Author's Note: I can't help but to write Death Note fanfiction. It's in my biology.
Chapter 1: Genius
Michelle Ames had always been described as a genius, much to the surprise of those who first met her. At a glance, she was plain. So plain that she might as well have been invisible, blending into the backdrop of everyone else's lives. At a slightly deeper glance, her mannerisms and appearance certainly didn't scream 'genius.'
Her desk was chaotic: covered in a hundred sticky notes of various colors, shapes, and sizes. Gentle reminders for herself to correct a file, email an associate, complete a form, or organize a neglected cabinet. She would let them pile up over the month, dedicating a less hectic day or two to diligently work through the tasks. Though, sometimes, the writing was difficult to read. The messy lettering would be smudged by a drop of salsa from her lunch or bled into oblivion from the brown rings left by her coffee tumbler. She had no idea how it always managed to leak. She had tried to prevent the mess by stacking napkins under the cup but found it to be far too unsteady. The clumsy movements of her hands had caused the downfall of at least two keyboards since she started her new job.
She would have liked to believe that her virtual workspace was better, but it was just as unorganized. Her desktop was filled with loose files. Her work email consistently held 200+ unread messages. Her personal email was well over 2000 with no help on the way. At least her text messages and voicemails were down to 76. She had worked hard on that. Her communication style was just as disheveled as her fashion style. Michelle's mother often told her that if it were not for her natural good looks, she would never get away with her barely casual appearance.
Michelle had a strange routine with her hair: she would chop it off at the ears to buy herself some time before she had to get another haircut. Her brown, wavy locks were much too thin to style. At least in their natural state they gave her the appearance of a full head of thick, beautiful hair. Well...beautiful when she took the time to brush and tame the frizz with oil. Most days she only had a two-minute margin of error between being kind of on time and pretty late. So, the locks sat freely on her head when they were short and were tied back into a messy bun when they were long. She had contacts but they made her eyes too dry. And rather than answer questions about bloodshot whites or the resulting inflammation around the sensitive skin, she opted to wear large, black glasses instead. Of course, that left the problem of her skin. It was smooth and free of wrinkles or scarring, but something about wearing glasses made it produce inordinate amounts of oil. So, she never wore makeup.
Her solution was to carry pre-packaged wipes. For her glasses, for her face, for surfaces. They were tossed loosely in the beautiful designer purse she had purchased with her first check that was not pre-marked for bills or debts. It had come with a matching wallet that remained as empty as the day she pulled it from its decorative box. The IDs and cards and checkbook that should have been placed in it were also haphazardly tossed into the center pocket of the purse. Along with lip balm, sunscreen, a few pens, a mechanical pencil, her cell phone, and three rings of keys. Michelle often wound up dumping the whole of the contents out before coming across the lone item of her search.
Her clothes were barely acceptable for her conservative work environment. She carried a blazer on her arm to give the appearance of someone that wore a blazer. It would be tossed on the back of her chair every morning and stayed there until it was time for her to head home. All her button-down shirts were soft stretch fabrics (matching the thin tank top and bra underneath them). Her pants were yoga pants disguised to look like slacks. Her shoes were plain black ballet flats that were immediately kicked off under her desk so she could sit cross-legged in her extra-wide office chair. It was better this way for her. She was shorter than average, and it was just easier to tuck in her frame, snap back the armrests of her chair, and sit as close to the edge of the desk as possible so her arms wouldn't have to stretch so far to reach her keyboard.
She chewed on her bottom lip until it was swollen and red, threatening to bleed, as she clacked away on her computer. A sharp knock on her open door forced her to look up.
"Meeting." her coworker, David Buckley, reminded her, motioning to conference room down the hall. She blinked at him through the thick lenses of her glasses, trying to register the word.
"Right now?" she finally asked, shuffling to find her mouse under the piles of paperwork. She clicked haphazardly until her calendar appeared on the desktop.
"Yea, case assignments." he replied, adjusting his grip on the coffee cup in his hand. "Don't tell me you forgot."
"No, yea…shoot." Michelle fumbled for her own coffee cup and notebook before fidgeting her feet into her flats and walking out to the hallway.
"It's only the most exciting time of the month!" David whispered as they shuffled into the conference room. Michelle took a seat next to him and tucked a few loose strands of her hair behind her ears. She reached back to check the integrity of her bun with a squeeze and then reached for her coffee. She clicked her tongue when no drops of the precious liquid came from the cup, no matter how far back she tilted it. "Already out?"
"Yea." she grumbled, tossing the cup into the trashcan next to her.
