Hell's Detective: Murder

by N. J. Bamford

  England, a vast island that is like a world of its own outside the continent of Europe. The royal family lives in London, the capital city that most of the populace live and conduct business. Many nobles own large properties and live in small castles upon them. The nobles collect taxes from the commoners living upon their properties and assert their rules upon them. In exchange, the nobles protect the commoners from bandits and assist them in the trade of goods. Many nobles are kind and treat the commoners well, but others...

  “My Lord,” a soldier said as he bows to a young man dressed in the finest of clothes upon a throne with two other soldiers by his side, “We have brought the first prisoner of the day for judgment upon your request.”

  “Send him in,” the young man replies with a wave of his hand, a maid giving him a glass of bourbon.

  “Very well,” the soldier stands and turns towards a pair of wooden doors, “Let the prisoner in.”

  The doors open and two soldiers enter the room, dragging a person in chains behind them. The person could barely stand from a wound on his leg that is old and clotted with dirt and blood, his clothes torn and dirty from being beaten. He had only been fed a bowl of gruel, his throat crying in need of water or even the bourbon in the hands of the lord that will determine his fate today. He is dragged into the center of the room, the two soldiers standing by each of his sides. The person gives no resistance, but his body is trembling as his eyes meet with the cold and neutral eyes of the young man on the throne.

  “Scott Rydian,” the young man declares for all to hear, “You have been charged with stealing Alan McKinson’s crops. You were caught by Alan’s young daughter and you had assaulted her while attempting to escape before my soldiers captured you. How do you plea?”

  “Please Lord Babil,” Scott pants harshly, eyes full of pain and fear, “It was only a couple of vegetables! My family is ill, and my crops failed this year! And I only pushed little Abigail while running away! She stabbed me with a pitchfork! See my leg for proof!”

  “And you think these excuses are reason enough to escape punishment for your crimes,” Lord Babil questions the prisoner with a glare, “You try to lessen the well being of your neighbor for your benefit alone. You are being tested by God to see if your faith will waver in the face of misfortune. Not only have you failed, but you have spat in the face of your neighbor with your sins.”

  “My Lord, please-“

  “I have heard enough,” the young lord concludes, standing up as he places his glass on a stand and grabs a large broadsword, “Your sentence is death.”

  “Please spare me,” Scott pleads in fear as he is forced onto his knees, tears falling from his eyes, “My family... my family needs me! My son is too young to care for them! Who will take care of my family?!”

  “They are in God’s hands now,” Lord Babil answers and swings his broadsword. The shining blade slices through Scott’s neck in one fluid movement, silencing the trembling prisoner forever. Scott’s head falls upon the ground, rolling to a nearby wall. Blood sprays from the stump upon the ground and Lord Babil’s pants, the two soldiers the only ones keeping the headless body from falling to the ground in a heap of flesh beginning to cool.

  “Have the undertaker come to collect the body for burial and inform the Rydian Family of their loss,” Lord Babil commands his servants, “Clean this mess up before bringing in the next prisoner, and bring me a rag. The blood will dull my blade if it is not clean.”

  The soldiers collect Scott’s head and drag his corpse away, the maids scrubbing the ground and their lord’s legs as a butler hands Lord Babil a rag. The young lord wipes his broadsword clean of the blood and stares at his image in the shiny metal, a twisted smirk upon his face.

  * * * *

  Jamerson City High School is a large building situated on a block off of its own with a sports field in the back and a parking lot on one side. It is located five blocks away from the suburb’s business district and at the beginning of the family homes’ district, in which many of the students living near the school can walk there within a short period of time. School buses arrive with students living a few miles away from the school, letting them off to meet with their friends before the start of their classes. Faculty and staff park their cars in the side parking lot and head inside, finishing their quick breakfast or reviewing notes from the night before as they get ready for a new day of work.

  John closes his locker and walks down the hallway to class, backpack full of textbooks and notebooks. Several students greet him as he walks by, and he greets back with a kind smile. The students return to their friends’ conversation once the young man has passed them. None of the students that greet John every day want to be his friend due to him being the secretary of the Student Council. An incident with another member of the Student Council a few years ago has left many wary of the members and fear of the same incident happening to them. John is a good member of the Student Council, always looking out for his fellow students, so he knows that what the students are feeling isn’t personal towards him. It didn’t matter to him anyways. They would not understand him or his daily life. He is okay on his own... with his only childhood friend.

  “Good morning John,” a young woman with fiery red hair and shining brown eyes greets as said young man walks up to her desk, “Did you remember to bring the list of extracurricular activities today?”

  “I have it in my locker Daisy,” John replies as he sits down at his desk behind her, “I have a meeting with the Student Council today, so I will go over it with them for the festival.”

  “I just finished the flyers for the Myth Café last night,” Daisy Gulligan said proudly as she shows her old childhood friend a piece of paper from her back pack, “What do you think? It took me a bit to work on the picture inserts, and the guys running the copier shop said they'll give me a good deal by ordering in bulk.”

  “Um...” John tries to find the right words to say as his eyes roam the italic wording and the picture border, “It could use less demons...”

