CHAPTER 5 – WHAT THEY BURIED
1931 Words
The drive back to headquarters felt longer than usual.
Neither Naomi nor Logan spoke.
The only sounds inside the SUV were the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle from the police radio.
Outside, the city had already returned to its normal rhythm.
Traffic crawled through the streets.
Street vendors arranged their stalls.
Office workers hurried across pedestrian crossings with coffee cups in one hand and phones in the other.
Life moved on.
As if Richard Hawthorne had never existed.
Naomi rested her elbow against the window.
Richard's confession lay inside the evidence folder on her lap.
She hadn't stopped thinking about it since they left the mansion.
"Some names were forgotten."
"Some voices were buried."
The words echoed in her mind.
Not because they sounded poetic...
But because they sounded honest.
Too honest.
Logan glanced at her before returning his eyes to the road.
"You've been staring at that folder for almost fifteen minutes."
Naomi didn't answer.
"You planning to burn a hole through it?"
That earned him a small smile.
"I'm thinking."
"I figured."
Another few seconds passed.
Then Logan spoke again.
"What bothers you?"
Naomi looked down at the folder.
"The confession."
"You think it's fake?"
She slowly shook her head.
"No."
"If anything..."
"I think it's the most truthful thing Richard ever wrote."
Logan raised an eyebrow.
"Even though someone forced him to write it?"
"Exactly."
She turned slightly in her seat.
"People lie when they think they still have time."
"They tell themselves they'll fix everything tomorrow."
"They'll apologize tomorrow."
"They'll tell the truth tomorrow."
She looked back out the window.
"But Richard didn't have a tomorrow."
Logan let those words sink in.
"So..."
"...you think he finally stopped lying."
Naomi nodded.
"I do."
The traffic light ahead turned red.
The SUV rolled to a stop.
Logan rested both hands on the steering wheel.
"Something else has been bothering me."
"What?"
"The killer."
Naomi looked at him.
"He could've written the confession himself."
"He could've forged Richard's handwriting."
"He could've planted any story he wanted."
Logan nodded.
"But he didn't."
"No."
"He wanted Richard's own words."
Naomi lowered her voice.
"That's what scares me."
The light turned green.
They drove on.
For the rest of the journey...
Neither of them spoke again.
---
Police Headquarters.
The moment they stepped inside, the noise hit them.
Phones rang from every direction.
Officers crossed the hallway carrying files.
Someone shouted for forensic reports.
A television mounted high on the wall replayed the same breaking news.
THE FALLEN SAINT CLAIMS A THIRD VICTIM.
Naomi barely looked at it.
She had already seen enough cameras for one day.
"Evidence room?" Logan asked.
She nodded.
"I'll meet you there."
He disappeared down another hallway.
Naomi walked slowly into the evidence room.
Unlike the rest of the station...
It was quiet.
Cool.
Organized.
Shelves filled with carefully labelled boxes lined the walls.
She placed Richard's confession on the stainless-steel table.
A minute later, Logan returned carrying two sealed evidence envelopes.
"I had to argue with the evidence clerk."
Naomi looked up.
"Why?"
"He didn't want to release the first two confessions."
She smiled.
"I hope you asked nicely."
"I flashed my badge."
She laughed quietly.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
Logan placed both envelopes on the table.
"Victor Langley."
He tapped the first.
"Eleanor Hayes."
Then the second.
Naomi pulled on a pair of gloves.
"Let's meet our first two victims."
She carefully opened Victor's envelope.
Inside was a cream-colored sheet.
She froze for a second.
Then reached for Richard's confession.
Side by side...
The papers looked almost identical.
Logan leaned closer.
"Same paper."
Naomi didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she picked up both sheets.
She held them beneath the light.
Same texture.
Same thickness.
Same faint watermark pressed into the corner.
"This isn't ordinary paper," she murmured.
Logan frowned.
"You can tell just by looking?"
"I can tell by feeling."
She gently ran her thumb across the edge.
"It's expensive."
"Custom-made, maybe."
Logan looked surprised.
"You got all that from touching paper?"
Naomi smiled faintly.
"My father owned a publishing company."
"I grew up surrounded by different kinds of paper."
"Cheap paper."
"Luxury paper."
"Imported paper."
She looked at the three sheets again.
"This..."
"...isn't something you'd buy at a supermarket."
Logan folded his arms.
"So the killer even planned the paper."
Naomi nodded.
"He planned everything."
She opened Eleanor's confession.
Now all three lay before them.
Three different handwritings.
Three different stories.
Three different lives.
Yet somehow...
They belonged together.
Naomi began reading Victor's confession.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Not looking for guilt.
Looking for patterns.
When she finished...
She moved to Eleanor's.
Then Richard's again.
She noticed the same thing she had sensed earlier.
Different words.
Different regrets.
But the same feeling.
Every one of them wrote as though they had been carrying something heavy for years.
Not fear.
Not shame.
Something deeper.
Regret.
She looked at Logan.
"Read the last sentence."
Logan picked up Victor's confession.
His lips moved silently.
Then he reached for Eleanor's.
His expression changed.
Finally Richard's.
He slowly looked up.
"They all end the same way."
Naomi nodded.
"Read it."
Logan cleared his throat.
"'May the saint forgive what man never will.'"
Silence settled over the room.
Logan placed the confession back on the table.
"So that's his signature."
Naomi stared at the papers for several seconds before quietly shaking her head.
"No."
She lifted Richard's confession.
"Richard wrote this."
She placed it down.
Then lifted Eleanor's.
"So did Eleanor."
Finally...
Victor's.
"And Victor."
She looked directly at Logan.
"The killer didn't leave a signature."
"He made them leave one."
