The Downfall Of A Psychotic Serial Killer

Sentencing Goes Through On Convicted Serial Killer, Blood Oaths Sworn

Calgary (CP). It has been called the Trial Of The Century, often attached to cases that might not well deserve it. To the frustration of the American media, filming is not allowed in Canadian courts, which perhaps made the proceedings inside the court somewhat more dignified than, say… the OJ Simpson trial. And yet it was filled with the drama and intrigue of a high stakes legal battle. A serial killer stands convicted of multiple murders and desecration of bodies, and connected to thousands of more murders around the world. Now the case is at an end, with a sentence handed out against the convicted murderer, the famed mystery novelist Jessica Fletcher. Otherwise known as the most prolific serial killer in history.

It is not a common thing in Canadian justice for consecutive sentences to be handed out, but it is not unheard of either. Fletcher stood up in court with her defense attorney, Joni Mitchell (not the singer) at her side). Among those gathered in the public area were a multitude of press, Fletcher’s dimwitted nephew Grady Fletcher, and the legendary lawman who brought her crimes to an end, RCMP Inspector Lars Ulrich. Fletcher had seen the Inspector upon being brought in, said nothing, but fixed a death glare upon him.

The proceedings commenced with the judge asking Fletcher if she had anything to say before sentencing. Fletcher spent thirty minutes in a quiet but seething below the surface voice, vowing that she would escape, that she would have her revenge upon everyone who had put her here today, that she would sacrifice them all to the Great Old One, Cthulhu. She singled out Ulrich in particular, vowing that she would make his suffering a particular agony. “I will shred his nerves from ends to brain stem, flay him alive, and feast on his entrails and his heart.” This particular threat elicited little more than an eye roll from the Inspector.

After the thirty minute threat was brought to an end, the judge announced his decision in sentencing. Fletcher was sentenced to twenty life terms, to be served consecutively. In effect, she will die in prison. Fletcher replied that she would see to it that his agony would be particularly brutal and would show him no mercy. The judge ordered her removed from court. She was taken into custody by police, turned briefly and made eye contact with Ulrich, who smirked. “I’ll eat your heart with nutmeg, Ulrich! Do you hear me? With nutmeg!” With that, she was removed from court, brought to a prison east of the city, and placed into maximum security, solitary confinement for the remainder of her sentence, deprived of even the opportunity to murder a cellmate.

In the wake of the sentencing, Grady Fletcher faced the press outside the courthouse. A multitude of Jessica Fletcher fans looked on, devastated by the downfall of their idol. “I just don’t understand. Aunt Jessica… this can’t be. She was always the nicest, kindest person you could have ever known. This has to be a conspiracy. It has to be. Or this is a nightmare and I’m going to wake up and it’ll all be different. Quick, someone pinch me.” Reporters filed away, not seeing much point in trying to reason with a dimwit. Fletcher fans sobbed and wept.

Joni Mitchell left court and was intercepted by reporters. First they reassured her that they knew full well she was not the folk singer, given that she looked nothing like her, and that she was much younger. Then they asked for comment, asking if she would be filing an appeal of the verdict. “To what end?” she asked, weary. “Whatever else I can say about this case, it was run in a professional manner. I see no grounds for an appeal. I will only say at this time that even the worst of us deserves a vigorous defense against criminal charges. And that batshit crazy old battleaxe counts as the worst of us.”

It was at this point that Ulrich came out. He saw the reporters, got that familiar look of exasperation on his face, and approached with hesitation. The reporters reassured him that they knew full well he was not that Lars Ulrich and asked for his own comment.  “Justice is done. She’s spending her remaining days behind bars. I couldn’t be happier.” He said this with a facial expression that suggested anything but happiness, but then again, Lars Ulrich’s standard facial expression is grumpiness.

When asked about the multiple and graphic threats Fletcher had made against him throughout the legal proceedings, Ulrich shrugged. “Ladies and gentlemen, please. I’ve taken down megalomaniacs and monsters. I’ve made titans cry. I won’t dispute that Jessica Fletcher is dangerous. But comparatively speaking? I can sleep soundly at night knowing that her threats are empty. Her day is done.”

