𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃 | Michael Jackson & George Michael

𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟗

Hasty footsteps echoed against the concrete. Thousands of people were heading to their jobs or classes each day, hoping for an ordinary day, having to deal with students interested in their future or apathetic ones, company bosses overwhelmed by so much work and formulating negotiation strategies, waiters happy to receive tips from their customers, nurses attending to patients, and unfortunately, some women's hearts might be broken when discovering lipstick stains on their husbands' shirts; tired of hearing the same excuse involving a late-night meeting.

Anyway.

A young man walked to the rhythm of the music he was listening to on his Walkman, the device that revolutionized the cassette industry and came to stay for a long time; he was so focused on listening to a Duran Duran song that he didn't notice when a bill fell from his pocket. It flew until it reached the feet of a police officer, who called out to the young man but never noticed what had happened in less than a minute.

"Always so absent-minded," he tilted his head a couple of times before turning around and heading back to his workplace.

The Provincial Police Department was the place where emergency calls, minor charges, and other issues, ranging from late-night parties with music at ear-piercing volumes to abuse, shootings, or homicides, were received.

Over the decades and with the arrival of a new millennium, the latter had decreased due to changes in the law reforms, bringing peace of mind to the families and friends of the victims, knowing that all criminals who had operated in Ontario and were still alive would receive harsher sentences.

"Good morning, Corey. How's everything going?"

"How do you think?" he rubbed his temples. "The blue folder report was here, and now I can't find it. I guess I'll have to transcribe it again. It took me three hours... but I see things are going better for you, Robert."

"That's right," he said, looking at the dollar with pride.

"I'm so glad to see you both," Kathy approached, a bit hurried. "Corey, I found this folder on my desk. Can you take a look?"

Happily, he took the folder and began flipping through it, hopeful to find the report.

"Is that a five-dollar bill? You're really lucky, I envy you."

"I'll be happy if luck doesn't take the form of a major lieutenant. That woman is really scary... though, to be fair, she's earned her place."

Kathy laughed, then turned to meet Corey's sweet gaze, making her blush.

The young officer had admired Kathy since the first moment he saw her walk through those department doors, not as a victim, but as a police officer.

Five months ago, Kathy had come to file a domestic violence report, six months pregnant at the time, by her partner. By some twist of fate, Corey had been the one in charge of the reports that day.

Now, with a changed life, freshly graduated with honors from the Police Academy, and with a 2-month-old baby, she was more motivated than ever to move forward with her little family, helping others in need without fear. This attitude only reflected admiration and affection in the officer's eyes.

Her closest colleagues noticed this behavior. It wasn't a secret; it was just a matter of time before they saw a couple enjoying pleasant moments together.

"There's nothing here either, Kathy. I appreciate it, but I'll have to transcribe it again."

Suddenly, hurried footsteps approached, growing closer with soft, steady intervals.

"I've got some good news for you today, but first, this is for you... well, for the baby really," Lieutenant Reeves handed her some knitted socks.

"Oh, how adorable. Thank you so much. I'm sure Vance will love them; the cold is getting worse, and trust me, I'll sleep better at night starting today."

"Don't thank me," she hugged her. "It's from the heart... but anyway, on other matters, the judge's authorization for the next sentence just came through," she extended the envelope.

"I still think it took them too long to reform those laws. I guess something is better than nothing," Robert stepped closer. "So, who's the host now?"

"The one and only Michael Jackson" Lieutenant Reeves opened the envelope with the authorization and showed it to everyone.

It had been a long time since that name was last heard, so some had started to theorize that he was sick, deteriorated by the years, a victim of isolation and having had no contact with the outside world for over twenty years.

He had been placed in solitary confinement, something no one could have predicted. During the trial, he had gained so much popularity that dozens and dozens of admirers would spend hours outside the court hoping to catch a glimpse of him. His own lawyer, at the beginning of the trial, had even been attracted to the narcissistic, empathy-lacking man with dark, almond-shaped eyes.

