Welcome to the twentieth anniversary of Roy's Mystery! On April 19, 2004 I started writing a mystery post-by-post. If you want to read that nonsense, here's a table of contents for the old posts. Unfortunately, I never completed it. I had one post left, but I was not happy with anything any of my ideas. So, I waited ten years, rewrote it, finished it, and published it here 20 years later.
I want to thank my brother, Derek. He's the only person who ever asked, "When are you going to finish Roy's Mystery?"
Well, here it is 20 years later.
A North Dakotan would be jealous of the Florida sun this afternoon. I lazily approach my mailbox. The text on the mailbox wears my name: Jacob Slanders. I expect the usual junk mail; however, I am surprised to find only one letter within the mailbox. The return address identifies the sender as "Jonathon Slitwit." The name does not ring any bells in my memory. I start opening the envelope as I approach the front porch to my home. A cool breeze almost blows the letter out of my hands. I look up and see clouds forming in the sky. Strange. I head inside and unfold the letter.
Dear Mr. Slanders,
You do not know who I am, but we have a mutual friend. I fear I cannot name this friend via this letter; I must speak to you in person. I have enclosed a plane ticket, so we can meet. I'm sorry I must be secretive, but you will find my information important. I hope you can join us.
Sincerely,
Jonathon S. Slitwit
I take out the plane ticket. The plane is set to depart in five days. Who is this friend? What information could this Jonathon Slitwit have?
I jump at the sound of thunder. A storm begins to pick up.
As I approach my plane, I look over my tickets. I depart today for Starsgale Michigan from Florida. My return flight is in five days. I'm confused as to why this Slitwit wants to fly me to Starsgale, but I'm looking forward to five days away from work.
The plane isn't very big. It appears I will be the only passenger. I chat with the pilot. I have never heard of Starsgale, but the pilot has been flying planes there for a few years now. He tells me a legend about an ancient Native American tribe from the Starsgale area. The tribe, the Trache, are extinct, and no one seems to know what happened to them. Trache artifacts have been found, but there are no surviving members of the tribe. Some people don't believe the Trache existed, and they believe the artifacts belong to Apache, but artwork found doesn't match the work of the Apaches.
The people who believe the artifacts belong to the Trache spread different rumors about how they disappeared. Some say the disappearance was caused by white men. Other's believe a supernatural force exterminated them.
As we get near to Starsgale, the pilot asks me to take a seat and buckle up. A few hours later, we land at a small airport. It resembles someone's house. I grab my luggage and approach the airport building. When I get inside, I'm greeted by a man dressed in a nice suit. He looks to be about thirty years old. He's an average sized man, with black hair. His hair is parted to the right.
He approaches me, "Are you Jacob?"
I reply, "Yes."
"I'm Charles Strongland, but people just call me Chuck. It's nice to meet you Jake. I'm..."
"Actually, I prefer people to call me 'Jacob,' not 'Jake.'"
"Well, Jacob, I'm suppose to be your ride to see Mr. Slitwit. If you want to follow me to my truck, we can be on our way."
We approach an old, beat up, truck. I'm surprised a man dressed so well, drives a vehicle so old. I put my luggage in the back, and hop in the truck. Chuck starts the truck, and begins to pull out of the airport's driveway.
"Did you get a letter, too?" I questioned Chuck.
"No, but I know Mr. Slitwit. I'm from Starsgale, and I've done some work for him. He asked me to pick you up from the airport."
"Do you know what this meeting is about?"
"I don't have a clue. He just called me, and told me to pick you up today."
As we drive through town, I make note of a few landmarks around town. There is a motel that looks like it is home to several cockroaches, a mom-and-pop cafe, an auto body shop, a small grocery store, a drug store, a school, and a courthouse.
"There's a lot of money in this town, y'know? Many of the residents are rich. There's also a fair amount of low life in town, which is why I drive this old junker." said Chuck
Before I can question what he means, we pull up to a large estate. The black gates to the driveway are open, and Chuck pulls up to the mansion. The mansion gave me the creeps. I question to myself why anyone would want to live in such an ominous looking house.
I hop out of the truck, and reach for my bags in the back.
"You can leave your bags in the truck; you will not be staying here for the night," Chuck says as he slams his door shut.
We step to the front door and ring the doorbell... or at least I am about to ring it. A butler opens the door.
"You are expected Mr. Slanders and Mr. Srongland," he greets us. "Please, follow me."
The entryway opens to a long hallway. I admire the portraits on the wall as we walk. Many of the paintings are old, but appear to be getting progressively newer. Near the end of the hallway, a portrait catches my eye. While the other portraits are paintings, this one is actually a large photograph. The subject looks familiar, but I don't know why. He is dressed in a black suit, and wearing a black bow tie. His hands are folded in front of him. His face is scarred. I also notice a scar on his left hand.
