This is my entry for the second week of PersonWhoPlaysMinecraft's Weekly Writing Challenge. Warning: this story deals with themes of violence and contains graphic descriptions of physical injuries. Reader discretion is advised.

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We all, for better or for worse, grow up with this innate sense of justice, which is instilled in us by well-meaning parents only trying to protect us from the horrors of the world. We expect that criminals, the “bad guys” of society, are brought to justice and that the forces of good prevail over evil. We grow up with television shows where gung-ho cops bust into criminal hideouts and heroically bust drug traffickers, arsonists, and murderers.

But in truth, all the feel-good media, all this falsified justice simply hides us from the depravity out there in the world, all the violent criminals who are never caught, all the injustices that are simply swept under the rug for personal gain.

I was no different. I, too, grew up under the impression that justice was cut and dry, that those who deserved punishment would get their just retribution, and good would triumph. But as I grew up, learning about cases like the Black Dahlia and the Zodiac Killer proved to me that it wasn’t as simple as I’d thought it was. It was also part of the reason I’d pursued a career as a police detective, so I could be part of the machinery to bring these violent killers to justice. But, no amount of misplaced optimism or boneheaded braveness could prepare me for the very first file thrown down in front of me as a detective.


“There’s a what up by Crickshaw Creek?” I asked, incredulously, a silent Are you sure? following in my thoughts.

“An unidentified corpse, detective,” said the officer on the other end of the line. “You’ll definitely want to come check this out.”

I had only recently moved here from Boston, where I’d served as a detective for less than a year before caving to the pressure of holding a high-stress job in an unfamiliar place. I’d moved back here, to this sleepy small town, chasing a dream of being away from the big-name crimes and dealing with much smaller problems. It was close to where I’d grown up, after all. However, it seemed that my propensity for catching strange and shocking cases had even followed me here.

I took the opportunity to pick my jaw up off the floor and flick on the lights and sirens and gun the throttle. I took a deep breath. I had done investigations on worse crimes than this in the big city, I would be just fine on this one. I only had to keep the doubts from creeping back into my head. This was the time I’d told myself I’d prove myself.

When I stepped out of the car, the biting cold of the oncoming winter seemed to eat all the way past my thick layers of warm clothes and into my bones, leaving behind an unshakable chill. The gray skies were indifferent and apathetic, the clouds weighing down the atmosphere like a wet blanket. Immediately after I crossed threshold onto the trailhead at Crickshaw Creek, I felt a sort of inexplicable unease settle over me.

In the warmer months, Crickshaw Creek was unrivaled in its beauty. The creek itself flowed gently down from the foothills of the mountains, carrying water that was so beautifully clear it may as well have just been glass. Now, though, the creek had partially frozen over, leaving behind jagged edges of thin ice, like shards of broken glass above the sickly flow of water. The trees that were once full and vibrant stretched their thin, grotesque limbs skyward like probing fingers, bony and witchlike.

“Where to?” I asked as I approached the officer at the police line.

“Good to see you, Detective,” the man said, gesturing for me to follow him. As I climbed up the trail, closer and closer to what I presumed was the crime scene, an acrid smell filled my nostrils.

“What’s burning?” I asked, coughing softly.

The officer was silent, as if to say, You’ll see. When we arrived at the top of a rocky outcropping, the officer stopped and pointing to a small gap in between the bushes. “After you, Detective.”

Even through my thick gloves, I could feel the sharp ends of the branches prick my fingers as I pushed through. I could see why a murderer would find this sort of place useful as a dumping spot for a body. As I pushed through the underbrush, there came a small clearing just large enough for the body that lay within it.

Truly, nothing can prepare you for seeing a dead body. There are some who believe that they are impervious to the traumatic effects of coming face to face with death—those are the same ones who suppress their every emotion, hide behind a shield of cold apathy. Those are also the ones who fall the hardest when they are truly tested. I’ve found that it was better to be honest with myself than try to pretend to be someone I’m not. And so, even after having been on the job for a few years, I still had to pause to compose myself every time I saw the lifeless body of another human being.

Laying before me were the charred remains of a person, completely unidentifiable from the severity of the burns. The figure’s blackened skin was still emitting an unmistakable scent of a non-wood fire, like gasoline or propane. Strewn around them were a collection of paraphernalia, which I made a mental note of taking a closer look at later. For now, the body was my top priority. Rather eerily, they were lying on their back, arms crossed over their chest. “Posed,” I muttered under my breath.

“So it’s not a suicide,” remarked the officer next to me. I nodded in affirmation, even though it was slightly ridiculous to think of someone committing suicide by setting themselves on fire in the middle of the woods.

