Bullet with Butterfly Wings- 'And What Do I Get'
Death Note's 'what if' situation. Meet the Suspect.
--
World famous detective Light was stumped.
He'd known from the beginning that this case would be difficult; hell, had he ever picked an easy case? But this was more than 'difficult'- this was absurd!
Misa and a few hand picked underlings had been scouring the town for suspicious characters, particularly foreigners in light of the case's origin, for more than a week now.
The results? Nada.
Logically, it shouldn't be too hard to find a Frenchman (or woman, he supposed, but female serial killers were few and far between) in the heart of Japan, but when you considered the lack of evidence...
"What kind of killer doesn't leave a single clue behind?" wondered the detective aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No prints, no weapon, not a scrap of DNA... no way to test a suspect..."
Of course, if he was honest with himself (and Raito was the only person to regularly receive his own honesty) no other detective would expect more after working on a case for only a week and a half. The problem remained, though, that the whole thing was becoming unsettlingly personal–what with the religious zealots constantly pitting them against each other– personal to the point where he felt himself losing face.
And more than anything else, Raito had always been a sore loser.
"Inconsiderate bastard..." muttered the brunette teen, lying back on the couch of his penthouse suite.
Sunlight filtered in through the stained-glass over his head, and he could see himself cast in red relief through the ornately framed mirror. A bit of personal vanity, yes, but why deny it? He was a damn good looking man, if he did say so himself.
"Can't seem to focus..." he huffed, eyeing his reflection in all its vermilion glory."What I don't get is why the arson element hasn't reappeared..."
Raito had long ago found that talking through a problem was he best way to find a solution–even if no one was listening. Especially if no one was listening.
"In the first case, it was as much a defining factor as the wounds. Why would J abandon that?" The detective sighed. "And if it wasn't important, then why would he go that far in the first place? It really served no purpose, besides maybe adding insult to injury..."
The young man allowed himself a smirk at the accidental joke—humor (even the dry kind) was not something he often indulged in–-and froze.
"Now that I think about it, something did happen. The son, the foster son who died in the fire. None of the other children died, in fact, if the motive is what I believe it to be, the dead boy is more than an abnormality–he's completely illogical!" Light slammed a fist into his palm, leaping out of his chair.
Perhaps pacing was a bit cliche at this point, but the Japanese man was always given to dramatics.
"So what if the boy never died? James reported that his body was never found. If I assume for a second that he survived, that would mean... what? He obviously didn't reappear; there would have been a story, an investigation."
Wine colored light sifted in through the windows. Raito halted, gaze drifting to the stained glass with its burgundy apple motif–-a decidedly Western touch in a Japanese hotel, and why he'd chosen the room in the first place.
"So if the son is alive, and never went to the police, that would make him a prime suspect, especially if his home life reflected the victims'." The genius allowed himself a private grin.
The pieces were finally falling into place. He had a good feeling about this lead.
"This calls for a retroactive investigation."
--
J slid through the night like a living shadow, his limbs working with the graceful speed of ink across paper.
His baggy clothes and disheveled hair reminded the few he passed of an American delinquent teen, like the ones they saw in manga or television. The illusion was shattered, though, by his shadowed eyes—ancient and dark.
He only went out at night these days, when the world was shoddily lit and pedestrians were too guilty or worried to take any notice.
"It's so much quieter at night," he remarked in a monotone, pointedly ignoring the old lady who hurriedly stepped into a stoop, waiting for him to pass. "—when I'm the only one in my head."
From his pocket he lifted a bit of paper with two fingers. On closer inspection, it was actually a newspaper clipping he held, folded many times and worn at the creases.
He stopped under a streetlight to read it over again.
"The famous Light, hm? I'm flattered," he droned, "I do wonder how long it will take him..."
The shadowed man almost smiled at the thought. Almost. Really, he never smiled, unless he was acting. And there was still work to be done that night. The screaming was starting back up.
"A side effect of living on the shady side of town, I suppose."
"Is everyone present for the briefing?" inquired Raito, cool and collected at the head of the table.
"Yes, sir," his butler answered, "All the police you requested have been assembled."
"Excellent. Bring them in."
