2016 - Los Angeles, California
"Hey, Harry, can you get off your phone for just a minute? Especially when you're driving?"
"Hey, we're at a red."
Officer Harry Blackwell was scrolling through Instagram, the patrol car waiting at a stoplight. His partner, Alan Jennings was surveying the neighborhood. They were in South L.A. - Southland, the racially charged subset of Los Angeles. It was racially charged even since the 1992 riots that devastated the area when the Rodney King trial came out with a not guilty verdict. Now, there were ever-lasting gang battles that resulted in a number of 187s calls - homicide cases.
"That doesn't make our appearance look better. We're cops, you know."
"Everyone does it. Forget that shit about using your phone on the road. It's law, but it's not enforced. Plus, we have Bluetooth. So relax, a little."
Jennings gave up on the conversation. He was the kind of cop that went by-the-book. Blackwell was more lax than him, within reason.
When the light changed, Blackwell got off his phone and headed down south on Crewshaw. They were on a slow night, nothing too serious such as a gang shooting and hit-and-runs. It was a godsend to them - usually crime happens when the sun goes down. That means that car 5-Adam-12 was spared by gritty reality of crime. The patrol car continued down the boulevard, the sidewalk sparsely populated with life, aside from stray dogs and drunken bums waiting for a hangover. Passing by an alleyway filled with dumpsters and broken bottles, Jennings noticed a bright light at the end of the alleyway. He tries to make out what it was. He then noticed that it came from a car's headlight.
"Yo, Harry, check it out." He nudged his partner in the shoulder, urged him to pull the car back to the alley, and pointed at the sight.
"Yeah, so what?" His face didn't showed any signs of caring.
"Can we check it out? Maybe some poor sap left it on."
"Come on, Alan, we're not neighborhood watch. We're on the watch. You can play Boy Scout later."
But Alan remained footed against the argument. "Have it your fucking way." Out of impulse, Alan got out from the cruiser.
"Goddamn it," Harry mumbles. He put the car in park, and went after him. "Alan, come on! It's just a car light. We don't have probable cause, man," he shouted.
Jennings had his sights on the car headlights. Little did he figure out that the car was backup diagonally against a brick wall sprayed with age-old graffiti. And the headlights were illuminated a corner of a dumpster and another brick wall.
"What the hell," Alan whispered. He decided to look at the lighted up corner. What came next was shock. "Ah fuck."
Once he heard the yell, Harry pulls out his Glock and rushed towards his partner. "Alan, what's wrong? What the fuc- What the fuck!" He gazed at the sight.
"5-Adam-12 to dispatch, we got a possible 187. I need supervisors, detectives, forensic team. Code Six Adam, respond to our location off Crewshaw."
Harry began to comprehend what he seen. It was a naked body, cut into two. Her mouth was carved into a menacing smile, and her eyes were shadowed in dried blood. All around her was the aura of death. Inside of it was a story to tell.
Quantico, Virginia - FBI Academy
The seats in the lecture hall were now empty, after the class left for other important matters - more classes, more exercise, more field training. Naomi Misora was gathering her items: her laptop, turned-in assignments, solved case files for reference. She was teaching her students the basics of conducting a criminal investigation, focusing on serial murder for the moment.
Once she packed up her belongings, she began to exit the classroom until her phone started to vibrate in her jean pocket.
"Who could be calling me once again," she said sardonically. She pulled out her smartphone. The caller ID was Raye Penber. Much to her displeasure, she answered his call.
"What, Raye?" Her tone was annoyed. He had been calling often now for months.
"Hey Naomi. Um, how've you been?" He sounded nervous and sort of desperate.
"About to go out for lunch. You're not invited."
"I didn't say anything about lunch. I'm asking how have you been. I haven't seen you since last August."
"They call it divorce for a reason, Raye. You, of all people, should know that."
"I know. But still, I love you so." At that moment, he really sounded desperate. "I know that things aren't the same between us, but at least give me some mercy."
"My mercy is very little."
Silence filled the call for a couple of seconds. "If you're done talking Raye, then I'm heading out for lunch."
"Just give me another shot. I've changed. Really," Raye stammered.
"How about you give me some time. Maybe in a hundred years?" She hung up on the call and then headed out.
She drove out of the academy, heading towards a nearby diner called Hot-N-Ready. Good food, reasonable price, she would say. They serve, at least, a decent hot cup of coffee for about 50 cents. Once there, she placed herself in her regular booth, the leather seat already showing signs of wear and tear, the window having a clear view of the peaceful neighborhood outside the restaurant. Doris, a blonde waitress noticed her coming in. She had a pleasant smile on her face, thanks to some new cherry red lipstick, and a clean polka dot uniform when she came up to Naomi.
"Naomi, hi," she said happily.
"Hey, Doris. Had any tips?"
"Oh, I've got a couple." She winked at her. "Looks count, especially when every man is mostly a womanizer looking at me - the whole package."
"You got that right," she said in a deadbeat and tired tone.