I file the the photograph in the back of my mind as we follow the butler into a sitting room. A pale, slim man sits on one of the chairs arranged in the room. He's wearing a suit and neck tie. He appears to be about forty years old. A scar is prominent on his right cheek.
"Gentlemen! Welcome! I am expecting three more guests," the mystery figure welcomes us. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink?" He asks, but is already pouring me wine before I can even answer. Of course, I won't deny a good drink.
"I won't take any. I'm not a drinker," Chuck chimes. He sounds like he has said the same script several times.
I accept the wine. The smell tingles my nose, and I take a sip. The liquid warms my core as I swallow. After a moment to enjoy the wine I inquire, "Who are you, and do you know why we are here?"
"I'll explain once the rest of my guests arrive," the mysterious man states.
DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG!
The doorbell blares. "And it seems they have arrived," he quips.
A few moments later the butler enters the room and gestures towards the new arrivals. "I present to you Mr. Holland Sivic, Ms. Kris Slaint, and Ms. Daisy Sopherson."
"Thank you, Hoges. Leave us," the man says, as the butler turns to leave. "Would anyone care for a drink?" he gestures towards the newcomers. The three kindly declined. "Looks like it is just you and me, Mr. Slanders."
"Please, call me Jacob," I insist.
"My name is Jonathon Slitwit," he addresses the group. "You can call me 'Mr. Slitwit,' and I will refer to everyone by their formal names. You can refer to each other as you wish," the man states.
I look to the newcomers. "You can call me Jacob."
"You can call me Chuck," he says.
"Call me Holland," says the male newcomer. He looks to be in his twenties. He is wearing a tee shirt and blue jeans. Despite his age and attire, he sounds very sophisticated and well mannered.
"Just call me Kris," a beautiful twenty-something year old woman asserts. Her brunette hair is up. She is wearing glasses, a long skirt, and a sports coat over a white blouse. As she reaches to shake my hand, I notice part of a scar on her right arm as her sleeve pulls back.
"Y'all can just call me Daisy," the last newcomer peppily reveals in a southern accent. She's skinny and looks to be around thirty years old. Her blonde hair is down and ascends just past her shoulders. She is wearing a western shirt and tight jeans.
"With all the pleasantries done, let's get down to business." Mr. Slitwit states.
"I have asked you all here for a singular purpose," Mr. Slitwit addressed. "We all know the same person, and yet we know nothing about each other. Many of you only met one another just now. The old friend I mentioned in your letters has been killed." Slitwit paused.
I search my memory for anyone who could have been killed. I can't think of a single person who has died within the last week.
Mr. Slitwit continues, "The cops reported the killing as a suicide, but I know the deceased would never commit such an act. He couldn't. Mr. Slanders."
Hearing my name shook me from my contemplations.
"I saw you admiring the photograph in the hallway. Have you figured out who is the subject of the portrait?"
My memory must be going bad. "He looks familiar. Who is it, if I may inquire?"
Mr. Slitwit looks around the room, "Anyone else recognize him?"
The room remains silent. Each person looks to someone else to answer the riddle.
Mr. Slitwit looks directly at me. "Mr. Slanders is the only one who would recognize the figure in the portrait. The man was fond of changing his appearance whenever he moved to a new location. He also changed his name. His aliases included Tom Summer, Lincoln Stephenson, Phillip Samson, and Garret Shilling. His real name was Mr. Jeffery Sickleson."
Thunder cracked. Concern suddenly emerges on the groups faces. Immediately I recognized the name. How could I forget what Jeff looked like? However, I don't remember there being any scars... maybe my memory was fading.
"How did he die?" I quietly ask after a brief moment of silence.
Mr. Slitwit matter-of-factly states, "The police found his car in a ravine. His car had driven off the side of the road, through a guardrail, and over the side of a cliff. Suicide was ruled as the cause of death. They found a note. Also, the speed he had to have been going to go through the guardrail would have to be deliberately high."
Holland speaks up, "What did the note say?"
Mr. Slitwit answered, "I read the suicide note. I confirmed it was written in his handwriting, but the penmanship seemed forced. The note stated he did not want to live anymore. It mentioned how he regretted hurting the people he met. I checked the crime scene after the authorities ruled his death a suicide. Most of the debris was cleaned up. However, I noticed a set of footprints leading towards town. I have a feeling the police were bribed to overlook this piece of evidence."
"That still leaves me with one question." Everyone turned to look at Kris. "Why do we all need to be here?"
Mr. Slitwit grinned, "If he is still alive, then we need to find him. I'm good at finding people, but I need your assistance to find our friend, Jeffery. I figure every single one of you want to find him as much as I do."
Jeffrey Sicklson. I called him Jeff.
He was an old friend. We grew up together, and went to college together. College was years ago; tens years to be exact. He was the life of the party in school. He was also incredibly gifted. He frequently went to parties the night before a big test, and showed up to class on time the next morning and aced the test. I never knew a kid quite like him. Everyone knew him, and he acted like each and every person was his best friend. The last year of college before graduating, he left; he just disappeared. He left a note. He mentioned something about seeking fortune.