A new hotel room had been secured, decor of all pale yellows and whites, a short dining table at the center.
The door eased open with the inevitable hesitancy of a first meeting, the four guests slinking in with eyes cast down. One by one, their gaze drifted up to rest on the room's sole occupant.
"Detective Raito?" gasped Matsuda, looking like the wind had been knocked out of him.
The investigator suppressed a grin. After their meeting at the crime scene, he had decided to bring the rookie cop into his project, suspecting that it would be a smart move they'd both come to appreciate later. While the man was not the sharpest tack in the box, he exuded an aura of loyalty and earnestly–and the Great Detective Light was never wrong about these things.
"It's good to see you again, Matsuda." the detective selected a charming grin from his arsenal of "First Impression Tools".
The men stood dazed, bombarded by the realization that this boy, not even old enough to buy alcohol in most countries, had been the World's Foremost Detective for the past two years.
"Gentlemen. Allow me to introduce myself," continued the brunette over steepled fingers, "I am a man of wealth, and taste. Yagami Raito, also known as 'Detective Light'. A few of you might even know me as Lyle."
If there were two things this man had a weakness for, it was obscure quotes (preferably from American and English pop culture. How delightfully crude) and recognition. Always chafing at him was the fact that he could never receive praise under his own name. Maybe some day...
"'Yagami'?" repeated the man Raito identified as Aizawa, visibly shaking off his previous shock. "'Raito'?"
"Yes," the young man answered, thinking something akin to Good god, please don't tell me I picked a dim one.
"Is there... I know this is a long shot, but... was your father Yagami Soichiro?"
"Yes, actually," he said, taken aback. "Did you know him?"
"I did," the policeman replied with a far away look in his eyes. "He was a good man. I only knew him for two years, but everything I have I owe to him. Better father than mine ever was. He'd be proud of what you're doing."
The last words were spoken with conviction, as if the man knew personally how strongly his father would have felt.
"Thank you," replied Light, not missing a beat, even though his eyes burned at the thought of his lost father. Never let them see you cry. It's absurd to cry over a man you barely remember.
"But it's no good, dwelling on the past. We're here to discuss the present–and maybe a bit of history."
The detective stood, sliding effortlessly into leadership mode. In return, the four men around his table relaxed now that the burden of personal responsibility was lifted.
"As I assume you were informed, you were hand picked to assist me in the recent 'Carving Murders' case. I've brought you here today so you may receive a rundown of the situation. If you have changed your mind, please leave now."
James strode into the room with folders full of transcripts, reports and photos, passing them out to each member.
"I'm sure you're all aware of the carvings' nature, and we'll return to the Modus Operandi later on. First and foremost, you out to get acquainted with out suspect."
From his own dossier, Raito pulled a single photograph. A blank faced youth with alabaster skin and messy raven hair stared out at them, haunting eyes as dark as ebony.
"Gentlemen, meet L Lawliet."
Expressions around the table ranged from shock to reserved disbelief.
A kid? The murderer who threw all of Eastern civilization into a frantic uproar, who sent churches and cults worldwide broadcasting heated debates, was a child?
"I know what you're thinking," Light turned the suspect's photograph towards himself, running his gaze over every detail, "But keep in mind, young people have been known to do astounding things."
The detective smiled indulgently, and his guests sunk into their seats a fraction.
"In any case, it's been quite a while since the first crime—he should be about twenty-four by now. But let's go back to the beginning, because that usually the best place to start."
And Raito began to weave a tale in his spellbinding voice, factual but no less entrancing. It began with one ten-year old L Lawliet left alone on an orphanage doorstep, perfectly silent as he waited for the mother nun to unlock those monolithic doors.
According to the records, the boy had spent two years in a French agency, taking test after test. His IQ tests shot straight through the roof and his personality quizzes fluctuated from stereotype to stereotype like a kid with multiple personality disorder.
Notes from his counselor indicated that he never took any test seriously, preferring to toy with his answers to suit the current mood. The results had so boggled his caretakers that he'd been offered a position at Whammy's House. Raito had skirted the details there.
"It's just another orphanage," he'd shrugged, and moved on.
