the murder at freeland

THE MURDER AT FREELAND

Author: James K. Maingi

We had recently moved to Freeland, a small town on the outskirts of the capital. Little was known about it, and few people lived there. To most, Freeland was considered a no-go zone ever since a group of young, vibrant visitors mysteriously disappeared and were later found brutally murdered. The crime scene was chaotic and bloody; the once-aromatic scents of trees and flowers were replaced by the stench of death and decay. The victims’ skulls were cracked open, severed from their bodies, and scattered across the dense forest. Their arms and limbs were also detached, creating a horrific mess.

To understand what had happened, an investigation was launched to identify the killer and their motives. Rumors suggested the group may have been abducted by human traffickers operating in Freeland’s streets, possibly to be sold as slaves or forced into prostitution for a cartel. Human trafficking was not uncommon in Freeland; it was a thriving underground business with key players in both national and municipal governments. These operations were well-protected and hidden from the public, but their impact on society was undeniable. Many locals, if given the chance, could recount tales of horror—stories of relatives abducted, trafficked, and never heard from again.

Despite these rumors, there was no solid evidence to implicate the cartel in the abduction of the youths. Sergeant Walter, along with his partner Detective Susan Turner from the Missing Persons Department, was assigned to lead the investigation. To set the investigation on the right path, they conducted preliminary background checks on the victims by interviewing their families.

The background checks yielded little useful information, but the investigators remained determined. Time was critical to finding the victims alive. Without valuable evidence, their efforts felt like a wild goose chase. After three weeks of investigation, Sergeant Walter received a call from a homicide detective requesting his presence at a crime scene to identify several murdered and mutilated bodies, possibly linked to his missing persons case.

Within ten minutes of the call, Sergeant Walter and Detective Turner arrived at the scene, shocked by what they found. The dismembered body parts were unrecognizable, making it impossible to identify the victims without DNA testing. To preserve the evidence, homicide detectives called in medical examiners to collect samples that might determine the cause of death and identify the perpetrator. Meanwhile, the department questioned witnesses, but fear of implicating the cartel or criticizing the government’s handling of missing persons cases silenced them.

Through a joint effort by the homicide and missing persons units, along with the medical examiner’s office, a breakthrough occurred. The medical examiner identified the victims by matching DNA samples with records in the national hospital database, confirming they were the missing persons from Sergeant Walter’s case. A medical report detailed the victims’ backgrounds and causes of death, accompanied by an investigative report from Sergeant Walter and Detective Turner before the case was transferred to the homicide division.

The perpetrator had been meticulous, leaving no incriminating evidence at the scene or on the bodies. With insufficient evidence for prosecution, both cases were shelved, giving detectives time to pursue new leads. No arrests were made.

Over the years, Freeland’s residents wondered if the killer lived among them. Their fears were reignited when a new series of murders, strikingly similar to those from a decade earlier, shocked the community. The similarities suggested the same perpetrator might be responsible, as no arrests had been made in the original cases.

Convinced of this connection, the director of the state investigative department and their team vowed to apprehend the resurfaced serial killer. No clue was overlooked, and every detail was taken seriously to prevent further killings. The investigation revealed that the killer not only took pleasure in murdering their victims but also in torturing them beforehand. Their targets were young, vibrant youths from the community.

Further investigation uncovered a possible motive: the killer’s son had been fatally injured by a stray bullet during a cartel shootout in Freeland. The cartel, which operated openly in the town, had been embroiled in a power struggle, and the bullet was traced back to their conflict.

Growing up in Freeland, gang life was normalized. Youths admired the gang members’ polished cars, luxurious homes in the best parts of town, constant electricity, 24/7 security, and respect. To many young men, the gang’s lifestyle was more appealing than a safe, ordinary life.

When the killer sought justice for his son’s death, he found the authorities unresponsive, corrupted by cartel money. The agency’s director was known to conduct illegal deals with the gang, shielding them from prosecution. Arrested gang members often went free after the investigating officer mysteriously disappeared or was found dead, and cases were quietly closed.