Logan looked back at the three confessions.
For the first time since the investigation began...
The papers frightened him more than the bodies.
Naomi slowly sat back in her chair.
Her eyes never left the confessions.
"He's not trying to tell the world who he is..."
She whispered.
"...he's making sure the victims tell the world who they were.
Naomi stayed where she was for another minute.
Her fingers rested lightly on Richard's confession.
She wasn't reading it anymore.
She was thinking.
Three victims.
Three confessions.
Three people who had supposedly lived completely different lives.
Yet every one of them had written like people carrying the same invisible weight.
Logan watched her quietly.
He had worked with detectives before.
Some relied on facts.
Some relied on instinct.
Naomi relied on both.
"What are you thinking now?" he asked.
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she gathered the three confessions into a neat pile.
"They all sound..."
She searched for the right word.
"...tired."
Logan frowned.
"Tired?"
"They don't sound like people trying to defend themselves."
She tapped Richard's confession.
"They sound like people who stopped defending themselves a long time ago."
Logan leaned against the table.
"So you think the killer breaks them?"
Naomi slowly nodded.
"Maybe."
"Or maybe..."
She looked down again.
"...he doesn't have to."
Logan raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
She sighed softly.
"I think he knows something about them before he ever knocks on their door."
The room fell silent.
Logan looked at the three files again.
"So..."
"...these weren't random victims."
Naomi met his eyes.
"I don't believe they were."
Before Logan could respond, another knock came at the door.
The same young officer poked his head inside.
"Detective Brooks?"
Logan looked over.
"The reporters are getting impatient."
"They've been asking for Detective Winters too."
Naomi groaned under her breath.
"Wonderful."
The officer smiled awkwardly before disappearing again.
Logan couldn't help laughing.
"I don't think they like waiting."
"They'll survive."
"You'd be surprised."
He picked up the evidence folders.
"They can smell a story from a mile away."
Naomi removed her gloves.
"Unfortunately."
---
Five minutes later...
The hallway outside the briefing room was packed.
Camera crews stood shoulder to shoulder.
Bright lights pointed toward the small podium at the front.
Someone spotted Logan first.
"They're here!"
Within seconds...
Questions exploded from every direction.
"Detective Brooks!"
"Is it true the victims were tortured?"
"Can you confirm the confession was written by Richard Hawthorne?"
"Do you have any suspects?"
"Is the public safe?"
Naomi instinctively stepped half a pace behind Logan.
She hated attention.
She preferred watching people...
Not being watched.
Logan raised both hands.
"Everyone."
"Please."
The room gradually became quieter.
"We understand the public is concerned."
"But this investigation is still active."
"We cannot discuss evidence."
One reporter lifted his microphone.
"Can you at least tell us whether all three murders are connected?"
Logan nodded once.
"Yes."
Murmurs spread across the room.
"So it really is the same killer?"
"We believe so."
Another hand shot into the air.
"Has the killer contacted the police?"
"No."
"Has he left any messages?"
"No comment."
Naomi could almost predict every question before it was asked.
She had attended enough press conferences to know how they worked.
Everyone wanted answers.
Nobody had them.
Then...
The room became strangely quiet.
Not because Logan had spoken.
Because someone else hadn't.
A man standing near the back lowered his notebook.
He waited.
Patiently.
Unlike the others...
He wasn't trying to interrupt.
He was waiting for the right moment.
Only when the room settled completely did he speak.
"Detective Brooks."
His voice wasn't loud.
Yet everyone heard it.
Logan looked up.
A smile appeared on his face.
"Julian."
Naomi followed his gaze.
The man stepped forward.
He looked to be around thirty.
Maybe a little older.
He wore a plain black shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
Dark jeans.
Simple black shoes.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing flashy.
Around his neck hung a press pass.
A leather notebook rested comfortably in one hand.
His appearance wasn't what caught Naomi's attention.
It was his eyes.
Calm.
Observant.
The kind of eyes that missed very little.
"You've been avoiding my calls again," Julian said.
Logan chuckled.
"I've been avoiding everyone."
"I noticed."
A few reporters laughed.
Julian smiled politely before his expression settled again.
He wasn't interested in jokes.
He looked directly at Logan.
"Can I ask one question?"
"You'll ask it whether I say yes or no."
"Probably."
Another ripple of laughter spread through the room.
Julian opened his notebook.
He glanced at one page.
Then closed it again.
"No theories."
"No speculation."
"Just your opinion."
Logan folded his arms.
"I'm listening."
Julian looked around the room before speaking.
"If someone only wanted people dead..."
He paused.
"...why leave every victim with a handwritten confession?"
Silence.
Even Naomi looked at him.
It wasn't the question itself.
It was the way he asked it.
Like he had already considered every possible answer.
Logan chose his words carefully.
"We're still investigating."
Julian nodded.
"I expected that."
He slipped the notebook beneath his arm.
Then quietly said,
"People who only want to kill..."
He looked around the room.
"...don't leave signatures."
No one spoke.
Not a single camera flashed.
The sentence seemed to settle over the room like heavy rain.
Julian gave Logan a polite nod.
"Thank you for your time."
Without waiting for another question...
He turned and walked away.
Naomi watched him disappear through the crowd.
She didn't even realise she'd been staring until Logan nudged her lightly.
"You okay?"
She blinked.
"Hm?"
"You've been watching him."
She looked away.
"He asks different questions."
Logan smiled.
"That's why I read his articles."
Naomi looked surprised.
"You read them?"
"Sometimes."
"They're usually better than the official reports."
She laughed softly.
"I probably shouldn't have heard that."
"You definitely shouldn't."
For the first time all morning...
The weight of the case lifted just enough for both of them to smile.
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