The Number 13

Number one was Jennifer David. Bullet through the head.
Number two was Hannah-May Jones. Rope around the neck.
Number three was Denise George. Drowned in the bath.
Number four was Isabella Hamilton. Head wounds.
Number five was Ruby Right. Poisoned.
Number six was Sandra Hart. Hung from a tree.
Number seven was Georgina Daniels. Buried alive.
Number eight was Elizabeth Holmes. Knife through her chest.
Number nine was Amanda Thomas. Missing body parts.
Number ten was Miriam Cattle. Suffocated.
Number eleven was Patricia Stevens. Broken neck.
And Number thirteen was Jane Porter. She was never found.

Wendy Smith was looking for Jane. One day she would find her, but after looking for four years, hope was slipping away. Number one had gone missing seventeen years ago. The murderer still hadn’t been found, but the body had. All twelve bodies were found except Jane’s. She had gone missing from her flat in west California four years before on Valentine’s Day and her body had been gone ever since. Her house was trashed, but there was no trace of an intruder. No fingerprints or unusual signs of wrong doing. The entire country had been searching for her but she was never found. Wendy was still looking. She had made it her case when they brought it forward, and she would keep looking for answers until it was solved.
All kinds of ideas and conspiracies had arisen, but none of the correct one’s ever surfaced. Wendy had to find out the truth, even if the killer had stopped, she had to find out what had happened to the thirteen women that died in thirteen years. There was a pattern in the murders, the first woman died on Christmas day, the second on Valentine’s, each year they alternated. Wendy wanted to know who or what was killing and who or what had stopped them. She was interested in the pattern of murders, how no methods matched. She had tried to find meaning in all of the names and areas and methods but she did not succeed. Her boss offered to take away the case, but she was determined. She would discover the secrets behind the 13 murders.
She woke up on the fourth anniversary of Jane’s disappearance. Valentine’s Day, and told herself that today could be the day that she discovered the secrets behind the disappearance. She rolled out of bed and looked out of the window at her little Polo parked in the driveway. On the window was a piece of paper flapping in the wind. She pulled on her dressing gown and tied up her long red hair before making her way downstairs and out of the front door to see what the piece of paper said. She tugged it from the wiper and glanced at what was written:

WENDY SMITH. IT HAS BEEN FOUR YEARS. I HAVE RESTED AND NOW YOU CANKEEP LOOKING BUT YOU ARE NEXT. GOODBYE.
She gasped before scrunching up the paper in her hand. She frowned and went inside. Did she believe it was from the killer? Her brain said no but deep inside her, her instincts said yes. She un- folded the paper and read it again and again. She went to her office and sat down with the note. The list of names danced in her head, she had an idea. She wrote down the first letters of all of the victims and tried for an hour and a half to construct an anagram of the names before her. She got nowhere until she stumbled upon a single name with the letters: S-M-A-J-E. James! She had found the only name that worked using the first letters of all the girls’ names. She turned on her laptop and flicked to her Google homepage and entered the name James. Little came up, only celebrities really. She rose from her desk and stumbled to the kitchen where she made a strong cup of black coffee. She stood against the work top for a good five minutes thinking her discoveries through. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t scared. She was concerned about the note, but if she could work out a name, her office could make a decision on the plan of action.
She carried her mug back to her study and sat down again. She had these letters left: P-G-M-D-H-A-M-R. She had to find something in there, surely! She worked on for another hour and finally found something: D-R-A-M-H. Dharm. A last name. All she had left was W-P-G. What on earth could that be? She scrolled her mouse back on the screen and entered the name James Dharm. The first thing that came up was a man named James PG Dharm. Yes! Two letters down. She clicked on the name that led to a Facebook page and saw a man who was wearing a black hoodie in the picture. He looked Indian and was short and skinny. She saw the location was set to Washington D.C. W. Washington began with W! She had worked it out! James PG Dharm. From Washington! She picked up her mobile and called her office.
“Hello? Hello? It’s Wendy! I need to speak to Robert! It’s urgent!” she cried down the phone.
“I’ll transfer you now.” Replied the calm person on the other end.
“Hello Smith. How are you? What have you got for me?” he chuckled.
“Robert, it’s about the murder of Jane Porter. I have a lead. Can we get someone out to Washington to locate the residence of a Mr James PG Dharm! I think he could be the killer!” she yelled.
“Right you are. I’ll get Jenny onto it. She can have someone locate him by this afternoon. I’ll see if I can have him down here by this evening. Prepare yourself for an inquiry if we can get hold of him. I’ll let you know if we can get him on a plane.” He replied sternly.
“Thank you, Robert. Finally after four years I’m onto something!” she sighed amicably. He laughed back and small talk was made before he hung up. She sat back in her chair and a smile played upon her face as she thought of what she had done. She could have solved the murder. She could be able to find Jane and let the other twelve, rest in peace. She might not get hurt. If she had people after this man, he could not hurt anyone else again. She went upstairs and got dressed into a cream trouser suit and black heels. She did her make-up and brushed out her long hair. If she had solved the mystery, she wanted to look good. She went downstairs, turned on the TV and watched an episode of Friends, and waited. She waited and waited. Her hope began fading. It could all be a coincidence. She was wrong. She knew it.
But at three minutes past two her phone rung, she had dozed off. She leapt up and answered her ringing mobile.
“H-Hello? Robert?” she muttered.
“Hullo, Wendy! I have good news. We have Dharm on a plane. He’ll be landing at LAX in an hour. I suggest you come down here. Apparently, he hasn’t said a word since they retrieved him. He had a bag packed already and a ticket to LAX! What a coincidence!” he replied.
She agreed and hung up. She knew why Dharm had his things ready. He was preparing to come and get her. Someone was working for him nearby. That was why the note was on her car. Wendy grabbed her brown leather jacket and handbag which contained lipstick, purse and car keys and went out to her car. She unlocked it and clambered in. Her hands shook. Nervousness took over. She turned the keys in the ignition and pulled away. She took the short drive to the station and teetered inside where she sat in the interrogation room with Robert. They sat for a whole hour.
After an hour, at about seven minutes to five a man walked in, restrained unnecessarily by their friend Jenny. He made no struggle. He was totally calm and relaxed. He smiled innocently at them. They grimaced back.
He sat down opposite them and the woman let go of his hands. He had his rights stated to him.
“James, isn’t it? We are interrogating you today on the suspicion of twelve or more, counts of murder. Do you understand?” said Wendy serenely.
He nodded.
“Before we begin is there anything you want to confess?” asked Robert. There was no response.
“Have you any links to the murders of twelve, possibly thirteen women?” asked Jenny bluntly.
No response.
Questions were fired at him for three hours. He sat staring into space. Not responding. The police were desperate. They were frustrated and more than anything they were angry. Wendy whispered to Robert. He motioned to Jenny to leave the room. They both did so. Wendy was left alone with Mr Dharm. She swallowed.
Twenty minutes later, Robert walked in and saw a body beside a photo. The photo was of a blood drenched Jane Porter. The body was Wendy Smith. 13 became 14. James Dharm had disappeared.