A voice called out from the back of the crowd. “Lars! Joni!” The reporters started to make way as a vacant eyed man with an Access Hollywood cameraman following cut through. “Cooper Collins, Access Hollywood. Can I get your comment on the rumour that’s out there that Metallica is doing a crossover album with Joni?”

Ulrich and Mitchell glared at him. Then they glanced at each other. Then they glared back at Collins. “I am not that Lars Ulrich,” Ulrich said in a low, menacing voice. Legitimate reporters started backing off, knowing what was coming.

“And I am not that Joni Mitchell,” Mitchell stated.

Collins looked confused, a common problem for entertainment reporters. “Are you sure?"

With that, both Ulrich and Mitchell hit him in the face at the same time, sending him falling backwards. What followed was a beating that put Collins in the hospital in a body cast, muttering endlessly about folk-metal hybrid rage. Mitchell took her leave of the courthouse. Ulrich was called back to duty, as the Kraken had been sighted outside of Calgary. Within ten minutes of the inspector making contact, the Kraken was a fallen foe, rendered unconscious by a victorious Mountie.

The last word belongs to a Great Old One. Once thought to be the fictional creation of H.P. Lovecraft, it turned out that Cthulhu is real, living these days deep beneath the surface of a remote island somewhere in the Pacific. But the gigantic monstrosity, capable of entering the dreams of man and imposing its will on them, does have FaceTime. Speaking through a translation program, Cthulhu made a statement to this reporter. “Look, I want to disavow any notion that Jessica Fletcher is an acolyte of mine. I know batshit crazy, okay? And she’s batshit crazy. She wants to go on and on about sacrificing people to me, well, that’s on her. Lots of crazy people have tried using my name to justify their acts.”

He paused for a moment before carrying on. “As for Lars Ulrich… just ask him to leave me alone. He kicked my gargantuan ass once, and once is plenty enough, thank you very much. That guy scares the hell out of me.”

Death Threats And Pitchforks

Murder Trial Ends With A Not Entirely Unexpected Verdict; Accused Vows Blood Vengeance

Calgary (CP) What has been described as the Trial Of The Century (the latest of them if you keep track as they pass by) has come to a conclusion in a provincial courthouse in Calgary. Once a famous mystery author and then outed as the alleged most prolific serial killer in history, there is nothing alleged anymore about the defendant. Instead a guilty verdict has been reached in the case of the Crown v Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher has been found guilty on all charges in what may be the first of many trials to come, depending on whether or not prosecutors in other jurisdictions decide to go ahead with cases against her.

In a dramatic trial that spanned weeks and featured testimony from forensics experts, multiple law enforcement personnel (including the legendary Mountie who finally brought her in), witnesses, and those testifying to the character of the defendant, as well as emotional outbursts from the defendant, the case captivated not only a nation, but the world. Fans of the author, whose decades of writing murder mysteries caught hold with a substantial readership, seem in denial about the verdict, brought down by a jury with two days of deliberation.

“It just can’t be,” Hugo Cavendish, President of the Free Our Jessica Society told reporters outside the courthouse, tears in his eyes as he absorbed the verdict, along with hundreds of other members of the group, as well as members of the Jessica Fletcher Fan Club.  “Our Jessica is the kindest, most loving grandma figure you could possibly imagine, not an evil serial killer. She’s been framed. Framed, I tell you! So what are we going to do about it?” he called out to his associates.

“Burn down the courthouse!” everyone cried out in unison.

“Hell yeah!” Cavendish replied.

And so with that, hundreds of Fletcherites tried to storm the courthouse, toting pitchforks and torches they’d bought at a pop-up pitchfork and torch stand that had sprung up in the park across the street. Local police, anticipating trouble, pushed them back and broke up the riot, making multiple arrests, including that of Harry Walden, the pitchfork and torch stand operator. While being booked as an accessory to a riot, Walden was heard to say, “All I was doing was identifying a niche market and selling to it. Who needs a permit to do that?”

