Chapter Three:

"Jasper Yuta"

Two male interns escorted the nineteen year old into the therapists office. Compared to the two accompanying him, the teen looked malnourished and unhealthy, skinny. But his weight was average for his height. The interns were just larger and more muscular.

One intern pushed the teen forward, for whatever reason, and the teen stumbled a few steps. It was widely known, and there had been several complaints by the institution's residents, that these two interns liked to pick on residents. This was but one institution for the criminal and mentally insane for young adults. Several media stories had been done on this institution, and every report gave it a warming glow, saying that the residents were treated with respect and humane.

Some would disagree, namely a choice few of the residents that the two particular interns targeted. But when a reporter came to interview the staff, these "troublesome residents" were locked away.

That included Jasper Yuta. And he had a reputation for being the most troublesome of all. He had a nickname among the residents: "Straight-Jacket Yuta", which he took in stride, but they would never say it to his face. He had a record of being wrapped in a jacket and sent to isolation more than any resident for causing trouble. Once, someone called him "Straight-Jacket Yuta" to his face, and the next thing the resident knew, he woke up in the infirmary with three broken rips, a broken nose, and two blackened eyes.

The other residents respected, or rather didn't make any trouble for him, obeying him without question, and giving him whatever he wanted. Except for the staff and especially these two interns.

The therapists office, which was on site, was a spacious room and furnished with soft, big furniture, and everything was secured down. It was also policy to never bring in anything that could be used as a weapon by a resident and to lock up all personal items before a session began.

Jasper had come to this room once a week. As long as he resided in this institution, Friday was his day.

He had been coming here for four years straight, ever since he was transferred from an another institution, and one before that, and another before that, and one that solely dealt with unstable children, thirteen and under, after he escaped from one other.

Since his arrival, he was watched like a hawk. And even though it was illegal, every resident in this institution had a GPS pellet surgically implanted under their skin on their left forearm that tracked their location, health, and anything else prudent. For security purposes, if they stepped beyond a certain boundary, they would be shocked like a dog to halted them in their tracks.

Of course, if anyone knew about it, the human rights groups would be in an uproar. So, it was kept under wraps, in conjunction with the DIET and the Japanese judiciary bodies, controversial as it was.

It was actually a test project, and if successful, would then be implemented to every health institution, correctional facility, and prison in the country. So far, in two years, it had a one-hundred percent success rate.

The therapist stood in the middle of the room next to a one-seater chair, which sat next to a light blue, large, but soft couch. He wasn't a particularly tall man, but he had a presence about him that made him look both educated and confident—a therapist for a number of years. But he was not Japanese, he was American. It was also policy in this institution to pair residents with therapists who not only spoke their language fluently, but who also compared to them nationally. Apparently, it made the residents feel more comfortable, albeit the racial undertones of the practice. However, it worked. And avoided any conniptions by the residents.

Jasper straightened and glanced back at the two interns with hate in his eyes.

"Please, gentlemen," the middle-aged therapist, with the colonial beard, said. He adjusted his glasses with a thumb. He had the same look of the KFC fried-chicken ikon. "There's no need for violence. This may be an institution for the unhealthy-minded" —politically correctly stated— "but everyone deserves respect. Or should I inform your superiors of your illicit behaviour?"

Jasper Yuta smirked at the two interns, who were also American. In Japan, Americans were both loved and hated at the same time, but they made the best enforcers for authority because they just looked meaner. Both men frowned, and then returned a nasty stare to the teen. Yuta knew he would get a beating for his smirk later and they'd blame him for misbehaving.

One intern said, "Sorry doc, but Jasper gives us a lot of trouble, and the only way he'll listen is if you beat sense into him."

"Dumb thugs like you two need to respect their intelligential betters," Jasper mocked.

"See, he's being contentious and rude again," the other intern said.

Jasper's brow arched. "Impressive, you actually do have a brain. Contentious is a big word for an idiot like you."

"Ok, that's enough," the therapist said. "I've read your file, Jasper, and it does say you have a very high IQ. But to belittle others is beyond some, don't you agree?"

"I get bored, there's not a lot to do here."

"There's plenty to do in the infirmary, especially if you're recovering from a beatdown, you little shit!" the first intern said.

"Okay, let cooler heads prevail," the therapist said calmly. "I would like to speak with Jasper Yuta alone. Please lock the door on your way out, gentlemen. I'll give you the usual signal to inform you that the session is over, so you can unlock the door."

