(no subject)
New story I'm working on for my CW class.
I just thought I'd post it. See what people think. (Last time I posted a story no one read it so I'm not really expecting much)
I had an hour until my double shift was over. Of course I should stumble into a crime scene while getting a good cup of joe. I couldn’t swallow the sludge my boss called coffee one more time. It’s five in the morning, and I’m standing over what used to be Harold Grog. The stench of the alley is combating with the aroma of his lead smell of blood. Decay hadn’t set in but it was in the air, most likely a dead alley cat. I’d gotten used to the smell, I’ve inhaled much worse. The alley was narrow, about three shoulder widths wide. It was a dead end and towards the back was a trash bin overflowing with garbage from the 2 buildings that surrounded it. I was waiting for back-up to arrive. It was still dark out, and I only had one measly flashlight that was slowly losing power. I had called for back up nearly 10 minutes ago. The boys in blue were taking there sweet time on this one. I knew they would, because it was Detective Lump who would get the call. We were partners when he was a rookie. It didn’t work out.
Detective Lump was a short fellow with a raging Napolean complex. He had dark slicked-back hair saturated with Tres Flowers that would sometimes drip onto his shirt collar staining it yellow. When he walked into a room his odor would accost your nostrils with a noxious mixture of Old Spice and Aqua Velva. The man was a walking cliché. Tattered brown hat, overly worn overcoat, and the same wrinkled black tie he’d been wearing for 10 years was his wardrobe of choice. He was tough on his underlings and kissed the big bosses ass like it was a long lost lover.
Lump was a shitty detective, but he knew how to run things. He could push your buttons just right until things got done, and if they weren’t done perfectly…he’d ride your ass for weeks. He had injured himself as a beat cop, and had a nice cushy desk job for 8 of the 15 years he was on the squad. By some streak of luck or severe brown-nosing he climbed the ranks to become second in command in the homicide unit. A few years back, I called him out on a bunk arrest and he never let that go. After that, every arrest I made and case I was assigned he double checked the scene and went over the facts to make sure I hadn’t missed a step. He couldn’t wait to call me out on something I missed. He didn’t know that all it did was make me a better cop and waste his time on old cases.
When the boys in blue finally showed up it was daylight. I had already gone over the scene with what little tools I had. I didn’t find much other than what was on the body. Good ol’ Harry didn’t leave much to go by in finding out why he was laying here deader than a doornail. He left behind a wallet, one form of ID, twenty six dollars, and some business cards. His blood had barely congealed when I had found him, his body still warm. The coroners took the body temp when they got to the scene. It was 97.8 degrees Fahrenheit. A corpse loses about 2 degrees of temperature every hour. Harry didn’t look like he made a struggle so his body was likely to be about 98.6 Fahrenheit. With those facts I’d guess Harry had been killed only 15 minutes before I found him. He lived about 10 miles from the alley where his life was ended. I was going to check out the house after filing the initial paperwork with the coroner.
Three cups of coffee later I was on my way to Sherman Heights to check out the residence of Harold Grog. I pulled up to a light blue house adorned with all the normalcies of modern living. White lace curtains adorned the front windows. A trim cut lawn bordered by flowers of pinks, yellows, purples, and blues. It had one of those tacky wooden plaques, adorned with garish looking geese in polka dot pink handkerchiefs. Underneath the geese were the words ‘The Grog Family’. It was the type of plaque you only hung when relatives came by because one of them gave it to you for Christmas. By the spider webs stuck to it I guessed it was someone who lived close by, a neighbor maybe.
I rapped on the door loudly. Whoever was home was most likely asleep. It was just shy of eight in the morning on a Sunday. “Who is it?” a raspy voiced woman answered from behind the padlocked door.
“Detective Frank Chicago, SLPD. I’d like to have a word with ya ma’am.”
“I ain’t had no warrants in years, and my brother and his family are clean so you must have the wrong house”
“Ma’am is your brothers’ name Harold Grog?”
“Sure, what’s it to ya? What’s he done?”
“Ma’am if you could open the door, I’d really like to have a talk with you”
“Harry ain’t here! You should come back later”
“Well, that’s what this is about ma’am”
This was going to be tough. Being the one to break it to families that their Husband, Son, Father, or Brother is dead is the worst part about this job. I usually waited for a rookie to come and break the news. I didn’t have time to wait. Harold had been killed less than an hour before I got there.
