Per Watari's recommendation, Yousha took the next few weeks slowly and easily. Three weeks passed since Light was kidnapped, and thanks to Yousha's psychological profile, the sea of Kira suspects was shrinking into a puddle. Because they were so close, L didn't see the harm in entertaining Yousha's questions and helping her with the case study.
Yousha lay stretched across the couch in the common room, her necklace resting above the neckline of her sunny yellow v-neck t-shirt. A yellow spiral notebook leaned against her thighs as Yousha bent her jean-clad legs into an a-frame so that she could jot notes on the pages. L sat curled at Yousha's feet, watching her write with curiosity.
"What're you writing, Yousha-san?" L finally asked.
"Notes," she answered simply.
"For your case study of me?"
"Yup."
"May I please read them?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"You might change your behavior, and then I'd have invalid observations," Yousha argued, "Hey, I'm the one supposed to ask questions! Tell me how your childhood messed you up."
L stared blankly at her. "Classified," he snapped.
"Come on," Yousha whined, "tell me." She stretched her legs and propped her feet on L's shoulder. "You know, you make an excellent foot stool," she laughed.
"So is that all I am now?" L questioned, "A foot stool?"
"Of course not!" Yousha corrected him, "You also make a superb game table."
L shrugged Yousha's feet off his shoulder and wondered how much he could tell her without risking his life, since there was still a 40.573% chance she could be Kira. "My parents died in a fire when I was young," he murmured, keeping his voice low for fear there might be listening devices in the room, "Watari has been like a father to me."
"The Alfred to your Batman," Yousha decided.
"The what?" L asked, confused.
"Never mind, go on," Yousha giggled.
"I don't remember much about my parents," L continued, watching Yousha write and deciding that telling her about his parents was fairly low-risk, "but I remember that the only thing they loved more than me was each other."
"Must've been a nice and stable household," Yousha commented with a warm smile, "You must've felt very safe."
L nodded. "We had a pet chinchilla my father named 'Sophocles' after the ancient Greek playwright," he told her, "But we discovered I was allergic to chinchilla fur after I broke out in hives and my throat swelled when I held Sophocles."
"AW SAD!" Yousha whined, "Chinchillas are SO CUTE!"
"What happened to being objective?" L pointed out.
"I'm allowed to have opinions," Yousha muttered, but L ignored her.
"After the doctor diagnosed my allergy," L murmured, "my mother said to my father, 'We'll have to find Sophocles a new home, Lawliet.'" L's eyes suddenly widened in terror after letting slip his father's name. A shudder shot down his spine, making him noticeably twitch. He hoped with every fiber in his being that she hadn't heard that name.
"Lawliet?" Yousha repeated, making L's fear a reality, "That's an interesting name. Sounds French, or maybe it's British. From the way you talk about your parents, I bet your mom really loved your dad. She probably named you after him."
'SHE KNOWS!' L's inner voice screamed, 'I've been so cautious for years! How could I slip like this! If she's Kira, I am DEAD! DOOMED! FINISHED!' L's mind was racing. He was certain he had now arrived at death's door and was leaning over the pit of destruction.
"Lawliet," Yousha thought aloud as L quietly and mechanically uncurled himself from the couch and, shaking, slowly shuffled up the stairs. Yousha could see that he was clearly upset. "Are you ok, Lawliet?" she asked innocently, watching him go, "What'd I do?" She was answered only by L's bedroom door slamming.
~~~~~~~Death Note~~~~~~~Like Minds~~~~~~~
Curled on his bed, L was experiencing real panic. He couldn't think straight. The thought that these were his last seconds, his last few heartbeats, his last few breaths was overwhelming. His head ached unbearably.
"Hey, Lawliet," Yousha's muffled voice called sweetly from outside the bedroom door accompanied by gentle knocking, "I brought you a hot chocolate. Are you ok, Lawliet?" The doorknob trembled under Yousha's attempt to open the door. "The door's locked," Yousha pleaded, "Come let me in, Lawli—"
"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" L roared at her, "AND STAY AWAY FROM ME!"