Realizing the agency was complicit with the cartel, Frank, the grieving father, vowed to take vengeance. He targeted the families of those involved, ensuring they felt the pain of losing their children. Patiently, he waited a decade until the gang members had settled and raised families. When the first series of murders occurred, some of their children were teenagers, others as young as four or five.

The murders left the investigative department baffled. Amid rising tensions in Freeland, the national government ordered the local police to conduct a thorough investigation and bring the culprit to justice, threatening to replace the department’s leadership if they failed. Fearing exposure of their own ties to the cartel, the agency made swift arrests and reported progress to the oversight board.

During this period, a decade-old report surfaced in the occurrence book, filed by a man in his mid-thirties named Frank. It detailed his son’s death by a stray bullet linked to a Freeland cartel. The officer on duty retrieved the report and alerted the station’s commander, who ordered it removed from the records and dispatched officers to arrest Frank off the record. A background check revealed Frank was a former rogue spy unit member, discharged for crimes committed during service. He was a wanted man, making him a dangerous target. Recognizing the risk, the commander halted the arrest and called an urgent meeting.

At the meeting, the Freeland police discussed the new intelligence. Arresting Frank would deflect scrutiny from the department and demonstrate their commitment to justice. Setting aside personal motives to eliminate Frank as a threat, the officers agreed to work for the public good.

Frank, a Freeland native, had gone into exile after his discharge, fearing prosecution for crimes committed with his spy unit in the Orange Republic. To evade capture, he underwent facial surgery to alter his appearance and began clearing his records from the state database. A year later, under a new identity, he returned to Freeland and lived quietly among the community.

To locals, Frank was enigmatic—unsociable, reserved, and visibly agitated by police and gang activity. He often questioned why criminals were imprisoned rather than killed. After years of waiting, Frank resumed his quest for vengeance by kidnapping Joan, the teenage daughter of a former gang member. Her body was later found near her home with a note: “I hope you feel the pain of losing your child, as you contributed to my son’s death.”

This murder sparked widespread fear in Freeland. Families linked to the cartel began losing their children, often in their youth, under mysterious circumstances. The community, feeling unprotected, armed themselves despite laws prohibiting civilian firearm possession. After meetings with the state security department and town administrators, residents were granted permission to own firearms for self-defense and urged to report suspicious activity.

Since Joan’s abduction and murder, Freeland’s residents lived in constant fear, uncertain who might vanish next. This anxiety strained marriages, with couples arguing over whether to leave Freeland for safer towns. My own family was not immune. My mother, uneasy about living in Freeland, clashed with my father, a construction engineer overseeing a lucrative municipal project. She prioritized our safety over financial stability, while my father resisted leaving until his project was complete.

Under relentless pressure from my mother, my father agreed to resign once the project was handed over. Two weeks later, the company assumed control, and my father submitted his resignation. The next day, we packed our belongings and loaded them onto a moving truck. That evening, we bid farewell to our neighbors and left Freeland for a safer destination.

Leaving Freeland stirred mixed emotions in me. Part of me was relieved to escape the danger, but another part mourned the memories of my childhood, friends, and schoolmates left behind. My instincts warned against traveling at night, but as a minor, my concerns were dismissed by my parents, who made all family decisions.

Our destination was ten kilometers away, requiring us to drive through a dense forest with poorly maintained roads. The hilly terrain made road construction costly, so the route was designed to minimize expenses, lengthening the journey to the capital. Despite my protests, my parents insisted on leaving, and we set off in the truck.

Four kilometers from Freeland, our truck overheated, forcing us to pull over in an unfamiliar, dark area known for cartel activity. Traffic was sparse, with vehicles passing every thirty minutes, often used by traffickers moving drugs or people. As my father worked to fix the overheating radiator, my mother and sister, Susan, grew increasingly anxious about the darkening surroundings and Freeland’s rising insecurity.

Once the radiator was refilled, my father started the engine, and we felt a wave of relief. But as we prepared to continue, my father noticed a vehicle rapidly approaching through the rearview mirror. It overtook us at high speed and blocked the road. My father slammed on the brakes, but the truck’s momentum caused it to skid, crash into the road barriers, and overturn.