The epitome of psychopathy at its peak.

"The judge of the state of Ontario authorizes that case MJ7758CV, committed by Michael Joseph Jackson, due to the nature of his crimes, be sentenced to the Death Penalty by lethal injection with the full weight of the law, impacting the actions that incriminate him."

"He well deserves it, I assure you that man wouldn't hesitate to kill someone again if he were free," the Lieutenant said as she took the sheet and returned it to the envelope.

"What could we expect from someone who led a dangerous double life? What about you, Hamasaki?"

"Honestly, I wouldn't know what to say, Robert. Especially not about someone I don't know.'"

"How could you not know him, Kathy? For God's sake, we're talking about evil incarnate, the ultimate manipulator. The Night Stalker pales in comparison to him."

A great intrigue had been sparked. She was still very young, and life in Tokyo didn't provide much information about the events on the American continent back then.

Searching the databases for any information on the case was available, but for some reason, she felt the need to learn about this resonant case that continued to alarm all of Ontario.

༄

After taking the statement of a man claiming to receive strange calls at his home from an unknown person, she had to go to the Archive to drop off copies of the information she gathered. Anyone could say that place was like the second Pentagon of Washington due to the strict restrictions on its entrances and exits, ensuring the total protection of documents of vital importance.

She walked down the hallways of that gigantic basement, which could sometimes freeze one's blood due to its solitude, and only one person from each department had access to it every once in a while.

It was like being in a huge library, with the only difference being that, on some occasions, there were tangible pieces of evidence, such as objects used at crime scenes, waiting to be analyzed for possible DNA evidence.

Her shadow was his only companion as he walked down those long, straight, and mysterious hallways.

M

She reached the metal gray filing cabinets; by then, thousands of thoughts were swirling in her mind. All the pain and suffering were reduced to a single drawer per case, each one implicating the most irrational humans to ever walk the Earth, hoping to find satisfaction in committing atrocious acts.

It was then that everything would make more sense to the young agent.

Upon opening the drawer of the seventh column, she was astonished to see the bluish leather folder that was nearly bursting from how full it was.

And once she had placed the copies in their proper spot, she thought that reading about one of the most publicized cases would be a great way to satisfy her curiosity.

Ten minutes later, she was back at his desk, trying not to let any documents fall to the ground, greeting those who crossed her path.

Her astonishment grew even more when she opened the file and her attention was drawn to a photograph. There he was.

He had an elegant bearing, something that was very hard to find in any criminal captured by the police nowadays.

That gaze was capable of reflecting such an abstract feeling that you didn't know whether to feel enchanted or terrified. It could transport you into an abyss full of mystery.

It was then that she understood the context by reading the summary of the events.

On the morning of November 26, 1986, the shooter entered his former workplace, the W.O.R.L.D radio station on CBS frequency, determined to exact revenge on Callie Visconti, attempting to show her the consequences of not accepting his constant dates or invitations to do so since her arrival just five years earlier. She received 7 bullet wounds to the head and 17 stab wounds to the chest, injuring 4 people and killing 7 more.

With this, she couldn't agree more with the phrase, "each mind is a different world."

She slid the photograph of the primary victim. Callie Visconti.

How far must a dangerous obsession with the girl have gone for it to lead to this? She had an entire life ahead of her. Her family must have been devastated to know that she would never return to hug them and tell them she was okay.

In the following seven pages, it was narrated how she had died, based on the results of the autopsy sent by the forensic experts, only to—subsequently—find nearly two hundred pages of detailed information gathered from witnesses, police officers, family members, acquaintances, and friends of the victims.

Something truly overwhelming.

She took one of the three audio tapes that caught her attention the most; it seemed somewhat worn, a consequence of the passing years.

The emergency call made by Callie moments before being murdered.

