There were straw voodoo dolls nailed to the walls at both places. These dolls were specifically known as Wara Ningyo.
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Four of them on Insist Street.
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Three of them on Third Avenue.
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Nailed to the walls.
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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.
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There were two Wara Ningyo on the wall. There was one less doll with each murder.
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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.
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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 since none was found—which was very strange for murders of this type—the third murder left the police at a complete loss. The killer was far better at this than the police were.
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I have no intention of praising Beyond Birthday, but in this case I will give him the credit he is due.
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Oh, right—in addition to the Wara Ningyo, there was one other major similarity between the scenes—
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they were all locked rooms. Just like an old mystery novel. The detectives investigating the case had not put a lot of value on this particular aspect of the case.. .but when Naomi Misora received the file on the case from L, this word was the first thing that caught her attention.
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When Misora began investigating the case—not as an FBI agent, hut as an individual under L’s supervision—it was the day after she received L’s request, August 15th. She was off duty, so her badge and gun had been taken away from her, leaving her with no more rights to weaponry than any ordinary citizen.
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But she did not particularly mind—Misora had never been the kind of agent to throw her authority around. She was a little put nit, and her mental condition was a little choppy, so she was not in I he best condition to tackle the case, but in that sense her emotional slate was similar to L’s own. In other words, she was not good at working in groups, and her ability shone brightest when she escaped he bindings of organizations and worked on her own—which in him might explain why she had a pinch of resentment coloring her eclings toward L.
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But on August 15th, at just past noon, Naomi Misora was on Hollywood’s Insist Street, the scene of the first murder. Looking up it the house, which seemed a trifle large for a man who lived alone, Misora reached into her bag, took out a cell phone, and dialed the timber she’d been given. She had been told it was scrambled fivefold and completely safe. Not only safe for L, but also safe for the off duty Misora.
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“L, I’ve reached the scene.”
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“Good,” the artificial voice said, as if he’d been waiting for her.
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Misora briefly wondered where L was, in what kind of environment he went about his investigations, but she quickly realized that it made no difference either way.
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“What should I do?”
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“Naomi Misora, are you inside the building or outside?”
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“Outside. I’m headed toward the scene of the crime but have not yet entered the yard.”
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“Then please go inside. It should be unlocked. I’ve arranged for that.”
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“Thanks.”
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Well prepared.
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She grit her teeth, resisting the urge to say something sarcastic. Normally she would have considered being prepared a point worth respecting, but she found it hard to accept that anyone was this thoroughly prepared.
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She opened the door and entered the house. The victim had been killed in his bedroom, and Misora had been involved in enough investigations with the FBI to make a fair guess at where that room was located from the outside. A house like this usually had the bedroom on the first floor, so she moved accordingly. It’d been two weeks since the murder, but they were obviously keeping the place clean.
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There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.
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“But, L...”
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“What?”
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“According to the data I received yesterday—not to state the obvious, but the police have already examined the scene.”
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“Yes.’
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“I’m not sure how you did it, but you already have the police reports covering that.”
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“Yes.”
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Not very helpful.
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“So there’s no point in my being here?”
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“No,” L said. “I expect you will be able to find something that the police did not.”
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“Well.. that’s clear enough.”
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Or perhaps a tad obvious.
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It ultimately explained nothing.
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“They say you should visit the crime scene a hundred times, So going there is hardly pointless. Some time has passed, so it’s possible something floated to the surface. Naomi Misora, the first thing we iced to think about in this case is the connection between the victims. What links Believe Bridesmaid, Quarter Queen, and the new victim, Backyard Bottomslash? Or is there no connection, and these murders are completely random? But even if they are random, there must be some logic by which the killer selects his victims. What l am asking you to do, Naomi Misora, is to discover this missing link.”
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“I see...”
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She didn’t really, hut she had begun to understand that arguing with L would not make him stop being evasive and tell her what she actually wanted to know, so she decided to not ask many questions.
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Besides, she had found the bedroom. The door opened inward and had a thumb turn lock.
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A locked room.
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The second and third crime scenes also had thumb turn locks... was that a link? No, that much information had been in the file. The
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police had already noticed it. L was looking for something more.
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It was not a very large room, but there was not much furniture, so it did not feel cramped. There was a big bed in the center of the scene, but the only other furniture was a few bookshelves. These shelves were mainly filled with how-to books for different leisure activities and famous Japanese comics, suggesting that Believe Bridesmaid had used this room exclusively for relaxation. He seemed be the type to carefully separate work and private time—not a type often found in freelance writers.
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Presumably there was a study of some kind on the second floor, Misora thought, absently glancing up at the ceiling. She would have to check there later.
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“By the way, Naomi Misora. What are your thoughts on the culprit behind these killings? I’d like to hear your current thinking on the matter.”
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“I doubt if my thoughts will be of any use to you, L…”
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“All thoughts are of use.”
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Oh?
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Misora thought for a moment.
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“He’s abnormal,” she replied, not bothering to choose her words, but just stating her mind. This was the main impression she had received the day before, reading over the file. “Not just because he’s killed three people, but... each action he took just drove that impression home. And he’s not even trying to hide it.”
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“For example?”
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“For example… fingerprints. They have not found a single fingerprint at any of the crime scenes. They had been wiped away completely.”
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“True... but Naomi Misora, surely leaving no fingerprints is the most basic of criminal techniques.”
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“Not to this extent,” Misora said, annoyed—she knew L understood what she was driving at and was sure that he was testing her ability, no matter what he said. Testing to see if she was capable of serving as his man on the scene. “If you didn’t want to leave fingerprints, most people would wear gloves—or otherwise, wipe down anything they touched. But this guy... apparently he wiped clean every fingerprint in the house. At all three scenes. At first I wondered if he’d been to the victim’s house so many times he had no idea what he’d touched and what he hadn’t, but once I read that he had unscrewed the light bulbs and wiped the sockets, it became a completely different story. What else can you call that but abnormal?”