Murder in the Honeybrook Hotel

Part One: The Blizzard

By: Evelyn Mann

Detective Selene Voss had been driving for hours when she finally pulled into the motel’s parking lot. She was working a serious case: the deaths of four girls, all on different dates and at different times. There was no pattern between them the way there usually was with a serial killer—just random girls who had nothing in common except that they all lived in the same apartment building. Selene had narrowed it down to a group of three people.

Each one either lived at the motel or worked there, and each of them had seen every single girl before she died.

The first suspect, Dylan Mona, was the janitor. A young man in his late twenties, he was tall and not particularly muscular. He had long hair that was usually tied in a man bun, and judging by his photo, Selene guessed he was on multiple drugs. The second suspect was a woman who worked the front desk at the apartment building and had access to all the room keys, just like Dylan. Her name was Madeline Lopez, an older Guatemalan woman in her mid-thirties.

She had short, shoulder-length brown hair that looked like a bob, a mole on the left side of her nose, bushy eyebrows, and tired eyes. Detective Voss noted the size of the bags under her eyes; she clearly didn’t get much sleep and might have a shorter temper than the others. The last suspect was the landlord, an older man in his forties named Jeremiah Davies. He was a tall Black man. In the interviews Detective Voss had conducted with him, he had seemed kind-hearted.

She still suspected him of the murders. It was easy to cover up with kindness when you were a serial killer—plus, he had not passed the polygraph.

She parked her SUV outside the dilapidated motel. She had gathered all three of them there so it would be easier to question them in front of her. She planned to take them out of the room one at a time for individual questioning before bringing all three of them together.

She opened the door of her SUV and stepped out. The cold wind blew through her tightly wound bun. She pulled her collar up. She was wearing a jacket over her uniform. She slowly walked toward the front office, where the three of them were waiting. Dylan had his hands on his knees. Madeline looked nervous, standing in a corner. Jeremiah looked calm, his hands neatly placed in his lap, fingers laced together as if he were holding his own hand—though he was bouncing one knee.

The person behind the desk gave all four of them a strange look.

“Can I get one room, please? Your largest one, if that’s possible,” the detective asked.

“Sure. That will be fifteen dollars,” the young girl said, handing her a key for Room 47.

The detective handed over the money and glared at all three of her suspects.

“You come with me. We’ve got work to do,” she commanded before walking back out into the cold air.

She noticed that the snow was starting to pick up. Heavy wafts of white flakes blinded her vision. She was only able to see about thirteen feet in front of her—just enough to reach the staircase and get to the room with all three of the suspected murderers.

She opened the door to a sad room. A large bed lay in the middle. One door she assumed led to the bathroom; another might have led to a different bedroom. There was a large TV and plenty of space to move around. Pretty cheap for such a big room, she told herself while holding the door open for the suspects.

“You three sit on the bed,” she said, pulling up a chair in front of it. The floral sheets twisted under the weight of all three of them.

“You all know why you’re here, right?” the detective asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jeremiah answered for all of them.

“Now what’s going to happen?” a nervous Madeline asked.

“Hopefully we’ll figure out which one of you killed those girls. I’m going to take each of you in for separate questioning and then question all of you together. Do I make myself clear?”

She was answered with a chorus of nods.

“Great. Madeline, I’ll start with you,” Selene said, beckoning her into the second bedroom. She cautiously placed a tape recorder on the bed. Madeline sat against the wall, her back to the bed frame, sitting cross-legged. Detective Voss sat with her back to the door, in the same position.

“Can you tell me where you were the night of the first murder?” the detective asked.

“Yeah. I was on a date with my boyfriend. We broke up shortly after the murder. He said it was too much for him to handle.” Madeline’s shaky voice and demeanor didn’t leave her even after they moved into the more private room.

“Okay. Did you know any of the girls personally?” Voss asked.

“Yeah. I didn’t know her very well, but the third girl killed—Macy Rosenthal—I knew her a little. We went to college and were in the same classes. We talked a couple of times, but we weren’t that close.” Madeline looked sad about the girl’s death, as if she missed her. “I wish I had gotten to know her a little better before, you know…” She choked back a sob. “Are we done?” she pleaded.

The detective sighed. Madeline wasn’t giving her much information, but she needed to get through the rest of the questions. There were at least two more she needed to ask.

“We have a few more.” Selene looked down at the list of questions she had made in her car. “Do you have any suspicions about who the murderer might be out of the three of you?” The detective tried not to push the girl so hard that she would cry, but she needed more information.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t look very good for me, but I know I have access to all the keys—and so does everyone else here. All the girls were killed in their apartments, right? So it would make sense if someone who has regular access to the keys is the killer. I guess that’s why you narrowed it down to us three. But I don’t have any idea who it could be. I’m sorry.” The young woman looked like she wanted to sink into herself. Detective Voss felt a shift of pity fall over her. This probably isn’t our killer, she thought. And I need to move on before this storm gets worse.

“You may leave,” the detective said before walking the girl out and beckoning Dylan. He awkwardly shuffled over. His black hair was tied up in a ponytail instead of his usual bun.

“So what are you gonna ask me?” he said when he sat on the bed, looking into Detective Voss’s eyes.

“Where were you the night of the first murder?” she asked plainly.

“Umm… I was working at the apartment, I mean. I don’t really remember that night very well. Usually when something dramatic happens to you—or just in the world—you remember where you were at the time you heard about it. But I don’t have a very good memory.”

Not helping your case, the detective thought.

“Do you know any of the girls personally?” she repeated the same question she had asked Madeline.

“No. I’ve seen them in the hallways before, but I’ve never talked to them. Just a polite nod, I guess,” he followed up. He didn’t look guilty, but he didn’t look innocent either. He looked like he knew something.

“Do you have any suspicions about who it might be?” the detective asked. Usually guilty people were quick to blame others, shifting the spotlight away from themselves.

“Not off the top of my mind. I’m sure if I dissected it a little I’d probably come up with a better answer, but I don’t really know. They all seem equally guilty to me, if that makes any sense to you,” he offered, looking at the door like he really wanted to leave.

That’s how I feel about you, the detective thought.

“You can leave,” the detective said, pushing him toward the door and opening it as he left.

“Jeremiah.” Selene was a little pissed. She hadn’t found the murderer yet, and that only made Jeremiah look more guilty.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, getting up and walking over. He had crow’s feet by his eyes and wrinkles on his forehead.

“I only have a few questions. We might have to continue this tomorrow. The storm is getting progressively worse,” the detective noted aloud. She saw a sudden shift in Jeremiah’s face, but she couldn’t quite pin down what it was.

“I understand,” he said before flopping himself onto the bed.

“Where were you the night of the first murder?” she asked, tilting her head so that her black hair fell a little in front of her face.

“I was with my wife,” he said, giving a short answer.

“I see. Did you know any of the girls personally?” Selene pressed.

“No. But one of the girls brought me coffee one time, which was really sweet. Too bad she was stabbed to death.” A sudden, sorrowful look flushed Jeremiah’s face.

The detective’s eyes widened. They had never released how the girls had died to the public.

“You are dismissed,” the detective said, trying to keep a straight face. She paused her tape recorder. As she did, an alarm rang out across the hotel room from everyone’s phone. When she reached for her pocket to grab her phone with her right hand while covering her ear with her left, the screen read: Stay inside. A blizzard is approaching. Stay inside.

She was trapped in a hotel with the killer. She tried to text her boss just in case something happened, but there was no signal.

“Shit.”