, under his nails. And yet, despite his ragged appearance, he has a clear, sharp gaze—wide, piercing blue eyes, heavy with bags not unlike L's own.
"There is a bathroom in there," L tells him, pointing. "Please wash before we speak."
The only movement is the flicker of the boy's eyes, the rhythm of his teeth nibbling on his lip, the steady scraping of his bone-thin fingers. L stands and shuffles to the sink himself. He turns on the water, facing the boy, and waits. Eventually, the boy follows him. Every step of the way, he angles himself so he is facing L head-on, never allowing the older man even to hover at the edges of his blind spots. His hands dart out quickly and adjust the water until it is freezing cold, and sticks his hands in. His fingernails click against each other, and he glares at L when L deposits soap in his hands.
"I said wash, not wet," L reminds him.
"I'm done," the boy says quietly, after washing his hands and face properly. He has a thin, reedy voice, which creaks from neglect. L exits the bathroom first and returns to his chair.
"Sit," he orders. Gingerly, the boy lowers himself into the chair opposite. "Why did you follow Watari?"
"I was watching the police. They're afraid of him, but they also hate him. Police are only afraid of people more important than they are. They like superiors who are like them—who have been promoted because they're stupid and dependable. They tolerate people who have been promoted through flattery or bribery. They only hate people who are promoted because they're smart."
"Solid reasoning," L approves. "Although, in truth, they are not afraid of Watari. He is smarter than they are, but he represents me. Not only am I smarter than all of them put together, but I am an outsider brought in because of their incompetence. I am the greatest detective in the world. You may call me L."
The boy looks at him appraisingly, no doubt trying to discern whether this is boasting, or a simple statement of fact.
"You'll do," he declares.
"Do for what?"
"I want you to find my mother."
L stares at him for a long time, biting his thumbnail. Finally, he nods. It sounds rather boring, certainly not the kind of case he'd be interested in, and he makes a mental note to never let children talk to him personally. He would take on too many boring cases, if he talked to people in person.
"Okay. What is her name?"
"I don't know."
"What is your name?"
"Mihael Keehl," he whispers, like his name is sacred, a secret. L can relate.
With two fingers, he picks up a file from the stack beside him. He flips through it quickly, eyes flickering over the page like a moth flutters around a flame. Whenever he travels to a new place, he likes to be informed on notable local criminals. Kurt Keehl, thief, blackmailer, occasional assassin, resided in a small town several miles away—at least a four-day journey, by foot. He had been arrested, but never convicted, and there is no record of a son in his file.
L looks up at Mihael Keehl.
"You already know what I am going to tell you," he says quietly. Mihael stares back at him, unblinking.
"What?" he asks.
"Your mother was murdered. And the murderer—" L pulls a very short newspaper obituary from the back of the folder "—died two weeks ago."
Mihael's eyes are wide and cold in his thin face. His teeth are bared, and L can see that he has no intention of accepting the truth. He looks inhuman, haggard, and brutally alive.
"Prove it," Mihael demands.
L nods and turns back to his equipment. Within seconds, he has compiled a list of likely pseudonyms for Sandra Keehl to have used. He sets Watari on the right path, and checks a few places himself, places where the weight of his name would produce more answers than Watari's quiet, anonymous inquiries. Then he glances over his shoulder at Mihael, who is sitting rigidly and staring at him in mute admiration.
"This is nothing," L tells him. "Ordinary police officers could do this."
"I've never heard her name before."
Perhaps this awakens L's latent parental instincts, and he realizes suddenly that seven-year-olds don't normally have such prominent cheekbones.
"When did you last eat?" he asks.
"Yesterday."
There is a glimmer of pride in Mihael's eyes, the pride of a child reveling in his own independence. L doesn't trust him. He leans over and pinches the boy's wiry forearm, ignoring Mihael's yowl of protest.
"When was the last time you ate a full meal?" he clarifies. "Nine days? Or longer?"
"Nine," Mihael whispers.
L nods, satisfied. He examines the pile of sweets in front of him, and pulls aside half a black forest cake, several pieces of marzipan, and a full dozen chocolate bars.