"It's only 8:45."
"I know."
"Here." David slid his cup over to her. "You can have a sip."
"Are you god?" Michelle joked, eliciting a laugh from him. She made the sip count, practically gulping down half the cup.
"Alright people, you know the drill." Christopher Manning said, mid-walk into the room. "Nose goes." He dropped a large black file onto the desk and every prosecutor brought their index finger to their nose. Michelle furrowed her brow at the bizarre show.
"Touch your nose, dummy." David whispered, nudging her with his elbow while keeping his own finger glued firmly to his nose.
"What?" she tilted her head at her friend.
"Thanks for volunteering, Michelle." Christopher said cheerfully. The room let out a few snickers.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand what's happening." she replied.
"You get to take this domestic terrorism case." Christopher slid the heavy binder across the large conference room table to Michelle. She stood to open it, unable to read from the immense thing from her previously sitting position. Her eyes glanced over the brief-sheet and she scoffed.
"Um…sir?"
"Question, Michelle?"
"Why is this ours?" Her brown eyes continued running over the alleged crimes.
"Terrorism is a major crime. Makes sense that it would come to the Major Crimes Division." Christopher explained.
"Illegal arms dealing across the Mexican border, drug trafficking, human trafficking of minors, explosives manufacturing," Michelle began reading off the list of violations, "and the only point of contact I see is one FBI agent. Shouldn't we have prosecutors from Target Crimes, Sex Crimes, and Major Narcotics looking at this?"
"I tried. But they insisted we take it, so we're stuck with it." Christopher scratched at his head of blonde hair and placed a box of smaller files on the table. "Alright, let's dole out the rest of these so we can all go back to work." Michelle tuned out the rest of the meeting, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
"Man, I don't envy you." David mumbled, flipping through the massive file in front of Michelle.
"What was that? Most prosecutors would kill to get this kind of case. Why did everyone do that nose thing?" Michelle asked, unfamiliar with the ritual.
"Right, I keep forgetting this is your first one. Once in a while, we get these black files with just the most fucked up evidence." David explained.
"Fucked up how? Like viscerally? Qualitatively?" Michelle pushed, picking up the heavy binder to carry back to her office.
"Procedurally. And it's double fucked up because the evidence is solid. You can bet everything you own that the suspects are a hundred percent guilty of every gory detail outlined in there. But you just have to hope they take a plea deal or hire an incompetent defense attorney because a judge is going to throw out half of it once we go to trial."
"What?" Michelle scrunched her face up incredulously. She set the binder down and began flipping through the pages. "I don't understand. There's a handful of detectives and officers attached to major pieces of evidence and initial reports, but there's nothing stating who the lead investigator was."
"It's on the points of contact page." David replied. "It's a private detective."
"No, there's just an FBI agent on that—" Michelle stopped when she flipped back to the page, seeing it for the first time. She turned to the next page and turned back. She repeated the action a few more times to make sure she wasn't going crazy.
"Are you serious? They didn't even type in the full name. It cuts off after one letter."
"Yup. That's how all of them are."
"What? All of the black files have the lead investigator's name cut out? Why?" She flipped back through the other pages, comparing names and ranks. "None of these officers have a first name that starts with L. So, it's either Lieutenant James McCullough or Detective Richard Lambert."
"Wait, are you serious?" David suddenly asked, leaning in to observe Michelle's face. "You don't know about L?"
"L?"
"The genius private detective who goes around solving crimes worldwide? No face, no name. People only know him by his alias?"
"No…I must've missed that class." Michelle answered, a bit creeped out that someone like that existed. "So, this L is leading the investigation of this case? How am I supposed to work with someone without a face or a name?" A frown settled on Michelle's face. "More importantly, how is he allowed to fuck us this immensely on prosecution and get away with it?"
"He has the blessings of every policing agency in the world." David shrugged. "He really is a genius. It's just no fun having to clean up after him. I remember taking on a case involving him my first year."
"What happened?"
"In a just world, we would've slapped the guy with three counts of murder-one/rape-one, but since L's handler, Watari, tortured him to get the location of the victims' bodies, we could only go by evidence found on the bodies. Guy walked away with one count of rape-three because there was DNA on only one of the minors. Three years total. Two in prison, one parole. He was out in fifteen months."
"Jesus!"
"At least he's on the registry, but that never sat right with me." David rubbed the black stubble growing on his face. "But it looks like this case is still in its infancy. Who knows, maybe he won't do anything crazy this time?"
"Here's hoping…." Michelle mumbled, returning to the file. L.