Jeff was my best friend growing up. He lived on the same street as me. He was always able to gather enough kids to get a kickball game going in the street. We graduated high school together. Even though he treated everyone like his friend, he only confided his secrets to me... 33 years old is too young to die.
Daisy's voice drew me out of my personal thoughts.
"I remember Jeff. I knew him by one of his aliases. He had been an owner of a successful nightclub in Texas. I was hired as a waitress. He treated all of his employees like friends. If you had a problem, you could go to Jeff with it.
"While I was a waitress at the club, I had a boyfriend. I found out he was a thief, and I wanted to break up with him. He was a little violent, so I was scared to do it. I talked to Jeff about my problem, and he listened. He agreed to tell my boyfriend for me. I told Jeff I would appreciate it. On one of my nights off, I brought my boyfriend into the club. We sat down with Jeff for a drink. I told them I was going to use the ladies room, and I slipped away. From a distance, I watched the exchange as Jeff told my boyfriend I didn't want to be in a relationship with him. I couldn't hear anything, but I saw my boyfriend get angry. He stormed out of the club.
"The next day, I went in early to help Jeff open the club. It was vandalized. I knew right away it had to be my boyfriend. There was a note saying Jeff had to leave in a week, or he would end up looking like his club. I saw fear in Jeff's eye. The next day, he had high-tailed it out of town. I never saw him again."
Holland spoke up, "I have my own story about him. I also know someone else in this room." I notice a quick glance from him to Kris.
He continued, "I knew Jeff for about a year. We were partners, along with the other person. I was only nineteen years old at the time, but he accepted me as an equal partner. I was a gifted child I guess, and this inflated my pride. He was creating a computer algorithm for security. This algorithm would change information technology security! We were in the late stages of development when Jeff received a strange note. After reading the note, he announced that we should forget about the algorithm. He left early that day. The other partner and I went to his apartment the next day to check on him. The landlord was there, and told us he had paid the rest of his rent, and left."
"I was the other partner." Kris interjected. "We were very close to Jeff. He would help anyone, as Daisy mentioned. He must have met us after being in Texas."
"He must've ran to Starsgale, I presume." Chuck chimed in. "He was in the same business as I. We became sort of like partners. The money in this town comes from the sewers. There is some sort of mineral running through the old sewers of this town. Scientists have been studying it for years, but have been unable to find out where it came from, and what it can do. I was studying it at the time when Jeff came into town and started poking around the sewers. We met, and decided to team up. Him and I know more about the mineral than the scientists... or ‘knew' in Jeff's case. I can't believe he would take his own life.
"We discovered the mineral is a natural mineral; it's not man made. We found out the mineral can create energy. A little bit could fuel a car for a lifetime, or even power the United States for centuries! We don't have any idea what the disadvantages would be. We do know that the less energy an object needs, the faster the mineral burns up, which is odd."
As Chuck finished, it became quiet. Everyone was looking at the floor. Finally, Mr. Slitwit turns to me, and asks, "Mr. Slanders, how did you know Jeffrey Sickleson?"
I cleared my throat, and said quietly, "All you need to know is I knew him." They don't need to know Jeff's deepest and darkest secret.
"What!?" Holland exclaimed. "What information do you have that you don't want to share?"
"I went to college with him. That's all you need to know. He wouldn't want me sharing anything else about him." I said.
"There must be something else you could share. It might help us find out why he is dead." Kris added.
"There is not." I said.
"You have nothing at all that could help explain his death?" Mr. Slitwit asked.
"I knew him in college. That's all I can share. I think I have the freedom to hold back any information that he would not want shared."
"Then I'm afraid I'll have to assume that you killed him. I have no other reason to think that you didn't." Mr. Slitwit accused.
"That's your freedom to have that opinion, but it is wrong." I said.
The grandfather clock chimed nine times. "We shall continue this tomorrow." Mr. Slitwit said a little agitated. "Hoges, please show my guests out to their cars."
"Follow me ladies and gentlemen." Hoges said. He followed Hoges out of the house.
"I'll take you to your hotel." Chuck said. He seemed a little nervous.
We got into the truck, and we drove out of the driveway. As we are driving towards the lone hotel in the town, Chuck says, "Did you kill him?"
"No! Of course not! Why would I kill my best friend?" I said, bewildered.
"Then why won't you tell us what you know about him? What's the big deal?"
"It is a big deal. Jeff has secrets, just like everybody else. He wouldn't want me sharing."
"Secrets are of no use for a dead man." Chuck said bluntly.
I chewed on my lip for a moment.
"Alright." I said, defeated. "I grew up with Jeff. I knew him since we were kids, all the way through our last year of college. Before he graduated, he just mysteriously left. He left me a vague note, stating he needed to find his fortune. I didn't know where until I heard your stories. I don't know if you noticed it, but in the picture Jeff had scars. He didn't have those in college. I also noticed Kris, and Mr. Slitwit had scars as well." I saw Chuck wince. "What's the matter?"
