A House Built on Bones - Part I

When the remains of a long-missing suspect resurface decades after a notorious murder, detective Jamala Hopkins reopens a case riddled with conspiracy, deception, and supernatural warnings - leading her to a horrifying truth.

Photo by Christian Chen on Unsplash

The overturned car skidded to a halt after ploughing through an acre of land, flattening several wheat fields, and smashing into nearby hay bales. Smoke billowed from the mangled engine before an explosion erupted, engulfing the wreckage in flames.

By 2:34 a.m., nearly two hours after the first fire truck arrived at the scene, the fire finally subsided. The dispatched police officers, however, were unable to locate the driver. The entire area, including the heavily damaged highway, was cordoned off to preserve evidence, but the investigation yielded no results.

Despite extensive CCTV footage coverage and a dedicated search team, however, the driver remained missing, and his whereabouts could not be traced. These unusual circumstances fuelled conspiracy theories on online forums, but the worst was yet to come.

At the scene, an undamaged gift box was discovered containing the folded remains of a young girl, believed to have been around six years old at the time of her death. This prompted the investigators to uncover a gruesome homicide at the suspect’s apartment.

In an apartment block south of the West World Centre on Street 54, police officers discovered the remains of the suspect’s estranged wife and sister during the night between Thursday and Friday.

The gruesome modus operandi was never disclosed, but leaked police cam footage revealed an apartment in chaos, with the ex-wife’s remain on full display. These videos were circulated on the darknet for a hefty price, further amplifying rumours of foul play and dragging conspiracy theories into the public eye.

Meanwhile, the attorney in charge issued a meticulously prepared arrest warrant, and the suspect was added to Interpol’s Red Notice.

Five weeks after the suspect’s disappearance, a crime TV show explored various theories about his escape. It suggested he may have diverted attention with the car accident, based on accounts from undisclosed eyewitnesses. Some claimed to have seen the suspect leap from the car moments before it overturned, while others described witnessing a bluish light in the night sky seconds before the vehicle veered into the wheat field and erupted into flames.

Two decades later, the new owners of the farm near the accident site unearthed the suspect’s remains while digging a well for underground water.

The subsequent autopsy revealed blunt-force trauma to the victim’s body and skull. However, the findings failed to connect him to the car accident. Pathologists concluded that the suspect had not died as a result of the crash.

It was impossible to determine whether the blunt-force injuries occurred before or after death, either. The pathologist was unable to analyse sufficient fluids to assess the concentrations of various components in the deceased’s bloodstream, stomach, or bowel contents at the time of death. The only certainty was the absence of bruises and fractures typically associated with violent traffic collisions.

This unexpected discovery reignited public interest in the long-closed case, sparking demands for a reinvestigation. In response to public outcry, a special task force was assembled. However, they were directed to adhere to the original case as no other viable leads emerged to warrant further inquiry.

Lead detective Jamala Hopkins, with extensive experience in the Violent Crimes Team, was put in charge of the special task force.

Hopkins began her career in the late '80s and climbed the ranks over twenty years, witnessing firsthand how the higher-ups often covered up crimes in exchange for promotions and financial rewards.

Righteous in her own way but cautious not to jeopardise her position as a loving mother of two daughters, she had no desire to re-investigate the case, despite the troubling autopsy report and the deleted files that suggested something was amiss.

Her resolve wavered on the evening of 9 January 2025.

Ring, ring. On the other end of the line was a young woman in her mid-thirties who introduced herself as Celine Mirza.

Jamala, the daughter of a Somali writer and an American businessman, was working late in her office when the first of several phone calls came through. It was a late Friday night, and she had already sent her secretary home. All incoming calls were redirected to her office, as was routine – though not at this time of night.

“Is this Detective Jamala?”

The voice was unfamiliar, one she couldn’t place.

“This is the Southwest Police Station. We’re unable to—”

“Detective, this is the only surviving member of the Mirza family.”

Unable to recognise the voice, Jamala leaned in and pulled out the file she had tucked in her drawer just a few hours earlier.

“I’m not sure if I—”

“I heard you’re re-investigating my family’s case, Detective.”

