Monday, December 26, 2011

Detective Story - Chapter Four - First Draft

The neighborhood in which the corpse was found had many apartment buildings surrounding the fountain in which the corpse had been found. Scott Ward was trying to find out who the caller had been--perhaps this was the killer, he thought. He’d been interviewing people from the apartments for hours on end, calling them in to the police station. They had all behaved in a similar way; acting incredulously and as if they had no idea about what had happened. Nobody had appeared particularly peculiar to Scott, and he was beginning to get anxious. When the last of the interviews had ended, the superintendent stepped up to speak to Ward. He seemed worried, and once again, had a hurried look in his eye.
    “Detective, we just got another anonymous call from a neighborhood close to the one where Mike Kirkwood was found. There seems to have been another murder.”
    The detective grunted. He wasn’t surprised at all; he’d actually half-expected this to happen.
    “Where is the body?” asked Ward.
    “Apparently, someone found the body in a dumpster. Please, we need to get there immediately.”
    Scott assented reluctantly. He was tired and just wanted to get home for the day. He followed the colonel out to his car, and they drove off.
    When they arrived, Ward got out of the car slowly and examined his surroundings. They were in a dark alley, surrounded by brick buildings, little sunlight shining through. There were puddles of dark, murky water scattered throughout the alley, and the cries of black crows lingered overhead. They walked over to a green dumpster to find that there was, indeed, a body, and it was covered in garbage. The detective recognized him immediately; it was another peer from his high school. Also a former bully. The corpse looked oddly comfortable there, laying amongst piles of trash. Ward wondered what it would feel like to experience the sweet release of death; he was beginning to get sick of the trash that surrounded his life. Except in my life, there’s a different word for it. They’re called people.
    Apparently, the colonel had noticed the weird look in Ward’s eye, for he said, “You okay there? Recognize the corpse?”
    “Yes,” he replied.
    “Well, who is he?”
    Scott searched the corpse for a wallet, and found one. In it, he found the victim’s driver’s license, took it out, and showed it to the superintendent.
    “Samuel Harris,” said Ward.
    “And why does that name mean anything to you? Did you used to know him?”
    “He used to go to the same high school that Mike Kirkwood and I went to in senior year.”
    The colonel stared at him gravely. Ward needn’t say more.
    “Looks like we have a serial killer on our hands, then,” remarked the superintendent, pointing out the obvious.
    “Sounds like fun.” Scott meant it.
    Johnson gave him a weird look, and then asked him, “Do you have any idea who the killer might be?”
    “Actually, yes, I do. But we can’t actually prove it. There isn’t enough tangible evidence to prove that he’s the murderer.”
    “It doesn’t matter, just give me a name.”
    “Tom Huffman.”
    “And you believe he’s the killer?”
    “Did I not make myself clear enough?”
    “I’ll try to get a warrant, and I’ll keep you updated. Do you want me to give you a ride home?”
    When Ward finally got to his home, he sat down to think about the case. He was almost sure that he knew who the killer was. Tom Huffman had been a constant victim of a countless number of bullies who had devoted their lives to the sole purpose of ruining his. He’d witnessed the beatings, the humiliations, the constant name-calling as they trudged passed him in the hallways. Scott had almost pitied him, but had made no effort to become his friend to try and comfort him. He’d had enough things in his life to frown about without having the added troubles of aiding a wimp in distress. He had never cared much about people who got bullied; and he loathed them when they wept about it. The drama they without good reason cried over did not win over his sympathy; in fact, it ignited in him a feeling very much not sympathetic.
    He turned on the television and began watching the news. As always, it was littered with contemporary events he didn’t much care for. He was in his mid-thirties, had no family, no wife and no children, and was aging fast. He had enough on his mind. He turned the TV off and walked over to the kitchen, planning to get himself something to drink but instead ending up staring into an empty void, into his life’s past events. A sudden surge of nostalgia crept through him, and despite how awful his childhood had been, he actually missed it. He loved solving crimes, but he didn’t know how much longer he could do it for. His life had no meaning anymore, and he was beginning to doubt that his presence in the world actually made an impact or made a difference to anyone. He was but a lonely detective trying to solve local crimes that certainly wouldn’t come to a stop anytime soon. He couldn’t do anything about it, nor did he want to for much longer.
    The phone rang, waking him from his thoughts. It was the superintendent.
    “We have another body.”