Amid the chaos, a buzzing sound filled my head. Despite the impact, I remained conscious, though my parents and sister were severely injured and unresponsive. I unbuckled my seatbelt, falling hard against the windshield, and checked their pulses—they were alive. As I struggled to free them, I noticed the driver of the other vehicle—a tall, masked man—standing unapologetically nearby, watching me.

Bruised and in pain, I pleaded for help, but he crouched to my level, pointed a gun at my forehead, and said, “Kid, don’t think I’m here to help you or your family. That won’t happen—not today, not ever.”

Realizing his malicious intent, I bolted toward Freeland. He grabbed a wooden club from his car and chased me, striking me on the back of the head fifty meters from the crash site. I lost consciousness.

The next morning, I awoke to ice-cold water splashed on my face by my captor. My hands were tied above my head, my face bloody, in a dark, filthy dungeon with rats scurrying around—a childhood fear of mine. I surveyed the room, hoping to find my family, but I was alone. The thought that Frank might be my kidnapper terrified me, especially if he believed my family was linked to his son’s death.

Questions raced through my mind:

1. Did my parents have any connection to Frank’s son’s death?

2. If so, who was involved?

3. If not, why was Frank targeting us?

Only my parents could answer these questions—if they were still alive. As I sat in deep thought, the door swung open, flooding the room with light. A large, unmasked figure entered, holding a baseball bat. His face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. He circled me, taunting my helplessness, and struck me repeatedly, claiming he needed information. The pain was excruciating, especially when he crushed my joints with a vice.

For an hour, he tortured me without asking specific questions, setting the stage for interrogation. When he finally removed my gag, I demanded to know where my family was. Enraged, he smashed my face and growled, “You only speak when I say so. I call the shots here.”

His harsh voice intimidated me, but my instincts urged defiance to buy time and learn if my family was alive. I persisted until he relented, promising to take me to them. He untied me, dragged me through a well-lit corridor, and threw me into a room with two chairs, a wooden table, and a bright lamp hanging from the ceiling. He slammed the door, saying, “I’m not done with you,” and left.

While alone, I overheard a man’s voice on the phone, addressing someone as “ma’am” and discussing orders. The conversation revealed the kidnappers were part of a rival cartel led by a woman, notorious for kidnapping, human trafficking, gun smuggling, and drugs. They had two dozen captives, and all men had been “disposed of,” suggesting I might be the only male survivor.

The door opened again, and my captor returned with a blindfolded woman, clearly injured. When the blindfold was removed, I saw it was my sister, Susan. Relief washed over me, but I still worried about our parents. Susan sobbed, “Johnson, he killed Dad!”

“What?” I exclaimed, stunned.

“He shot him in the chest after Dad couldn’t provide the information he wanted,” she said. “He left him lifeless in a pool of blood in the basement.”

Before I could process this, the captor struck Susan’s face, ordering her to speak only when told. He grabbed her hair, threw her at my feet, and stormed out, the door’s slam echoing in the room.

Alone, I helped Susan up, and we shared a tearful embrace. Knowing time was short, I urged her to recount everything she knew. She was devastated by Dad’s death, but I insisted we needed information to plan an escape.

“Susan, I understand your pain, but to get you, Mom, and me out alive, you have to tell me everything,” I said.

“How can you be so heartless?” she snapped. “All you care about is escaping, but they’ll kill us like they did Dad!”

“Sit,” I said firmly. “I can’t lose you too. It’s better to live with hope than to give up. The longer you stay silent, the worse our fate.”

After a heated exchange, we apologized and sat down. Susan shared that Mom and other young women were held in a separate facility nearby. As she was moved through the corridors, she heard guards salute five times, indicating at least five men were stationed there. Escaping would require careful planning.

Susan raised a troubling point: “Do you think we wronged someone to deserve this? Why are we here, and why was Dad killed?”

I questioned Dad’s municipal office dealings and his associates, but we had no answers. To solve this, we needed to stay united and strategic. As Dad once said, “In tough times, tough choices must be made.”

Without warning, the door opened, and two well-dressed men entered with our captor, carrying a black briefcase. The captor was ordered to leave. The men introduced themselves as SSgt. Brown and WO Flex, former elite spy unit members. Their mention of the spy unit filled me with dread, knowing they would stop at nothing to extract what they wanted