The therapist was adamant with his instructions and Jasper actually waved goodbye to the two smugly, actually sticking his tongue out in a childish manner.
There were no cameras in the room due to privacy laws, but there was a panic button, so if anything happened, the interns could enter and stabilize the situation if it was pressed. There had only been one time they had to do so, and that was when Jasper refused to take his medicine and attacked the therapist. Since then, they watched him take his meds every time.

When the door slammed shut, Jasper smirked, but he kept looking at the door, while the therapist sat down. "Come Jasper, have a seat. Let's have a conversion," he said. "I'm eager to begin this session."

Jasper turned around, looked at the room, eying places for anything possible to use as a weapon. But then relented with the idea. He then looked at the therapist. He brushed his dark hair back with a hand. He had had not had a haircut in months and it was getting very long, but the staff would not allow him to tie it up with anything for fear of it being used against them.

Jasper remained standing near the door. "You're not the regular therapist," he said.

"My name is Dr. Stanley Wallace. I'm American, but I also speak Japanese, among other languages: German, French, and some Spanish. The regular therapist is sick and I offered to fill in. I've stepped in a couple of times in this institution, but this is the first time I am seeing you. I was told—instructed would be a better term for it—to read your file and to thoroughly understand it carefully."

Jasper folded his arms across his chest. "Wise precaution," he said smugly. "So, you know who I am and what I can do to you then, huh? I've been shuffled off to a lot of institutions, this one not being the worse but erstwhile not the best either. But every one of them had one thing in common, they all hated me."

Dr. Wallace crossed his legs comfortably, one leg over the other, and his arms settled on other arm of the chair. It was clear a sign that he was relaxed. "Your offences are lengthy, including multiple assault charges on other residents, attacks on staff members, and one account of sexual deviancy with a new resident—who had just been transferred to this institution just last year."

Jasper dropped his arms. He'd give this therapist a chance. "I'm an adult, and so was he. And whether he told it differently—it was consensual. This is a male only institution and they don't allow conjugal visits like other prisons. There's only so much I can do on my own before it becomes boring. I needed release from the stress of this place. I had to get my rocks polished somehow and he gave me the opportunity. I didn't mind he was a guy."

"Please refrain from using pejorative slang, it's insulting to the victim. So, you decided to rape a fellow resident because you felt frustrated?" Dr. Wallace paused for a moment. "It says in your file that you are straight, but you decided to have homoerotic sex with another resident in the shower. You made him bleed and he attempted suicide twice after that."

"Three times," Jasper said.

"Twice," the doctor corrected. "The third time he succeeded."

Jasper shrugged. "His loss, not mine. I got what I needed at the time."

He crossed the floor and decided to take a seat on the couch next to the therapist. The couch was softer than when he remembered the last time he was here. He bounced on the cushion and decided to play around a little, like a kid on a trampoline. And Dr. Wallace didn't stop him. The other therapist would have immediately scolded him and told him to sit properly.

"Having fun, Jasper?"

Jasper stopped and eyed the therapist when Dr. Wallace sounded a bit too condescending for his liking.

He sat back in the couch and crossed his legs much like the therapist.

It was observed that a lot of intelligent people crossed their legs in this fashion, not because it looked smart but it was the most comfortable for them, as it was for him.

There was one resident at the institution that liked to crouch on a chair instead of sitting on it like a monkey. He had an eccentric personality, and spent a lot of time alone, but he also liked flinging his faeces at people.

So, other than himself, the "eccentric resident" was the second person here that people didn't bother.

When Jasper appeared settled, Dr. Wallace reached behind his chair and brought something out. It was a sketch book. And immediately Jasper's jaw tightened, and so did much of his body. He uncrossed his legs. "Where did you get that?"

"From your room," Dr. Wallace said. "I was given permission to borrow it for the session."

"That's an invasion of my privacy! What's in there is for my eyes and mine alone!"

"I've already taken a look through it, Jasper." Dr. Wallace flipped through the sketch book. "You're a very good artist. And for little or no training on depth or humanly form, your sketches are quite remarkable. He stopped on one page, said, "Who is this?"

Jasper's lip jilted slightly and he eyed the therapist with an uncomfortable stare. Dr. Wallace didn't seem fazed. The page was open to the sketch of a young boy with shaded hair in pencil. He enjoyed sketching in his room. It was the one thing, less reading, and pondering about how his life could have been, that he was allowed to do freely. The sketch book was filled with similar pictures of the same boy, but this one, Jasper felt was the best. He was surprised the therapist had zoned in on this one in particular.

