Chapter Text
L’s seen some truly bizarre things in his time as the world’s greatest detective.
But this Italian mafioso group is eclectic to say the least. After the last few months of investigation they are characterised, in L’s mind, as the following: archaic, obsessive and obscenely cruel.
He doesn’t much like working with Americans but there’s so much physical evidence to be catalogued he needs their assistance on this one. Ten thousand strange antiques, two hundred cleverly crafted torture devices, a multitude of fractured human remains they’re still counting…
They’ve been rifling through the estate, room by room, with forensic techs for two weeks now since L finalized the arrests. L knows the action is gone but part of claiming all the glory is sticking around long enough for them to tally the final body count.
Matsuda, one of the grunts, has been sent down into the basement to scout out the areas of most pressing concern. He seems to be doing fine, grumbling occasionally on the frequency about the foreboding atmosphere and the peculiar cold but then—
L has to yank his head set off when Matsuda starts screaming.
“Matsuda,” L hisses into the microphone. “What?”
“He’s alive!” Matsuda shrieks, beside himself. “He’s alive!”
L grumbles and switches lines; “Misora can you check on Matsuda for me?”
“Sure,” the more seasoned agent grunts, “where am I headed?”
“Basement, south corner, follow the shrieking.”
“On it.” Naomi assures aptly.
L waits, dulling the volume of Matsuda’s blabbering, until exactly eight minutes later when Naomi chimes in across the line with a developed, full bodied; “Holy fuck.”
“Report?” L prompts.
“Some sort of dumping cell,” Naomi starts to catalogue, “we got at least five bodies. But judging by the decay in this section we could have more. We’ve also got a survivor.”
“I’ll send medical,” L taps across his laptop, “can you do some basic first aid for me?”
“On it.” Naomi answers.
L listens, wishing he had a body cam right now.
“Young male, maybe eighteen or nineteen?” Naomi is experienced on working with L. She knows he likes data more than waiting. “Looks Asian. He’s bound and gagged to a chair. He’s conscious and he’s seems to be cognisant.”
L frowns.
You don’t spend over two weeks, underground without food or water, and come out conscious.
“Hey,” Naomi warns the survivor, “I’m going to help, okay? Don’t be scared.”
A pause.
“I’m Agent Misora. We’ll get you out of this. Just bear with me.”
Nothing.
L can hear Naomi fumbling around the room and the survivor.
“No obvious wounds, L. No immediate signs of dehydration or starvation either.”
“Can you get him out for medical?” L asks.
“Whoever put him here welded the cuffs on the chair closed and the chair is—” Naomi tugs on something and huffs. “This thing’s bolted into the concrete.”
“The gag?” L supposes.
“Thing’s looks like it’s wired into his jaw.” Naomi whispers, clearly a little freaked out.
Whoever put this kid down there obviously wanted him to suffer and very clearly didn’t want him to go anywhere ever again.
But how is his conscious?
The arrests were fifteen days ago. No one has been down there. The human body can barely last three days without water. He should be dead.
This is promising to be fascinating.
“Misora,” L instructs, “medical is on its way. Priority one is getting him out of there alive. Evidence preservation comes second.”
“We’re going to need some industrial equipment to get him out of this, L.” Naomi warns.
“I’ll get the boys equipped,” L promises, typing as he talks. “Local fire department techs are being contacted now.”
“Okay, sure…” Naomi murmurs, sounding discernibly more rattled than L’s ever heard her.
“Stay with him and keep him calm.” L presses. Naomi does better with a job to do and someone to protect. This should soothe her.
“He’s calmer than Matsuda, honestly,” Naomi laughs weakly. “Kid’s just… watching me…”
“Probably trauma.” L dismisses.
“Right…” Naomi murmurs.
L switches channels. “Matsuda, you need to get yourself together. You’re making a scene.”
“I—Uh—” Matsuda fumbles, breathless. “S-sorry…”
“Help Misora in any way you can.” L coaches. “The survivor might die if you don’t focus. Do you want that?”
“N-no, of course not,” Matsuda tries to pull himself together, “I’ll… yeah, hold on. I’m okay. I’ve got this.”
“Glad to hear it.” L grunts.