I noticed something underneath the neck of the person. Carefully, with gloved hands, I pulled it out from underneath them. As I did, I was hit by an unmistakable scent. “Gasoline.” I said to no one in particular, placing the half-charred item in an evidence bag.

I turned my attention to the other items strewn around the person. In close proximity, there were a few plastic water bottles, some spare warm clothes—women’s clothes, judging by the style—and a watch and a pair of earrings. Why those wouldn’t have been on the woman’s body was beyond my understanding. There was something odd about the whole thing, but I just couldn’t seem to put my finger on what.

“Officer,” my thoughts were interrupted as another investigating officer approached the one that was still hovering over me. “We haven’t been able to find evidence of a campsite in the vicinity, nor up or down the trailhead. There’re also no signs of struggle, as far as we can tell. There’s been a lot of activity recently, though, so it’s hard to say for sure.”

“So perhaps this woman was killed elsewhere and then brought here, posed, and then set on fire,” I remarked.

The officer looked at me. “Perhaps, but it’s too early to say for sure.”

I nodded in agreement. “The medical examiner should give us a better idea of what’s really going on here. Let’s see for now if we can get a positive ID on this person.”

I turned my attention back to the body. It seemed that the underside of the body, the woman’s backside, had not been burned, likely because gasoline had been poured on top of her to burn her. I reached a hand underneath, looking for any sign of a wallet or billfold that would a clue about who she was. Despite my two or three sweeps, I wasn’t able to find anything.

I looked around to see if there was anything else that could help me. My eyes alighted on a small black purse that was lying on the ground. The strap had been slightly burned, probably too close to the fire. I quickly dug through it to see if there was a wallet or anything, even a ticket stub or a credit card. Curiously, there was nothing but an umbrella and small, rectangular plastic case. I opened the case, but there was nothing inside.

I stood still for a moment, filling with a mixture of defeat and shock. It was rapidly becoming clear that whoever did this was very meticulous about not leaving any traces of evidence behind. It was now only a question of just what lengths they would go to.

I turned back toward the officers who were now standing around the body. “Who found the body? Are they still around?” I called. A couple officers pointed off over the crest, where a man and his daughter were being interviewed. I made my way over.

The officer taking their statement had just finished writing when I approached. She flipped her notepad closed as I approached and gestured at the two in front of her. “Hey sweetie, the nice detective’s gonna talk to you and daddy, okay?” she said to the poor little girl, who looked so incredibly scared. I couldn’t even imagine what it’d be like to see something like what she saw at her age.

“It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart,” I told the girl, almost pathetically. I was never the best with children. “Sir, could I get your name please?” I asked the man.

“Gerald Laarinen, detective.”

“Great, Mr. Laarinen, can you describe how you discovered the body?” I said.

“I was just up here taking a little hike with my daughter before the snow blocked off the trail. Her mom was taking a self-care day today so I told her I’d take little Emi here out with me. We were just walking up this ridge when Emi slipped and took a tumble down past the bushes…”

“Is she okay?” I asked, concerned. The branches down there were quite sharp.

Mr. Laarinen nodded. “She’s fine, just a couple scratches, but she’s a trooper.” He gave the girl a half-hearted pat on the back, clearly still too flustered by the whole situation.

He continued. “Anyway, I started to go after her and I heard her scream, so I was afraid she’d burned herself or something. I smelled the smoke so I thought there was someone camping out here that forgot to put out their campfire or something.”

“And this was when you two found the body?” I confirmed.

He nodded. “And I called the police immediately,” he added.

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Laarinen.” I scribbled my phone number down on my notepad and tore off the page to give to him. “You can call me if you or Emi need anything, okay?”

He smiled. “Thank you, detective.”

Sometimes, it is the oases of hope and kindness among the deserts of despair that can be the most impactful for people. I knew from experience that anyone would take finding a dead body really hard, especially someone as young and impressionable as Emi. My job was to find out who did this, sure, but it was especially important to preserve this young girl’s innocent view of the world. Justice had to prevail this time, and I would stop at nothing for that to happen.

My thoughts were interrupted by a voice calling in the distance. “Detective!”

I turned. An officer was climbing over the crest of the ridge. “Detective, we need you to come down and see this,” he said, panting from the effort of quickly scrambling up the loose stones.

I followed him back to the body. Two more detectives were taking photos. “Did you find something on her?” I asked.

“That’s the thing,” the officer started, still out of breath, “There’s absolutely nothing. See for yourself. All the tags are removed, literally anything that would give any shred of evidence.”