Inside the courthouse, the verdict came down after a high stakes legal duel between the Crown attorney and the defense attorney, Joni Mitchell (not that Joni Mitchell). When the guilty verdict was announced, Jessica Fletcher rose to her feet and started screaming at the jury. The sight of an elderly woman, at first glance looking like the proverbial kindly granny, spouting every curse word under the sun, is still something that takes getting used to. And then she turned into the audience as court security officers closed in on her, and glared at the man who had finally ended her murder spree.

Inspector Lars Ulrich, the cranky but legendary Mountie, testified in the trial about the investigation into the Fletcher case and the larger issues- cases in other jurisdictions, the infamous diary keeping records of thousands of murders, and other elements of the saga. Ulrich seemed to be the focal point for Fletcher’s rage on a regular basis, and it wasn’t any different this time. She focused in on him, and seethed. “I will rip your heart out and eat it while it’s still beating, Ulrich! Do you hear me??? I will have your head on a pike and feast on your bone marrow!”

The Inspector, often given to saving the world and knocking out entertainment reporters who mistake him for The Other Lars Ulrich, is not known for smiling. And yet on occasion he does. Such was the case in court, where he smirked at Fletcher and gave her a bit of a wave as she was removed from court, ranting and raging.

Sentencing is scheduled for August. The convicted murderer has been returned to custody where she’s been since her arrest, in a high security facility. The Crown will be pushing hard to have her designated as a dangerous offender for an indefinite sentence, and is otherwise determined to have her sentenced to serve time consecutively on each count.  Joni Mitchell has not yet said what her strategy will be for the sentencing phase. Leaving the courthouse, the young attorney knocked out an entertainment reporter who mistook her for the singer of the same name.

“I don’t understand,” Grady Fletcher, the nephew of the convicted, told reporters outside the courthouse. “I’ve known Aunt Jessica all my life. I still can’t believe that she would have done all the things she’s been accused of. All those people. It just can’t be.” In the opinion of this reporter, it is quite possible that Grady Fletcher might not be the sharpest knife in the block.

The man whose dogged determination ended the killing spree of history’s most prolific serial killer had his own take on things. Inspector Lars Ulrich emerged from court to a flurry of questions from actual reporters, each of whom understood full well that he was not that Lars Ulrich. “Justice has been done,” he said, satisfied with the verdict. When asked if he felt any trepidation about Fletcher’s repeated threats to his life, the Inspector shook his head. “Given what I’ve taken on and taken down on numerous occasions, threats coming from a psychotic mass murdering granny don’t even come close to making me nervous.”

“Lars! Lars!” the voice came from the back of the crowd of reporters. Someone started pushing his way through the crowd. “Skip Blaine, Access Hollywood. Will Metallica have any involvement in the inevitable feature film about the Fletcher case? Like doing the soundtrack?”

Ulrich glared at him as the real reporters gave the Inspector a whole lot of clearance space, getting out of the way and putting distance between themselves and Blaine. “I am not that Lars Ulrich,” he told Blaine in a low, dangerous voice, clenching his fists.

Blaine seemed confused- a frequent issue for entertainment reporters. Then he started laughing. “Oh, Lars, you’re so funny! No, seriously, will you guys be doing the soundtrack?”

Three seconds later Blaine was briefly flying through the air, hit in the nose by a left hook punch from the Inspector. The flight ended with Tanner crashing onto the marble floor twenty feet away from Ulrich, who started forward, his eyes full of purpose and rage. Blaine scrambled away, with the Inspector fast on his heels.

Later reports had it that Blaine ended up in a hospital in Calgary, decked out in a body cast, groaning endlessly for someone to end the agony. “Red serge causes pain!”

The convicted felon has been reported to be screaming nearly non stop in her cell. Guards are keeping their distance during the rage episodes that are only briefly halted so that Fletcher can take in a breath. And then the screamfests continue again. “Seven hours since we got the old battleaxe back in here after the verdict came down,” one of them told this reporter anonymously. “And she won’t shut up. Keeps screaming about bone marrow and drinking his blood and all that sort of thing. Strictly speaking, as far as I’m concerned, Jessica Fletcher is not exactly the most stable of convicted murderers, if you know what I mean.”

