Death Note - Another Note (english).pdf

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When Beyond Birthday committed his third murder, he attempted an experiment. Namely, to see if it
were possible for a human being to die of internal hemorrhaging without rupturing any organs.
Specifically, he drugged his victim so they fell unconscious; tied them up, and proceeded to beat their
left arm thoroughly, being careful not to break the skin. He was hoping to bring about enough
hemorrhaging to cause death from loss of blood, but this attempt ended, sadly, in failure. Blood
congested in the arm and it turned purplish red beneath the skin, but the victim did not die. They simply
shook, convulsed, and remained alive. He had been convinced the blood loss incurred by this would be
enough to kill someone, hut apparently he had underestimated the matter. As far as Beyond Birthday
was concerned, the actual method of murder rated fairly low on the amusement scale, and it was never
more than an interesting experiment. It did not particularly matter to him whether it succeeded or not.
Beyond Birthday simply shrugged, and took out a knife...
No, no, no, no, no.
Not this style, not this narrative voice—I’ll never manage to keep up this arch tone all the way through.
The harder I try, the more bored I’ll get and the lazier the writing will be. To put it in terms Holden
Caulfield (one of history’s most famous literary bullshitters) might use, detailing what Beyond Birthday
did and thought does not suit my purposes (even if, in my position, I have a great deal of sympathy for
him). Explaining the entirety of his murders in carefully phrased sentences does not in any way
increase the value of these notes. This is not a report, nor is it a novel. Even if it happens to turn into
one of those, I will not be happy. I hate to use such a hackneyed line, but I imagine that by the time
anyone lays eyes on these words I will no longer be alive.
I hardly need to remind the reader about the epic battle between the century’s greatest detective, L, and
that grotesque murderer, Kira. The instrument of death was a little bit more fantastic than a guillotine
(for example), but all Kira accomplished was another reign of terror and a pathetically infantile way of
thinking. Looking back, I can only surmise that the gods of victory smiled on Kira for their own vain
amusement. Perhaps these gods actually wanted a blood-soaked world of betrayal and false accusation.
Perhaps the entire episode exists as a lesson to teach us the difference between the Almighty and the
shinigami. Who knows? I, for one, have no intention of wasting any more time thinking about this most
negative series of events.
To hell with Kira.
What matters to me is L.
L.
The century’s greatest detective. In light of his staggering mental abilities, L died an unjust and
untimely death. In the public record alone he solved over 3,500 difficult crimes, and sent three times
that number of degenerates to prison. He wielded incredible power, was able to mobilize every
investigative bureau in the entire world, and was applauded generously for his efforts. And during it all,
he never showed his face. I want to record his words as accurately as possible. And I want to leave
them for someone to find. As someone who was given the chance to follow in his footsteps. Well, I
may not have been able to succeed him, but I want to leave this behind.
So what you’re reading now are my notes about L. It’s a dying message, not from me, and not directed
at the world. The person who will most likely read this first will probably be that big headed twit Near.
But if that’s the case, I will not tell him to shred or burn these pages. If it causes him pain to discover
that I knew things about L that he did not, then that’s fine. There’s also a chance that Kira might read
this… and I hope he does. If these notes tell the murderer, who only got by with the help of a
supernatural killing notebook and an idiot of a shinigami, that he was, under any other circumstances,
not even worth the dirt beneath L’s shoes, then they have served their purpose.
I am one of the few people who ever met L as L. When and how I met him.. .this is the single most
valuable memory I have, and I will not write it here, but on that occasion L related to me three stories
of his exploits, and the episode involving Beyond Birthday was one of these. If I drop the pretense and
simply refer to it as the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases, then I imagine many of you will have heard of
them. Obviously, it never came to light that L and more importantly, Wammy’s House, which raised me
until I was fifteen— was deeply connected to the matter, but in fact, they were. L, on principle, never
got involved in a case unless there were more than ten victims or a million dollars at stake, and this is
the real reason why he belatedly, but aggressively, involved himself in this little case, which only ever
had three or four victims. I will explain further in the pages that follow, but for this reason, the case of
the Los Angeles BB murders are a watershed event for L, for me, and even for Kira. It was a
monumental event for all of us.