"You took something that didn't belong to you, doctor," Jasper said coldly. "That is rude."

"So is not answering my question, Jasper. Is this someone from your past, someone you knew?"

"You've read my file. You tell me." He eyed the therapist with a cold stare, but then drifted his gaze to the sketch. A fist clenched at his side. Jasper knew who the boy was, and considered him his mortal enemy. But it was a picture of the last time he'd seen him.

"Very well," the therapist said, and then flipped through the sketch book some more. He flipped through so quickly that Jasper felt like he was mocking each sketch with every turnover. He came to another one of his best sketches, Jasper thought, and turned it over. "Again, who is this boy? I want to hear his name from your lips." It sounded more like an order than a request.

"Do you think I am a pedophile, doctor? Just because I like to draw little, teenage boys?"

"I never said that. In fact, the coordinator at this institution has informed me of exactly who this may be, and one boy, in fact."

"Then why ask me a semi-rhetorical question, doctor?"

Dr. Wallace paused, then folded the sketch book in his lap. "Have you been taking your medicine, Jasper?"

Jasper cocked his head, then looked up at a ceiling. Due to privacy laws, there were no cameras allowed in the therapy rooms, but there was a panic button hidden on the floor near the therapist's chair. It was just underneath the chair. He knew this, because it had already been used once during one of Jasper's therapy sessions. He looked back at the man. "I have, and I'm watched every time I do. But they are garbage and taste like cardboard. I'm not sick."

"There are many different types of mental illness, Jasper. Medicines are specialized to combat each symptom, some work in conjunction with others for maximum effect. You file says you take five different medicines a day and one of them is to control rage. You tried to kill this little boy six years ago, didn't you? After you cleverly escaped an institution for mental illnesses. You're highly gifted, so you were able to by-pass the building's systems. You tried to take revenge for your father's incarceration, didn't you?"

Jasper crossed his legs again. He felt unusually calm despite the subject matter. "It was a case of mistaken identity, I'm better now. But for the record, the police arrested the wrong person. My father didn't do anything wrong, and he is—was—certainly not The Child Butcher of Japan. That non-de-plume belonged to someone else, someone who is still out there."

"The abductions and killings ceased when Yoma Yuta, your father, was captured; he even confessed, but stated he was 'freeing the children's souls from damnation'. He subsequently died in a mental institution for the criminally insane by way of suicide about a year ago, hanging himself."

"Is this a therapy session or an interrogation, doctor? If you know all this, why ask me?"

Dr. Wallace adjusted his glasses with a middle finger at the bridge.

There was a few tense moments of silence. Jasper figured the man was deciding to go a different route. Jasper had been subjected to enough of these sessions that he knew this man was an amateur. He failed to concede to the cardinal rule of therapy: let the patient talk, let the patient free pent up feelings and frustration, and never tell the patient how he should feel by bringing up personal history, so then the therapist could ask other, more personal questions. It was all about information taking, and instead of Wallace gathering valuable information on Jasper, it was the therapist whom Jasper was collecting data on.

"Okay," Wallace reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and brought out a pen and a small notepad, and said, "Tell me, what sort of man was your father? When you were with him, what kind of person was he to you? Was he a loving father?"

What sort of person was he to him? Classic family question, Jasper realized. It was to get him to reveal his ID and Ego, and then to label him one thing or another. There was nothing unusual in the relationship and he considered all the accusations against his father were falsified to suit an agenda. The question was to reveal his feelings and designed to breakthrough his barriers. But he was smarter than that. And when he looked at Dr. Wallace waiting for an answer, he knew the man had made an error in judgment.

"No, I don't think I want to talk to you anymore. You disappoint me. This session is over. Please return my sketch book now."

He leaned over, reaching for his book. But the therapist didn't react quickly enough and Jasper gabbed his pen instead, and plunged deep into the therapist's throat, so he couldn't cry out. Then he pushed the chair back, so Wallace couldn't press the panic button either. Blood sputtered out from the wound and Wallace croaked out his last breath before dying in the chair, his body going limp.

Jasper rummaged through Wallace's jacket and found his cell phone. Mistake number two. He must not have read the policy that all personal items were to be locked away and collected later, so the residents could not use them against them. Jasper smiled at the dead therapist and then tapped on his phone. "What a fool you are, doctor. No password? Don't you know this is the age of cyber-warfare where anything can be hacked and used against you?"