We pulled into the hotel parking lot. Chuck put the truck in park and said, "Nothing, it's just that..." He lifts his left leg, and rolls back the pant leg. He reveals a scar on his ankle.
"It appears you also have a secret. Would you mind sharing?" I questioned.
"It's not important. You can probably guess how I got this scar anyways." He said.
I didn't know what he was talking about. "It might help me solve this mystery." I said.
"Aren't you the Sherlock Holmes. Tell you what. I'll tell you the story tomorrow after we've had a good nights sleep."
I got out and grabbed my bags. I have a lot to process. I don't think my mind will let me sleep tonight.
Surprisingly, I sleep well.
I almost sleep through my lunch meeting with Chuck. I hurry through my morning routine, and step outside my room to meet Chuck.
As I am waiting, I hear sirens close by. I notice there has been an accident across the street. I head toward the commotion. As I draw close, I recognize the vehicle. It's Chuck's truck!
I run closer to the scene, but I'm stopped by police officers. I see paramedics attempt to revive Chuck's lifeless corpse. It's a losing battle. They load his body into the ambulance. Police officers ask me a few question, and then I head back to my hotel room in shock.
I didn't know him well, but he seemed like a nice guy. Something compels me to turn around and look at the accident scene again. Chuck's truck had ran into a street light. The odd thing is, his truck is charred, flames still coming off of it. There's no way a light pole could cause a fire, could it?
I go back to my hotel room. I dial Mr. Slitwit's number.
"Slitwit residence." Hoges greets me.
"Hoges... may I... may I speak to Mr. Slitwit?"
"One moment."
"This is Mr. Slitwit. What can I do for you, Mr. Slanders?"
"Chuck... Chuck's been killed." I stammer. "It looks like an accident, but I think it might have been a murder."
"I'll call the meeting early. Meet at my house for a late lunch."
Click.
After finding a ride, I arrive at Slitwit's mansion. Hoges greeted me, "Good afternoon Mr. Slanders. The others are awaiting your arrival. Follow me."
I follow him down the hallway. We turn right before the end of the hallway into a dining area.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Slanders." Hoges presents me.
"Hi again." I nervously wave. Everyone arrived before me, and it is weird being introduced to a group by Hoges.
"Excellent! Have a seat Mr. Slanders. We'll talk business after lunch."
Hoges brought out sandwiches and salads for everyone. The meal table is quiet, except the sounds of a storm starting to rumble outside.
After lunch, Hoges clears the table. Mr. Slitwit stands up from his seat at the head of the table. "I must apologize for calling the meeting early, but Mr. Slanders has some very important information that needs to be shared. Mr. Slanders, please explain what happened to Charles Strongland."
I clear my throat. I decide to stand up; sitting didn't seem right.
"Chuck was killed in a car accident this morning." Gasps rose above a low rumble of thunder. After a brief pause, I continue, "I was going to go to lunch with him, but he never picked me up from the hotel. I heard sirens, and I stepped out of my hotel room to find out what the commotion was all about. Across the street, I saw Chuck's car. It had hit a street light pole. His truck had exploded, which I don't think it likely from colliding into a pole. I'm thinking it might be murder, and it's related to the death of Jeff."
"Something could have ignited the gas tank from the crash." said Holland. "What if it is actually an accident?"
"I still think it's unlikely. The car was burnt to a crisp. I think the cops would have gotten there before it reached that condition. Plus, Chuck seemed like a very careful driver. I can't imagine that he'd swerve into a pole in the middle of the day. I just think we need to consider murder especially if we think a murderer is on the loose."
"Speaking of our murder," Mr. Slitwit interrupts, "I know the murderer's identity. My investigation has determined h-"
CRACK!
The lights go out, and thunder explodes. A small thump noise can be heard. A few seconds later, the lights turn back on. Mr. Slitwit is on the floor, facing down. We all get up from the table and head over to him.... we find a wound in his back.
"Everybody, step back! I'm a doctor." Kris pushes through us to check on Mr. Slitwit. She checks for a pulse. "He's... he's dead. The wound is deep. It looks like a knife wound."
Everyone, except Daisy, looks around, but we can't find a murder weapon. Daisy sits down at the table and looks like she is in shock. "I'm... I'm scared. Who would have done this?" she asks to no one in particular.
Holland walks over to a phone in the corner. "I'm going to call the police." He picks up the receiver and dials. "Hello... there has been a murder... I don't think I'm in danger right now... I am at 123 3rd Street... Yeah, I'll stay on the line until the police get here." He looks up at us and covers the receiver, "The police are on their way."
First, Jeff. Then, Chuck. Now, Mr. Slitwit. No one saw who murdered him. I can tell everyone is suspicious of everyone.
Turns out I was right; the police do not waste time responding to a crime scene. They separate us and won't let us leave the house until we are questioned. We are all suspects.
