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.
