Personal Narrative-When The Innocent Are Murdered

When the Innocent are Murdered

It was a rainy day, and the city of London appeared to be lifeless. I observed the short menu in front of me as I sat in a small, blue booth at the back of ‘Monmouth Coffee and Crepes’. The door of the rustic coffee shop swung open, and the jingle of the bells attached to the door handle made me look up. A tall, blond man wearing dark jeans and a red hoodie, walked past the waitress who nearly swooned at the sight of his sharp jawline. Keeping his head down, the young man walked all the way back to my booth, and sat down across from me. “Why did you call me here?” he raised his head and big hazel eyes stared down at me. Clearing my throat, I bent my legs underneath me, and sat upon them in a bid to appear taller.

“A murder. Two, in fact. The one who was responsible is being held in jail while they investigate further.” I was interrupted by Isaiah who had his arms folded in front of him, shaking his head who said, “You’re telling me that we are going to try to solve a murder that has already been solved?!” He stared at me in disbelief and then threw back his head in laughter. “I believe that the suspect is not responsible for the deaths! So like it or not, I’m gonna drag your lazy butt down to Ireland, because we are going to figure this out.”

Within the next four hours, our plane had landed in a very sunny Dublin, and Isaiah and I lugged our heavy baggage to the bright yellow cab waiting outside. On the one-and-a-half hour plane ride, I had explained all the details of the gory case to Isaiah.

Both victims were murdered in the same way. ‘Jack the Ripper style’ as my partner concluded. The culprit had first knocked the victims unconscious with an unknown object, and then tied them up to the vents in an alley behind a restaurant that gave off carbon monoxide, killing them in a matter of minutes. Next, their abdomens abdomens were slashed open exposing the lack of organs, obviously taken by the murderer. A message had been scrawled onto the wall of the alley with a black sharpie in both cases, “The innocent payed the price of my mistakes.”

The FBI were confused as to whether the note was meant to be the victim speaking, or the murderer.

When the victims had finally been examined closely, their fingerprints helped led police to the discovery that their names were Scarlett Kennedy, and Carson O`Meara. Although they were murdered one day after the other, the two people seemed to have no connection whatsoever. The FBI searched far and wide for any form of relation between the two, and after 48 hours, discovered that they had both been family of Mr. Maverek Jessen. Mr. O`Meara was his biological father who gave him up for adoption at birth, and Miss Kennedy was his ex-wife. Jessen had been in conflict with both victims for years, and it seemed very likely that he had ended their lives to get rid of the anger that their very existence caused

him.

A large group of police surrounded Mr. Jessen’s house early the next morning, and he was arrested in his pyjamas. However, when interrogated, Mr. Jessen denied everything. It made no sense. He was already screwed, and he didn’t need to make it harder on himself. Officer Brownell asked Jessen who else he thought would have had anything to do with the murders. When the question came up, Mr. Maverek’s head lowered, and his face showed pure hatred, but he simply stated, “I do not have any clue.” Jessen had been held in jail ever since.

“Have you not thought about how it actually might just be Jessen who murdered them? It makes perfect sense, and we don’t have any evidence that goes against the police’s deduction.” Isaiah grilled me with questions as soon as we had entered the vehicle. “You have to trust me on this one! I know something isn’t right about it.” Isaiah threw his hands up in surrender, and lay his head on the side of the window for the rest of the hour in the taxi.

When we finally arrived at our small hotel in Mullingar, I dragged Isaiah behind me to our room to lay down our suitcases before dashing back to the front of the building and climbing back into the car. “Alright, next could you please drive us to 227 Carpenters Crescent?” he glanced back at us from the rear-view mirror and replied, “Eager to get working already? Alright little lady.” And we sped off into the city.

