Unburdened

by Mark Philbin

For the second time, retired Detective Geoffery Anderson regretted coming alone.

Turn left and walk fifty paces into the woods.

He should have awoken his next-door neighbor Roger, as he knew there could be more to come than just taunting messages, but desperate times and all that. For Detective Anderson, time ran short, and the now-grandfather of two could be just fifty paces from the solution. For years, a victim had been denied justice, a family denied answers, and himself denied peace. He found the envelope containing the paper taped to his front storm door moments after the doorbell woke him at six o’clock. By six-thirty, he was headed back to the wooded area behind Bayshore Park—what he called his “haunting ground”—once again chasing after the killer of Hailey Beauchamp, twenty-one years to the day since her murder.

Anderson gave one last look up the crime scene’s foggy road, turned left, and marched into the woods, counting his steps as he went. Upon reaching fifty, he read the next note.

You left no stone unturned—except this one.

He instantly recognized the first clue: a large boulder. He quickly scanned the ground and saw no shovel marks or disturbed earth, then checked his smartwatch, praying it was not yet time. 7:09—six minutes ahead of schedule. With two clues remaining, he knew whatever he meant to find wouldn’t be crushed under an immovable rock. Anderson gave it a shove with his boot, earning no give.

Unturned. Did the killer mean it literally? Had he watched the investigation? Did he know that stone couldn’t be moved? He rested a hand on the boulder and unfolded the note again.

Count the years to the morning sun. Here is where your mistakes begun.

Anderson faced east, coughed, and walked twenty-one paces—one step for each year. The area, now covered by wildflowers, looked almost like a memorial. It surprised him something so beautiful could spring from a place shrouded in such horror.

Where your mistakes begun, he thought.

After twenty-one paces, Anderson stood just feet from the fork in the path where they discovered Hailey’s body. At the time, broken branches above a nearby trail led him to believe she’d been running, trying to get away, but the killer caught up to her, killed her on the spot, and took off. Now, though, that didn’t seem right.

There was so little blood, he recalled.

Suddenly, the truth struck him like a gunshot.

Twenty-one years ago, he’d gotten it wrong. Hailey wasn’t killed here—she was killed elsewhere and dumped. If she’d been killed here, there would’ve been blood everywhere. That meant the killer broke the branches.

He did that to trick me, he concluded. That bastard.

Detective Anderson leaned against a tree as humiliation washed over him. For all his success on the force, this single blunder would haunt his remaining days and curse his tortured nights. He slid down the trunk and rested on the cool ground, just minutes before seven-thirty. Also written in the note were instructions to complete the hunt and return home by nine o’clock. No repercussion for failure was stated, but he knew something would happen if he failed.

He flinched when his phone suddenly vibrated in his jacket pocket. He looked and saw a text message from Roger.

R:  You okay? Saw your car speeding away earlier.

Anderson almost ignored his neighbor’s kind concern but decided against it. The man had late-stage cancer, for God’s sake.

G:  Had an errand to run. I’ll be home around 9.

He silenced his notifications, pocketed the device, hoisted himself to his feet, and once again opened the note. The infuriating clock ticked nonstop in his head.

Run along the path as you would in the park. I hid in plain sight while you searched before dark.

He looked up at the path. Which fork was he meant to take? He thought again about what he now definitely knew to be the killer’s deliberate attempt at deception with the broken branches. That happened on the path to his left, which took him up the hill. Can’t be that one, he thought. Killers aged like anyone else, and at this point, no older person would want to take on that steep incline. He hustled down the path to his right and, after thirty seconds, came into an opening beside the baseball field. Run along the path…base paths?

The killer must have been with the oblivious witnesses that night—one of the officers might have even questioned him. He leaned against the tiered bleachers to catch his breath, but a glint on the pitcher’s mound caught his attention. A chill ran through him and he suddenly felt the heat of watchful eyes. This was the moment, the big finale. He checked his surroundings and, as satisfied as he could be that he was alone, ventured slowly out into the wide-open diamond.

The long-sought-after knife lay in a plastic freezer bag, its wooden handle stained purple by dried blood. Anderson bent over, picked it up, then let out a guttural scream, venting the two decades of pent up frustration and anguish. He dropped to his knees, then laid down on the ground, exhausted. Time passed and he didn’t move.

Thirty minutes.

Forty-five.

He wished for Death to come and free him from his humiliation.

No one came.

Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and trudged to his car. As he pulled into his driveway, he examined Roger’s darkened house and, as he stepped out of his car, his old detective senses tingled. Something was wrong. He stomped up Roger’s porch, retrieved the spare key from under the doormat, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside. Just as he took his phone from his pocket to call his old precinct, he froze. The phone dropped from his hand and clattered across the floor.

Roger lay slumped in his recliner, his head back, glassy eyes open, mouth agape. An empty pill bottle sat sideways on the floor beside him, just out of reach of his lifeless hand.

Anderson suddenly understood the urgent text: Roger wanted to say goodbye. As he stepped forward and checked Roger’s pulse out of habit, he noticed a folded piece of paper on the coffee table. He set the bagged knife down and picked it up. The five words left no confusion.

At least now you know.

About the Author

Mark Philbin is a Canadian author. He spent 37 years in radio, finally hanging up the headphones when he signed his first publishing contract for his debut thriller novel, Kill Them All, expected in the summer of 2025. He can be found on X – @MTPhilbin_Writer and on TikTok – @Markwritesthrillers.