"How well did you know Mr. Slitwit?" The officer assigned to me questions.
"I only met him yesterday... yesterday evening." I said, still a little shookup at what happened.
"Why did you meet him?"
"We both knew Jeff, and he invited us to discuss his death."
"Jeff?"
"He was in a car accident a few days ago... he drove over the cliff."
The officer nods his head, as he scribbles down a few notes.
"Are you aware of any enemies of Mr. Slitwit? Anyone who would want to hurt him?"
"I didn't know him that well. He seems... seemed like a nice guy. I can't image anyone hating him."
The questions continue. I answer them as truthfully as I can. After the questioning, the police do not have enough to detain any of us. They allow me to go back to my hotel. I take a taxi back to my room right away.
It's only 6:00, but I head to bed. The shock leaves me tired. I lie down and attempt to sleep. However, sleep does not find me, no matter how tired I feel. I'm haunted by thoughts of Jeff. We met in elementary school. We would hang out together during recess and make fun the teachers. We weren't popular, so it was just us two. We weren't picked on by the popular kids, but we were left alone.
By the eighth grade, Jeff was a prodigy. He refused to be moved to advance classes. One day, before classes started, he confided in me that he attempted to kill himself. He stopped the razor's edge before it could cut too deep into his wrists. His parents told him he was adopted; they had no clue who his parents might be. This shook his world at its core.
Jeff started talking to a kid named Snake. Snake wasn't his real name. He was too embarrassed by being called Francis. Snake was a year older, and he was a trouble maker. Jeff actually learned how to make pipe bombs from this kid. They wouldn't blow anything important up. They'd go out to the dump at night, and set off a few pipe bombs. Nothing but trash.
Throughout the year, Jeff attempted suicide three more times. Each time he would confide in me. I told him to seek help. He asked me to not tell anyone. Foolishly, I granted his request. I should have told someone. Maybe things would be different. Maybe he would be alive today. Maybe he wouldn't have left college, and we would still be friends.
Everytime he told me when he attempted to end his own life, he would stop himself; everytime, he came to me, and no one else. I talked to Jeff and told him that his life was worth living. The talks must have worked, eventually. Later that year, he seemed normal again, and he didn't reveal any other suicide attempts.
In high school, everyone loved him, and he was extraordinarily gifted in academia. The only odd thing, in his spare time he studied weapons. He learned to smith his own knives. It was cool at the time. These knives were sharp. Some were as big as the samurai swords you see in movies.
My thoughts turn to today's events. Kris doesn't seem like a day over 25, but she's a doctor? How does someone so young go from developing a security algorithm to becoming a doctor?
She could have killed Slitwit. I mean, Jeff left while developing the algorithm, so she could have blamed him for the money they could have made from it. She is the only one who checked the body. She could have said anything about his death to throw us off her trail. She also had the opportunity to take the murder weapon when she was "examining" Slitwit's body. I need to talk to her.
Suddenly, my mind feels at ease. I drift to sleep. As my vision grows fuzzy, I notice the time on the motel alarm clock: 2:22 a.m.
I awake quite late in the morning the next day. I feel hungry, so I check out some places to eat in this town. There aren't many. I head to the mom-and-pop diner down the street. I arrive at the diner at about noon. As I walk in, I see Kris sitting at a table. She notices me as well, and signals me to have a seat at her table.
"Hey," she says, "How goes it?"
"It's going," I say to make small talk.
The waitress asks us for our orders and heads to the kitchen.
As soon as the waitress is out of earshot, Kris turns to me and says "I think I may know who killed Chuck, Slitwit, and possible Jeff. I don't think it's a good idea to talk about it in public."
"We should talk later tonight. Maybe at my motel room. I'm at the one down the street." I say.
"Does 7:00 sound good?" she asks.
"Works for me." I say.
Our salads show up shortly after. We chat about the weather, and make small talk. I am tense, and I can tell she is tense, but we don't mention it. We'll have time tonight to talk.
Our waitress gives us our bill. I offer to pay for lunch. As I am paying, she leaves. I turn around to go out the diner's glass doors and see her outside walking to her car. Suddenly, she falls to the ground. I think I see blood spray from her chest. I hear gasps behind me. I run out, as I hear the hostess pick up the phone to call 911.
Kris has been shot in the heart. There is no doubt that she is dead. The police arrive and question me. I can tell they are suspicious of me, but they don't have anything to detain me. They have a diner full of witnesses who saw me just as surprised as they were. There's no way I could have shot a sniper round through her heart.
The number of people searching for answers regarding Jeff's death is slowly shrinking. My suspicion that Kris is the killer vanished. I'm back at square one. The killer is good at what he or she does. I needed to talk to the remaining members of this group who knew Jeff: Holland and Daisy. I don't know much about Daisy. I think I'll talk to her next, and pray she doesn't die.