"Don't get sassy with me. At least your line of business requires more finesse."
"Mmmhm," Naomi said. "At least, years ago. I just teach."
"Right you are." Doris then changed the subject to today's meal. Naomi ordered a BLT and fries, along with a glass of water. She jotted it down on a small notepad before leaving off to another customer, and eventually the kitchen.
Naomi usually took her time at the diner for some retrospection.
After the Los Angeles BB Murders, she continued on numerous investigations, most of them ending in open-and-shut cases, like the Chicago Cop Killer, the Seattle Slasher, and the Manhattan Bombings. Naomi was envied as being one of the best among agents during her time, even receiving a promotion to Deputy Director. Of course, she turned the position down, thinking that being an agent is as close to detective work that she could get. Around 2012, much to the surprise of her peers, she retired from the Bureau and married fellow agent Raye Penber.
Their marriage lasted for only 4 years.
Doris came by with Naomi's order after a couple of minutes. She ate her meal at a lax, yet steady pace. She was done for today; no classes for the rest of the afternoon, only reviewing grades, and then it was off to her apartment.
"Hey, can someone flip the channel to the news? Any news channel would do," a businessman said in the background. There were two TVs at either ends of the low row of booths where Naomi sat. She watched as Doris pulled out a remote from the counter and changed the channel to the local news.
"And now to our new story, LAPD officials are investigating a gruesome murder, right near South-Central L.A.," a young, buxom news anchor confidently announced. The screen transitioned to a bunch of edited clips, possibly from other news agencies. It showed a cornered-off alleyway, flashing police cars amidst the rotted urban reality, and a couple of interviews of people who, in the sense of it, have nothing to do with the murder, but voiced their opinions, especially on police corruption. The latter topic was as cliché as in every media outlet during that time.
After lunch, she went back to the Academy, to finish whatever task she had before the day was over. As in her meticulous and dedicated style, she got the job done. And as night approached, she drove back to her apartment. Her home was modest, to say the least; just the necessities of living. It's not like that she doesn't indulge for herself, but she wanted a simple life.
Naomi Misora washed up and got to bed. Not a thought about tomorrow, not a thought about the future. Life was routine. It was peaceful. It was good enough for her.
Winchester, England, United Kingdom - Wammy's House
He was in a void. He was surrounded in darkness, yet he felt his way through it. From the world around him, he heard whispers. They weren't clear, far from it. Mumbles and echoes not making any sense to the man with the black hair and the black holes where eyes were supposed to be.
He didn't felt fear. It was usually to not feel anything. After all, detective work requires objectivity. And yet, in that single moment, his heart was pumping, his mind overactive, sweat on his face, the heat rising from his chest.
The more he steps into the void, the clearer the voices were, and the more anxious he got. Out from the mist, there were silhouettes. Impossible to have in the abyss, and yet, here they were. Darkness cutting out from darkness.
"P-plea . . . hel . . . e." They were faint.
"Wher . . am I?"
"Are . . you . . my . . ."
Every word pierced his soul. Like gunshot wounds, something was bleeding out from him. Blood would be his first thought, but it was more than that. Life was draining out from him.
The figures were up close. Every grisly detail was apparent.
One was a little girl, her hair mudded with coagulated blood. Another one was a young man, his skull was made into mush, with gray matter mixed in.
There was a woman. She had black hair, her skin was fair. Her eyes were dark. She seemed fearless, and yet . . .
"Stay back," she said. As he approached her, her objections became louder. Frantic. "Stay back!" She was cracking. "Get me out of here!"
He stepped forward some more, and all of a sudden, his ears started to ring, and all the sound around him became nothing but that: ringing. He can't even here her yells.
He said, "Wait, let me help," but his mouth produced no noise. The woman became more afraid, almost breaking down tears. And then finally, a scream shot through his senses, and the man got swallowed up whole by the woman.
L Lawliet woke up, startled. His shirt was sweaty, despite the coldness of the night air. The first thing that came to him was his anxious breathing. The second thing was the sound of his computer ringing. It was dim in his room of his. The curtains were drawn, and the glow from the computer screen was the only source of illumination at the moment. L took a couple of breaths before getting up from his bed and walking towards his station on the floor. The video camera was placed next to the keyboard, along with the microphone and speakers.
On the screen was a Closter N. L pressed the enter key. "Yes," he said in his usual calm, yet droll tone.
"L, we've been contacted by the LAPD. They got a case for you." Near sounded youthful, yet as monotone as his master.
"Any summary of what it is?"
"Serial killings. Or what looks to be the start of it."
L took a moment to think about the case. He tried to remember the last time he went back to the States, or ever went anywhere but Wammy's House to solve a case. It's not like he got bored of solving mysteries, but he was . . . carrying new baggage. Ever since last year.
Maybe a distraction is what I need right now. Case in point for my newfound problem just minutes ago.
L asked Near for a sitrep on his current investigations, along with Mello's, for the sake of small talk, before telling him that he was crossing over to Los Angeles.