"Eat," he orders. He takes the other half of the cake for himself and returns to his desk.
"Don't you have any normal food?" Mihael asks, but his stomach growls louder than his words, and L knows that this is just his way of expressing gratitude.
"What you call 'normal food' is not even necessary for adults; it's bad for children. Eat your chocolate."
Mihael waits until L turns around. As silently as possible, he unwraps a bar of chocolate, but he is unable to disguise the snap of his first bite. Then he eats six more chocolate bars, tucking the rest into his pockets—his attempt at secrecy makes L smile—and most of the cake, but leaving the marzipan untouched.
"You must be tired."
"I don't sleep."
"You must. Your body is still growing, and growing tires you out. Eat plenty of chocolate and sleep a lot, and you'll be able to keep up with it."
"It's not even dark yet. Besides, you don't sleep."
Perceptive, L notes.
"I am much older than you, and fully grown. I am also much larger and stronger."
Mihael considers him for a moment, and correctly assumes that the last part of the exchange was a threat. L is not above bullying a child into bed, if he knows what's right.
"I have several rooms," he declares, shrugging. "A good detective never allows his hotel floor to have other people on it. Any of them would be acceptable."
He also booked the floors below and above, but he doesn't want Mihael wandering that far. Mihael is still assessing him, but L already knows what conclusion he will come to. The boy had been living on his own for two weeks, so he doubtless knows how to fight, and he is not the kind who would avoid one just because his opponent is larger and stronger. But L is not big compared to most people—only to children—so his true strength lies in his speed. Mihael's only advantage, gone. The boy looks sad to realize it, and L is suddenly grateful. How embarrassing it would have been for him, if they had fought and he lost.
"I want a big room," Mihael announces. "With a lock. And—a window. I want a window."
L stands and lopes over to the door connecting his room to the one adjoining. He opens it for Mihael's inspection; the boy snatches another four chocolate bars from the pile of sweets and dashes into the room like he expects L to stop him. The door is slammed shut and the lock clicks.
L returns to his main case, the serial killer preying on homeless children. He picks up the phone.
"Watari, the room next to mine is now occupied. Install a better lock, set an alarm and a camera on the door, and replace the window with bulletproof glass, please."
(-)
Late that night (early the next morning, really), L picks the lock of the adjoining door. It is dark, but a half-moon offers enough light for him to see the boy sitting in the middle of the bed. The sheets are twisted around him, so intricately mangled that they look more like frothy waves than fabric. Mihael is bathed in silver and shadows, his head regally bowed. He is praying.
"My Queen, My Mother, I offer myself entirely to Thee. And to show my devotion to Thee, I offer Thee this day my eyes, my ears, my mouth, my heart, my whole being without reserve. Wherefore, good Mother, as I am thine own, keep me, guard me as Thy property and possession. Amen."
"That is not a good prayer for you," L tells him.
"Why not?"
"Property and possession," he says simply.
A savage, delighted grin spreads across the boy's face. He has probably never been free before, but even now he will not free himself of the bond to God. He probably never will.
L crouches on the bed, depositing a large pile of chocolate chips on the pale expanse of sheet between them.
"Tell me every prayer you know."
Mihael recites them, in some order only he knows, as solemnly as he would recite them to God. After half an hour, L raises a hand and stops him.
"Continue in Latin."
Another hour passes. Mihael pauses only to take a sip of water or pop a chocolate chip in his mouth. Between the two of them, the pile is soon gone.
"Now in English."
Mihael falters slightly. He pauses, testing his words carefully before saying them, but he still manages to recite four flawless prayers before L stops him.
"The Ave Maria or Pater Noster suits you better than the morning consecration, I think," he says quietly.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
"You're keeping me, aren't you?" Mihael says shrewdly. "Like a stray dog that wandered in off the street."
"Yes."
"What if I'm rabid?"
"Rabies is treatable. Besides, I will not allow you to bite anyone, least of all me."
Mihael grins, for the first time, like a child.
"I'm faster than I look, you know. It's pretty stupid of you to think I'm not dangerous."
