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Killing Mike

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I’m watching from the darkened corner of the room. He can’t see me but he does see the note. The scribbled instructions tell him I’m over in the barn but Mike is never going to make there alive ... A serial killer takes the life of his oldest friend. The following morning inspector Barrows comes face to face with the murder who is waiting on the police station steps. Barrows, a hardened police officer with more than 30 years service quickly learns there is more to this cunning killer than meets the eye. As the interview unfolds it becomes clear that Burrows is out of his depth.

Thriller / Mystery
Jimbo James
Age Rating:


With more than seven billion people on the planet, getting away with murder becomes easier over time, it’s really just a matter of being in the right place at the right time. But killing Mike was different, we had been friends for more than 20 years and I trusted him with my life. To make this even harder, Mike also trusted me with his.

It weighed heavy on my mind that Mikes final mistake would be that he would happily meet me anywhere, any time, we were tight like that. It also occurred to me that Mike’s 6ft 4,” frame would be heavier than most, and lifting it into the freezer would take considerable effort on my part. The thought of cutting him into manageable sections made the palms of my hands sweat.

Despite what you might be thinking, Mike had never done me any wrong. And I have no evil lust for money or a twisted desire to kill for pleasure. It was simply Mikes time, and in the freezer he must go. There really was no other way.

The rumble of his motorcycle come down the road caused my stomach to flip over. I knew this needed to be quick for both of us, not least because Mike could sense a problem from a mile away.

I quickly calculate that once Mike engine shuts off he’ll be walking through the front door within the next 30 seconds. 24, 25, 26 and the porch steps creek under the weight of Mikes heavy boots, 27, 28 and my mind begins to enter a familiar state of heightened clarity. 28, 28, 28, Mike pauses for outside the door and I pray to God he hasn’t seen the wire. Suddenly on the count of 29 the door swings open, Mike’s always had an open invitation.

“Hello, anyone home?”

I’m watching from the darkened corner of the room. He can’t see me but he does see the note left for him on the kitchen table. The scribbled instructions tell him I’m over in the barn, but poor old Mike, he’s never going to make it.

By the time he gets back on his motorcycle the automatic winding mechanism will have pulled the wire taught across the driveway at neck height. At a speed of just 10 mph it’s enough to take a man’s head clean off. The deep rumble of the engine allows me to walk over and watch through the window. Goodbye old friend, I’ll miss our fireside chats.

Mike’s speed steadily increases. Without making a single sound the wire cuts through his neck. A quick and virtually painless death that causes Mikes head to separate from Mikes torso.

For several more seconds, the motorcycle continues moving forward with Mike’s headless body still in the seat. It then veers off to the left of the road and into a crop of thick bushes. The moment the motorcycle cut’s out I’m on my feet and running to snip the wire before someone else sees it. Clip, clip, done, and the wire cutter goes back into my inside pocket.

The only thing left on the road is Mikes head which is still inside the helmet. His eyes are lifeless and his face bares an expression of surprised horror. I look once more at the blood stained face before stuffing it deep inside the plastic carrier bag. Warm blood trickles out of the bottom of the bag and I try to stem the loss with my glove. Mikes head is much heavier than I’d expected and it causes me to switch arms.

The clock is ticking and I sprint over to the motorcycle. Mikes chest is slumped over the handlebars which I have to push it one side as I fumble in the dark for the headlamp switch. The smell of dripping gasoline mixes with the sickening scent of warm blood and for a brief moment I think I’m going to throw up.

In the distance I can hear a car approaching. I make myself small on the ground among the leaves and tell myself to breathe slowly. The last thing I need with a head under my arm is a well-meaning member of the public calling in a report of a suspected motorcycle accident. The car rounds the corner at speed and I wait patiently for its rear lights to melt away into the darkness of the night.

With the car now completely out of view I get back on my feet and begin brushing the dirt from my knees. From here it’s a brisk walk over to the barn and once inside I begin to feel at peace again. At this point, my fondness for Mike is attached only to his head, which I’ve now gently place at the bottom of the chest freezer.

There’s no way I’m going to be able to carry the rest of Mikes huge frame back without being seen which means I still have to carve him into manageable pieces. But this isn’t going to be as easy as it sounds, Mike was no Thanksgiving turkey. I head back to the crash site carrying the bag of freshly sharpened tools.

Kneeling down next to Mike’s body I truly wish there had been another way. Slowly working by moonlight I go for the arms first which need to be dislocated from the shoulder. Mikes blood is now turning sticky and I’m thankful at least that this isn’t taking place on my living room carpet.

In my mind Mike is already in the freezer and from here cutting through tendon and muscle is nothing but a formality. Over the next hour Mikes legs come off leaving just the torso to be tightly wrapped in plastic. Four trips later, and Mike’s whole body is at the bottom of a freezer over in the barn.

It’s been a long night for both of us and I’m tired, I strip out my blood stained paper suit and look forward to jumping into the steaming hot shower. With daylight now approaching I need to be booted and suited ready for my interview with inspector Barrows down at the Police station. I might not always be perfect, but I do like to keep good time and appear presentable.

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