“You must be Mr. and Mrs. Arnold! I am so very grateful you could make it.” we were greeted at the door of the large home by a tall business woman with bright red hair, wearing a tight, black pencil skirt and a flowy, white blouse. “Ummm, we’re not married… just friends.” I replied. “Oh of course you aren’t…” she winked. Isaiah laughed quietly to himself. “Please, take a seat.” she motioned to a small pink couch, and sat herself down on the rocking chair beside it. “I understand you are here to speak to me about the death of my husband, Mr. O`Meara.” Isaiah turned to me with one eyebrow lifted. This young woman was the wife of 65 year old Carson O`Meara?! “His death was quick shocking,” she had little to no expression on her face, and seemed almost like she was reading from an imaginary script,”I didn’t believe the police at first, but I went to the station to identify his body, and sure enough, it was my husband. We were very close, and I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt him.” I leaned forward in my chair, and asked her a few questions,”Do you believe that Mr. Jessen would have committed the crime? Had there been any conflict between the father and son before-hand?” The young woman was convinced that Jessen was the murderer, and that he should face the death penalty for exposing his biological father in such a disturbing way. All of a sudden, there was a muffled DING coming from Isaiah`s jean pocket, and he checked his phone hastily. His eyes grew wide. “Thanks for your time, and goodbye!”

Isaiah shooed me out the door, and slammed it behind him. “What was that about? We are supposed to make a good first impression on her!” Isaiah ran while holding my hand to the bus stop where a tall, double decker was about to take off. We made it just in time, and struggled to catch our breath as the bus started to cruise down the street. “Anabel! Maverek Jessen was just pronounced dead! He hung himself with a sheet from his cell this morning! I knew it was him!!!” I was shocked, but not thoroughly convinced. “Patience, grasshopper. We don't know that yet.” One would be stupid not to catch on to the fact that Maverek had supposedly hung himself to escape trial, but I had some clues that told me other wise.

“Can we see the body?

It would be helpful if we could find any evidence to support our theory.” Isaiah was talking to the head of security at the police station in front of the cell that had held Maverek Jessen. I struggled to climb over the police tape that created a type of maze around the whole corridor, but ended up tripping. I quickly recovered just in time to see my partner motioning me over. “Alright, we go down this hallway and turn right. I have no idea what we are supposed to expect.” When we arrived, I bent down and got to work right away. Isaiah stood in the hallway, disgusted by the fact that his eyes were still open and rolled back into his head. “ISAIAH!!!” I heard a crash behind me, and turned around to look at my friend who’s arm was caught momentarily in the bars of the cell. “Jesus Christ, Anabel! Keep your voice down.” I covered his mouth with my hand in order to shut him up.“Look at what I found! It`s a message written on the inside of his shirt collar. It reads, G, U, A, R, D.” I looked up, confused. Guard. What did that mean?! “Anabel, we need to question all of the prison guards who were on duty when Maverek died.” Isaiah concluded. “Maybe this wasn’t a suicide… maybe this was another

murder!”

“There was a malfunction in the security cameras this morning, so unfortunately we do not have any footage of what happened. We do, however have the list of which guard is supposed to circle in which area at given times in the day.” the secretary at the front desk started lazily punching numbers and words into the computer, and printed out the list. My eyes trailed down to the middle, where there was one name written down in the 10:30 to 12:30 section G. ‘Aidaa Stacks’.

“She must be on break. Check the lunchroom,” muttered the secretary. Isaiah and I were filled with adrenaline at this point, and we dashed to the lunchroom, bumping into more than a few officers on the way. The door to the room was ajar, and silence filled the room. We cautiously made our way to the restroom attached to the small cafeteria, but we couldn't see any people around. When I swung the women’s restroom door open, I was met by a horrific surprise. Yet another corpse; but this time, it was the prison guard, Aidaa Stacks.

She held a note crumpled in her left hand. I cautiously made my way over her limp body, and took the sheet of paper from her. It read: I have carried the burden of murder for far too long. It is time I take my leave. -Aidaa Stacks.

I was in the middle of unpacking the last of my luggage in Chiang Mai, Thailand, when I once again came across the letter. We never found out why Aidaa Stacks did what she did, but some things are better left unknown. That didn’t mean I never thought about it, however. I had imagined many different scenarios in which the peculiar woman would end up murdering three innocent people, but none of them matched up with the evidence that my partner and I had gathered. Aidaa Stacks made sure all of her secrets stayed hidden… DING DONG! Isaiah Arnold was at the door with a box of doughnuts in hand. “Miss Anabel Dawson, It has come to my attention that there has been yet another strange death. The King of Thailand has been murdered!”