25. WARNING
Matsuda rises Sunday morning to a hangover and a flurry of voicemails left on his phone. He starts from the earliest:
1/27 - 7:01 AM: Matsuda, it's Aizawa. Call me.
1/27 – 7:45 AM: Something's up. I'm heading to the station now.
1/27 – 8:13 AM: Are you even awake? Where's Ide?
Matsuda scrolls through a dozen more voicemails—the times in between each growing shorter—before he actually decides to check the current time on his phone: 9:57 AM.
"Shit." He rolls out of bed, instantly massaging his temples as his head pounds like a heartbeat. He fills a glass of water for himself and scrambles through his closet for fresh clothes. During this, Ide remains fast asleep on his couch.
Between dressing himself, Matsuda wills his cohort awake. Ide's in an even worse state. The moment his head lifts from the cushion, his hand slaps over his face, and he releases a painful groan.
"Chief needs us at the station," Matsuda says, wiggling into his pants. "It sounds urgent." He kicks Ide when the older man plops back down onto the couch. "Aizawa needs us. Now."
If there's one weakness Matsuda knows in Ide, it's that he can never refuse an order from Aizawa. They've known each other longer than Matsuda has known either of them, and their cooperation goes far beyond the limits of a usual partnership—they're true friends.
The two men reach the station half-past ten. They hurry in on Yamamoto, Mogi, and the chief in the middle of a heated discussion.
"Two separate killings in the same night?" Mogi says. "Must be a new record for someone."
"This isn't funny Mogi," the chief snaps. "Kira could be back."
Matsuda pauses in stunned silence. His body feels heavy, and his lips part. Did he hear correctly? Kira is back? No, Matsuda's hearing must be marred from the side effects of last night's poor choices. There's no way that—
"Kira," Aizawa repeats. "I'm fairly certain it's him."
"What about the stabbing incident a few blocks away?" Yamamoto inquires. "You don't suppose they're connected?"
The chief leans his elbows against his table. A sheaf of paperwork sits in front of him. Matsuda catches a few pictures of Light Yagami and Teru Mikami in the pile. "It could be Kira. Nothing else can explain how those three men in the red light district died. According to the information we've received, there were no visible injures sustained on two of them. The third died from a convenient car accident via truck even though the street he was kill on is widely known to be too narrow for larger vehicles." He entwines his fingers together. His brow furrows. "I know it sounds farfetched, Yamamoto, since you joined us after the Kira case had been resolved, but the rest of us are very aware of his abilities."
The megane pushes his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "Still, we can't jump to such a conclusion without proper evidence first."
The chief sighs and nods to Matsuda. "So, you got my voicemails?" he asks with slight irritation.
"I-is it true that Kira's returned?" Matsuda says through trembling lips. A bead of cold sweat drips down the back of his neck. Even three years later, Kira's presence has somehow resurrected from the grave. And it just so happens to occur on the anniversary between Mello and Light Yagami's deaths. How ironically fitting.
"I'm not a hundred percent sure," Aizawa says, "but it's the only plausible lead we have thus far."
"Maybe it's a knockoff," Ide suggests, still tending to his hangover by massaging his temples and leaning against the wall.
Ide could be right. Although Light's dead, he may have left many followers aside from just Mikami behind to succeed him. Just like L had with Mello and Near, Light could have been plotting anything behind the Task Force's backs during the duration between L's death and his own. If not for L's successors, he would still be playing the Task Force like a fiddle—using them as his puppets until their strings broke and he disposed of them. And yet, some inexplicable voice inside of Matsuda tells him on an everyday basis to forgive the past. Forgive Light. But, most of all, forgive himself. Matsuda has never been one to hate people. But he hated Light for a few fleeting moments. He squeezed the trigger again and again, pouring all of his rage and disappointment into each bullet. Had the others not stopped him, he would've plugged the last fiery bullet into Light's brain.
"Maybe," the chief echoes. His eyes narrow at the photo of Light Yagami in front of him. "Mikami died in jail ten days after Light. But given Light's nature, he had several loyal followers including Kiyomi Takada and Misa Amane." He scratches nervously at the stubble underneath his chin.
"But Kiyomi Takada died two days before Light, and Misa Amane died on Valentine's Day of that same year," Yamamoto explains. "How many followers could Kira have?"
"They're just the ones we knew of," the chief counters. "Kira is iconic among the masses. Some cults still believe in his resurrection or reincarnation. You all remember Kira's Kingdom, don't you? Hitoshi Demegawa played the role of a Kira supporter to gain wealth and fame. But for those who actually believed him, there could be someone out there trying to emulate Kira in hopes he might return."
Silence wedges within the room.