Why?
Because this case is where L first introduced himself as Ryuzaki.
So let us skip past all tedious descriptions of what Beyond Birthday thought, of how he went about
killing his third victim, since I have in interest in that at all, and while we’re at it, let’s skip the second
and first victims, make no effort to look back at the earlier murders, mod adjust the clock’s hands to the
morning of the day after, the glittering moment when the century’s greatest detective, L, first began to
investigate the case. Oh, I almost forgot. In the event that anyone besides big-headed Near or the
deluded murderer is reading these notes, then I should at least perform the basic courtesy of introducing
myself, here at the end of the prologue. I am your narrator, your navigator, your storyteller. For anyone
else but those two, my identity may be of no interest, but I am the old world’s runner-up, the best
dresser that died like a dog, Mihael Keehl. I once called myself Mello and was addressed by that name,
but that was a long time ago.
Good memories and nightmares.
Page 1: The Message
While it is now referred to as the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases—a rather catchy title—when it was
actually happening, right in the middle of the whirlpool, it was never called anything so impressive.
The media called it the Wara Ningyo Murders, or the L.A. Serial Locked Room Killings, or all kinds of
other ghastly names. This fact was undoubtedly a source of great annoyance to Beyond Birthday—the
perpetrator of the murders in question—but frankly, I think those names provide a more accurate
description of what was actually happening. Either way, the day after Beyond Birthday carried out the
third of the murders, August 14, 2002, 8:15 am, local time, the FBI agent Naomi Misora was lying
dazedly on the bed in her apartment, having just woken up. She was wearing dark leather pants and a
matching leather jacket, but it would be a mistake to assume she customarily slept in this outfit. She
had spent several hours racing around on her motorcycle the night before, in a vain effort to burn off
stress, and when she finally returned to lieu apartment she had fallen instantly into a sound slumber
without bothering to shower or undress. Much like the name of the case, Misora has now entered the
public consciousness as the one who eventually cracked the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases, but the
truth is that when these events were unfolding in real time, she had been suspended from her duties as
an FBI agent. According to the official records she was just on a leave of absence, but this is purely
because she had absolutely no ability whatsoever to stand up to the pressure from her superiors and
colleagues. Suspension, leave, summer vacation. I don’t think we need to go into the reasons for her
suspension here. What is certain is that this was America, she was Japanese, female, very good at her
job, and the FBI is a large organization. . .which ought to be enough information. Obviously, she did
have colleagues who had a high opinion of her, which is exactly why she had been able to work in the
organization so far, but a month before, just before the Los Angeles BB murders, Misora had made a
major blunder, so major even she could not believe it—which led directly to her current situation. This
was not the kind of problem that could be alleviated by racing around in the middle of the night on a
motorcycle.
Misora was seriously considering quitting the FBI, casting off her entire life, and moving back to
Japan. Obviously, part of her was sick and tired of all the nonsense that came with the job, but even
more than that was the guilt she felt over her own mistake, which hung upon her shoulders like a dead
weight. Even if there had been no pressure from those around her—not that this hypothetical was even
remotely possible—Misora would have asked for time off herself.
Or even resigned.
Misora slowly peeled herself off the bed, intending to shower away the sweat of the night before, but
then she noticed the laptop on her desk was, for some reason, turned on. She had no recollection of
turning it on—after all, she had just woken up. Had she hit the switch on her way in last night? And
then fallen asleep without shutting it down again? She didn’t remember doing that, but since the screen
saver was working, there seemed to be no other explanation. One would assume that if she had enough
energy left to turn on her computer, she would have had enough energy to undress. Misora peeled off
her jacket and pants, and with her body feeling much lighter, got off the bed, moved over to her desk,
and jiggled the mouse. This was enough to clear the screen saver, but at this point Misora became even
more confused. The main e-mail program was running and flashing a “new mail” message. It was
possible she’d fallen asleep with her computer on, but to fall asleep in the middle of checking her e-
mail? While she was still wondering about that, she clicked on her inbox. There was one new message,
from Raye Penber. This was the name of Misora’s current boyfriend, also an FBI agent. He was the
most obvious example of the agents who had a high opinion of her (not that this stopped him from
begging her to transfer to a less dangerous department every time something happened). Since her
leave was almost over, this might well be just business, so Misora went ahead and opened the
message...