On the other side of the locked door, Yousha huffed in frustration, a mug of hot chocolate for L in one hand and the other hand in her back pocket. From that pocket her hand emerged with a large paperclip, which she stretched and bent into a peculiar pattern with her free hand. Inserting the bent paperclip into the keyhole and manipulating the lock's mechanism, Yousha called to L, "My fear aggression senses are tingling. You're not angry at me Ryuzaki. You're scared." The door clicked open easily, and Yousha entered nonchalantly and laid the mug of hot chocolate on the bedside table. "I added in those marshmallows Watari said you liked," Yousha chirped as she sat on the foot of L's twin-sized bed. L's response was only to flop over onto his side so that his head lay next to the headboard, as far from Yousha as he could get. "I'm asking one more time because I care about you," Yousha hissed, getting annoyed with L, "Are you ok?"
L lay quietly for another thirty seconds. "You're Kira," he finally whispered, "and you're probably about to kill me." The fear in L's voice was evident even while he whispered.
Yousha scooted closer to L and stretched out her hand with the thought of comforting him by rubbing his back, but he trembled at her touch. She sighed. She took a sip of the hot chocolate to prove she hadn't poisoned it, and she yawned to prove she had swallowed the drink. L dared not move. "You told me a secret, so I'll tell you some of mine," Yousha bargained, "Most of my eccentricities are an act, a defense mechanism I developed when I was in public school in the United States. I was born there, but now I have dual citizenship, which is awesome but makes paperwork a confusing pain in the rear. My family is mostly Japanese, except my maternal grandfather, who was Cherokee Native American, so I'm trilingual. I speak Japanese, English, and Cherokee. I was identified as gifted by my grandmother after she administered a Stanford-Binet intelligence test and I scored 172, but unfortunately, when you're a child in the US public school system with an IQ greater than that of a speed bump, you're an ostricised friendless loser.
"Being so gifted and thus so bored, I taught myself to pick locks in elementary school, just so I'd have something to do. The skill came in handy in the third grade when my teacher locked my bouncy ball and my slingshot in her desk drawer. I actually worked my way through college testing security systems and locks for corporations. (By the way, that lock on your bedroom door is laughably easy to pick. You should think about changing it.)
"Children can be really cruel, too. Once in middle school some boys started teasing me after my heart condition acted up in class, so I did some research into how yo-yos were used as weapons and taught myself. Yo-yos are innocent looking enough to pass school security (except during my goth phase when I glued spikes to one of them)." L looked up at her with surprise and alarm. "Just kidding," she assured him, "I never had a goth phase.
"I got my doctorate a few months ago, so you're my first study. And a girl never forgets her first study." Yousha winked at L and laughed.
"Why are you telling me all this?" L asked, confused and still a bit afraid.
"Partly to show you that you can trust me because I'm not Kira," Yousha answered, "And also to show you that you're not the only one with secrets."
L carefully reached for the mug on the bedside table. The heat warmed his hands, and the steam rose from the hot chocolate into the air as he cautiously took a sip. Did Yousha poison the drink somehow?
This was how hot chocolate was supposed to taste! L knew this wasn't the instant powder kind, but actual molten chocolate mixed with creamy whole milk. He quickly drank the rest of the mug's contents. If that drink was poisoned, it was worth the risk. The chances that Yousha Sorano was Kira were steadily dropping, and L felt safer around her. He began to relax a bit.
"So are we friends?" Yousha asked hopefully.
"Friends?" L repeated.
"I'd consider us friends," Yousha decided with a smile.
L responded with a nod. He'd gained another friend, and friendship is a valuable thing.
"Well, I guess I'll have to toss that study in the garbage then," Yousha sighed.
"Why?" L asked, confused again. He had so much trouble predicting what Yousha would do next.
"Well, now that I actually give a care about you, I can't be objective enough to continue," Yousha replied, "Besides, if publishing that study would put you at risk, I couldn't live with myself."
L stared in disbelief at Yousha. She cared about him. Why would she care about him?