I am getting my fill of death. I'm wondering how long I have left before I'm next. I close the curtains in my motel room. I think it's best to stay away from the door and windows. I informed Holland and Daisy of Kris's death. I could tell they have suspicions that I may have killed her. With the exception of Jeff's death, I had been one of the first ones at the scene of the murders.
I feel it is up to me to find the murderer. The police don't have any leads. I need to find more clues. I open my suitcase. I rummage around until I open up the secret compartment. I withdraw a pistol. I place it within my jacket. I feel like I'll need it.
Now where do I go? I can't go to Slitwit's mansion; the police still have the crime scene locked down. How about where this all began, the location where Jeff died? Yeah, that seems like a good idea. I don't know what could possibly be there after so much time. I have to start somewhere though. Plus, I can pay my last respects.
I'll need a rental car. I open the motel room phonebook and find a mechanic who has a loaner car. I dial up the repair shop, and make arrangements. The shop is just down the street. Isn't everything in this town?
I walk over, and pay for the loaner car. It's in bad shape, but it runs. I just need to take it a few miles out of town.
I examine the location of Jeff's accident. Slitwit was right; it would be difficult for a person to go over the edge of the road, unless it was deliberate. The guard rail has a gap in it where Jeff's car barreled through. The edge of the ravine isn't terribly steep; it's more like a hill. I can make out tire tracks along the decline.
I head downward, where Jeff's car had flipped, and landed on it's wheels. The car is long gone, but a few police markers were left behind. I spot footprints nearby. A few of the footprints belong to the police officers. Those mostly stay around the accident scene, and between it and the road. I notice a peculiar set of footprints making a beeline towards town from here. It looks like they are avoiding the road. They are faded, but noticeable. It's surprising the police didn't mark them. The footprints are a little bigger than my shoe size. I'm about a size 10, and these footprints are a size 11 or 12.
As I expected, I didn't notice anything else. It seems Slitwit was correct. Someone left the scene, and the police turned a blind eye. I start heading back to the car. I dig for the keys, and almost open the door, but I stop. I don't know why, but I place the keys on the hood of the car, and walk back to town; I feel the car isn't safe, especially after Chuck was killed in his vehicle.
I get back to my motel room, and call the mechanic to tow their car back. I make sure the door to my motel is locked. I hundle in my room and watch TV for the rest of the day; I can't chance leaving right now. I reach in my pocket and touch the gun for security.
My eyes begin to droop. I check the clock: 5:30 in the evening. Oh well. My head touches the pillow, and I drift into dreamland.
Ow. My head hurts. I blink my eyes awake. I see a thin line of light peek through the curtains. I check the clock. It's almost noon. I must have been tired. I still feel like a zombie, even with almost 18 hours of sleep.
I remember I need to speak to Daisy. I call her.
"Hello?" She answers the phone. "Who is it?"
"It's Jacob. I need to talk."
"About what, Jake?"
"Call me Jacob, please. I need to talk to you about Jeff and stuff."
"I already told you how I knew him."
"I feel like there's something you aren't telling me. Please, can we meet somewhere and talk?"
She hesitates before answering, "Alright Jacob. Where should we meet?"
"There's a bar near my motel. I think it's called 'Old Grandpa's Bar.' Should we meet there about 5:00?"
"Sounds good, hun. See ya then."
Click
I grab a seat at the bar. I check my watch. It's 5:03. She's late. I order a drink until she arrives. I don't have to wait long. She has a seat next to me, and we both order a burger and fries.
"Well, how are ya?" she asks.
"My nerves are at wits end, but other than that, I'm good."
"Why are you scared, hun?"
"With the deaths of Jeff, Chuck, Slitwit, and Kris, I feel one of us must be next, right?"
"I don't know why someone would want to kill me. I don't know what the others have done, but I haven't wronged anyone. There's no reason for someone to want to kill me." she states.
I shift the subject to Jeff. "Do you know how Jeff got those scars? He didn't have them in college."
"No idea, hun. I was hoping you would know. He didn't have any scars when I knew him when he owned the club. The scars would have been nice to scare away the riff raff."
Our food comes. We don't talk much while we eat. I try to make small talk, but I don't think she likes me. Under her southern charm I feel an uneasiness from her.
After we finish eating, I offer to pay. She declines and pays for her own food. I pay for mine as well. I head out of the bar, and she follows. I start walking down the sidewalk towards my motel. I glance over my shoulder to make sure she makes it to her car. As she is fumbling for her keys a figure dressed in all black grabs her. He places a hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. He has something else in his hand over her mouth. I can't make it out. Her body goes limp. He drapes her body over his shoulder, and starts running. After the initial shock wears off, I take off after the figure. He's fast. Unnaturally fast... or am I slow? I can't quite tell. Everything turns a bit hazy. He disappears around a corner, down an alley. By the time I get there, he's no where to be seen. I scour the alley, and find no trace of the mysterious figure.
I head back to my motel, my mind still in a haze. I don't call the police; I don't trust anyone at this point. My head begins to ache, and I feel so tired. I collapse onto my bed. I don't even get under the covers. I just pass out.