Disappointingly, before L could be placed in his new home, another orphan filled the last opening, and he was knocked back violently into the arms of the system.
It seemed, though, that the system had grown tired of the curious youth, because he was soon passed on to a pair of potential adoptees: Claude and Rosetta Loire.
The couple had a history with that adoption agency, having taken in a girl through them a few years before. That child had passed away from an asthma attack the very same year, and their grief alone was enough to convince social service workers. The twelve-year-old's charge was handed over without a second of hesitation.
Preteens and teens were far less popular with the adopting classes, so the orphanage had jumped at the chance to drop their aging genius.
Details, Raito said, were hazy from there on.
Though his investigation had turned up few clear facts.
Fact one: The condescending boy had been absent from class on a regular basis, and it appeared that he'd caught the same disease a total of four times (the flu), and been in the hospital three times for various injuries.
Fact two: the local busybody had informed them of local rumors—three failed escape attempts. No one had ever gotten a reason as to why.
Fact three: he had never been allowed to visit the few friends he had, nor had any of his classmates ever seen his house. In fact, it seemed as though his only contact with the world came through school and martial arts lessons.
"All in all," finished the detective, "Whether or not he's guilty of anything, I have a strong suspicion that the Loires are guilty of child cruelty. So we have an original motive, which filters into the current motive: eradication of abusive parents."
"How sure are you?" asked the man Raito remembered as Mogi, "It would be a bad idea to jump to conclusions this early on."
The younger man gave him an appraising look, signaling for James to bring in some tea (English fashion—this was Detective Light's party after all).
"You're right, of course. What we decide today will be the foundation or any further investigation, so we have to be very careful." The brown-haired man reached up to grab a cup of tea, mixing in some cream. No sugar—surprisingly, he couldn't take anything but a bare minimum of sweetness.
"But don't worry, I've done my research thoroughly. If the situation is what you doubt, then I could go into further detail about child abuse and its symptoms…?"
Every man in the room blanched.
"No? Then you'll have to take my word for it. And even beyond that point, do you guys have any better ideas? The case needs a direction." Unhappily, Raito Yagami felt that this ordeal was going to be more like parenthood than investigative leadership.
"Okay, we have a suspect," conceded Aizawa, "Now... what do we know about the weapon? How about the location? Evidence?"
--0--
The debate was raging full force. Close-ups, dramatic zoom-ins, and angle switches—the cameramen were pulling out all the stops. Even the commercials were over-the-top.
The studio was split in half, on either end a man at a courtroom style desk, backed by screaming fanatics.
"Tonight!" The overeager announcer cried from the middle of the floor, "We have two opposing men here to battle it out in our debate segment, on the biggest controversy of our time!"
A half-and-half screen showed faces of both men, desk labels reading 'Mikami Teru' and 'Hedara Ren'. Mikami had thin-rimmed glasses and a fanatic gleam in his eye, where Hedara wore a flat out frothing-at-the-mouth grin.
"Tonight, we'll debate the carving murders in our newest episode: J--Sinner or Saint?"
The crowd burst into frantic cheers—a wild sound like a pack of jackals before feeding
"Mikami! We understand that you're a lawyer? Why don't you go on with an opening argument?"
The suit-clad man grinned viscously. "Of course. Honestly I don't see why there's need for debate, when J is clearly Righteous."
The two crowds erupted into eager cheers and devilish hissing.
"He murders the innocent!" cried Hedara, pointing an accusatory finger.
"He redeems monsters!" shouted the reply.
"J kills human beings!"
"J saves us from men who commit crimes against humanity! The law does no different, but with far less efficiency."
"Laws don't KILL people!"
"They kill murderers, and these demons have done worse than that!" Mikami knocked over his chair and stalked to the center of the room. His opposition did the same, and they met at the middle.
"The law gives people a chance to change."
"And therein lays the problem! People don't change and when people do break the rules, they deserve to be punished—J is more than the law, J is JUSTICE!"
A wild cry went up from the left side, an ear grinding, bestial scream, turning the word 'justice' from a hundred lips into a single, sordid sound.
"And we'll be back after these messages!"
--
And the puzzle is falling into place.