I just thought I'd post it. See what people think. (Last time I posted a story no one read it so I'm not really expecting much)
I had an hour until my double shift was over. Of course I should stumble into a crime scene while getting a good cup of joe. I couldn’t swallow the sludge my boss called coffee one more time. It’s five in the morning, and I’m standing over what used to be Harold Grog. The stench of the alley is combating with the aroma of his lead smell of blood. Decay hadn’t set in but it was in the air, most likely a dead alley cat. I’d gotten used to the smell, I’ve inhaled much worse. The alley was narrow, about three shoulder widths wide. It was a dead end and towards the back was a trash bin overflowing with garbage from the 2 buildings that surrounded it. I was waiting for back-up to arrive. It was still dark out, and I only had one measly flashlight that was slowly losing power. I had called for back up nearly 10 minutes ago. The boys in blue were taking there sweet time on this one. I knew they would, because it was Detective Lump who would get the call. We were partners when he was a rookie. It didn’t work out.
Detective Lump was a short fellow with a raging Napolean complex. He had dark slicked-back hair saturated with Tres Flowers that would sometimes drip onto his shirt collar staining it yellow. When he walked into a room his odor would accost your nostrils with a noxious mixture of Old Spice and Aqua Velva. The man was a walking cliché. Tattered brown hat, overly worn overcoat, and the same wrinkled black tie he’d been wearing for 10 years was his wardrobe of choice. He was tough on his underlings and kissed the big bosses ass like it was a long lost lover.
Lump was a shitty detective, but he knew how to run things. He could push your buttons just right until things got done, and if they weren’t done perfectly…he’d ride your ass for weeks. He had injured himself as a beat cop, and had a nice cushy desk job for 8 of the 15 years he was on the squad. By some streak of luck or severe brown-nosing he climbed the ranks to become second in command in the homicide unit. A few years back, I called him out on a bunk arrest and he never let that go. After that, every arrest I made and case I was assigned he double checked the scene and went over the facts to make sure I hadn’t missed a step. He couldn’t wait to call me out on something I missed. He didn’t know that all it did was make me a better cop and waste his time on old cases.
When the boys in blue finally showed up it was daylight. I had already gone over the scene with what little tools I had. I didn’t find much other than what was on the body. Good ol’ Harry didn’t leave much to go by in finding out why he was laying here deader than a doornail. He left behind a wallet, one form of ID, twenty six dollars, and some business cards. His blood had barely congealed when I had found him, his body still warm. The coroners took the body temp when they got to the scene. It was 97.8 degrees Fahrenheit. A corpse loses about 2 degrees of temperature every hour. Harry didn’t look like he made a struggle so his body was likely to be about 98.6 Fahrenheit. With those facts I’d guess Harry had been killed only 15 minutes before I found him. He lived about 10 miles from the alley where his life was ended. I was going to check out the house after filing the initial paperwork with the coroner.
Three cups of coffee later I was on my way to Sherman Heights to check out the residence of Harold Grog. I pulled up to a light blue house adorned with all the normalcies of modern living. White lace curtains adorned the front windows. A trim cut lawn bordered by flowers of pinks, yellows, purples, and blues. It had one of those tacky wooden plaques, adorned with garish looking geese in polka dot pink handkerchiefs. Underneath the geese were the words ‘The Grog Family’. It was the type of plaque you only hung when relatives came by because one of them gave it to you for Christmas. By the spider webs stuck to it I guessed it was someone who lived close by, a neighbor maybe.
I rapped on the door loudly. Whoever was home was most likely asleep. It was just shy of eight in the morning on a Sunday. “Who is it?” a raspy voiced woman answered from behind the padlocked door.
“Detective Frank Chicago, SLPD. I’d like to have a word with ya ma’am.”
“I ain’t had no warrants in years, and my brother and his family are clean so you must have the wrong house”
“Ma’am is your brothers’ name Harold Grog?”
“Sure, what’s it to ya? What’s he done?”
“Ma’am if you could open the door, I’d really like to have a talk with you”
“Harry ain’t here! You should come back later”
“Well, that’s what this is about ma’am”
This was going to be tough. Being the one to break it to families that their Husband, Son, Father, or Brother is dead is the worst part about this job. I usually waited for a rookie to come and break the news. I didn’t have time to wait. Harold had been killed less than an hour before I got there.