This case was not meant to be public. It was buried, sealed, and forgotten, because what we found was the sign of something much worse. The department kept it hidden for years. But now, I need the world to see the truth. This is where ‘The Island Murders’ begins.
Designed by Master DS
Disclaimer: May contain violent language for certain readers.
II. The Pattern
A week had gone by, and we were still nowhere. We had no leads, no suspects, and no answers. Just a dead girl and a ritual that didn’t match anything in our database or collective experience. It wasn’t sloppy or frenzied like the usual occult theatrics we dealt with—no blood spatter, no half-burned candles or rambling manifestos. This was cold, clean, and purposeful. Like someone had done it before—and would do it again. The kind of thing that didn’t just take time, but certainty. Whoever they were, they knew exactly what they were doing, and that scared the hell out of me.
The forensics report came back with nothing. No prints, no hair, no skin cells, no evidence of a struggle. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. They didn’t leave a single trace. It was as if the room had been carefully and methodically staged by a ghost.
Even the flower left between her hands—a white camellia—felt like a clue wrapped in ritual. Native to the Asian islands, it was not something you’d pick up at a local florist on the island. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment choice. It was a symbol. In some cultures, camellias represent mourning or death. In others, purity. But in every case, they’re meaningful. Someone had picked it for her.
We ran her name, Kira Williams, through every database we had access to. Aside from a few old noise complaints and a single minor cream soda possession charge, there was nothing. She didn’t even have a recent address on file. No tax returns either. It was as if she’d existed in the background of the city, unregistered and unmissed.
She had no friends and no known enemies. Nobody reported her missing. No one had called asking about her. People don’t just vanish on the island—not without someone noticing. But with Kira, it was a haunting, deliberate silence.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the first time the killer had done something like this. It was too careful and planned out. If this wasn’t the first time, it meant there were others.
So I went back to the basement.
CPPD records—real records—are kept in a windowless archive two floors below the main building. The kind of place that smells like mildew and forgotten years. Most of the old case files never made it into the digital system. They were all handwritten on yellow forms with faded ink. Stuff they didn’t want in public view.
I was looking for ritual homicides. Occult patterns. Anything that might resemble what we found in the Town.
Box after box, I combed through voodoo hoaxes, ritualistic graffiti, and puffle sacrifice complaints. Most were easily explainable—kids messing around and scared neighbors. But then I found it—a slim file buried under a mess of loose sheets and broken clips.
Case No. 78-1491.
Filed July 1978. Closed September 1983.
Lead detective: Sergeant Tom LeRoux.
My old partner…
LeRoux had retired just before I made lieutenant. The kind of guy who smoked indoors after the ban and believed the dead could still talk—if you listened hard enough. He never spoke much about the cases that haunted him, but I’d always sensed there was one that never let go. Could this be the one?
The first page hit me like a punch.
Victim: Unknown. Female. Approx. age: 25-30.
Discovery Location: St. Waddles Cemetery No. 2.
Cause of Death: Undetermined.
Distinctive Marks: Eyes covered. Hands clasped. Flower between palms. Number 1 marked on the back in red oil pastel.
My chest tightened. This was the same setup. Almost identical. Except this one happened twenty-six years ago. And no one ever solved it.
Satchmo
Reporter