“What?” I asked, incredulously.

The officer just nodded and gestured toward the body. I knelt down and felt around with my hands. He was right. There was nothing. All the tags were cut off. I looked around at the other paraphernalia strewn around.

I had known that there was something odd, and I had finally figured out what it was. Everything, from the water bottles to the umbrella in the purse, had been wiped clean of all tags, all branding, all identifying information. Every trace of this woman had been wiped clean.

Suddenly, my fingers made contact with something small and rectangular in the woman’s back pocket. I pulled it out. It was a small piece of paper.

Tamám shud.

I froze. It was a short phrase in Persian. It is ended. It comes from the last page of a book of poetry from the 12th century, the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyám. However, it was not so much the content of the message that was most chilling. Rather, it was the connection to another case, one that had gone down in history as one of the most mysterious murders in modern times.

In December of 1948, a mysterious man was found dead on Somerton Beach near Glenelg, Australia. While the man seemed at first just like a drunkard who had died overnight, a search of the body revealed a strange assortment of foreign-made items and clothes that had all tags removed. No identification was found anywhere on the body, and even his dental records couldn’t be matched with anyone. An autopsy of the man found that he had surely been poisoned, though no traces of any poison were found in his system. He, too, had been left with a small piece of paper with the same Persian phrase printed on it.

I knew that whoever had done this also had knowledge of the Somerton man case. However, this did give me some clues on where to proceed. Invigorated, I stood up. “Officer!” I called, pointing at the nearest person. “Come with me, we’re going back down the trailhead to see if there are any extra cars in the parking lot that don’t belong to the witnesses.”

“Sure, detective, but may I ask why?” the man replied.

“The copy of the Rubaiyat in the Somerton case was found in a nearby car. I suspect whoever did this may also have left a car behind with a copy.”

He cocked his head, evidently not understanding. I waved my hand, then gestured for him to follow me down.

Sure enough, there were two cars parked in front of the trailhead. “You’re sure there was no one on the trail?” I asked the officer. After a quick radio call, he confirmed. “We canvassed the entire area, but there were no traces of anyone.”

I nodded. “I figured. Which one belongs to the Laarinens?”

The officer pointed to the silver SUV parked at the end of the lot. We turned our attention to the other car. It was a beat-up red Volvo from the mid-90s. It was either well-used or it was quickly bought second-hand without much regard to its condition. I was wary of jumping conclusions too quickly, though. We still had a book to find to confirm my hunch.

After some effort, we managed to get the door of the car open. Flashlight on, I peered inside.

“There it is!” I exclaimed as I pulled out the book I was looking for. I eagerly flipped to the last page. A small rectangle missing, just as expected. I turned the page over.

“What’s this?” the officer asked.

I paused, half in pride but also half in confusion. “A cipher.” On the page was four neat lines of text:

TWPTTTFSNTBF
PWHALRIFOT

WKMOSTYWEK
ITWFGDTWTA

I shook my head. “This is a game for our perp,” I said, contempt building in my voice.

“What’s our next play then?” the officer asked.

“The train station. There’s a small train station in town, that’s where the woman’s suitcases will be. I’ll bet whoever did this is trying to make a copycat of the Somerton case.” I turned to look at the police officer. “Officer, go see if there’s any unclaimed luggage at the train station, and make sure that this entire place is dusted for prints. If our perp made a single tiny mistake, then we’ll get them.”


It took nearly two months to get all the results for the various tests in. Truthfully, the evidence raised more questions than it answered. An autopsy on the body revealed little in the way of clarifying information. The medical examiner’s office determined the cause of death to be burns inside the lungs, suggesting that the woman was still alive when she was burned. However, they also discovered that the woman had swallowed between 30 and 40 pills of an unidentified sleeping medication before she died. Perhaps this was a clever ploy on the part of the murderer to draw us off the scent of the gasoline. Interestingly, while the pills could not be identified, there were traces of phenobarbital in the woman’s bloodstream, indicating that she was incapacitated with the drug before being brought to the forest and then killed.

And just as I had suspected, there was indeed unclaimed luggage at the town train station. Two suitcases, in fact, which had been filled with even more confusing paraphernalia. In the first suitcase, along with the usual suspects, like clothes and toiletries (remarkably with all tags and branding rubbed off, as with the clothes the woman was wearing), there was also several pairs of false glasses and wigs. Clearly, this was more than just a random murder.

