The Comic Book Murder Novels & Stories

"Did you draw this? She asks in a weak voice. He nodded, and he let go of his baseball bat and sat beside her. "Amazing." She mumbles. He smiled, "You think that's amazing. Check this one out," he said while handing her another notebook. "It's a comic. I made it. It's about a crime-solving detective like Sherlock Holmes, but mine is French. The name is Hank Devereaux, and he has a dog named Yoda." He explains enthusiastically. She smiled, and he noticed her eyes finally conveyed emotion. His heart was filled with delight.

"Investment banker. No criminal record. Just a regular guy in the wrong place at the wrong time." Evelyn studied the body, then glanced at the walls of the alley. Deep claw marks gouged into the brick as if something had climbed or leaped away, leaving behind a trail of terror. She didn’t like this. Something wasn’t adding up. They left the crime scene Back at her apartment, Evelyn poured herself a drink, the amber liquid swirling in the glass like the chaos in her mind. She spread out every file she had—her father’s old case, the current victims, the same patterns, the same full moons.

He questioned in disbelief. "Yeah, you heard the gentleman correctly, Murphy. He said you're under arrest. What else do you want him to say?" Jacob retorted. "It was an emergency. I'm sorry I have no idea what you're talking about here gentlemen. I didn't commit any crime please." "Hold your peace Murphy. You killed the boss." "No, I didn't do it." "Then who else could it be? You brewed his last coffee and it was discovered that he died after drinking from the same coffee which you served him. How do you explain that?"

His frown deepened as he pondered over my statement. "Very well," he said with a curt nod. "What would you say is a justifiable crime?" He asked eagerly, oblivious to the trap he was setting for himself. The man is a fucking walking contradiction. I took my time answering, reaching down to squeeze Addison's free hand. She squeezed back almost immediately, and I know she knows that I got her back. "Murder," I said, making his eyes widen. "Wh-What?" He stuttered, looking to everyone to see their reactions. He was shocked by my statement. "I believe that's not—"

Death is chaos. The way her expression changed when I told her about the bodily fluids—that was when I knew. She thinks it’s simple. She thinks I walk in, shoot someone, and it’s over. But it’s never that easy. Murder is an art, and like any masterpiece, it requires time, patience, and precision. In a way, it’s a lot like stalking. Not the person necessarily, but the location, the details. Everything has to be perfect.

He walked over and grabbed a chair, dragged it across the floor, and sat in front of me. “Your point?” I said impatiently. “A handful of months ago, Moskov’s wife was murdered in cold blood in their home. An Italian bullet between her eyes and the American Mafia symbol carved on her chest.” Blake said as he took a drag of his cigarette. “The house was heavily guarded, only the best assassins in the world could make that kill.” He said as he smirked. “Ace and I are the best assassins in the world, and I never made that kill.” I scoffed.

Let the Old Bigot complain about the noise when everyone in their neighborhood was outside enjoying themselves while she sat in her living room and choked on her own bile. Alex knew that he should probably show some compassion for her, given the circumstances of the previous day, but somehow he just couldn’t dredge it up for a person like her. By eleven thirty he’d found no violent crime from 1984 except that of Joe diMucci. He thought there were plenty of similarities—the removal of body parts for one, though the girls had been beheaded and dismembered, and diMucci had his heart removed. He was fairly certain that the type of wound was similar, but he’d have to compare the photos of diMucci

“Yeah. Mind you, it’s not actually that helpful. If I murdered someone and wrote a note in one of these handwritings, it would easily be traced back to me, considering how all of these styles are by people who are connected to me. I can copy Jasper’s handwriting with a sample and a couple of weeks. I’ve got your’s down already Emmet. You doodled on my accounting work.” Lila turned around and left them both at the table, putting the shopping away into the fridges and the cupboards. “Sorry,” Emmet apologised. “Don’t. Please, give me more comics. I want to see Mickey get murdered again,” Lila answered, her eyes glinting with something that Emmet couldn’t quite understand. “Who’s Mickey?” Jasper

These actions cannot be explained, Navpreet,’ said the inspector gloomily, casting an eye on the mountains. The sub-inspector gave a stiff nod and carefully studied the inspector who seemed to be lost in contemplation. ‘From what I have seen, murders are of two types,’ said the inspector, the tips of his fingers coming together. ‘First are the unplanned ones, committed by people who were suffocated in some way by the acts of the would-be victims. When they see an opportunity, their fear is eclipsed by the pain they have suffered and they strike.’

“Might as well kill two birds with one stone.” “You’re seriously playing the long game,” Caleb muttered, frowning at the stink. “Also, it smells like death in here.” Dante’s stare shut him up. “…Anyway,” Caleb cleared his throat, shifting gears. “No major leads on the murders, but there’s something odd. All the cross marks on the bodies? They were drawn with ink. But the last body, the young she-wolf found by the border, hers was different.” “How so?” Dante asked, eyes narrowing.