“Uh, I’m afraid I can’t—”

“He didn’t do it, Detective! He didn’t! He’s innocent! You have to listen to me!”

“Mrs Mirza—”

“It’s Ms And I’m not lying! I can prove it!”

Jamala chewed her lip, casting a glance at the clock on the wall. It was a habit she’d developed over the years, biting her lips whenever stress overwhelmed her, especially when she didn’t like what she was hearing.

“I understand. Would you like to give a witness statement? You can reach my colleagues at this number between nine and—”

“I saw it… with my own eyes.”

Jamala paused, her thoughts clouded with doubt about the case and her inner conflict. She was already beginning to suspect that Jacob Mirza had been framed, but the desire to seek justice was warring with the uncertainty gnawing at her.

“What did you see, exactly, Ms Mirza?”

“Detective… do you believe in the supernatural?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I—can we talk in person?”

Jamala glanced at the clock again, noting that half an hour had already passed, and she was nowhere near finishing the report she had started two hours ago.

“I’m not allowed to speak with witnesses outside working hours, especially not without a partner. I’m sorry. Can you request a formal witness—”

All that remained of the unexpected phone call was the constant static on the line.

As she set the phone down and prepared to continue typing, a sudden thought struck her – one so urgent it made her stop everything and storm out of the office.

She hurried down the stairs, racing towards the empty parking lot, dialling a close friend of hers still working with the Violent Crimes Team.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mike, it’s me, Jamala. I need you to do me a favour.”

“What, at this hour? Did something happen?”

“That case they put me on. Do you think you can find the autopsy report of the girl they found in the box?”

“Why? Is everything—”

“Please, just—can you do it or not?”

She unlocked the car.

“It’ll take me twenty minutes to get back to the station. You got time?”

She briefly put the phone down and checked the time.

“Sure. Hit me up ASAP.”

“Hey—”

She hung up.

Hitting the road at this hour, yet heading in the opposite direction of her home, was not something she was used to. Nearing her fifties in this profession, she hadn’t been out in the field or chasing criminals for a very long time.

But the thrill of a sudden call, of hitting the road no matter the time, and of saving the day was something her younger self would have relished. The older woman staring back at her through the rear-view mirror, however, didn’t share the same enthusiasm for the risks that came with it.

Fifteen minutes into this unusual journey, she got her first call from Mike.

“You got anything?”

“Depends on what you need.”

“Gimme her name.”

“Name?”

A brief pause followed. In the background, the sound of turning pages echoed as Mike realised what she meant.

“Hawwa Mirza.”

“Who identified her?”

“Uh, hold on. From what I can see, it’d be... uh, the stepdad.”

“No DNA tests requested?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“And the attorney in charge?”

Another silence followed, filled only by the rustling of papers.

“Joe Hallberg.”

“The guy who was newly appointed to the Supreme Court?”

“Positive. Why? What’s going on? What does all this have to do with—”

“Check Hallberg’s background, like how many cases he’s handled between 1996 and 2021, and how many of them—”

“You know I don’t have the authority to do that.”

“I know I’m asking too much, but… Mike, please. Help me out just this once, okay?”

A short pause followed this.

“All right, then. Send me a message with everything you need. And, Jamala, be careful.”

She paused. They both knew that in this profession, being careful was never enough, especially when you had to defy the very people who had granted you the authority you were now misusing to seek justice.

“Sure. You, too.”

Half an hour later, she pulled the car over and shut off the engine. Gazing out the window, she studied the apartment that had once belonged to the suspect, now slated for demolition as part of the government’s “reconstruction project” for neglected neighbourhoods.

The abandoned apartment felt unnervingly silent. As she gently pushed open the entrance door, it creaked loudly, the vibration from the unlubricated hinges reverberating through her fingers. The first stench that hit her was the odour of old urine.

From the peeling walls to the uneven staircase, the entire apartment was stained with things she didn’t want to identify. But the brown splatters told her that someone had either lost their life or been subjected to great torture here.

The suspect lived on the third floor at the time of the accident. According to official records, he had recently moved to the neighbourhood after a divorce. From once working a corporate job with a good salary, he lost everything overnight.