So L tells Mihael his own story, about how Watari pulled him off the streets when he was just a year older than Mihael. Mihael is a little jealous that L managed to prevent a war at that age, until L reminds him that he has a year to do something useful. Eager to impress, Mihael describes to him a detective story he had written for a school assignment a month ago. It was nothing like solving a real mystery, he explains modestly, but his teacher had said it was very good. Despite that, he had not received any credit, something he was still bitter about.
L is not surprised. Very few teachers would believe that a seven-year-old had written a 114-page novella in a week. He is impressed, and he tells Mihael so. The boy glows.
"You can teach me," he urges. "I'm smart. I mean, my grades aren't that good, but I stole some of the homework from older kids and did it, no problem. I promise I would pay attention to you, then I could be your assistant or something. I know when people are lying, you know, and I can tell what they're going to do next, or I can guess their secrets—"
"No," L interrupts. "I'm a detective, not a teacher. You are going to go to Wammy's House in England. They have excellent teachers there; they will teach you different languages, literature, logic, all the skills you need. It is too early to tell, but eventually… you might be able to take my place, if you work hard enough and possess enough raw talent. It will be difficult. There are many other extraordinary children there."
"I'll beat them," Mihael swears, and L privately thinks he might be right.
"Go to sleep now," L tells him. To his shock, Mihael lies down. His hair is still shaggy and unkempt, and it forms a jagged kind of halo on the pillow. He looks content.
"Good night," he says in a small voice.
"Good night." At the door, L pauses. "Mihael… your mother is dead. I'm sorry, but now I have proof."
The boy does not respond. L closes the door behind him, and mouths the words to himself at almost the same moment that Mihael begins to whisper them. It's not a prayer for the dead, even though Mihael knows all the appropriate ones. It's a prayer that children say when they miss their mothers.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee. Blessed art Thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.
(-)
Despite his claims of insomnia, Mihael sleeps late the next morning, and L waves Watari away to the police station without answering his handler's questions. An hour later, Mihael creeps into the room, half-eaten chocolate bar in hand. L pretends not to see him, and the boy perches silently on a chair behind him. He can feel Mihael eyeing the plate of Krapfen between them, so he says casually, "The ones on the left are cream, the others chocolate."
After some consideration, the boy takes one of each. L follows his example, and quickly acquaints him with the case at hand. He is very pleased; Mihael makes several very astute observations. He sits very close to L all day, sharp eyes watching as the police carry out L's orders through the screen. Often, he comes to the same conclusion as L hours before the police reach it. When L decides, without a doubt, that the woman he had suspected is the killer, Mihael's face radiates pride and excitement. They split a congratulatory three-layer chocolate cake, and L relates to him the story of his detective wars with Eraldo Coil and Deneuve.
While the police work on gathering the evidence needed for a conviction (occasionally needing L's help), he turns to several other unsolved cases over the world, and Mihael stops paying attention. He pretends to be uninterested, but L thinks the language barrier is the true reason; he is slipping between English, Italian, and Mandarin, and Mihael doesn't understand a word. When he breaks to serve himself more hot chocolate, he casually places a notebook and a pen in front of Mihael.
"What's this?" he asks.
"I want to read your novella. Write it for me."
Mihael frowns.
"It was very long. I don't know if I can…"
"Try."
He underestimated the boy's tenacity. By the time L thinks it is time for Mihael to sleep, he has already recreated fifty pages, and protests at the suggestion that he should stop. He argues more fiercely than he had the previous night, but eventually L is able to subdue him and get him to bed. Watari appears at L's side the moment the adjoining door closes.
"What are you going to do with him?" he asks.
"Take him to Wammy's, of course."
"You are… absolutely certain that he possesses the necessary potential?"
L crouches in Mihael's chair and picks up the full notebook. It is written in scratchy, child-like handwriting, but it is captivating, symbolic, and highly logical.
"Yes."
"Would you be saying that if you didn't like detective novels?"
L smiles, and Watari, understanding completely, disappears.
(-)
The next morning, Watari wakes Mihael. He provides him with clean clothes and new shoes, and instructs him to bathe. They will be leaving on a flight to England this afternoon. Mihael asks if L is accompanying them. Watari replies in the negative.