This reporter, hearing the distant yelling, was started by a rather vivid rant down the hall that featured the words “grind his skull to a fine powder and have it in my afternoon tea!” In the opinion of this reporter, Jessica Fletcher is, to put it mildly, batshit crazy.

A Day In The Life Of A Cranky Mountie

7:09 AM. Awake at home. Dreamed of chasing an entertainment reporter into The Canyon Of No Return after he asked me why I wasn’t in the studio with the rest of Metallica.

7:37 AM. Having breakfast. Scrambled eggs and ham with a side of maple syrup and Canadian blueberries. Big day today. Due in court to testify against that sociopathic old crank. She really doesn’t like me. And all I did was arrest her.

7:52 AM. Out the door and in my Jeep. Fresh mountain air feels good. Winter’s been a long one, and spring should show up one of these days. It’ll make tracking entertainment reporters who annoy me a little more difficult if they’re not leaving loafer tracks in the snow, but what’s the point if there’s not a challenge?

8:20 AM. Stepping into the detachment and nodding hello to some of my fellow officers. Constable Hudson walks over and gives me a run down on what’s been going on overnight. Apparently a couple of skiers got lost in the back country and search and rescue is having a look around for them.

8:23 AM. Constable Mackenzie informs me that Ellie Evans called in to let us know that there’s a reporter with Access Hollywood staying at her bed and breakfast and asking questions about why I’m not in a recording studio. I grimace and feel grateful that I’m going to be gone all day.

8:46 AM. Out the door and on my way into Calgary. The high profile nature of the case means that there’s a lot of media attention. Including from those of the dimwitted entertainment reporter variety. I wonder what the average IQ of one of those is. It can’t be higher than single digits.

9:52 AM. I have arrived at the provincial courthouse. Meeting the Crown prosecutor as I step into the courtroom. The defendant is nowhere to be seen as of yet, but she’ll be transported in via the usual high security measures. Her lawyer is present and accounted for. Like me, she has the name of a famous musician and occasionally puts up with people asking if she’s the same person, when she’s clearly not.

I nod hello to Joni Mitchell.

10:11 AM. The defendant is brought into court by police officers. She sees me and gives me a look that could strike fear into the hearts of most men, as if she’s planning which way she wants to kill me. Actually, she probably is doing that, given her murderous track record.

Okay, since she’s not yet convicted, alleged murderous track record.

Jessica Fletcher does not look happy today.

10:25 AM. The court has been called into session, the jury seated, and I’ve been called to the stand to testify. I take a seat, looking at the old battleaxe. Fletcher has that if looks could kill thing going on. I wonder how she hid it for so many years as she went about on a serial killer murder spree. Alleged serial killer murder spree.

10:58 AM. Continuing to testify on the investigation into the murders at hand. Doing so in a forthright, reasonable manner. Wondering what Miss Mitchell will do when she starts asking me some questions.

2:21 PM. I have been sparring with Joni Mitchell for some time now. Not the physical kind, the courtroom testimony kind as she tries to find some sort of flaw in my casework in the matter. Thus far it hasn’t been working. She hasn’t tried to throw me off my game by asking me things about Metallica, but then again, I could reply by asking her why she isn’t at Woodstock with the rest of the folk singers. I’m sure she’d find that as irritating as I do when people ask me why I’m not with the rest of the band in the studio or on tour. We have ourselves an impasse.

3:07 PM. Joni Mitchell has wrapped up questioning me. Despite making great efforts, she hasn’t undermined my investigation in the eyes of the jury. I step down from the stand and walk back towards the seats at the back of the courtroom. I allow myself a look at Fletcher as I go. Her eyes are shooting daggers, as if she’s calculating the amount of force needed to remove my head from my neck. I give her the slightest of smirks as I pass by.

4:10 PM. Court is dismissed for the day. The jurors file out, and the judge leaves. I’m about to go myself when I hear a racket nearby. I turn, look and see Fletcher rising to her feet under the supervision of police officers. She’s irritated with them. She turns to me, locks eyes, and sneers. “Your head on a pike, Ulrich! Your head on a pike!” she tells me in a quiet whisper dripping with malice and the tears of Girl Guides.