In the time she had worked for the police department, she had never heard screams of terror, desperation, and pain as chilling as these. It was a rather bitter experience to hear how a young woman's life was being ripped away as she begged for her life.

"Kathy" she jumped after hearing and feeling Corey's hand on her back.

"Shit! I swear I almost spilled the coffee on you, and it's really hot, by the way, so be careful."

"It wasn't my intention to scare you, I'm really sorry," her colleague pulled a chair closer to the desk. "I imagine the Lieutenant didn't tell you to bring Jackson's file."

Curiosity was eating her up inside; so much evil couldn't fit in a person who seemed sane and... hearing the last moments of this girl is... her head was about to explode.

"Evil is always out there, we just need to pay more attention to any signs, because appearances are deceiving."

This kind of reflection shouldn't be taken lightly, because tragedies like these, involving innocent victims, could happen.

"According to this, there were young people who died that day. It's so hard to process, Corey. I'm a mom to a little one now, and with this... Callie's parents must have been devastated."

"They were in a catatonic state throughout the entire investigation, according to my father. Sometimes it was hard to listen to others, to hear their heartbreaking versions, and stay neutral afterward. You know, they tell us that before we come in here, but come on, we're not heartless either. The worst part was for her fiancé; the poor man was destroyed."

"Fiancé?" She glanced at the autopsy report.

"Mr. Panayiotou was about to marry her soon, and all of his plans vanished like the lead from a bullet. He wanted to kill Jackson as soon as he saw him in the trial, and I don't blame him. I wouldn't take it well either, knowing that the woman I love the most was killed by a twisted erotomania in his mind. It's sick as fuck!"

Now she had enough valid arguments to at least question the truthfulness of what Corey had said.

And now that the final sentence had been approved by the judge, was this the right moment to give a dignified closure to the entire case, bringing peace to the girl's loved ones by informing them of Jackson's final fate after more than twenty years?

That was exactly what was on Kathy's mind as the GPS voice guided her to the address of a house just a few kilometers from the radio station.

Beautiful trees welcomed visitors to a lovely upper-middle-class residential complex. It could easily be mistaken for a luxury complex due to the spacious houses with a classic design that still maintained their charm.

As she approached the house, she thought there was no one around until two Labradors greeted her with loud barks. She was never a fan of dogs, especially large ones, as they had terrified her since she was a child.

She intended to return to the patrol, but the sound of a white door opening stopped her, revealing a tall, sturdy, and quite attractive man in the middle, despite the years showing in his hair color and beard. If her interest weren't focused on Corey, this man would be quite the catch.

Such a good one.

"Abby, Meg! Don't scare the lady." The man said "I'm really sorry, I apologize. They're very friendly, but they get excited when they see new people around here."

"Believe me, and being a relatively small complex, they must be used to seeing the same people..." Kathy replied, "I'm looking for Georg... Kyri--"

"Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou? It's in Greek, but just call me George," he laughed after hearing Kathy try to pronounce his name. He was already used to it. "Is everything okay, Officer..."

"Kathy Hamasaki," she showed her police badge to the man, who invited her into the main garden. "Actually, I'm here to inform you about..."

"About my mileage? The sign said maximum 80km, and I was going 60km. I'll show you my ID."

"That won't be necessary..."

"Then it's about the incident at Snappy Snapps. I assure you, I'm working on my addiction issues with my therapist, and I haven't touched my car in two years; I could be considered a model citizen by now."

"Actually, I'm here because... well, I don't know how you'll take this, and I'm not sure how to say it without it sounding so harsh, but..."

"But..."

"I thought you'd want to know that... Michael Jackson was finally sentenced to death by lethal injection for the crime he committed in 1986. The judge approved it this morning."

With the paper in hand, the man couldn't believe it. He had demanded justice for so long, and it seemed like no one had taken his requests into account.

Until today.