However, in the second, smaller suitcase, there were items that raised the most questions. In a small hidden compartment on the side of the suitcase, there was an electrician’s screwdriver, a table knife that had been cut into a shiv, a pair of scissors with sharpened points, and a stenciling brush. Furthermore, there was one item of clothing that still had a dry-cleaning tag, bearing the name “A. Ornery.”

An international search of missing persons reports, however, showed that there was no one reported missing with the name “A. Ornery.” It was intensely frustrating—just when I thought we had caught a slip-up, it was just another move in the game that the murderer was playing.

The one item that had actually helped our cause was the small notebook hidden among the clothes. Even though it was written in a cipher, it was much easier to crack than the one found in the back of the Rubaiyat. The notebook contained detailed notes regarding the woman’s movements from hotel to hotel, listing the dates and times of practically every transfer. Clearly, this woman was engaged in activities of her own, and the murder may have been politically motivated.

Armed with this information, we collected statements from witnesses across the hotels mentioned in the notes. This turned out to be a remarkably useful source of information—several witnesses across the hotels reported that the woman was of average height, and unremarkable features. Many witnesses said the woman had had different hairstyles and colors, confirming my suspicions that the wigs had in fact been used as disguises.

Hotel staff, who had been among the only ones to see her without disguise, reported that she had dark brown hair naturally, and that her eyes were dark and beady. She was very reclusive, and often kept to her own room. She seemed easily spooked, as if she were constantly on guard against someone. Perhaps she had known that her death was coming, and she was constantly on the lookout for any would-be assassins. Front desk staff also noted that the woman frequently changed rooms after she had already checked in, sometimes immediately and sometimes after a few days. They also reported that she spoke with a definite accent, although no one could seem to place what kind of accent it was.

From the travel documentations that came along with each jump from hotel to hotel, we learned that she always paid in cash, and that she had had multiple aliases—each was accompanied by a different passport, which explains why the plastic passport cover was found by her body in the forest. Curiously, none of the aliases in the passports was A. Ornery.

Clearly, we were up against a mystery on both fronts, both in terms of the murderer but also of the victim.


After reviewing the information, I leaned back in my chair, frustrated. It was clear that we were in over our heads with this case. Even with the FBI contacted, there was little to no headway in this case, even after so long. Without even a victim to go by, this investigation was turning out to be harder than I had ever imagined.

I thought back the little girl, shivering and afraid, when we first investigated the crime scene. I had promised myself back then that I would get justice for this woman, for the child’s sake. She needed to know that justice was brought upon bad people, and that good would win out in the end.

However, more and more, it seemed that there were no good people in this situation. Both murderer and victim clearly had something to hide, and both were much better at playing the game of hide and seek than we were.

I sighed in frustration. What would I tell the father, what would I tell the child? I don’t think I would ever be ready for that conversation.

A sudden knock on the door of my office caused me to jump a healthy two inches off the surface of my chair. “I’m busy!” I yelled, trying as hard as I could to regain my composure. Still, there was an unmistakable nervousness in my voice.

“Detective, I’ve got a delivery for you that you’ll absolutely need to see,” came the muffled voice from outside.

I strode over to my office door as quickly and confidently as I could, opening it perhaps a little too forcefully. “Is it good news?” I asked with a forced cheeriness.

The officer’s raised eyebrows and slow shake of the head told me all that I needed to know.

In his hand was a small white envelope, unmarked on the outside except my name neatly printed on the back. Immediately, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Thank you,” I managed to get out before taking the envelope from the officer and returning to my desk. I carefully opened it, dreading whatever message was inside. My hands shook, almost violently, as I pulled two things out from inside the envelope. I flipped the first thing over.

A photograph.

An eerily calm face met my startled gaze, eyes peacefully closed as if in a deep sleep. She had straight, brown hair that was splayed all around her like a swirling vortex, and though her eyes were closed I knew what they looked like already. She was posed laying on the ground, arms crossed over her chest. It was easy to tell by the dimness of the photograph that it was taken at dusk. I shuddered. I quickly set the photograph down. I couldn’t bear to look at it any longer.

The other object inside the envelope was a folded sheet of paper, which I duly unfolded. A letter.

Dear Detective,

Truly, you are doing the noble work of protecting your citizens from the crimes of bad people. I must warn you, however, to stay out of affairs beyond your jurisdiction. This is not your mystery to solve, nor will it ever me. I am surprised that you do not have the sense to leave it be, as this neither concerns you nor the people you are supposed to protect. You must trust me when I say that it is best to leave things be, and focus on other efforts.

I leave you with this message: you shall never find me, nor shall you ever find the truth of the dead. Give up now, or let this haunt you forever.

Sincerely,

A