Naomi Misora-sama
I apologize for contacting you like this.
I would like to request your help in solving a certain case.
If you are willing to assist me, please access the third block of the third section of the Funny Dish
server on August 14th at nine am. The line will be open for exactly five minutes (please break through
the firewall yourself).
L
PS: In order to contact you, I took the liberty of borrowing your friend’s address. This was the simplest
and safest way to contact you, so please forgive me. Regardless of whether you agree to help me or not,
I need you to destroy this computer within twenty-four hours of reading this message.
When she finished reading, Misora immediately reread the entire message and finally checked the
sender’s name again.
L.
She might be suspended, but she was still an FBI agent, and obviously she recognized the name—it
would have been unforgivable had she not. She briefly considered the idea that Raye Penber, or
someone else, was playing a practical joke on her, but she found it hard to believe anyone would be so
bold to sign their name as such. L never revealed himself in public or in private, but Misora had heard
several horror stories about what had happened to detectives who had tried passing themselves off as L.
It was safe to say that no one would dare use his name, even in jest.
So.
“Aw, dang,” she grumbled, and proceeded to take her shower, washing away the exhaustion of the night
before. She dried her long black hair and drank a cup of hot coffee.
But she was only pretending to consider the matter—she did not really have a choice. No FBI agent,
particularly a low-ranking one, could ever consider turning down a request from L. But at this time
Misora did not have a particularly favorable opinion of the great detective L, so she had to pretend to
hesitate, if only to make herself feel better. If you consider Misora’s personality, the reasons for this are
clear. It seemed obvious that the reason her laptop had been turned on was that L had hacked it, and she
was more than a little depressed that she would now have to randomly destroy the new computer she
had just purchased a month before.
“I don’t mind… I mean, I do, but...”
She didn’t have a choice.
At just past 8:50, Misora sat down in front of her laptop, which now had less than twenty three hours
left to live, and began following L’s instructions. She was not an expert hacker, but she had been taught
the basics as part of her FBI training.
Just as she successfully gained access to the server, her entire screen went white. Misora was
momentarily alarmed, but then she noticed a giant calligraphic L floating in the center of the screen,
and relaxed.
“Naomi Misora,” came a voice from the laptop speakers, after a brief pause. It was obviously a
synthetic voice. But this was the voice recognized as L’s by every investigative department in the
world. Misora had heard it several times before—but this was the first time it had ever addressed her
directly It felt weird, like she was hearing her name on TV—not that she had ever had that experience,
but this was what she imagined it would be like.
“This is L.”
“Hi,” Misora started to say, but then realized how pointless that was. Her laptop did not have a
microphone installed, and there was no way for him to hear her.
Instead, she typed in, “This is Naomi Misora. It’s an honor to speak to you, L.” If her connection was
sound, he should be able to receive this.
“Naomi Misora, are you familiar with the murder investigation going on in Los Angeles as we speak?”
L got right down to business, without acknowledging her words at all. Presumably this was because he
had to complete this communication by 9:05, but his manner and attitude rubbed Misora the wrong way
Like it was a given that she would cooperate with him— which was true, but acting like it showed no
respect for her pride. Misora allowed herself to bang on the keyboard rather loudly
“I am not so skilled that I can keep track of all the murder investigations happening in Los Angeles.”
“Oh? I am.”
He’d returned her sarcasm with a boast.
L continued, “I’m referring to the serial killings—-the third victim was found yesterday. I believe there
will be more victims to come. HNN news is calling it the Wara Ningyo Murders.”
“The Wara Ningyo Murders?”
She had not heard about it. She was on leave and had been deliberately avoiding that kind of news.
Misora had lived in Japan until she graduated high school and was familiar with the term, but hearing it
pronounced in English gave it an edge of unfamiliarity.