He collapsed to the floor, his knees on the ground, as tears of both happiness and resentment flowed from his eyes. Tears he had sworn to keep hidden if justice for Callie was never served. The woman he had kept in his heart all these years, ever since the first time he saw her and loved her like no one else.

"God, I... this is the best news I've received in all these years since she..."

Moved, Kathy couldn't help but lower herself to his level on the floor, and he embraced her while expressing his endless gratitude to her, causing her eyes to slowly fill with tears as well.

"There's nothing to thank me for. I understand the situation. That's what the laws are for—to put those who deserve it in their place and bring peace," he said as they stood up. "I'm aware this won't bring Callie back to life, but at least it will help close a wound healed by hope."

If she was sure of one thing, it was that everything she had done had a heavy price. If she didn't pay it on this plane with physical laws, it would be paid with remorse on the other plane.

The spiritual plane.

༄

"Callie always hated having dogs at home. Just like you, she said they scared her, and I never asked why."

"I don't blame her, you can't trust just anyone. And that's coming from someone who hangs out with police dogs every day," she said, taking a sip of her tea, swirling the flavors with the spoon before allowing the liquid to slowly slide down her throat. "I'm positive you would've been a wonderful couple."

In his hands, he held a photograph that had captured the photogenic memories of that unforgettable trip they took in the summer of '83 with their closest friends, a getaway from the monotonous city, inviting them into a paradisiacal elixir where anyone was welcomed.

"The old school forged the bonds of our friendship. Andrew was always the funny one in the group."

"Really?"

"Let's just say that at one of the many parties my best mate and I used to throw... the next day, he wouldn't stop talking about the girl with the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. And he went on like that for the next three months. Two weeks later, we had the perfect excuse—our mutual friend's birthday party. But since I had skipped the last one, I had no idea who would be there this time. Being a chubby guy with acne didn't help either. That night, all you could think about was flirting, making bets, and drinking. Everything was going great, messing with anyone who blocked the ping pong game—until the ball landed in one of the girls' cups. She was furious. Her blouse was stained with vodka. I tried to make up for it as much as I could, even offering to buy her a new one the next day. But she didn't believe me—until she saw me show up with a bag."

"It was the blouse from that night."

"In that moment, I had never felt so blessed to have the woman with the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen standing in front of me. I knew I would never meet someone like her again. That's why, on that trip, I asked her to be my girlfriend," he recalled, gazing out the window as the trees swayed with the wind. "Those were the best years of my youth. We had so much left to discover. But... that's the price you pay when you love with everything you have."

"She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's something no one could have known. Don't blame yourself for that, George. Fortunately, justice doesn't play favorites."

"But there will always be an emptiness that very few understand. The fact that it was media circus didn't help. Now, looking back, you realize how much benefit of the doubt Michael Jackson has been given over the years, despite the horrifying accusations against him. Up until five years ago, I was still getting letters from him in prison. He mocked me, repeating that Callie was long dead—he talked about her in such a way that it made me want to kick him in the balls. Thankfully, her family never found out."

"They'll be relieved to hear the judge's decision. It would be really helpful if you could give me the number of one of them."

"Her father passed away six months after the shooting. He was diagnosed with melanoma in January, and he was responding well to treatment, but Callie's death broke him. He fell into such a deep depression that one day they tried to wake him up, but it was too late. Her mother passed away just three years ago in her sleep." He leaned back on the beige couch, letting out a sigh filled with deep nostalgia. "You weren't expecting that, were you?"

"To be honest, no, and I'm really sorry for your loss. Normally, the parents or direct family members are informed about the case's outcome and the criminal's current status, but either way, I have to add this to Callie's file. I'll also need to write down your full name after you fill out this form. Would you mind writing it here in this notebook? I have a terrible memory."

"Alright, I'll be back in a moment. Can I get you anything?"

After the detective declined, he disappeared through the kitchen doorway, his footsteps gradually fading into the distance.

