Chapter Text
December 22, 2003
Freezing wind whipped across the parking lot of California State Prison as a woman in blood-red heels and black aviators sauntered toward the entrance. She pulled her cashmere scarf over her nose and mouth and frantically put out her cigarette on the sole of a shoe. A guard approached her at the steel gate surrounded by barbed wire fence, and she flashed him an Interpol ID badge from the deep pocket of her trench coat. With a curt nod from the guard and a blaring beep! overhead, the gate swung open, and the woman walked down the short path between the gate and the concrete door of the prison.
“Been a long time since you stopped by, ma’am,” a husky voice came from behind the help desk.
The woman cocked her head to the side and brushed her blonde hair across her neck, sunlight glinting off her lenses. Seated at the desk was a wide man with a handlebar mustache and balding hair; he kept his prison uniform and badges polished and wore a dusty brown cowboy hat.
“He’s in cell block 9, right, Red?” asked the woman. Red shivered slightly, caught off guard by how rich her British accent was. It had been over a year since she last visited prisoner B-2TN586. He was a man who answered to several names on the outside – including B, Backup, and Rue Riyuuzaki – but his true name was even more bizarre: Beyond Birthday, or BB for short. BB was responsible for the Los Angeles BB Murders in the summer of 2002. Frederick “Red face” Jackson grew pale in the cheeks as a chill crept down his spine, wondering why a petite, svelte woman like her would want to visit with someone as notoriously disturbed as Beyond Birthday.
Red cleared his throat and nodded. “Go down the left hallway, past security. At the entrance to the cell block, flash your badge – you won’t be searched a second time. Good day to ya.”
The woman nodded almost imperceptibly and proceeded down the hallway towards the security checkpoint. She had made a point of keeping her outfit simple when she got dressed that morning and leaving her usual purse behind, opting for carrying a simple black leather clutch around her wrist. She breezed through the security checks in about a minute flat, and briskly made her way down the left hallway towards cell block 9. The guards all looked at her with wide-eyed reverence, keeping their gaze lowered. At the security checkpoint before the cell block, she put her clutch in a locker and flashed her Interpol badge again
“Go ahead, miss. Welcome back,” said the young woman at the bag search table.
“Thank you,” the blonde woman said, the corners of her mouth turning up into the beginning of a smile as she was escorted through the door to the psychiatric ward. Everything in the wide, open room was a different shade of grey, and the cold hung in the air. Dim lighting gave shape to dark grey concrete flooring, light grey walls, steel stairwells, and steel bars on cell doors. There were two floors of cells, with a guard stationed at each end of the hallways. Amidst the faint murmuring behind cell doors, the harsh click of the woman’s heels reverberated throughout room as she took long, billowing strides toward the end of the lower hallway, following the female guard’s lead in silence. She glanced down at her pin badge, reading the name Gonzales. At the second-to-last door on the left side, she stopped and touched the barred window with a pale hand.
“Bill will be standing by in case anything suspicious happens,” said Gonzales, motioning toward the officer at the end of the hall. “Let us know if you need anything. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” She tucked a piece of black hair back underneath her officer’s cap as she slid a key into the door and turned it. The tumblers of the lock rattled and the door creaked open.
The blonde woman entered and stood just in front of the door and closed her eyes. She could hear Gonzales’s footsteps grow fainter as she walked back down the hallway. With a deep, ragged breath, she opened her eyes again, and finally saw the man she came for.
Prisoner B-2TN586, Beyond Birthday, was crouched in the upper left corner of the cell, with his knees pressed against his chest, idly twirling a piece of scraggly black hair above his left eye. He was dressed in white prison garb that covered almost every inch of visible skin except his face – he even had white fingerless gloves on his hands. Though the single lightbulb in the room was dim, his face was still visible behind the shadows. Scabbed second-degree burns covered three quarters of his skin, except a diagonal line from his left cheekbone to the center of his forehead. His right eye was missing, the space covered by a white eyepatch. Most of his hair remained, save for patches on his right side and the back of his head. It was permanently disheveled, even before his accident.
“Who is it this time?” he asked, his deep airy voice reaching across the room. “Another shrink? A defense lawyer, perhaps?” He never kept his one good eye off the strand of hair between his thumb and forefinger.
The woman took a seat in the bolted metal chair on the opposite side of the room and slid her glasses down the bridge of her nose, revealing two gashes: one on the bridge of her nose, the other just above her right eyebrow. “It’s me, dear. See?”
His dark red eye met her steely blue gaze and he smiled maniacally, throwing his head back against the cell wall. A bone-rattling laugh sprang from his chest, as if his diaphragm hadn’t been used in a thousand years. “Well, if this isn’t a pleasant surprise, old friend. I must admit, the wig color is so jarring that I had completely blocked out the memory from the last time we spoke.” He leaned forward onto the balls of his feet and placed the tip of his thumb between his teeth.
Folding her glasses and setting them on her lap, the woman chuckled before speaking again. She scanned him, from his deep pitted eye down to his curled toes. “You haven’t changed one bit, B. Still a caricature of him right to the nervous ticks.”
“What do you want from me?” he asked, leaning ever closer, never blinking.
“I want your insight,” she replied, twiddling her thumbs as her hands started to tremble – the nicotine from her last cigarette was wearing thin. “Your unique abilities may finally come in handy.”
Slowly, he took his nail out of his mouth and let his arm go limp, his scabby hand grazed the floor. “Go on.”