4:25 PM. Walking out of court with the Crown attorney and Miss Mitchell. She asks if I enjoy goading her client. I’m about to answer when a rush of reporters all come our way. One of them, a vacant eyed nitwit backed up by a cameraman, speaks up the loudest. “Lars! Joni! Tommy Locksley, Access Hollywood! What everyone wants to know is, will Metallica be going out on tour with Joni as a double act, and how will you reconcile your very different music styles before a live audience?”

Mitchell and I look at each other, and punch Locksley at the same time.

5:35 PM. My drive back home has been interrupted when I come to a bottleneck of traffic out in the foothills. I find one of my officers on site. Constable Borden tells me that the monster Ebirah has shown up in the Alberta foothills in the last hour and is attacking whatever approaches him. You know, in the movies these things attack cities like Tokyo and New York. You’d think they’d know better to show up near my place.

5:45 PM. I have gotten within visual range of Ebirah, who’s in the process of stomping on a line of train cars. It’s a giant lobster. Thirty meters tall, 100 meters long. I whistle to get its attention. It turns, sees me, and starts charging.

I smile to myself. This should be fun.

5:51 PM. Standing on a field of battle, reveling in victory. Ebirah is on its back, defeated utterly and, as far as I can tell, dead. Calls have been made to remove this thing from the scene. You should have known better than to pick a fight with me.

6:28 PM. Watching contractors working for Red Lobster carving up Ebirah. Note to self: I’m so glad I don’t eat at Red Lobster.

7:03 PM. Supervising things at the scene when someone comes up to me. “Lars! Lars! Harry Hedges, Access Hollywood! I’ve been looking for you all day. What the world wants to know is this. Is monster hunting a hobby for you when you’re not in studio or with the band on tour?”

I glare at him. Then I speak in a low, growling voice. “I am not that Lars Ulrich.”

Hedges seems confused. “Are you sure?”

9:08 PM. Finally back home. A long, long day. Sure, it might be legal for me to beat up an entertainment reporter and put them into hospital, but I still have to file paperwork about it afterwards. I hate doing paperwork. Not as much as I hate entertainment reporters, but still…

10:03 PM. A call from one of my colleagues at the holding facility in Calgary. He tells me that Fletcher has been screaming my name from her cell for the last four hours straight. Vowing to carve my heart out of my chest with a rusty spoon, while I’m still alive.

How nice of her to be honest. It’s always good to be appreciated.

The Real Trial Of The Century

Trial For Infamous Accused Serial Killer Underway; Threats Made In Court Against Grouchy Lawman

Calgary (CP) What some are billing the Trial of the Century because of the infamy of the accused and the scale of the crimes has gotten underway in this western Canadian city. The trial has drawn attention across the world, and focuses on a set of ten local murders in 2016. These murders, however, seem to be the tip of the iceberg, as the accused has been implicated in thousands of murders all over the planet for years on end. One of the questions on many minds is will she be held accountable in all of those cases, or will Canadian justice alone be sufficient to put her behind bars for the remainder of her days.

The accused is the famous mystery novelist Jessica Fletcher, who made a fortune for decades writing mystery novels while frequently assisting local law enforcement agencies in investigating murder cases. Some of those cases were in her home town of Cabot Cove, Maine, which for many years was the murder capital of the world, per capita in terms of population, with an average of twelve murders a year for a small town. Others were in places where she was visiting as a renowned author. And authorities have alleged that in fact, she was committing those murders and framing others for them. A key item of evidence in the present case is a diary the author kept detailing her crimes for decades, discovered in her possession.

It was the world’s greatest and grouchiest lawman who finally brought her to account. The legendary Inspector Lars Ulrich of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police arrested Fletcher at a writer’s meet and greet in May 2016. Ulrich had been investigating the case on behalf of the Calgary Police Service and had met Fletcher, who had offered her services in looking into the matter. Sources confirmed at the time that the two rubbed each other the wrong way at that first meeting- Fletcher had mistaken him for the other Lars Ulrich, perhaps a deliberate way to irritate him, while Ulrich had told her to stay out of his way and to "drop dead already", according to sources.