  “What,” the fiery young woman exclaims angrily, pulling the flyer away abruptly and looking it over, “I thought you of all people would appreciate such fine art! I put a lot of hard work into this! Do you know how hard it is to find pictures of these demons that wasn’t too cartoonish or eating some guy’s intestines?!”

  “Most people see demons as Satan occult symbols,” John informs while trying to calm his friend down, “They are used to seeing fairies and mermaids in myths and fairy tales.”

  “That’s boring! And mermaids are too overrated! Do you know how many remakes there are of The Little Mermaid alone?! Hundreds! And people keep changing the ending to make it a happy live story! It isn’t! The story is about unrequited love, of gambling everything on a shot at love and losing! Why can't they keep it that way?!"

  “Forget I said anything,” the young man laughs nervously, hoping that she does so before they draw a crowd. Sometimes, he forgets how much Daisy takes myths and mythological creatures seriously. Not to mention her obsession with demonology...

  “Settle down class,” everyone looks up to see their homeroom teacher walking into the classroom and they quietly take their seats, “Before we begin today’s first lesson, we have a new student joining our class today. I’m hopeful that all of you will give him a warm Jamerson High welcome and assist him with any problems he may have.”

  “A new student,” one of the students whispers to his friend.

  “This late in the semester,” another student whispers.

  “I wonder where he’s from.”

  “I hope he’s cute!”

  “Do you think he has a girlfriend?”

  “I wonder what he’s like,” Daisy asks in wonder. John gives no comment but a shrug, for he believes that gossip is a waste of time and causes unnecessary rumors. So many people’s lives destroyed by those stupid enough to believe what everyone says without getting all the facts straight. He refuses to say anything that would ruin an i
nnocent person’s life without knowing anything about him or her.

  The young man looks up to see a tall young man with slightly spiky brown hair walk into the classroom. Sharp hazel eyes observes each of the students with indifference, lingering for a brief moment upon John before continuing his observation. John feels a slight sense of strangeness he moment their eyes met before the new student breaks eye contact with him. What was that? He replays the moment back in his head, and decides that the feeling is probably nothing to worry about.

  “This is Richard Patrick,” the homeroom teacher introduces, “His family has moved to our great city a few days ago. Give him any assistance if he asks and make him feel welcome at our school.”

  A few of the students talk amongst themselves as the homeroom teacher instructs Richard to sit at the empty desk next to John. The mysterious new student thanks the homeroom teacher and goes to sit down. The homeroom teacher begins their first lesson of the day, but John could barely concentrate. That strange feeling from earlier is back again, and he has no explanation for it. The only thing that the young man knows, is that the feeling is coming from the young man sitting next to him.

  What could this mean?

  “Oh yes,” the homeroom teacher said suddenly, realizing that he has forgotten something, “John Cordovo, after today’s lesson, can you give Richard a tour of the school? Don’t worry, I’ll give you both a hall pass and excuse you from the rest of the afternoon classes.”

  “Eh,” John looks up in confusion, but quickly recovers before causing a scene, “Sure.”

  “I knew I can count on you,” the homeroom teacher smiles before continuing with the lesson, ignoring the slight protests from the other students that wanted to give Richard the tour. Anything to get out of classes for the afternoon.

  Richard looks at John briefly and mouths a ‘thank you’ before turning back to the chalk board. The young man knows that what the new student means is ‘Thank you for not leaving me with the over-enthusiastic students’.

  And quite frankly, John couldn't blame him.

  * * * *

  ‘It is a really nice neighborhood like the rumors have said,’ Jenne thought as she drives her dark brown Camry through the suburbs of Tsudane, located east of Jamerson City. It is a step away from the upper middle class neighborhoods, with close-to-brand new houses and lawns that appear to have been trimmed with a pair of fine scissors. Even if the private detective saves enough by taking on many jobs and cutting out many small luxuries she enjoys on occasion, she would not be able to afford living in Tsudane. The property taxes alone are outrageous, on top of how much the houses cost on the retail market.

  Jenne turns to a dead-end street that leads to a large circle of houses and stops at a yellow house with a bay window on one side and a garage on the other. She parks the car on the side street and gets out, looking at the piece of paper in one hand while holding a folder in the other.

  “Two-seven-four Pennington,” she reads off the mailbox and checks her piece of paper, “This is the right place. Seems to be the kind of neighborhood to have a neighborhood watch... that doesn’t seem to be doing a very good job.”

  Her eyes land upon a small garden underneath the bay window that appears to have been torn apart by an animal. Flowers that once thrived are struggling within uplifted dirt and soil that left tender roots exposed and the torn, dying remains of their fallen kin. A few tiny bushes are leaning to the side, the strength of their roots the only thing keeping them from falling down completely. Someone had taken great care of this garden, and someone had made certain that the garden suffers so the caretaker would suffer as well.

  ‘I doubt this is the extent of the damage,’ Jenne thought, ‘What a waste. So much time, money, and care went into this garden. Better go check with the client and see what else is in store for this case.’

