how i died

Jennifer's Letter

Most people know me as Jen. Jennifer to my parents. Crazy Jenny to my club buddies. Mommy to my 2 year old Harper.

I'm a single mother. I've been a widow ever since my 1st anniversary, my husband died of cancer before I even knew I was pregnant. I've been fighting bipolar disorder for more than 5 years now. And when I lost my husband, I lost my rock. (Then, I found you.)

All living creatures don't know what happens after death. The investigation of my murder is still unsolved, (but I wanted you to be the first to know the truth, darling.) You see, death is peaceful. The moment my heart stopped beating, when I exhaled for the last time, I woke up on a high mountain,( just like the one you took me in Yosemite.) There's a house on the top. A big, 19th century style mansion. There's a big staircase that takes us to the watching room, where I'm writing this right now. (All of our memories run through my head as if it was an old fairytale. Or a Netflix show. I have no worries now. There's no night here. No sadness. I can feel a greater force holding me tight. But I had to let you know I'm okay.)

The mind of a detective never turns off. Since I was assigned to the case of the "Romantic Serial Killer of LA", whose name was given as he'd always make the crime scene look like it was a date, stab women to death and then he'd cut off a piece of skin in the shape of a heart, I've had a feeling this case was way more connected to me than any other before. All of his victims were spouses of those whose cases were previously assigned to me. I had a sense that I knew him, personally.

Then, my instinct was confirmed. As we were working on the last 3 victims, every night, a single red rose and a small ripped piece of paper were left on my desk. I first thought it was a joke, but the notes contained information about the next victim we'd find the next morning. I decided to keep it confidential. I wouldn't want the media to give the killer what he wants. Attention. I knew it was someone from the inside, someone who knew about all of my cases, a "career stalker".

   Friday evening, as I was writing a search warrant request to the house of my prime suspect, Michael Schneider, the boss, invited me to have a drink at his house. And I accepted it.

He served me a margarita, (and asked me about you. I couldn't give any information. We knew when we started dating that co-workers can't have personal relationships with each other, besides a professional relationship.) I kept making small talk with a bad executed poker face. I knew he'd break, I just had to read in between the lines. He went on about some personal information, which was uncannily accurate. Such as my first marriage, my daily routine, where I go on Sundays and even about my son.I want to clarify, we had never talked about anything besides work.

Suddenly, I get a call. Marcus, forensic scientist, gay, my best friend from college; said we had another victim. Roberta González. Wife to Carlos. My first ever homicide case. It was another of his killings. His vanity has gotten bigger than the humanity inside him. He's gotten confident and arrogant, as she was found in a fancy restaurant. Naked.

Marcus mentioned there was a card. Apparently, for me. "Detective. You are right where you should be."  As he told me the note my blood ran cold. 

Marcus and I had a signal we used in college, whenever we had to get out of somewhere. "I left the keys in my jacket." I tell him, after a long, quiet pause. "No, you didn't. Wasn't it on the table?" He responds, worried. "That's right". I said, quietly trembling.

So, I hang up. He looks into my eyes, unblinking and giggles these exact same words, mockingly, taking long, nerve wracking pauses: "Jennifer. Jennifer.

J-E-N-N-I-F-E-R. 

Jessica, Eliza, Nicole, Natalie, Irene, Felicia, Eleanor.

Roberta."

All the names of the victims. My facial expressions drastically changed in less than a second, as I tried to swallow, but my throat was very dry. I was furious, but terrified. Speechless. I was ready to escape.

'I-I better go pick up Harper from daycare, Richard. I should go.' I mumbled, staring at him, with a serious look on my face. He laughed. 'You know you're not going anywhere.' He affirmed.

Next thing, I remember feeling a painful, slimy substance  injecting my chest. The same one we'd found on the victims' autopsies. It only affects one's motor system.

He took me to the forest near my own house. I couldn't fight. But I could feel the pain. I could feel that every time he screamed, the wounds were deeper. I was gasping for air as he burst out laughing at my struggle.

I still don't understand why it was all about me.

      In my last second, I heard a quiet, slow-paced sound of a police siren. Marcus found me, right? (Then you came. I recognized the curly hair. You told me to keep looking at you, and that we were going to be fine. You are still my savior, though. You've saved me from myself. You made me smile in my last moment.)

(I'm so sorry about our wedding, Timothy. I'm sorry about everything. I hope in the next life we reencounter ourselves in a more beautiful place. Somewhere far, far from where we've met. Please, look after Harper for me. He's a sweet kid, he's got much to learn from you. I love you. Forever. I really wish that I hadn't taken it too far. You were right. Too bad it had to end like this.)

(Now, carefully, no sudden movements, camly call the SWAT team, tell them what happened and when they ask for evidence, tell them to go to my apartment, look for the yellow box in my closet. I've left evidence from Michael there, as well as all the notes I've received. I've always had a feeling about him. I just thought I would survive him. Silly me.

Check my blazer as well. The one I was wearing when it happened. I left a voice recorder inside the right pocket. I sewed it there. Then, delete all the words that will prove anything about us, and publish this letter. For legal and physical proof, the autopsy, ask for Marcus' team. I've sent him a letter too.

I really am sorry, my love. I'll keep looking over you two from up here.)

(Love, Jennie.)