Something must be wrong with me. It's almost noon again. Even with more than fifteen hours of sleep, I feel absolutely tired. As I swing my legs onto the grimy motel carpet I rub the sides of my head. I sit there for a moment contemplating leaving this town behind me, and forgetting everything. I reach underneath the pillow and grab my gun. I check it to make sure it was still loaded. Yep. Sleeping with a loaded gun a few inches from your head is a poor idea. I decide leaving is the best option. I don't even shower. I just pack my bags, and open my door.
On the ground is a rolled up newspaper. This is the first time a newspaper has shown up. Before leaving, I figure I better check out what kind of headlines this town has, especially after so many deaths within the last week. I drop my bag near the door, and grab the paper. I head inside and unroll the newspaper.
Huh. A note is taped to the front page.
Jacob Slanders:
I see the element is working on you. How are you sleeping? I hope you didn't get close to those awful people. Check out the headline of the front page.
I'm concerned. I remove the note, and check the headline. "Two People Dead." I didn't need to read the article. I was sure the two are Daisy and Holland. However, my curiosity got the better of me. I have to read the article to find out how they died. The article reports their throats were slit. There are no suspects. I finish reading the note.
I know your thoughts Jake... or Jacob. I know you hate Jake. You despise it. I wouldn't try to leave this town; you might find yourself with the rest. Stay a little longer. I promise, I won't bite...
My nerves snap. My first instinct is to get the hell out of this town. However, the killer stated that he would kill me if I left. This means he doesn't want me dead. What do I do? I remove the pistol from my pocket. I look at it and begin to think I could calm my nerves with a single bullet...
My mind slowly starts to clear. I put the gun back in my pocket. I throw away the newspaper and the note. I lay back in bed and just think. What were Holland and Daisy thinking before they were killed? Were they concerned for their own lives when Slitwit died? Did they grow paranoid?
I need to find out the identity of this psycho. I can't rely on the police. It's up to me.
The element... sleeping... what does that mean? Could they be connected?
I hear the door open. I begin to glance towards the door. My gaze sees a shadow, and then everything goes black.
Later
I awake with the worst headache of my life. I open my eyes, but light is blinding them. I try to move my arms and legs; they feel restrained. Slowly, my eyes adjust to the light. I'm in a passenger seat of car. I open my mouth to say something, but I'm cut off by a voice.
"Good morning, Jacob."
"W-where am I?! Let me go!" I manage to yell.
"Now now. Be calm. I will keep my word. I won't kill you." His voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. I try to look at the driver, but my vision is blurry.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"You aren't asking the right questions, Jacob." He teases.
I pause to think for a moment. "Why haven't you killed me?"
"Jacob, Slitwit was more resourceful than I thought. He thought he gathered all the people who wanted me dead... except he was wrong. Isn't that right? You recognize my voice. You know who I am."
His voice becomes solemn, "I'm sorry I had to drug you, my friend, but I knew you wouldn't understand."
My vision begins to clear. I'm surprised to see a scarred Jeff sitting in the driver seat.
"Jeff... why?" I ask with concern.
"They gave me these scars, Jacob! They tried to kill me! I fought back, and gave a few of them scars of their own. I escaped, and remade my identity each time I was betrayed! They are the killers, not me!" Jeff spouts.
"But they said you left them."
"They are liars! Daisy burned down the club, and tried to kill me. She was part owner, and got a sizable insurance check. Kris and Holland didn't want to share the government money from selling the algorithm to the NSA with a third wheel. Kris tried to kill me, but I cut her arm, and got away. Chuck didn't want to share our findings about the element. He tried to have me killed, and when I went to Slitwit for protection, he tried to kill me too. I helped each and every one of them make money, and those greedy bastards tried to kill me!"
A million questions race through my head. One seems the most important. "Why did you fake your own death?"
"Revenge. I paid off the police, and faked my own death. I left foot prints leaving the scene towards town. I knew Slitwit would want to confirm my death with his own eyes. When he was denied after requesting to see my body, I knew he'd check the scene of the crime and find my footprints. He knew I was alive, but his resources were not able to discover any information. He collected all of my known associates that he knew tried to kill me, to see if any of them knew my whereabouts. They would be gathered in one place, and I would be able to pick them off. I didn't expect he would find you, too."
"You obviously know that I don't want to kill you, and I haven't betrayed our friendship," I begin to find my courage. "Why tie me up?"
"The element Chuck and I discovered here has some side effects on humans. One side effect is drowsiness, but sleep doesn't recharge you. The other is paranoia. I couldn't risk you using that gun on me. I'll untie you once the element works through your system."
"So you'll just let me go? Just like that?"
"No, Jacob. I'm afraid I'm taking you to the end of our friendship." Jeff continues to drive down the deserted road.