"Does this mean someone is using a Death Note?" Matsuda says. The words come out through a cracked, hoarse voice. He clears his throat and shifts his weight on his feet. "You don't suppose Light left one behind?"
"Doubtful," Aizawa replies before Matsuda even finishes. "Do you think we'd still be alive if Light had another Death Note stashed somewhere?"
"True," Matsuda says with a sheepish grin.
If Light somehow had an extra Death Note hidden away, he could've manipulated anyone to store it and use it in his stead. Mikami was only one of several known underlings of Light's. And Mikami's death came at a rather odd time—ten days later. No visible injuries. The police reports said it was caused by cardiac arrest as a result of high levels of stress. But Matsuda didn't believe such nonsense. Not after seeing what the Death Note was capable of. He had once theorized that Near had used the Death Note to oust Light by controlling Mikami's actions, but that was just a theory. Near claimed to have burned all evidence following Light's conviction. Then again, could L's successor still possess a piece of the supernatural notebook?
"However, that doesn't rule out a new Death Note."
All eyes fall back to the chief.
"I still don't fully grasp this whole Death Note business," Yamamoto says, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I understand, Yamamoto," Aizawa says, "but you have to trust us. Why would the police, of anyone, lie?"
The megane presses his lips together.
"Has L made any contact?" Mogi asks.
Matsuda feels the heavy weight on him grow. Whenever L's name is mentioned, Matsuda always mistakes it for the L he met nearly a decade ago. He remembers walking into a hotel room expecting to see someone of tall stature and menacing build only to find a gaunt man with a hollow face, sunken eyes and a mane of wild black hair. But "L" is no longer necessarily a form of identification. It's now a form of protection. A single-lettered shield to preserve someone's true self. Only those who've met him in person know L's true self—Nate River. Near.
"That's why I've brought you all here," Aizawa stands and pulls out a television from the closet. Then he rifles around in his pocket and removes something. "I found this in my mailbox this morning." The words, written in English, on the video tape recorder read, "To L's Friends."
A chill crawls down Matsuda's spine as the chief plugs the recorder into the television and presses Play.
The television produces loud static, and Aizawa swiftly turns the volume down to a tolerable level. A ringing follows, and a gothic L appears on the screen.
"Hello, friends," comes the disjointed voice. It sounds unusually cheery. "This is L speaking. The new L."
An umbrella of confusion encompasses the former Task Force members in the room. An uneasy feeling crawls into Matsuda's stomach and churns inside it. He inhales a strained breath and licks his lips.
"I hope you're having a fun day trying to decipher the gifts I laid out for you last night."
"Gifts?" Ide groans, pinching his nose and keeping his eyes shut. He seems on the verge of heaving.
"The murders," Aizawa answers.
Based on their faces, Matsuda can tell that everyone already knows this isn't Near. But how did this faker manage to discover Aizawa's identity and mailbox? How did he or she know the Task Force's connection to L? He runs through a list of potential traitors in both the station and in the SPK, but the trail in his head runs cold.
"You're probably wondering who I am. Well, I'm not Nate River. Oh, I mean, Near. He's dead. I killed him." A mirth chuckle follows.
Shock slams across the mens' faces like a freight train.
What the hell is going on? Matsuda's chest tightens like someone is constricting his body. It doesn't feel real. Near is dead? This has to be a hoax. Someone's playing a sick prank.
"Don't believe me?" the voice asks, as if reading Matsuda's mind. "Maybe this will help. I warn you. He tasted kind of…tangy."
The screen flips to a photo that makes Ide reach for the nearest garbage can and hurl what little contents he has in his stomach. Matsuda is tempted to join him as he stares at the dissected and mutilated remains of what must be Near.
The body has been laid out, spread-eagle and gutted from the hollow of his neck to the groin. His genitals have been removed, and his entrails have been splayed across the ground like party streamers. Bloodstains and something else have darkened his white hair. His deep-set eyes stare out into nothing. A message written in red ink, that could only be blood, sits across Near's forehead.
"Happy birthday?" Matsuda reads out loud.
This no longer feels like a hoax.
After what seems like an eternity, the screen returns to the gothic L. "Now that we've gotten the awkwardness out of the way, I want to tell you all a little story, so buckle up and grab some tissues because it's filled with plenty of feels." The voice clears its throat in a theatrical manner. "Once upon a time, in a far away land known as Winchester, England, there lived three boys, A, B, and L. They were cared for under the watchful eye of their stepfather, W. The boys, though not related by blood, loved each other like brothers—A and B were the same age, while L was called Big Brother L because he was bigger and older. They played together at their house day-by-day, hour-by-hour, until the sun went down. They were inseparable. Nothing in the universe, they thought, could tear them apart.