He went to the personal message section and typed in a phone number, then typed in a short message. He just hoped the number was still active. The last time he phoned or messaged this number was six years ago, the last time he had escaped an institution. In fact, the person at the other end of the number had actually helped him escape. He pressed SEND.

Visiting the internet, he typed in a name, and curiously enough, the very first search cited was of the person he was looking for.

There was also a picture, very similar to that that was in his sketch book, the face was branded into his memory, and a sports article, whereas, Light Yagami had won the Japan Junior Tennis Championship at age nine, showed.

He searched further, and found more up-to-date information on him—when he had graduated at the top of his class in high school and was one of two students who recited the welcome speech at Toho University, that was written in someone's personal blog who was attending the same university. In the same blog, in a later entry, it also said that Light Yagami had been absent lately, and had been for a couple of months, without explanation, and people wondered why.

The information on the internet was astounding since the last time he visited, and so easily accessible, and free. He wasn't allowed to use a computer at the institution for fear that he might make contact with some of his old friends.

With more in-depth searching, he also learned that when he typed in Yagami, he found that Light's father was the Chief Superintendent at the NPA—the National Police Force.

But he already knew that. Soichiro Yagami was the man who had shot his father, bursting into the slaughter house room with his gun blazing to save his son, shooting his father in the leg.

Yagami then turned his gun on him—telling him to freeze or die.

It was how he was caught, and then taken away with his father.

No, former Chief now, he resigned his position. His current position was not noted.

When Jasper looked further down the search engine list, other searches popped up connected to the letters NPA, and they referred to the notorious mass murderer Kira—who was all the talk in Japan recently. Kira murdered criminals, and so far, he had killed hundreds. There was nowhere they could hide, according the information he had read—nothing and nowhere was off limits.

He had a thought, and dug deeper, and cross-referenced when Kira first made his appearance, and his own father's death, and found a correlation. Kira was active when his father killed himself in his cell. The wheels of his mind turned, in fact, they spun around in a fiery spin filed with plumes of smoke.

Despite what everyone said, he knew full well who his father was, and what he had done; the media had been all over it. There was no doubt in his mind now that Kira had murdered his father, albeit by supernatural means.

He looked at the dead therapist, after taking his wallet, stealing any money and credit cards, and said, "To answer your question, doctor. I love my father. And now that I know the truth of what happened to him, Kira will pay for murdering him."

He looked at the clock on the wall, there was still forty-five minutes left in his therapy session.

This was the perfect opportunity to put his escape plan into action, one that he had been planning for quite sometime. He had spent weeks getting more familiar with the institution layout, memorizing things like locations, patrols and checkpoints. It wasn't Fort Knox, but it was designed that keycards and fobs were needed to move through doors, and he had secretly stolen both, and presently had them on him. However, they would no doubt be deactivated by now after they were seen missing, so he would have to steal more.

After killing the therapist, he had a brilliant idea, but he would need to work fast to implement it.

At the main reception desk, a woman with several years of expertise in such things manned it, when the telephone rang. It was a call from an outside line, and the name and number came up private.

She let it ring twice, then picked up the receiver, recited the name of the institution, and then finished with: "How may I help you?" A man with a gruff sounding voice with a dominating tone was on the other end and he asked for resident information. "I'm sorry, sir. But patient information cannot be released to unauthorized persons over the phone. It's against policy. Are you a family member?"

"Who is this? Where is the person I normally speak to?" He recited the name.

Just then, a large male intern was walking down the hall, and then stopped at the desk. He noticed she was having some difficulty and asked what was wrong. She covered the receiver with a hand, then said that a rude sounding man was asking about a resident, but she couldn't give him any information as it was against policy. "He claims to be a law enforcement agent, a Soichiro Yagami."

The intern nodded, and asked for the phone. "You wouldn't know him, as you're only filling in for the normal receptionist who is on vacation. This is a weekly call. I'll talk to him." He took the call. He recited his name, and then said, "Mr. Yagami, glad to hear from you again…Yes, Jasper Yuta is perfectly fine…Yes…He's currently in a therapy session at the moment…Yes…I can assure you, you have nothing to worry about…Yes, I'm glad to dissuade your worries. Thank you for your call."

With assurances made, the call ended on a positive note. The intern handed back the receiver to the receptionist, filled her in, and then began flirting with her, who seemed welcome to his advances.

To be continued...