“See, I know you stay updated on current events somehow, be it through the television or books. Even the lowest scum over in solitary confinement have access to media.” She took a deep breath, “There’s a case happening in Japan that I know you would die to be a part of. Hell, you may already have fantasies of meeting the perpetrator somehow.”
He smiled again, baring pointy yellow teeth. “What makes you say that? I have no chances of meeting anybody that interesting anymore. I’m rotting away in this glorified coffin.” He got down on his hands and knees and crawled toward her, all lanky limbs and jerky contortions. “Who do you think I’d want to meet so badly?”
She placed one foot on his closest hand gently and scowled. “There have been a series of murders across Japan that have all resulted in prisoners dying of heart attacks for which the authorities can find no cause. They haven’t been able to find any leads on the killer, and his motive is also unclear. Though we know nothing about this killer works, he has been given the name Kira. According to authorities, if Kira is not found soon, his murders may spread worldwide.”
B formed his mouth into a perfect ‘O’ and gasped. “You are right, I have heard of Kira. A terribly interesting fellow, indeed.” He twirled his hair again and gave a short chuckle. “I would love to meet him, even through death. I fear there is no natural rival to beat his scheme.”
“Tch,” the woman flipped her hair back, “your morbid curiosities are what brought you here in the first place. You weren’t born with proper instincts like self-preservation.” Her narrow gaze and her hard voice softened; it became almost soothing. “Though you disgraced us, you are still a part of the family, B. You know Watari would not assign you a letter if you could be discarded.” She paused and bit her lip. “Truth be told, he feels awful about what he did, how his program made you -”
“Snap,” he interjected matter-of-factly. “He needn’t worry about that. I don’t blame him at all for my circumstances. I solely blame myself and L for the way we both turned out.” He looked up at the lightbulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a hypnotized moth. “I realize now that I shouldn’t have wanted to die for someone I was forced to become.” Abruptly, he cocked his head to the side, almost touching his shoulder, and stole her focus once again. He separated each phrase with a quick glance upwards, as if he were reading a teleprompter above her head. “I doubt he has much time left anyway. When I last saw him, he looked pretty thin. On the other hand, you’ve still got plenty of time to enjoy your freedom.”
“And what makes you think that?” she leaned forward, grasping his bony chin.
“It’s the numbers, C. The “unique ability” you spoke of earlier.” He bent his head down and slowly licked the side of her pointer finger. “Or do you still believe that to be the ramblings of a madman?”
She jerked her hand away and pushed him back with her outstretched foot against his sternum. “Cut the bullshit! That isn’t what I was referring to. I meant your uncanny ability to see into the minds of sadistic killers, your expertise in human anatomy and crime scene investigation. You know damn well the numbers are a hallucination.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” his voice froze. “Did you know that I’ve been tested by over a dozen doctors since I came here? My brain has been subjected to rigorous psychological tests – most of which I outsmarted after the first glance – and not one of them has found any sign of insanity. In fact, the doctors have told me quite the opposite.” He let out another wheezing laugh, jerking uncontrollably with each breath. “I’ve always had a natural fascination with death, and I can sense when one’s time is nearing. How do you think I was able to pull off my own murders so precisely? It wasn’t just stalking, my dear.” He sat back against the far wall and brought his knees back to his chest. “My eyes are a curse.”
“Do you truly believe you have some sort of supernatural gift?” the woman named C asked, crossing one leg above her knee.
“Yes, and I think your man Kira does too,” he quipped, nibbling on his thumb again. “It’s plain to see that he has a God complex based on his victims alone: they’re all in prison, therefore beneath him. He is most likely charismatic, but all together ordinary on the outside. Perhaps someone living a perfectly ordinary life in the public eye. Yet, he has an unnatural aura to him that lures people in and they drop like flies. You said there is no evidence left behind, yes?”
C nodded her head.
“Based on what little information has been released to the public, I’d actually say all the evidence needed has been laid at every scene.”
“How could that possibly -”
“The heart attacks. Kira is inside them somehow, controlling their last moments down to the last heartbeat. How that is remains to be seen, but that’s the only plausible explanation. I was not lying when I said I fear Kira. No “rational” detective work is going to solve this riddle, mark my words.” B ran his hand through the thin strands of his hair and for a heartbeat, C frowned, remembering the man he so closely resembled.
“How is the girl doing?” he added, pulling C out of her thoughts.
“What girl?”
“Naomi Misora,” he said in a sing-song voice. “The woman who saved my life, but sadly did not deter you from smoking. Tsk tsk, old sport.” B waggled is finger in front of her nose and smirked.
“Very funny,” she jibed. “She’s doing fine, got married to an agent recently. She wonders about you from time to time. I would too if I had to work alongside someone as ghoulish as you.”
“How considerate of her,” he whispered. His eye blinked for about two seconds, and C gulped involuntarily. “And L?”
“He is around,” C’s voice was flat. “He and I don’t always work together.”
B’s eyelid twitched. “Ha! Tell him to watch his back.”
Before C could open her mouth, the cell door was open and officer Gonzales beckoned to her. “C’mon, your time’s up. I bet you’re dying for a cig right about now.” C laughed and stood up, brushing off her trench coat and putting on her aviators.
“You’re right, thank you.” She took one last look at Beyond Birthday before stepping over the threshold.
One week later
On Sunday, December 28th, the national newspaper headlines read: LOS ANGELES BB KILLER, BEYOND BIRTHDAY, FOUND DEAD AS A RESULT OF A HEART ATTACK IN CALIFORNIA STATE PRISON.