Disclaimer: Ryuzaki, I'm really offended that you think I could be a murderer!
A/N: Again, my sincere apologies for skipping a week. I try to be punctual, but I was, yet again, traveling; not to mention, this chapter has been jumping through hoops to avoid being written. Truly. I have been afflicted with monstrous writer's block.
Also, I have finally remembered to thank all of my wonderful reviewers!
So thanks, wonderful reviewers!
Sorry that I don't usually respond to reviews, I just don't generally think of it
Surrogates and Studies
It was late in January. Quillish was, by now, familiar with the knock on his door. It was soft, but confident, a small tap-tap. It tended to come whenever he had done anything that was of interest to a certain five-year old genius.
"Come in, L," he said, hoping that this wouldn't be too trying. The small, white-clad figure entered the room, staring up at him intensely through a curtain of unruly black hair.
"You have been making alterations to my course of studies," L said, with not so much as a greeting. "You have been including forensic science and criminology in much higher proportions than in a normal education, especially at my current level. Normal high school curriculums do not include much of that sort of thing. Explain."
Quillish blinked. L had spoken very fast, and it took a moment to process his information. Then he sighed. This was what he had been expecting.
"L, you said you wanted to be a detective, right?" he said.
"Yes," said the little boy.
"Well, you need to learn those things to be a detective, so…"
"Hm. It is as I thought, then. You are attempting to entertain me adequately to prevent any more incidents like the one in November."
"Yes…" Quillish said, feeling a little awkward that a five-year-old could guess his motivation so easily, even if it was L.
"How do you intend to get people to trust a child with detective work?" L asked, cocking his head to one side.
"I don't know." This had been the flaw in Quillish's brilliant plan to keep L occupied. The boy was still just that – a boy. And even if Quillish knew better, no one in their right mind would trust a child-detective. Quillish didn't know, but maybe someone else did. The boy was brilliant, after all. "Maybe you could figure out a way?"
"Hm. I shall work on it." L said, and walked out of the office without dismissal.
He walked back in about five minutes later. "A go-between," he said, as usual, without preamble.
"What?" said Quillish, who had been deep in his thoughts.
"I could utilize a go-between, someone who could claim to be solving the cases, while in actuality, I did the work. I care nothing for credit; I just want to solve puzzles."
"Hm… okay…" said Quillish.
"So, when I am prepared to become a private detective, I will be able to act through a surrogate." L stated.
"Who do you plan on using?" asked Quillish.
"I don't know. Anyone who is moderately intelligent, a good actor, and willing to accept my abilities would suffice. Even the intelligence is unnecessary, if they are willing to wear a wire and an ear piece." L said. Quillish thought about this. It would probably be best to conceal L-as-detective from as many people as possible. Besides, there was a promising new hire, Roger Ruvie, who would be taking over most of the paperwork Quillish did in a couple of months, so…
"I could be your go-between," he said.
"Hm. This would be an advantageous situation, certainly. Even optimal. You would definitely make a good surrogate." L said, his face taking on the slightly-daydreaming look that Quillish had come to interpret as happiness. Then L turned around and left the office, again without dismissal. The boy really needed to learn some manners if he was ever going to function in the real world. Of course, he would need a lot more than manners to function in the real world. He would need some major psychological help, and just in-general some metaphorical house-training. Quillish had no idea whether L would even be receptive to psychological help; the boy had demonstrated that he believed that his own psychological state was, if not normal, acceptable. There was nothing that Quillish could think of that might get L into a shrink's office. Except…
"Now remember, L," Quillish said, as the two of them waited in the office of a child psychiatrist, "you agreed to this. If you don't cooperate, I won't act as your go-between."
"Yes, I am aware," said L, giving Quillish an extremely innocent look. That, Quillish knew, was a bad sign. His stomach started to twist.
"Mr. Wammy?" said a young woman, who had just emerged from the inner office, "Dr. Strice is ready for you and, um, L." She beckoned. So Quillish and L followed her to a comfortable room, in which sat an older woman with gray-streaked blonde hair, a stern face, and rather formal clothes.
"Mr. Quillish Wammy? I presume you are this little boy's father?" she said, as the nurse left the room.
"You presume incorrectly. He is simply the head administrator of the orphanage at which I reside." L said, before Quillish had even opened his mouth. The woman blinked.
"Wait just one moment. Why on earth is he talking like that?" she said, again directing her question to Quillish.
"I am a genius and a prodigy. I currently pursue academics at the high school level. I am also quite a bit more intelligent than most adults." L said, again replying before Quillish could.
"And more rude, too, it seems," she said, finally speaking directly to L.
"You should observe yourself before drawing that conclusion, Dr. Strice. Most people consider it rude to talk about someone in the room as if they are not there." L retorted. Though his face and voice stayed blank as ever, he radiated annoyance.
"But dear," she said, seeming to slip into the persona of the kindly and condescending child's physician, "this is grownup talk. There are some toys over there. Why don't you go play?"
L stared at her for a long moment, before walking off to build something from the blocks in a little pile on the floor nearby.
"Gosh," she said, turning back to Quillish, "well, he's a piece of work."
"You haven't seen the half of it," replied Quillish, burying his head in his hands.
"What do you mean?" asked the psychiatrist.
"If you want to know, ask him about the incident in November, or Gary Milov, or the police officers, or just talk to him for a few minutes. He's a pretty scary kid." Quillish said.
"Alright. Now I believe it is time for the session. Quillish, if you could please leave us?" Dr. Strice said. So Quillish complied.
As he sat in the waiting room, he hoped in vain that L would play nice. Of course, the hopes were dashed once the psychiatrist came walking out of the office, about thirty minutes later, with shaking hands.
"Are you alright?" asked Quillish, worried that L might have done lasting damage.
"I'm fine," she said, voice calm, "your boy was just trying to push my buttons."
"Good. Do you have some sort of diagnosis for… whatever it is that's wrong with him?"
"A basket full. He has pretty obvious and severe antisocial personality disorder, an open dislike, and secret fear, of other people, and a pathological need to dominate. And that's just what I got from twenty minutes." She said.
"Treatable?" he asked.
"Unfortunately, I doubt it. I'm sorry, but he's just so completely sure of himself that I doubt he would be receptive. Anyway, if you want him treated, take your business somewhere else. I'm sorry, Mr. Wammy, but I don't want that child anywhere near me. It must be terrible to be his caretaker."
"Alright. Thank you Dr. Strice. Good bye," Quillish said, and he went to get L out of the office and bring him home.