His ex-wife cited his heavy drinking as the reason for the divorce, which had developed somewhere between five and seven months before the homicide.

There was no official explanation for why the suspect began his drinking binge leading up to the crime. However, a colleague later confirmed his destructive drinking habits, attributing them to the stress of the cut-throat corporate environment.

This statement, however, would later be contradicted by another colleague, a 21-year-old graduate student working as an intern at the corporate headquarters. She chose to remain anonymous during her testimony and revealed that the suspect believed his ex-wife cheated on him.

When asked how the conversation had come about between the then 21-year-old intern and the 43-year-old suspect, she revealed that the suspect had confided in her after dining out as a team – two weeks before the accident. Unprompted.

While this scenario seemed plausible, especially given the suspect’s heavy drinking and deteriorating mental state, the lead detective at the time interpreted it as evidence of an affair between the two, despite the lack of any concrete evidence to support such a relationship.

This alleged affair, when forwarded to the attorney in charge, garnered far more attention and weight than it should have. With this alleged evidence, it became possible to construct a highly calculated motive for the suspect’s alleged murder of his daughter and estranged wife. However, it revealed little about why the suspect would have killed his sister or taken such extreme measures six months after his divorce was finalised.

While the attorney couldn’t provide satisfactory answers to these questions, the jury and judge, lacking any other evidence, concluded that the suspect was the most likely perpetrator. He was sentenced to the death penalty upon arrest.

Now, standing in front of apartment 17, with all this fresh in her mind, she observed the battered door that had been vandalised. It was then that she received another call from Mike.

“Hello?”

“Jamala, you’re not gonna believe this!”

“Why? What’d you find?”

“Okay, so from what I gathered from the records, that Hallberg guy is hella suspicious. He’s been the attorney in charge of 129 cases, 27 of which have been flagged.”

“Flagged?”

“Yeah, as in, you know, fabricated evidence, for which he’s served—”

“Hold on a second! Are you saying he was convicted of faking evidence?”

“I told you you’d be surprised!”

“But how? Why didn’t they revoke his license?”

“That’s the tricky part. I don’t know how he got away with it, but he did.”

“And the other thing?”

“Oh, yeah, nothing connecting Hallberg to Mr Cohen – the stepdad. But I found something else you might find interesting.”

“Which is…?”

“Do you remember the farmer who lived on the property at the time of the car crash? What his name was?”

She blinked, racking her brain to recall. “Uh, should be Dan Sandersson if I’m not mistaken. Why?”

“Well, that’s what he’s called now.”

“He changed his name?”

“Only the surname. It used to be, wait for it, Hallberg.”

“How sure are you? Could be a coincidence, no?”

“You call having the same parents a coincidence, too?”

“Okay, let’s say that’s the case. What does it prove?”

“You’ve lost your touch, my friend! Listen, what if I told you the stepdad and the farmer have a history?”

“History?”

“Yeah, dating back to the 80s. Dan Hallberg was put on trial for sodomy but was never formally convicted. And the best part? His alleged lover is suspected to be a certain guy, 16 at the time, referred to as minor C in the official records.”

“So, the stepdad is gay?”

“And has, well, some kind of connection to the Hallbergs.”

“When did the accident take place again?”

“1997. A time when people like that weren’t accepted.”

“You think the wife – uh, Mrs Mirza – knew about Mr Cohen’s, uh, preferences?”

“Knew? You mean, did she catch them in the act.”

“You think Mr Cohen killed those who could expose him? And then made it look like a jealousy-driven homicide? But that doesn’t explain why the suspect’s sister was found dead at the scene.”

“Well, that’s the part I don’t get. According to several of Mr Mirza’s colleagues, he hadn’t had contact with his sister for years, dating back to the 70s. She’d been reported missing ever since and had previously been listed as a runaway up until, you know, the discovery.”

Jamala briefly looked away, her eyes lingering on the battered door. A thought crossed her mind then, one that made her shudder.

“Where did they find her remains?”