  Adjusting her trench coat, she walks up to the front door and presses the door bell. A few minutes later, the door opens to reveal a man in his late thirties with tired eyes and wearing casual clothes.

  “How can I help you,” the man asks kindly, although his eyes hold a hint of suspicion and exhaustion.

  “Mr. Marius Utgama,” Jenne asks, to which the man nods, “My name is Jenne Cordovo. I am the private detective you and your wife has requested for a case.”

  “Oh yes,” Marius smiles brightly and moves aside, “Come on in. I’m so glad you’ve decided to take our case.”

  “It is my pleasure,” the private detective replies calmly as she is led to the living room and offered a seat on the couch, “I’ve read the request, so I am a bit familiar with your case. Before I can begin my investigation, have you contacted the police about the case or ever hired a private detective before?”

  “We have never hired a private detective before,” Marius answers as he sits in the loveseat, “and we did call the police beforehand. They investigated our home and the damage that was done, but they have concluded after a few weeks that the damage is too minor to warrant further investigation.”

  “Okay,” Jenne nods her understanding, “Before I begin, I am bound by law to inform all new clients that I am not a police officer, nor am I affiliate with any form of law enforcement. I cannot make arrests on your behalf or enforce the law upon others. My job is to collect information and give you the best conclusions I can come across. If I happen to catch the perp in action, I can subdue him or her, but I can only do so within their rights. Of course, I can also take pictures or video tape the perp in action and give the pictures or the tapes to you. Whatever happens after the investigation is over I am not responsible for. Please read this form and sign at the bottom if you agree to the terms and conditions of my services. The fee for my services is also listed within.”

  Marius takes the form Jenne hands him from her folder. As he is reading the neatly-printed words, the private detective observes the simple, but slightly lavished living room. She looks to her left to see a family photo sitting on a nearby lamp table, the frame done in macaroni and glitter.

  “You like,” the middle-aged man asks, a proud smile on his face, “My daughter made that in art class a few months ago. She loves art and can’t help but take simple items to make beautiful things out of them.”

  “Might be a Michelangelo in the making here,” Jenne smiles kindly, “Did you have any questions about the form you would like to ask me?”

  “Just one. If I press charges against the culprit, and the defense attorney demands I reveal the source of the information you gather for me, how do I go about that?”

  “You will have to inform the court about hiring a private detective and, if ordered to do so, you will have to contact my office to alert me of a court appearance. I am only responsible for my investigation and of the information I have obtained during the investigation, not of what you or your family’s choices or actions thereafter.”

  “Okay,” Marius nods and signs the form before handing it back to Jenne, “So, how soon can you begin?”

  “Right now,” the private detective answers as she files away her new client’s agreement form, “I will need to know when the incidents have started, a chronograph of the incidents, and a list of the damages up-to-date. If you also have any files from when the police did their investigation, I would like to see them as well.”

  “Of course,” Marius stands and walks to a nearby desk, where he pulls out a file and hands it to Jenne, “The vandalism started five months ago, a month after my family and I moved here from Philadelphia. My wife is getting treatment at the hospital for breast cancer. The doctors back at Philadelphia were fortunate enough to find the tumors quickly and had them removed, but lack the means of treatment due to the location of my employment after being transferred here. We were directed to Jamerson General Hospital and the specialists that can assist us. We decided to move due to how long the treatment is going to take, rather than me spending so much on traveling from my job to home.

  “Anyway, the first time the vandalizing happen
ed was when I went to bring the garbage bins out to the curb one morning a month after moving in. The garbage bins would be knocked over on their sides and have scratches on them. Sometimes, the garbage bags would be taken out and ripped open, garbage strewn everywhere. We thought that the culprit was stray dogs or a raccoon looking for food, but that only explains the ripped garbage bags. I placed bricks on top of the garbage bins to stop the strays from getting to the garbage bags, but the culprit managed to knock them over. I called Animal Control and they set up traps to catch the strays. They didn’t catch anything after a few days, but whoever was knocking over the garbage bins stopped and we thought nothing more of it.

  “A week later, the culprit came back. This time, he tore up my wife’s flower garden. Ann’s spent many hours on that garden when she wasn’t feeling ill from her treatments. She wouldn’t let me hire a gardener to tend to it or repair it, even after the culprit tore it up a third time. She loves that garden. It pains her every time we wake up to find it destroyed, and we had stopped trying to fix it.

  "Things escalated three weeks ago when the culprit began damaging the playground equipment I bought for my daughter. We also received these threatening letters in the mailbox. There were no return address on any of the envelopes they came in and all the letters have been printed off of a computer. The police dusted both the envelopes and the letters, but they could not find any trace of fingerprints. We received the last one over a week ago, and the bushes out front were destroyed last night. What could’ve been the worst of the damages was when the culprit tried to blow up the tool shed in the back with a homemade bomb. It turned out to be a dud.”

  “Most people would look up explosive recipes on the Internet to make bombs these days,” Jenne informs as she reads through each piece of paper in the file, “Luckily, the recipes are made by novices that don’t even know what they are doing. Still, I’m surprised that the police did not take the bomb as a serious sign. In some states, even spitting on a person is considered attempted murder.”