"Then one day, W took away L during playtime. When A and B asked why he had to leave, W replied, 'His training begins now. Yours will begin later.' And so, he took Big Brother L's hand and brought him inside the house. A and B didn't see him until nighttime, when L crawled back into bed.
"'Big Brother, where have you been?' asked A.
"'Busy,' was all he said.
"'But Big Brother L, we tell each other everything,' B said.
"'Go to sleep,' he said.
"And as the days went on and the times spent with L grew few and far between, A and B became concerned about their older sibling's devolving health and aloof attitude. He no longer ate with them. He no longer slept with them. And, bit-by-bit, he no longer spoke to them.
"'What's happened to Big Brother?' asked A.
"'I don't know, but I'm going to find out,' said B.
"And so one early day, when Big Brother L had been taken out of his bed and led away by W, B followed them. They entered a room, and B cracked the door open to see what was going on. He found L sitting awkwardly in a chair with headphones on and a television in front of him. The screen flashed many horrific images that scared B until he had given away his position. The door flew open.
"'What are you doing here, boy?' W snapped.
'''I-I wanted to see Big Bro—'
"'Go away, B,' L said as he pulled down the headphones and glared. 'Don't ever come back here.'
"And B, broken and betrayed, never did. Not until he was forced to. But that is another story."
Static.
Matsuda blinks. He had fallen so deep into the story that he needs a moment to remember where he is. Police station. The chief's office.
"So whatcha think?" the voice asks, its tone suddenly spry as if it has been rejuvenated from depravity. "Did that make you cry? Am I a good storyteller? Oh, I hope so." It laughs. "But now for why I'm contacting you: I'm here to reunite with Big Brother L!"
The policemen exchange looks. Does this person realize the real L has long since died?
"So until Big Brother L comes out to play, I'm going to keep killing until my birthday. Do you know when my birthday is? I'll give you a hint: It's not this month!" The voice laughs again. "Oh, and if you get in the way of our reunion, I'm going to start killing the people you love." The last part comes out so nonchalantly that it takes an entire breath for Matsuda and the rest to comprehend its level of severity. "But if Big brother L doesn't show his face by the day of my birthday…well, let's just say somebody will be picking a lot more than just apples."
Apples? Matsuda's head pounds, and he winces, wondering if it's the stubborn hangover.
The screen contorts and falls black. The men believe that is it until the voice chortles. "Oh, but I won't leave you out in the dark completely. The chase makes everything more fun, right? So here's a clue: K-U-M-O." Each letter flashes across the television screen in English.
"Kumo?" Yamamoto says, glancing to the others for guidance.
The chief hushes him.
"If you don't figure out the answer by the number of days that there are letters, then I'm going to kill the number of people equal to the number of letters in the word. So you'd better get to work Detective Conan!"
The tape finally ends.
Matsuda wipes the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his sleeve. It seems like forever until someone finally speaks.
"Four days," Mogi say, turning to the chief. "We have four days to solve the riddle and no leads as to who we're dealing with other than the clue."
"We know a few things," the chief says, sitting on his desk and pressing his lips together. "He gave away two key elements aside from L." Aizawa looks to Matsuda. "W and Winchester, England."
Matsuda's eyes bulge. "Wammy House."
Aizawa reaches for the phone on his desk and starts tapping in numbers. "Ide and Mogi. I want you to get into contact with the SPK. Send the videotape as proof. See if Near's death is true." He nods to Yamamoto. "You and Matsuda start deciphering what this Kumo clue means. Go. Now!"
The four other members spring into action, almost falling over each other as they escort themselves out of the chief's office.
Matsuda and Yamamoto separate from Mogi and Ide in the hallway. The youngest members head into Matsuda's office, which sits adjacent from the chief's. The megane rolls a chair up to Matsuda's computer and types the four-letter word into the search bar.
"Kumo has a double meaning in Japanese," Yamamoto says, fixing his askew glasses. "Cloud or spiders."
"But which?" Matsuda paces.
Is the perpetrator considering the overcast weather or does he suffer from arachnophobia? Does he plan to kill the weather channel? Reek havoc on the city by releasing deadly arachnids?
What would Light or L think in this situation? If only Matsuda had been born with the mind of either of them—Light or L, it mattered not. They were on equal footing. The world's two greatest minds had been in constant conflict throughout their relationship. Matsuda laments how wonderful it would have been had Light never chosen the path of darkness. If only he had joined with L for real, they could've created what may be the equivalent of a perfect world—a world were good and evil balance each other out but one never overwhelms the other. If not for the Death Note's pollution, they would both still be here, easily divulging the meaning of this word, Kumo.
Matsuda runs a hand down his face and sighs. Kumo. Kumo. Kumo. Clouds. Spiders. Spiders. Clouds. His eyes open. "You don't suppose that it could mean clouds and spiders?"