“I would like to solve this case,” L said. “I need to arrest the killer. But your help in this matter is vital,
Naomi Misora.”
“Why me?” she typed. This could be taken to mean either “Why do you need my help?” or “Why
should I help you?” but L took the first meaning without a moment’s hesitation. Sarcasm appeared to
be lost on him.
“Naturally, because you are a skilled investigator, Naomi Misora.”
“I’m on a leave of absence...”
“I know. Isn’t that convenient?”
Three victims, he’d said.
Obviously, it depended on the victims, but from what L had told her this case had not yet reached the
kind of scale required for the FBI to get involved. She would normally have assumed that this was why
he had approached her instead of going through the FBI director, but this was much too sudden. And
she had been given almost no time to think things through. But it had been enough time for her to
wonder why L would be involved in a case too small for the FBI to notice. She did not imagine he
would answer that question over her computer, however.
She glanced at her clock.
She had one more minute.
“Okay. I’ll help in any way I can,” Misora typed.
L answered instantly, “Thank you. I knew you would agree.”
He did not sound very thankful.
But perhaps that could be blamed on the synthetic nature of his voice.
“Let me explain how you will contact me in the future. We have no time, so I will be brief. First..
First, she had to know the basic details of the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases. On July 3 1st, 2002, in
the bedroom of a small house on Hollywood’s Insist Street, a man named Believe Bridesmaid was
killed. He lived alone, working as a freelance writer. He had written articles for dozens of magazines
under many different names and was relatively well known in the industry—-which means exactly
nothing, but in this case appears to have been fairly accurate. He was strangled. He was first knocked
out with some sort of drug and then strangled from behind with some sort of string. There were no
signs of struggle—all things considered, a smoothly executed crime. The second murder occurred four
days later, on August 4th, 2002. This time it was downtown, in an apartment on Third Avenue, and the
victim was a female named Quarter Queen. This time the victim was beaten to death, her skull caved in
from the front by something long and hard. Once again, the victim appeared to have been drugged first
and was unconscious at the time of death. As for why it was determined that these two murders were
committed by the same killer... well, anyone who saw the scene of the crime instantly noticed the
connection.
There were straw voodoo dolls nailed to the walls at both places. These dolls were specifically known
as Wara Ningyo.
Four of them on Insist Street.
Three of them on Third Avenue.
Nailed to the walls.
The Wara Ningyo had been covered in the news, so strictly speaking there was a chance of a copycat
crime, but several other details matched as well, leading the police to begin treating the case as a serial
killing. But if that was the case, that left a very big question—there was absolutely nothing to connect
Believe Bridesmaid with Quarter Queen. Neither one of them had the other’s number in their cell
phones, neither one of them had the other’s card in their business card holder, and besides, Quarter
Queen did not own a cell phone or a business card holder—she was a thirteen-year-old girl. What
connection could she possibly have to a forty-four-year-old professional freelance writer? If there was a
connection, it was probably through the girl’s mother, who was out of town when the murder happened,
but given the difference in neighborhoods and situations between the two, it was still difficult to see
any significant connection. To use a term from an old-fashioned detective novel, there was a missing
link—they could not find any connection between the victims. The investigation had naturally focused
on this, but nine days later (by which time the media had begun calling them the Wara Ningyo
Murders) on August 13th, 2002, the third murder happened.
There were two Wara Ningyo on the wall. There was one less doll with each murder.
The third murder was in West L.A., in a townhouse near the Metrorail Glass Station, and the victim’s
name was Backyard Bottomslash. This victim was another female—age twenty-six, midway between
the first and second victims—and she was a bank clerk.
Once again, she had no connections with Believe Bridesmaid or Quarter Queen at all. It seemed
unlikely they had even bumped into each other on the street. She died from loss of blood—massive
hemorrhaging. Strangulation, beating, and finally stabbing—each time a different method of murder,
giving the unnatural impression that he was trying something new with each killing. And he left no
useful clues at any of the scenes. The only other thing to investigate was the link between them, but

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