“Curiously – she was the only one not in plain sight. The cadaver dogs sniffed her out through the decaying walls, which had been hidden behind a cabinet. To give you a mental image, the detectives at the time thought she’d been placed inside a hollow space within the floorboards, likely due to the high amounts of sewer water from the clogged and malfunctioning pipes and then moved over to the hole in the wall later on.”

“And the state of the body?”

“Pretty well-preserved, from what I can see from the pictures in the case file.”

“So, no autopsy was done on her?”

“The attorney didn’t think it was necessary, since the rate of decay matched that of the ex-wife and daughter.”

“So, we can’t say for sure that it’s the sister, can we, or when she passed away?”

“No, but everything points at her, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“They found an identification card on her, but it was like in poor condition – hardly legible. Still, I don’t think the body belongs to someone else. Just a hunch.”

“But you said Mr Mirza moved into the apartment recently? Six months after the divorce was finalised?”

“Correct. But he didn’t buy this place. He inherited it from his parents.”

“So, he would have had access to this place since the 80s – or 70s, even?”

“Yeah, and here’s another rabbit hole for you: Mary, the sister, was rumoured to be working the streets.”

“That’s… new. How old was she when she disappeared?”

“Seven.”

“Her parents sold her off? From what age?”

“According to witness statements from the neighbours, since she could walk.”

“Sick fuckers… Where are they now?”

“There’s no record of them since the missing person report was filed.”

“And the body they found in the wall? How old was it?”

“The tissue development and subsequent damage suggest she was between 30 and 45 when she died. That’d be about 30 years after she was reported missing.”

“She was kept alive all these years?”

“Are we thinking the same thing?”

“Without an autopsy report to confirm, whatever we think is pure speculation. But to answer your question, yes. I think the suspect kept her here.”

“You think Sandersson and Cohen killed the sister and buried her in that hole? Because she witnessed the murders or at least one of them?”

“After putting the others on full display?”

“What if they knew the discovery of her body would change the direction of the murder investigation? They’d want everything hinting at Mr Mirza’s innocence buried as long as possible, and when that failed…”

“They contacted Sandersson’s estranged brother to get rid of evidence?”

“That’s the only explanation I can think of.”

“No, something else is going on. That’s too simple and not in sync with all the other findings at the scene.”

“You think the suspect killed his sister, then?”

“Could be, too early to say. I need to see it for myself – that hole in the wall. I’ll call you again.”

Putting the phone back in her pocket, she crossed the apartment threshold, stepping cautiously. The thick stench of dust triggered a coughing fit, prompting her to quickly open one of the framed windows and inhale her asthma medication.

The cabinet remained in place, untouched. The detectives hadn’t secured it as evidence or demolished it after moving it to access the hole in the wall.

As she approached, she switched on her flashlight and placed it between her teeth, inspecting the hole with both hands. The remnants of the drilling still littered the area. But it wasn’t the state of the hole that unsettled her.

A narrow, thin canal – this could hardly be considered a hole. Even as she tried to squeeze into it, she realised only a malnourished person could fit into such a space. It would require unnatural, forced movements, broken bones, fractures to fit, and a crushed skull.

So why hadn’t Mike mentioned the bone fragments the dispatched team would’ve found at the scene? Why was there no record of the flattened skull, the disfigured and severely malnourished body? Nothing added up.

A phone call snapped her out of her thoughts. She answered it without checking the caller’s name.

“Hey, did you check—”

“Detective, this is Celine Mirza speaking.”

She quickly glanced at the unknown number on her phone screen before placing it back on her ear.

“This is my private number. How did you—”

“What do you think of it? That hole.”

Jamala paused and looked around the dark apartment, her senses on high alert. She slowly moved through the space, trying to determine if she was alone or if someone shared the space with her. Her fingers instinctively brushed the grip of her handgun.

“Now that I think about it, Ms Mirza, I don’t recall you being mentioned in the case report – nor was your existence ever disclosed in subsequent witness hearings. Who are you?”

There was no response to this. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy. She knew this silence was telling – Celine was hesitant, hiding something.

She was getting closer to something significant, but she also knew any rash actions at this point could be dangerous. She thus kept her cool and repeated her question.