Yamamoto's eyes look over the brim of his glasses. "Huh?"
"Maybe clouds in the shape of spiders," Matsuda says. "Or spiders in the clouds. I don't know. It sounds silly."
But ever since the Kira Investigation's foray of supernatural influences, Matsuda has to consider every kind of perplexing and unorthodox suggestion. The spirit of Kira still dwells in many. His memory never truly died. The power of belief may somehow grant someone a fantastical advantage. Thus anything like raining spiders or clouds of spider colonies must be considered.
"You can't be serious," Yamamoto says.
And then there are some, like his younger cohort, who still cling to the realm of reality—with the belief that no supernatural cause could ever find its way into the human world.
All of a sudden, something buzzes against Matsuda's hip.
He gropes around in his pocket and pulls out his phone. And unknown number has contacted him with the message: Hi. You left your wallet at the club last night. Do you want to come pick it up?
He had completely forgotten. This new threat has distracted Matsuda from another, more personal, dilemma: he has left his wallet. He can't abandon such a high-risk mission so early in development. But the more he tries to ignore his wallet's absence, the less lucid his mindset becomes. Until he has rectified this small yet pressing matter, he cannot focus on the greater task. Cursing under his breath, he stands and shrugs his coat on. "I have to go. I…I forgot something at my apartment."
Yamamoto looks up from the computer and his mouth drops. "Wait, what?"
Matsuda bows his head apologetically and starts heading backward toward the doorway, buttoning his coat as he goes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll keep mulling this over and let you know if I find anything useful. Let me know if you do, too. You can use my computer. I'll be back." He races down the hallway and out the front door, neglecting to inform the chief. But it's best not to tell anyone else. The matter surrounding his wallet is not something to discuss with his boss and coworkers.
Without his license on him, Matsuda resorts to driving as cautiously and meticulously as he's ever done in sixteen years. The Tokyo streets are laden with cars and scores of pedestrians. Every turn he makes with care, fearing he might roll over someone's foot or suffer a fender-bender in the chaos of it all.
He parks a block away from the red-light district. Police vehicles have parked in the same lot, and Matsuda pulls his hood over his head to conceal his face. A paranoid feeling that he might be recognized chills him. Law enforcement is a smaller world than most people think, and Matsuda has been involved in it for some time now—he's familiar with who patrols which streets just as much as patrols are familiar with who he is.
He walks briskly to Paradise and knocks on the front doors with a firm fist, banging them until their hinges shudder.
One door finally opens. A tall man wearing false eyelashes and a silk robe answers, lighting a cigarette between bright red nails. "Something you need, handsome?"
Matsuda straightens his back. "Umm, hi. I was just here last night with one of your dancers…Yumi. No. Yuki, I think." He scratches behind his hood, trying to remember. If only he had a picture of her.
The man takes a long drag of his cigarette and exhales smoke through his nostrils. "Yuri?"
"Yes!" Matsuda's head perks up.
"Sorry, she's not working tonight. Come again some other time." He starts to close the door.
Matsuda swiftly wedges his foot in, keeping the door ajar. "W-wait, that's not why I'm here. I left my wallet here last night. Did anybody report it?"
The man's pencil-thin eyebrows rise. "Sorry, doll, but this is a club, not a lost and found. Anything you lose isn't our responsibility."
"Then please let me talk to Yuri."
He shakes his head. "We don't give out our workers' information without their permission. Now remove your foot before I make you." He takes another, longer drag of his cigarette.
"Then at least tell me if this is her number." Matsuda shows the man the message he had received while at work. During his time driving here, he had received a few more texts from the same number that he only noticed now. "Please."
"No can do, doll. That's against the rules." He gestures to Matsuda's foot. "I won't ask nicely again."
Matsuda clenches his jaw and reluctantly pulls his foot out from between the door and the doorframe.
The door remains ajar.
"However, you might want to look for her at your place," the man whispers, shutting the door behind him before Matsuda can respond.
He needs a moment to register the man's last words before flying down the club's front steps and returning to his car. This time when Matsuda drives, he drives with urgency. Luck somehow keeps him from causing a scene, and he reaches his apartment complex without incident.
Matsuda flies up the stairs and wipes sweat off of his forehead with the heel of his hand. He's winded by the time he reaches the second floor.
Someone stands in front of his apartment number, leaning against the railing. His presence alerts her, and she turns her head toward him. Behind a curtain of dark hair rests a pair of wholesome, brown eyes. Ones he hadn't recognized last night beneath a mask of makeup within a hot fog. When their gazes meet, his chest tightens.
"Hello, Matsuda-san." Sayu smiles.
22 DAYS REMAINING