The survivor, their John Doe, is freed from the restraints after an hour of wrestling and swearing with industrial equipment. He stays calm, still and quiet the entire time the fire department are breaking him free.
His wrists are damaged in the escape but not irreparable so and he’s transported to a private ward in a nearby hospital L is supplying to keep things tight lipped and high quality. The gag, whatever it is, really is wired into his jaw and he needs surgery to have it removed.
The surgeon in charge tells Watari that John Doe should heal up, good as new, but that that torture device had obviously been installed some time ago given how the skin and bone had mended around it. It’s really quite horrific to think about. Watari asks about dehydration, starvation, etc. but the doctors seem baffled by the suggestion John Doe was restrained, unattended, for fifteen days. All his vitals seem to suggest perfect normalcy. Bloods are good, he’s responsive, he’s conscious, he’s even fairly mobile and comfortable for someone who was welded to a chair for God knows how long.
It doesn’t add up.
And, frankly, L loves a mystery.
L has the head mafioso, Victor Cazano, brought in for interrogation.
“So,” L asks over the video call, “what can you tell me about the boy in the basement?”
Victor goes very still and quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We found a teenage boy welded into a chair with his jaw wired shut in your basement, Victor,” L continues unhindered. “You’re going to tell me you didn’t know about that?”
“I’d like to speak with my lawyer.” Victor folds his hands, steely, before him on the table where the laptop is set up.
“He’s alive, for the record,” L tempts, “and I’m sure he’s got some stories he’d love to share at your trial.”
Victor’s eyes flash and, for a second, L sees something like fear. It’s complicated, wrapped up in several layers of thought, but the dread is evident in Victor’s face. He sits with that for a moment, obviously running through multiple possibilities, maybe problem solving? And then, deflating with a new certainty, Victor laughs.
“I’m sure you’ll have a great time interviewing him.”
L isn’t sure what that means yet, but he’s intent to find out.
The Cazano’s weren’t messing around. As a group they were ruthless. Not many survivors and no wasted effort. Why such an elaborate torture mechanism for a teenage boy? What was the point? Was it hatred? Some kind of punishment? L needs more information.
“Anything?” He turns to Naomi as they squat in the chic office of the two hundred year old Italian estate where they’re orchestrating the investigation from. It’s unseasonably hot today but L’s mind is whirring along at a million miles even if his chocolate truffles are melting on the chilled tray Watari’s brought from downstairs.
“Nothing,” Naomi sighs. “No matching missing persons reports yet, but there’s hundreds of them to scan, and his fingerprints don’t show up in the Italian system or any of the linked Interpol databased. I have no idea who this kid is.”
L strokes his bottom lip. “Perhaps human trafficking?”
“Possibly,” Naomi nods.
“I can’t find any reference to him specifically in Cazano’s extensive records.” L reviews, clicking through the papers Matsuda spent hours and hours scanning for him. “But there is something interesting.”
“Hmm?” Naomi prompts.
“Cazanos makes a few references, in emails and various papers, to ‘The Shinigami’.”
“Shinigami?” Naomi repeats. “That’s a Japanese term, right?”
“A Japanese god of death.” L nods.
“Do you think it’s code?” Naomi calculates alongside him.
“If it is,” L rues, “then John Doe has been imprisoned by the Cazanos for a considerable amount of time. Some of these communications date back as far as three years and I haven’t reviewed them all.”
“So what do we do with this kid?” Naomi sighs, leaning back in her chair and fanning herself with the stiff edge of a manila folder.
“If he’s well enough to leave the hospital and we don’t have any next of kin to return him too we should bring him here for the time being.” L decides. “I’d like to talk with him myself.”
“Would you like me to fetch him, Sir?” Watari supposes, stirring his tea at the opposing table under the window.
“Yes, please, Watari.” L nods. “Let’s see what he has to say.”
The boy—the Japanese boy? Is walking unassisted when Watari returns from the hospital. Watari helps the young man out of the hired car but the boy stands by himself and takes in the frontage of the estate they’ve conquered. L watches him between the curtains for a moment before returning to his laptop.
Watari brings John Doe to L directly.