The atmosphere in the house was peaceful—almost unusually so. In all her years working for the police and delivering news of this magnitude, a pattern had always repeated itself.

Darkness, sorrow, depression, loneliness, and pain.

Everyone had their own way of coping, moving through grief at their own pace.

But here, everything revolved around warm memories, moments frozen in time that, for George, must have been excruciating to endure in his journey toward resilience.

That's what those photographs conveyed—snapshots of vacations, parties, family dinners, and moments as a couple, all trying to fill the absence left behind, offering a sense of closure.

They captured the dreams and aspirations of a girl who once had a future ahead of her.

Outside, cars passed by, some older models than others, occasionally honking their horns.

A blue-and-white checkered tablecloth covered a table that once held the lunch of an average family. In one of the pictures, a daughter sat beside her partner, their radiant smiles shining like morning sunlight.

"That's where it all began," George's voice sounded as he approached the cabinet from which Kathy had taken the photo. "Two of the helium balloons popped so loudly that a neighbor actually called the police, thinking it was gunfire. Callie couldn't take it seriously, and in the end, we all just burst out laughing."

He carefully picked up the framed picture, handling it as if he were afraid the memories from that day might somehow slip away. A heavy sigh escaped his lips.

"If only I had convinced her to stay in Quebec, everything would be different," he murmured, quickly wiping away a tear that had begun to trail down his left cheek.

Everything traced back to that ordinary day—the day that unknowingly set the course of fate for an innocent victim, a woman who had been on the verge of a new and promising life alongside a man with both inner and outer charm.

She had no way of knowing she was just days away from meeting her worst nightmare.

———————————————

DISCLAIMER:

This story was created to raise awareness about a situation that occurs daily in various parts of the world. If you are a victim of any real event similar to what you are about to read, please contact the authorities in your community before it is too late.

✧ This story does NOT intend, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, to defame or distort the image of Michael Jackson or any other artist/model/individual mentioned.

✧ The following events, along with the modified timeline, do not reflect MY REAL PERCEPTIONS of the artists portrayed as characters—nothing is personal.

✧ This story does NOT intend to OFFEND any artist/model who was part of the LGBT+ community during their lifetime; it is simply a FANFICTION.

✧ REFRAINING from making homophobic comments about the characters will ensure a harmonious reading experience and environment for everyone.

✧ The concepts, disorders, and mental or other health conditions mentioned are SCIENTIFICALLY BASED on information from the WHO and UNDERGRADUATE/GRADUATE studies in Psychology, Nursing, Forensic Medicine, Psychiatry, Communication, Law, and Journalism. They are closely aligned with reality, and the storyline should not be taken lightly.

✧ Under no circumstances does this story PROMOTE or JUSTIFY the NEGATIVE ACTIONS OR IDEOLOGIES depicted, regardless of how times have changed.

✧ The content will include THEMES of mystery, fiction, drama, sexuality, suspense, discrimination, and explicit language, encouraging reflection on what is right and wrong. However, I believe you'll enjoy it, as most fanfictions about artists tend to portray them as adorable and innocent—so it's refreshing to break the routine. These elements are used solely to SET THE ATMOSPHERE, not to encourage their real-life application.

✧ Please REFRAIN from making offensive comments disguised as "constructive criticism" when it is evident that they are not. I am not perfect at writing, so I will NOT tolerate INSULTS or FALSE ASSUMPTIONS about me or my writing style. If you do not like the story, you are free to leave without any issues.

✧ NO copies, partial or full adaptations are allowed UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Creativity has no limits, so exploring what your mind is capable of creating might surprise you.

✧ This is a call for society and authorities to wake up and recognize what happens when a victim needs HELP but is often denied it, despite the existence of laws.

✧ ANY judgment formed based on what is presented in this story and how you, as a reader, choose to interpret it is entirely YOUR responsibility.

These are the signals that were broadcast... far too late.

𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃™

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© Regi Moonk (2025)