I couldn't look at my former friend. I turned my eyes to the road. It looks like the sun is just beginning to rise. The road is empty. I recognize this road. It's the road that leads out of town. It leads to the spot where Jeff faked his suicide. What else will it lead to?
"Where are to you taking me?" as if I do not know the answer.
Jeff slows the car down near the guard rail; it still had a hole punched through it. He puts the car in park, and turns to face me. His face is serious.
"Jacob, do you know what it's like to find out you don't have family?"
"This again? Your mom and dad... they're your family. They love you!"
"They are not my family," he hisses. "I never felt any connection to them after they told me I was adopted. Do you know what it's like to not know your medical history? To have these thoughts that no one else if having, and you can't explain it?"
Surprisingly, I blurted out, "What thoughts?"
Jeff's demeanor sinks. Jeff sits silently for a few moments. He just stares at the stearing wheel. Finally, he murmurs, "I have these... thoughts. I can't explain them. They aren't normal. Sometimes they are good thoughts, and they help me... like with school. Sometimes, they can get me in trouble. These thoughts caused my depression... they still cause depression."
He whispers, "I can't take it anymore."
He looks up and looks directly at me. His eyes look weary. "I can't take it anymore, Jacob. I got my revenge on those fools, and now I'm going to find my peace. Don't I deserve it?"
I don't know what to say. I can only stare blankly at Jeff. Finally, I open my mouth, "Jeff... I had no idea. You should have told me. I could have tried to help you."
Jeff's mouth gives a little smile, but his eyes remain sad. He swallows hard, and nods his head. He Turns away, and open the driver's door. He stands up, and grabs something from behind his seat. It's long and thin.
He bends over to look through the open door at me. He grabs a knife from his pocket. "There's nothing you could have done to help me. Good bye, my friend." He tosses the knife into my lap, and slams the door closed.
I watch my friend walk to the guard rail. He looks out towards the rising sun. He looks peaceful. He draws the sword from its seathe. With quick motion, he plunges it into it's new home; blood seeps from his gut.
I was able to cut the restraints with the knife Jeff had left me. I began to cry as I drove away from his body. My friend killed himself in front of me.
I need to leave this town. I hate it. I stop by the motel and grab my belongings. I don't stop for breakfast on my way to the airport; I'd just throw it up anyways. I have to leave.
I ask the person at the airport when the next plane is leaving.
"I have a plane leaving in an hour. It's going to San Francisco. Where do you want to go?" she asked.
"Book me a seat on that plane. San Francisco sounds nice." I said. I kinda spaced out, but it actually did sound nice. I need a vacation.
On April 19, 2004, I decided to change my blog's theme and said something about a mystery in my tagline. The next day, I wrote Roy's Mystery Part 1. I did not have a plan, and it shows. The only certain thing is I wanted to finish it within 25 parts. By the time I got to Part 12, I was beginning to wrap up the mystery. Unfortunately, high school finals got in the way, among other things. I did end up writing Part 13 a month later. I needed to write one more part, and I just didn't write it. I have no idea what fifteen-year-old me had in mind for the conclusion.
In 2014, I wanted to start a sub-website just for creative writing projects. I created a new WordPress instance for my projects. I decided to do a Roy's Mystery project on November 1st. I would post the original Roy's Mystery, and a "remastered" version with an ending. I rewrote Roy's Mystery part-by-part in Google Docs hoping to find a satisfying conclusion. By the time I had Part 8 rewritten on November 17th, I had the makings of a two-part conclusion. It was not the ending I went with, but it got some good ideas flowing.
On November 27th, I started writing an ending. I came up with motives for each of the characters who wanted Jeff dead. On a funny note, I wrote "Hoges wanted to kill Jeff, because he tracked mud into the house." I identified changes I needed to make to the rest of the story for these things to fit together. On the 29th, I had parts 1-13 rewritten.
Something happened, but I picked it up again on January 20, 2015. I mainly edited it, and I tried to get in the headspace to write the ending. I jotted down a few additional notes for the ending. Part 13 still had Jacob strapped to a table in an evil lair. On February 3, 2015, I overhauled Part 13 to what it is in the remaster, and I had a first draft for Part 14 and Part 15. By February 11th, Roy's Mystery was complete.
If I published the original alongside the remaster, I needed an ending to it, too. Somewhere in this timeline I wrote a batshit insane ending to the original story in WordPress. I vaguely remember a chainsaw and possibly superpowers from the element. I think Jacob breaks out of his bonds on the table, and jumps Jeff with a chainsaw in the evil lair. The element also contributed to the ending in some way. I hated that ending. I forgot I had a draft of that ending in that WordPress instance, and have since removed it.
Unfortunately, the creative writing website never came to pass. So, Roy's Mystery sat without a published ending for 20 years. I was looking over posts in April 2024, and saw that the 20th anniversary for Roy's Mystery was coming up. I found my Google Docs draft. I decided that was a good excuse to edit it a bit further before publishing it on its anniversary. I hope you enjoyed it.