~~~~~~~Death Note~~~~~~~Like Minds~~~~~~~
Dr. Ijimeru poured fresh coffee into his black mug exactly five centimeters from the rim. He blew across the coffee's surface for four seconds to cool it off, then stirred in three packets of sugar and two cantainers of half-and-half. Now it was one perfect cup of coffee, just like Icarus liked it every morning. He counted the red notebooks Gryfe had collected for him from the tiny houses, all twelve, and then he reached for the file drawer where he kept the Death Note and the files he had on the people who now dwelt in the tiny houses. After retrieving those items, he closed the drawer, opened the drawer, closed the drawer, opened the door, closed the drawer. He checked the table calendar on his desk. Today was Friday the seventh, so he had to write eighteen names before he opened the veterinary office at nine a.m. He had to feed the greyhounds at exactly 8:30, so he had one hour. Icarus opened the Death Note, closed it, opened it, closed it, opened it, closed it, opened it. Two would have to die every two hours and two minutes in order to fit within the span of nine hours and still die with an odd numbered hour and even numbered minute.
Icarus looked around his library. All the books had been re-covered so that they were all 1.5 decimeters tall on the shelves. There were still twelve red spiral notebooks. He checked the time, and he was ahead of schedule by fifteen minutes. He could use that time to interrogate Light Yagami about L for the twentieth time in three weeks.
"Don't you think you should leave them alone today?" Gryfe suggested, licking sherbet from a cone, "He's probably told you all he knows about L anyway."
Icarus shrugged. "You're probably right, Gryfe," he agreed and replaced the Death Note and the files in the drawer. He tapped the drawer handle five times with a pen before he rose from his desk, a behavior Gryfe had noticed in Icarus many times before.
"Hey, Icarus?" Gryfe began, following her Death Note's owner outside to feed the grey hounds, "Have you considered getting help for your OCD?"
"I don't have OCD, Gryfe," Icarus growled, "How absurd."
"I'm no psychologist," Gryfe said sarcastically, "but you show a lot of repetitive behaviors."
"I DO NOT HAVE OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER!" he roared rather loudly, causing his neighbors across the street to gawk at the uncharacteristic outburst with an expression which suggested that they thought contrarily as they went about their morning activities. Icarus quickly looked around at their faces. His humiliation turned to anger. "Get in the car," he sneered through gritted teeth and opened the driver side door of his SMART car. He climbed in after the Shinigami, forcing her into the passenger seat. Icarus slammed the door shut and started the engine. "I don't have OCD," he repeated, "I'll admit to being a perfectionist, and I have my rituals and routines. But I do not have such a weak mind as to develop obsessive compulsive disorder."
"'Denial' isn't a river in Egypt, Icarus," Gryfe scoffed, but Icarus didn't answer. He'd have to deal with Gryfe after five p.m. when he could get back to the library and the infant utopia in the think woods behind his home.
~~~~~~~Death Note~~~~~~~Like Minds~~~~~~~
Another three weeks passed, and still the investigative team at headquarters had little new information. Everyone's face wore and expression of increasing anxiety and frustration. Yousha's cheerful songs that she sang as she cooked turned into mournful dirges. The previous day she sang "My Immortal" by Evanescence as she cooked dinner, and this morning she was singing the "Kyrie" of Mozart's Requiem as she prepared breakfast. L lost even more sleep than usual. Misa was in Australia for a photo shoot, but Mr. Yagami knew her heart, like his, was wherever Light was. Matsuda seemed to be the only one unaffected by the angst.
"Good morning!" Matsuda greeted the team cheerfully as he entered headquarters. He'd been home for a while visiting family. "What a lovely spring we're having this year!" he sang, much to the annoyance of everyone in the common room.
"Not now, Matsuda," Mr. Yagami growled, rubbing his temples in frustration as he read and re-read the academic files of people recently reported missing.
"Aw, come on, chief!" Matsuda urged, "Doesn't anyone around here remember how to smile?"
The last notes of the "Kyrie" died into the remnants of the morning. Yousha was done preparing breakfast. She had been in a deepening depression since she gave L her incomplete profile. Clearly she was experiencing a profound inner turmoil.
"What's the matter, Yousha?" Matsuda asked with concern.
"I'd rather not talk about it," Yousha answered in the saddest tone anyone had ever heard from her.
"Talking about it helps! Any psychologist will tell you that!" Matsuda said, trying to cheer Yousha.
"I'd rather not," Yousha repeated.
"If we can't even talk to each other," Matsuda urged, "catching Kira is going to be impossible!"
