I first met John Jones in 2019. I don't think he knew who I was when I met him for the second time. But, in 2019, we met in the street.

I, Max Laidlaw, was once walking down the street in a cold October morning of 2019, looking up at a normal house at the corner of Durkham Road. The house in question was number 69 and had police tape around it, with a few officers standing around. I knew this house because it was owned by Mrs. Harper, an old friend of my mother's. The door was open and I saw a man in a boring suit stepping out of the house.

I glanced and stopped when I saw another man step out of the house; he was clearly the leading detective. This man was wearing a white shirt, dark blue trousers, a blue tie, a blue blazer, a long blue coat and dark shoes. This man instantly caught my attention because he, unlike the leading detective, had his hands in his pockets and looked like he had control of everything. He was calm, not anxious-looking like the leading detective.

This man quickly walked past me and I stopped him saying, "Sorry, what's going on here?" The man turned to me and said, "There's been an incident." Then he turned away and went into a car. The lead detective stood in between me and the car and said, "Just stand back sir."

In reply, I added, "Hold on, I know the woman who lives here, is she okay?' However, the lead detective, who looked very anxious now, slipped into a separate car and began making notes.

I didn't know what to do. I was worried about the woman who had lived here. She was an old friend of my mothers, and so a close friend of mine in turn.

However, none of the police answered me and all the detectives had left. I had to read about the death of the lovely Mrs. Harper in the local newspaper.

For a few days I wondered about the situation and the detective who looked so calm compared to the other. I had read of nothing in the papers other than one name (Detective Johnson) who was the detective of which I knew, so he wasn't the man I had seen. The days turned into weeks and I had forgotten about the other detective.

It wasn't until December 2020 when I met John Jones again. This time was much more ghastly.

It was around 6:30 PM so it was pitch black and the rain was heavy now. I had just come from a horrible day at work. At this point, I'd been working in a Publishing Office for three years now, and I was the one who read the manuscripts as they came in, post-it noted the ones and like with a small synopsis of what I thought the story was. I didn't want to be doing this job; I wanted to be the Head of Publishing, and always had been since I joined the job at 20 years old.

That day, in late December of 2020, I had to have read three different manuscripts by the end of the day (each of them all being well over 280 pages), I had to have written 20 rejection letters and 10 acceptance letters. Also, toward the latter stages of the day, 2 more novels were dropped on my desk, with my boss telling me to read them by the end of the day - if I hadn't read them, I suggested I take them home. So, I was wet tired and had 2 manuscripts in my bag when I saw the horrific mutilated mess that ended up being my own very first girlfriend, Daniel Elliot.

Me and Daniel Elliot had first gotten together when were 15 and spend a year together. It was an okay relationship, but it's hard not to grow apart at that age. At first, I hadn't even recognized who the dead, mutilated person was when I first stumbled across them in a small giti.

When I saw the body, I froze for a few moments, feeling sick. I rang for an ambulance (even though the person was clearly dead) and waited with the body.

The body in question was more contorted than anything. The left arm had been bent all the way around the back, the shoulder clearly shattered. The face had been cut up and 3/4 of it had been cut off (the rest of the face was nowhere to be seen). The legs had been snapped at the knees and her head twisted around as if she were an owl, and her hair had been pulled, yanked and some of it even ripped out. I wanted to cry every time I looked at the body.

When the police came, there were two detectives there. None of them John Jones. One of them looked fairly young and the other was the same man from when I last saw Mr. Jones. I tried to ask this detective (DCI Holmes) some questions but he left me aside.

That was when I saw a man in a cheap, thrown together suit and a large overcoat walk up the DCI Holmes and say something. I couldn't hear the conversation but I could tell that Holmes didn't want that man there. But the man (John Jones) was having none of it. He went to the body (the police let him) and inspected it. He must've looked at the body for a minute, maybe 50 seconds, then he got to his feet, walked back to DCI Holmes, said something and left.

I then followed John around the corner and tried to speak to him. He ignored me. Clearly he didn't have a car or anything so I followed him, trying to get his attention.

Eventually, John turned and said, "What d'you want?"

I stopped walking and said, "Sorry. But I've seen you before."

"Yes," he said, "small town."

"No, I mean at another crime scene."

"Yes, that would make sense. I'm a detective," he said and went to turn away again.

"What's your name?" I asked.

He turned and stepped to me. He went to his inside pocket and pulled out a small card.

"If you know someone who's dead, email me. Don't ring me, I hate phone calls, I won't answer." Then he turned away and left.

I looked down at the card and saw that it read:

"JOHN JONES - THE DETECTIVE.

EMAIL: JOHNJONES6501@GMAIL.COM"

I looked up and he was gone. I hadn't decided whether I should email him or not, but there was something about him. The name "John Jones" rang a bell and I wanted to know why.