Buried: Mystery Series (My Murder Mysteries #2) (7 page)

There was silence, and both Monica and Laura began staring at John. The four other boys burst into laughter.

"That's not funny," said Laura. "You're all sick for laughing at such a thing!"

"He's such a weirdo!" cried Richard.

"No, he's not, said Laura, moving closer to John.

"Are you two together forever?" laughed Daniel.

Laura was outraged by now. She did not want anyone to hurt John. She was in love with him. Monica saw this, but she cared about other things too much, so she let it slip from her mind.

"Why are you standing there doing nothing, John?" Monica cried, trying to get her cousin to fight back.

John just stood there, motionless. He did not know what to do in this situation. He had never once considered or planned what to do should this situation arise in life, so he had to be spontaneous, and he stood and thought, doing nothing else.

"For once in your life, just stand up to them! And Richard, you should be ashamed of yourself!" Monica added, looking at Richard. "I thought we were friends!"

Richard continued to laugh. "I'm sure you'll get over it by tomorrow!" he said, winking at her.

The boys then decided to leave, because they were getting bored with messing around with a social outcast. When they left, Monica knew she had to do something to calm John down, so she started a new conversation.

"Anyway," said Monica, "are you thinking of coming to my friend's mother's wedding anniversary in a few days?"

"I don't know," replied Laura. "I don't really know them that well."

"I suppose, but there is also Mr. Brown's 100th birthday on the same night, so it is going to be very busy! Almost everyone in Jackson Road will turn up!"

"I'm not sure. I might be working yet!"

"You're working now?"

"Yes!" cried a proud Laura. "I think so, anyway. I've been looking for some work experience recently, and the agent helping me has found a few jobs for me. Mainly in hotels. It's something to help get me started."

"That's brilliant!" cried Monica, trying to keep talking to distract John until he had forgotten completely about what had just occurred.

John remained silent throughout the conversation, even though he was standing in between the two women.

"Anyway," said Laura, "I'd best be off!"

When Laura left, Monica started talking to John.

"Have you taken your tablets?" she asked him.

"Yes. You know I always take my tablets," replied John. "What sort of mother do you think I have if she does not allow me to take my tablets?"

"John, we've been through this..."

"And I'm telling you, my mother is not dead!"

"She is!"

"She's in the house, right now!"

Monica shook her head. She was growing increasingly worried about her cousin. "There's no talking to you, is there?" she said to him, almost crying.

John did not seem to hear. Instead, he cried, "I'm coming, Mother!" leaving Monica on her own. Monica then turned to the house and looked in the window of the bedroom where her dead aunt used to sleep. She could not believe her eyes for a second when she thought she saw the curtain move. It was only for a fraction of a second, but she knew it could not have been John because he had only been in the house a few moments. Monica thought nothing of it and went home, worried about John's welfare.

Several days later, the body of Josh Davis was discovered in the woods. Then, two days after that, Steven Burck, and two days after that, Daniel Gibson, and five days after that, Richard Cold. All four had been knifed to death, and all had been discovered in the woods, just outside of town. The police had absolutely no leads at all. There was no DNA evidence, and a few statements could not solve the murder, so their files were packed in a box and put with the rest of the unsolved murders. Of course, people had their theories, but no evidence to support them. Everyone else in the world forgot about the murders, except the people of Minot. No-one ever dared to speak of the murders, because many people in the development knew the families of the victims rather well, so it affected them personally. Although everyone wanted to know who the murderer was, not one detail emerged about the character of the killer. No-one knew anything about this person other than their local name – the “Minot Hacker”.

Chapter 2

It was a dreary November afternoon in 2012, and the team and I had finished for the day. It was another boring day as usual: going out to investigate a murder, waiting
for a post mortem, looking around the crime scene for evidence, and finding the evidence. Nothing else was involved in my job. Sometimes I would interview the killers, but that was usually done by another person. I was sick of my job already, and I was only three months in!

I was sitting at my desk, like the others, having a conversation before packing up my things to leave for the night. However, we were not allowed to leave the building for another five minutes, so we decided to chat to pass the time. I had four other colleagues.

The first was Miranda. She was in her thirties, and looked the most professional of all of us. She had long, black hair (which she sometimes tied) and wore very little make-up, although she did not need to wear any. She wore the same business-like clothes every day, and she was determined to solve any murder that came her way. She was a bit like me, in a way, but Miranda had more experience, although I could not tell which of us was the be
st detective. Miranda often talked about her achievements, although she did not brag about them. One of the pictures on her desk was of her winning an award for something, but I never knew what. She was friendly, but she was not the person to be enemies with.

The other woman on the team, aside from me, was Patricia Harrison. She was deputy head of the team, and she looked in her late fifties. She was a rather plump woman with short, blonde hair. If you listened to her speak, you would never guess that she had done so well in life, because she sounded like a stereotypical northern housewife.