Perhaps it was that first meeting that fixated Fletcher on Ulrich. Perhaps it was the humiliation of subsequently being arrested by him in front of her fans. For whatever reason, during legal proceedings leading up to the trial, whenever the two have been in the same room, Fletcher has ended up screaming at Ulrich, making death threats, obsessed with having his head on a pike and ending him, according to witnesses at such hearings. Initially being represented by an attorney from her hometown, Fletcher has since taken on a different attorney, a local star lawyer with the name of a different star.

Joni Mitchell is sometimes mistaken for the folk singer by dimwitted entertainment reporters, despite being a good deal younger and really not looking anything like her. It’s an issue she shares with the aforementioned Inspector Ulrich, who is often mistaken for the Metallica drummer. Mitchell has been busy defending her client in pre-trial hearings and punching entertainment reporters who have mistaken her for the other Joni Mitchell. Like Ulrich, she too is something of a grouch. Unlike Ulrich, she hasn’t saved the world on multiple occasions. Why she is defending Fletcher is another matter, as those who know her say she’s not the sort of stereotypical ambulance chasing lawyer seeking fame or looking to her reputation.

Inside and outside the court, supporters of the accused have been present. Alison Murphy, president of the Jessica Fletcher Fan Club, led a crowd of Fletcherites in chanting outside the provincial courthouse in the heart of Calgary yesterday. “What do we want?” she called out to the rest.

“Jessica released and a big apology!” they yelled back in unison.

“When do we want it?” Murphy prompted.

“Now!” the crowd insisted, again in unison.

Inside the court, a jury has been selected and the leading Crown Attorney has begun making his case. The defendant has seemed tense, particularly yesterday when Inspector Ulrich was brought to the stand to begin testifying about the investigation into the ten murders. While Ulrich laid out the specifics of the case, Fletcher was seen increasingly to tense up and mutter under her breath. It came to a point where by the time the trial took a lunch break and the Inspector was stepping down, Fletcher stood up and snapped, “I will feast on your bone marrow, Ulrich! You hear me? Your bone marrow!”

The judge instructed Mitchell to keep her client under control, and for the jury to disregard the defendant’s remarks. The expressions on their faces said it all- how does one disregard hearing such things? Ulrich simply left court, while Fletcher received a terse warning from her attorney about behaving herself. The incident, a common sight to those who were covering pre-trial hearings- is surely not the last to happen before this is all said and done.

Outside court, Ulrich was intercepted by reporters. He seemed irritable, but that does tend to be his default setting in dealing with reporters. Reassured that we were quite well aware he was not the other Lars Ulrich, he seemed more at ease. Questions were raised about the morning’s testimony and the hostility the defendant has for him. He was addressing the matter when someone spoke up from the back of the crowd. “Lars! Lars, can we get a comment?” It was a stereotypical entertainment reporter, with the usual vacant eyes and dimwitted expression, backed up by a cameraman. “Danny Davidson, Access Hollywood. Tell us, because everyone who’s anyone wants to know. Why aren’t you in the studio with the rest of Metallica? And second, since no one else is doing it, will you host the Oscars?”

The rest of the reporters backed away from the grouchy Inspector to give him space. The cameraman, sensing danger, stepped aside to get out of the way. Ulrich’s eyes narrowed, and his voice was low but gruff, a sure sign of trouble for anyone with a working brain. “First, I am not that Lars Ulrich. And second, **** the Oscars.”

Davidson laughed. “Oh, Lars, you’re such a kidder!”

Without a word, Ulrich lunged forward and threw a punch, hitting Davidson in the face. Davidson went flying, hitting the floor of the courthouse and seeming to finally realize he was in trouble. He scampered up to his feet and ran out the door screaming, the Inspector at his heels. Davidson turned up in a local hospital in a body cast, whimpering about being beaten up by a heavy metal drummer. As he is an entertainment reporter (or will be again after he recovers for about six months), no one cared. As for the Inspector, two final observations. It’s fair to say that later in the month, he will not be watching the Academy Awards. And it’s a bit of a shock, when you grow up with the stereotype of Mounties as polite and nice and all, to hear one swear like a sailor.