“Who are you? Why did you ask me if I believed in the supernatural?”

“Do you, then? Believe in what you can’t see?”

“No. Now it’s your turn to answer mine.”

The line went dead.

Almost simultaneously, a loud noise pierced the silence. It sounded like something cracking in the ceiling. As she looked up, she soon realised the dire situation she was in. The entire building was collapsing on her.

She made it to the corridor just as the ceiling collapsed and blocked the entrance to the suspect’s apartment. With only minutes left to escape, she sprinted down the stairs and jumped out of the first-floor landing window.

The building tilted to the left as it collapsed, sending a storm of debris and dust through the air. Had she not parked her car further down the old parking lot, it would have likely been damaged by the force of the explosion that followed.

When Mike called a few minutes later, she was still not fully herself. But the incessant ringing forced her to get into the car and hit the road. Behind her, as she slowly drove off into the night, several people rushed to the collapsed building to locate the source of the loud bang, which must have felt like an earthquake.

She answered the phone only after she turned onto the highway.

“Hey, is everything—”

“Run a background check on Celine Mirza.”

“Celine… Mirza?”

She slowed the car slightly as she noted the change in pitch of his voice.

“You know her? She’s mentioned in the case report?”

“Uh, yeah, kind of. She’s… But why are you looking for her?”

“She’s called me a few times, saying the suspect is innocent. But something’s off. I don’t think she’s who she claims to be.”

“That’s impossible…”

Jamala glanced behind her through the rear-view mirror as a gust of cold air swept down her neck. Though she couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that she wasn’t alone.

“What do you mean? Mike?”

“Man, I don’t know where to begin… Remember I said Mary worked as a prostitute?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“So, apparently, she went by the name, you know, Celine. The investigators confirmed this through several witnesses – most of them her clients.”

“Are you saying I talked to a ghost? She was strange, I admit that, but the person I spoke to wasn’t dead.”

“Maybe it’s a prank? Kids these days, they’re on a whole different level.”

“Impossible. But even if that was the case, how could some kids have access to information only the police would know? And if we disregard all these strange circumstances, why would Mary use a fake name in the first place? It wasn’t like she was forced to sell herself through a third party, was it? Everyone in the neighbourhood knew and took advantage of her.”

“Beats me.”

She pulled over and rested her head against the headrest. Heavy snow began to fall from the clear sky, blanketing the area in a white veil. A ghost, huh? She smirked at the thought, shaking it off as quickly as it crossed her mind. There was no such thing as ghosts or apparitions.

In the background, the wipers cleared the windshield in perfect sync. The haunting melody held her senses for a few moments as the driving snow continued to cover everything around her.

She unlocked her phone and scrolled through the missed calls until she found the unknown caller displayed brightly on the screen. No phone number, no email address attached. She stared at it, trying to unravel the mystery behind the call. Then her phone rang.

“Celine Mirza?”

“What’s your answer, Detective?”

“My answer?”

“Do you believe someone like me can exist?”

“Someone like you?” She couldn’t suppress a bitter smile. Even entertaining such an idea seemed ridiculous. “I’m not talking to a ghost right now.”

“And if you are?”

“That’s impossible. Ghosts aren’t real, and they never will be. Throughout the history of mankind – whether we sprouted from Eden's garden or climbed down from the branches – no one has ever proven their existence.”

“A woman of science… But what if no science made by men can see us?”

She leaned forwards in her seat, scanning the dark surroundings, trying to detect any sign of someone watching her from the shadows.

“Then why don’t you prove your existence? Right now—”

Before she could finish, the car suddenly jerked forwards, flinging her out of the shattered windshield. She flew through the air for a brief moment before crashing into the frozen ground. Dizzy and disoriented, she blinked, seeing only a blur of motion in her peripheral vision, before she snapped into awareness of what was unfolding right before her eyes.

Unable to hit the brake in time, the oncoming traffic surged towards her badly damaged Togg, showing no signs of slowing down – likely due to the turned-off headlights and the deepening darkness.

BANG!

She squeezed her eyes shut and braced for the impact.

Read part II here.