"Why aren't you coming?" Mihael demands, barging through the shared door.
"My case is not yet finished."
"You know who did it!"
"I need more proof to convict her."
"You know I can't speak English!" Mihael says furiously. "And I don't even know him, and I don't have a passport or a birth certificate, and—you said I could stay with you! You said it!"
He keeps ranting until his voice is nothing but a whistling wail, like the sound of the wind blowing around concrete, glass-windowed buildings. L waits for a long time, until Mihael draws breath.
"Take a bath and get dressed," he orders quietly. Mihael simmers, glaring at him, and he continues: "I won't speak to people who are being irrational, even if they are as young as you. While you get ready, feel free to keep berating me. You may also curse."
Mihael stared at him in shocked anger for a minute, before sulking away. Watari looks after him, amused.
"Do you know, L, I think you are very good with children," he says. "I never would have guessed."
Mihael screeches profanities when the bath water is too hot, when Watari forces him to wash his hair, and when he is reminded to put his shoes on. After half an hour, he reenters L's room, resentful and barefoot, but calm.
"You're going to need a new name before you arrive at Wammy's," L tells him. "It can be anything: a name you like, something you are, something you want to be, something people think you are… choose carefully."
Mihael thinks for a moment.
"I want it to be English," he says. His voice is hoarse, but even so L knows that he is making a conscious effort to be quiet, the same way that he is hunching over, just slightly. "What is the English word for Ruhe?"
L frowns. This is why he doesn't like his successors to meet him in person. It gives them ideas.
"Calm," he translates.
"Yes. Calm," Mihael repeats. "That's it."
"No," L says sharply. "Pick something else."
Calm. C. It's too far from L; it would be an insult, for a boy of Mihael's potential. Too far from L… and too close to B.
Mihael tilts his head slightly, and his posture changes, just a little bit. He straightens and leans forward in a move that is entirely his own. A weird look enters his eyes, and he asks, "Who are you afraid of?"
L stares at him.
"No, definitely not C," he mutters. "P, at least. N, or even M… Placid, patient, neutral, mild… mellow, mature…"
He is interrupted by a sharp crack. Mihael hands him half a chocolate bar and sits on the chair opposite L. He curls up slightly, but L recognizes little of himself in it. It's just the posture of a boy used to having very little of anything, least of all space.
"Tell me who you're afraid of and I promise not to become him," Mihael says seriously. "I'll tell you who I'm afraid of if you promise not to become him."
Curious, L nibbles on his chocolate.
"You are afraid of someone?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"My father."
"Your father is dead."
Mihael shrugs. Then L is sharing another story that he never thought to talk about, that of the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases. Mihael listens quietly.
"I won't become B," he says, with simple confidence. "I can't. He never met you, but I have."
"And I am much too young and intelligent to be your father."
"You're still not coming, are you?"
"No."
"Mellow," he says thoughtfully. "Does it have one l, or two?"
"Two."
"M-E-L-L-O," he spells, and L doesn't have the heart to correct him. The boy grins, repeating the word. "I like it."
"I do, too." Watari enters the room unobtrusively; it is time to go. L sighs. "I will probably never see you again. But I will call the orphanage sometimes, and the headmaster will send me bimonthly reports on your progress."
Mello nods solemnly.
"Can—can I have some more chocolate?" he asks.
L gives him four bars—one for the ride to the airport, two for the plane, and one for the ride to Wammy's.
"They will give you real food at the orphanage," he warns. "And dessert is only served on Fridays and Saturdays. Luckily, this brand is also available in England, so you can purchase some for yourself. There is a small chapel at Wammy's, but no services. The closest Catholic church is two blocks west. It requires shoes, but Wammy's does not."
Mello nods, clutching the chocolate bars as tightly as he can. He has never been on a plane before and has never had a friend, let alone had to leave one behind. He is too old to cry, so he takes three rapid steps backwards, bumping into Watari. Watari puts his hand on Mello's shoulder and turns him gently towards the door. Mello looks back.
"Bye, L," he calls.
"Good-bye, M."