"'Impossible,' the most loathsome word in the dictionary," Yousha hissed angrily, calling L's attention away from his coffee and Mr. Yagami's from the academic files. "My name means 'mercy,'" Yousha growled, "Know why? Someone in Heaven decided not to care what people thought was 'impossible.' When I was born, every doctor in the hospital told my parents that they didn't expect me to live to see my first birthday because my heart was too weak to pump enough blood to my brain. They said that even if I did live, my brain would be so starved of oxygen that I'd never be able to function in society. They called me 'hopeless.' But here I am. I've lived to see my twenty-first birthday, functioned well enough to earn a doctoral degree, and have an IQ soaring into the 170s, where less than five percent of the population of the world scores. I've always hated the word 'impossible,' because impossibility doesn't exist, and I'm a living testament to that. So DON'T TELL ME about what's IMPOSSIBLE!" She glared at Matsuda with righteous fury in her eyes.
L stared in utter shock. He honestly didn't know Yousha was capable of such anger. Mr. Yagami was also surprised, but he was more inspired by Yousha's passion than shocked at her outburst.
"I'm sorry, Matsuda," Yousha apologized, repentance in her tone, "You didn't deserve that. I've just been at war with myself for a while now."
"Why?" L asked simply. Yousha had been concerned about his safety, and now he was concerned about her well-being.
"I might know who Kira is," Yousha choked back tears.
"WHAT!" L shouted. He curled himself onto the couch as Yousha dropped herself on the coushin next to him. "How long have you suspected this person?" L asked her, his voice seething with anger.
"Since I completed my profile," Yousha sighed in grief, "some weeks ago."
"THAT LONG!" Mr. Yagami thundered at Yousha as tears poured from her chocolate brown eyes, under her glasses, and down her cheeks, "Do you realize how many people have DIED while you just sat on that information! My own son could be dead because you stayed silent!"
"ENOUGH, YAGAMI-SAN!" L shouted, rather forcefully.
Yousha couldn't speak for herself through her tears. Her black hair hid her downcast face. L warily reached toward her and gingerly laid his hand on Yousha's quivering shoulder. She took her glasses from her face and hid her eyes in her hand.
"Tell us more, Yousha-san," L commanded. He was still angry at her for hiding whatever revelation she was about to give them, but he would channel his anger elsewhere for now.
"Back when I was living in the United States, I was friends with a boy who lived next door. We were the same age, and we went to the same school. He was also very gifted, so we understood each other. While I was always care-free and a bit disorganized, he was a perfectionist even then. Everything had to be organized, had to be just so, had to be arranged according to a distribution of odd and even numbers. Now that I think of it, he showed several warning signs of OCD.
"His mother was a lovely Greek woman, and his father was Japanese. Three weeks after his tenth birthday, on a Wednesday, his parents were stabbed to death by a homeless man with untreated schizophrenia and an uncorrected club foot as they loaded groceries into their car. Using the same box cutter with which he killed my friend's parents, their attacker cut his own wrists. My friend was forced to watch his parents die and their murderer bleed out in the parking lot.
"He moved to Japan to live with his paternal grandmother after that, and we lost contact until we found each other again on a social networking website a couple years ago. He's a veterinarian now, and he also breeds grey hounds.
"It hurts me to accuse him," Yousha sobbed, "Everything we uncover strengthens a case against him though. I didn't want him to be Kira. That's why I didn't say anything until now. I thought I could clear his name before I even had to mention him."
"What. Is. His. Name?" L demanded to know, his eyes burning into Yousha's hidden face.
"Icarus Ijimeru," Yousha sobbed, overcome by grief and guilt.
L left the couch to curl into his usual seat at the computer. He typed in the name Yousha gave, and everything from academic records and birth records to the news reports of the murder/suicide were retrieved. L scanned over each item with his usual blank stare as Matsuda tried to console Yousha and Mr. Yagami looked over L's shoulder. "The probability that Icarus Ijimeru is Kira is ninety-two point six two seven three percent," L assessed, "Yousha-san, do you have any idea where Dr. Ijimeru is now?"
"His grandmother worked in the park on Okinawa," Yousha answered, "She passed away several months ago, but I think Icarus might still live in her house within the park."
"That's a lot of room to hide kidnapping victims," Mr. Yagami pointed out, "The whole area is forested. He probably doesn't have many neighbors there, either."
"The probability just jumped to ninety-eight point five seven two percent," L decided, "Let's eat breakfast. Then Watari and I will get the helicopter."