He still has a few bandages around his face from where the surgical scars are healing, and L has to ask the question with the most immediate importance;
“Can he speak?”
“The doctors assure me he should be physically able to,” Watari answers, pouring the young man a cup of tea as he takes a seat. “But he has yet to attempt conversation with anyone as far as the hospital reports.”
Could be trauma, that would make the most logical sense.
For him to be silenced so viciously by the jaw trap that implies his words had some kind of power or negative effect on the Cazanos and they wanted to destroy him in that specific way. L isn’t sure what it means yet, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the young man is afraid to talk.
He seems calm, sipping his tea idly, but L likewise wouldn’t be surprised if the placid demeanour is suggestive of complete emotional collapse. He’s too traumatized to handle his feelings so he’s stopped feeling anything.
“It’s nice to meet you, I have some questions,” L commences in Italian. “Can you tell me your name?”
The boy makes eye contact, eyes clear and sharp, but doesn’t respond. He just takes another nonchalant sip of his tea.
“Perhaps that’s not your preferred tongue?” L tries in English.
The boy tilts his head this time, watching curiously.
“What about this?” L switches to Japanese. “Will you tell me your name now?”
The boy, ever so gently, grins.
“You speak so many languages, why is that?” He replies in Japanese.
“They’re useful for my line of work.” L explains.
“And what line of work is that?” John Doe asks.
“I’m a consulting detective.” L supplies. “I solve crimes.”
The boy sips again, digesting that it seems.
“Can you tell me your name?” L repeats.
“I don’t have a name right now,” the boy replies calmly, “what would you like to call me?”
“I’d like to know your birth name.” L presses.
“I don’t have one,” the boy snorts, seemingly amused.
“Your legal name then,” L tries from another angle.
“Legally I don’t exist.” The boy replies. “Are you sure you want to keep trying this? It would be quicker to give me a name you can use.”
“My name is L,” he offers, “does that help?”
“Not really,” the boy shrugs. “Maybe you should ask a different question?”
“Will you answer a different question?” L supposes.
“So long as it doesn’t bore me,” the boy grins around the rim of his teacup.
“Bore you?” L repeats, rubbing the seam of his lips with his thumbnail. How bizarre but also intensely relatable.
John Doe offers nothing.
“Well, if don’t know your name I can’t get in contact with your family,” L supposes.
No answer.
“Were you trafficked by the Cazanos?” L tries switching tangents.
No answer.
“Did they torture you?” L presses a little harder.
No answer and no visible distress either.
“Do you know what a Shinigami is?” L tips the word off his tongue.
“Yes,” John Doe replies, “do you?”
“It’s a god of death.” L answers. “The Cazanos made some reference in their papers to a Shinigami. ‘Send them to the Shinigami’, ‘secure the Shinigami’, ‘feed the Shinigami’… do you know anything about that?”
“I know Victor Cazono and his thugs are unimaginative,” John Doe grins, almost smirks. “What do you think it means?”
“Judging from their notes it’s hard to tell.” L admits. “But I doubt they had an actual god of death on hand, so perhaps a torture technique?”
“That’s a pretty dull theory.” John Doe snorts.
“Initial theories are always dull,” L agrees. “I’m hoping its more exciting than that.”
“Me too.” John Doe agrees.
“You were in pretty good health considering you were restrained, unattended, for fifteen days.” L prods, circling back around. “Were you not restrained for the whole time?”
No answer.
“Was someone with you?”
No answer.
“Are you afraid of something?”
John Doe sighs, audibly irritated with the line of questioning.
“Do you have any questions for me?” L switches abruptly.
John Doe’s eyes focus back upon him sharply.
“What do you intend to do with me now?” He asks, head tilting just so.
“I assume you need somewhere to live and some care after such a violent experience.” L shrugs. “Especially if we don’t have anyone we can contact for you. I could get you in touch with some support services but maybe you’d rather stay with me for a while?”
“Do you want me around?” John Doe counters.
“You’re interesting,” L shrugs. “I like mysteries.”
John Doe snorts. “Then I suppose we’re forming an agreement for now.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
“You’re making an offer, I’m accepting,” John Doe counters. “That’s a contract.”
“I suppose it is,” L concedes.
Curious and curiouser.