Then there was Graham Mitchell. He was originally from New York and had lived in North Dakota for about thirty years. He was in his late forties, even pushing fifty, and he was very tall, with fairly long, brown hair. He was obviously a fun-loving person and always tried to lighten the mood slightly. However, he seemed to remain in the background sometimes when I was partnered up with him for a few murder investigations. Perhaps he was not confident enough, or perhaps he was not cut out to be a detective. I had nothing against him, but I just thought that everyone else on the team was more intelligent than him

Finally, there was the boss, Clive Mitchell. I sometimes got confused because there were two people with the same last name on the team, but since we had to address
the boss as D.I. Mitchell, we just decided to call Graham, Graham, and he was more than happy with that. I struggled to form a reasonable opinion of the boss – he seemed to have no personality at all. I rarely spoke to him, only when I needed to. I had never actually had a proper conversation with him. He was always very dull and depressing to be around. Perhaps that was just his way, and perhaps he liked it like that. I think that everyone else on the team felt the same way, because they hardly spoke to him either. I had heard that he had a family, so it was possible that there were problems there. I never found out, though.

Just before we went, I decided to ask the others about their past experiences before entering this job, because although I had worked with them almost every day for three months, I’d hardly had a chance to chat with them, because being a detective was hard work, and there were very few breaks during the day.

"So," I asked everyone on the team, excluding Clive Mitchell, who was sitting in his office reading something, "what did you all do before this job?"

"Well, Tammy," begun Miranda, "I was always a police officer, from my early twenties. I worked my way up since then. It’s always been my passion, solving crime."

"I see what you mean, but I wasn't always passionate about crime solving," I replied.

"No?" asked Miranda, an intrigued look on her face.

"No. It was only a few years ago when I solved my first murder."

"But you weren't a detective then?" Patricia said, joining in the conversation.

"No. I was only seventeen at the time," I replied, trying not to look too proud of myself.

"I think I heard about that," said Patricia. "And I’ve also seen you in the newspaper a few times. You were the one who solved the Alexandra Cross case, weren't you?"

"I was," I said, feeling rather modest about my accomplishments.

"Well, there's nothing that complicated in this job," said Graham, who had also read about the Alexandra Cross case. "It's just the same old thing here."

"What about you, Graham?" I asked. "What did you do before you came here?"

"I was a police officer for a lot of years," said Graham, "and I just worked my way up from there."

"Can I ask you something?" said Miranda, in a friendly tone of voice.

"Fire away," I replied, knowing what Miranda was about to say.

"I don't mean to be rude or anything, but how did you get the job without becoming a police officer first?"

"I knew you were going to ask that," I laughed. "Well, I was fairly lucky, actually. I got my degree in criminology and I joined the police force for a couple of months, and then the boss just went up to me one day and said, 'do you want to be promoted to detective?' I was so shocked. I thought it took years as a police officer to become a detective."

"It usually does, said Miranda, trying not to sound resentful or jealous of me for becoming a detective so quickly.

"They must have seen your potential," said Graham. "I mean, they must have known how good you were at solving murders."

"Yes," said Patricia, trying to move the conversation on. "Anyway, like Graham said, this job is so boring. There’s nothing exciting, is there?"

"I love a challenge!" I cried, desperate for something unique to come along. "I'm sick of these gang killings, day in, day out. Can't they just all make peace?"

"Then we'd have no job!" laughed Patricia, switching the television on. "Here's something for you to watch."

It was the six o'clock news. I had not noticed this morning as I went to work what day it was. On the television the newsreader said, "Today is the twentieth anniversary of the first killing in Minot. Twenty years ago today, Josh Davis was brutally murdered in the woods on the outskirts of Minot, a small town in North Dakota."

"That's near us, isn't it?" asked Graham.

"Just a couple of miles away," replied Patricia.

The newsreader continued to speak. "To this day, the killer, known as the 'Minot Hacker' has never been caught, and the families of the victims are still fighting for justice. However, it looks as though the killer will never be found, as there has been no DNA evidence to link anyone to the murders."

"It's so awful," I said, feeling sorry for the relatives of the victims.

"It boils my blood!" cried Miranda. "Just knowing that the killer is still out there makes me feel sick!"

"The killer might be dead now," said Patricia, trying to reassure Miranda.

"It's a shame there's nothing we can do for them. We have no leads whatsoever. Their files are just packed away in a box somewhere, like so many others," added Miranda.

"Anyway, it's time to go," Graham said, before he got too down.

I was the last person to leave the building, since everyone else was so eager to get home. Even the boss left before me. I suppose that was a good thing, since it showed that he trusted me. I took my time – I had nothing to look forward to. I was going to call my mum, and that was it. Even though we lived in the same town, we were a fair distance apart, so I did not really get to see her too often, because I had lots of work to do. Still, I was proud of my job and it made me happy, so it was worth it.

After I packed my things and put on my coat, I was finally ready to leave. However, as I put my coat on, I saw somebody enter the room – a person who I’d never seen before in my life. He was of average height and had grey hair. It was very difficult to tell how old he was, because when I first looked at him, he seemed rather young, but after a couple of seconds, he looked very drained and ill. His face was as white as a sheet. He was dressed all in black – black trousers, black coat, and even a black bowler hat, which he took off when he came into the room. This mysterious figure looked extremely apprehensive about something, but I couldn’t tell what.

"Can I help you?" I asked him, trying to get more information about his character.

He tried to speak, but could not. When he opened his mouth, his voice trembled.

"Y...y...y..no... I don't know!" he cried.

"Take your time," I said. I was beginning to get nervous myself, and I didn't know why. There was something odd about this man and I wanted to know what.

"Well..."

"Have you come here to report a crime?" I asked him, seeing that the man was in shock from something.

"No," the man replied quickly. "Well, yes.”

I was very intrigued and confused at this point. I really wanted to know what he wanted by now.

"Have you just seen something?" I asked him, "or has somebody just done something to you?"