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Detective Story - Chapter Three - First Draft

The next day, Scott was eager to begin working on the case. He got the call from the superintendent at noon.
    “Coroner says he died at around midnight, the same night that I called you in. Also, he confirmed that the victim was drowned.”
    “Pretty much what I expected.,” said Scott. “Did you ID the body?”
    “Yes, actually. We found a wallet on him with money still in it. We can rule out robbery and a spur of the moment murder, then. It‘s most likely that it was planned. Name’s Mike Kirkwood.”
    Yes, that was it, the detective thought. He’d gone to high school with him in senior year. He couldn’t remember exactly how the man had been in high school, but he knew that he had been a jock, one of those that always pushed people around. He’d never actually spoken to him. He hadn’t spoken much to anybody, for that matter. Needless to say, he had been a lonely child, quiet most of the time. That’s the way he liked it, though. He usually didn’t enjoy speaking to people.
    “I see,” said the detective. “We’ll have to question his family, get all the facts straight. Maybe they saw him the day before his death. Do you know if they’ve been alerted? Or, better question, does he have a family?”
    “Yes, actually. We did a background check on him earlier today, and he has two sisters, both of whom have been informed of his death. Both parents died years ago.”
    “Do you know where the sisters live?”
    “I’ll find out and keep you updated.” He hung up.
    Later that day he called him once more, telling Ward that he’d gotten two addresses to both of Kirkwood’s sisters. He would pick him up and drive him there later that day.
    After they arrived to one of the sisters’ homes, Mary Kirkwood’s, they knocked on the door. After a minute, a woman came out, sobbing hysterically.
    “Yes?” She barely managed to the word out before bursting into tears.
    “Are you Mary Kirkwood?” Asked the detective.
    “Yes, I am. Are you the police?”
    “Yes, actually. I’m Detective Scott Ward, and this is Colonel Mark Johnson, superintendent of the Virginia State Police. May we come in and ask a few questions?”
    “Yes, of course. Come in,” she said timidly, struggling to get a hold of herself.
    She ushered them inside, leading them to the living room on the left side of the house, and gestured them to sit down on the chairs scattered around the room. There was a coffee table in the middle, and to the right of the room was a hallway which led to a kitchen. Adjacent to the hallway was a staircase that led upstairs, below which was a broom closet. As they entered the living room, which had portraits of famous artists hanging askew on the walls, their eyes drifted towards another woman who was sitting in one of the chairs. She looked tired, her eyes bloodshot and a grim look on her face. She greeted them.
    “Hello,” said the woman, who had blond strands of hair hanging sloppily around her head, “I’m Lily Kirkwood. I presume you’re the police?”
    “Yes,” replied Ward, introducing themselves once again. “We’d like to ask you both a few questions, please.”
    “Of course, of course,” said Mary, who was looking nervously at the policemen. She had brown, curly hair that fell down to her neck. Her eyes were red from crying.
    “First of all, where were the both of you yesterday evening?” Asked the detective.
    “We were both here, having dinner together. Usually Mike has dinner with us on Sunday nights, but he called to say that he couldn’t make it,” said Lily. She looked stiff. Both sisters had melancholic expressions on their face, and both looked genuinely sad, Mary much more than Lily, however. Lily had a strange look on her face. A slight hint of contempt, maybe? Scott disregarded it and continued.
    “And do you have any idea where your brother was?”
    “No, we don’t,” said Mary, “All he said was that he had something else to do. He didn’t tell us anything else.” She was still sobbing.
    “Well, do you have any idea whatsoever what he might have been doing?”
    “No, I’m sorry,” said Mary.
    Scott stopped for a moment, discouraged. Then he said, “Were the three of you close as a family?”
    “Yes, we were always very close. We shared everything. That’s why we were so confused when he called us to say that he couldn’t make it. He usually doesn't do things like that, especially not at the last minute,” said Mary.
    “Were you aware of any negative relationships that he developed, any adversaries, enemies? Anyone he wasn’t particularly fond of?”
    “Well, no, not as far as we know,” said Lily. “I mean, in high school, he did used to be a bully. He used to push kids around a lot. I always tried to get him to stop, telling him that it wasn’t good for him nor for anyone else. He was very stubborn and wouldn’t listen. Many times he even got in fights, beating up a lot of kids. But he’s matured over the years. He hasn’t hurt anyone since high school, and I highly doubt he’s had any sort of disputes since then.”
    All of this, of course, Ward already knew, save for the part that he’d matured over the years. He’d seen him bully kids all the time.
    “So no one comes to mind?”
    “No, no one at all. I’m sorry.”
    “Well, I think that’s all of it. Thank you for your time, we do appreciate it. If anything comes up, feel free to call us.”
    “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” said Lily.
    Mary showed them out, and they left.
    Scott had a good idea of who the killer was.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Detective Story - Chapter Two - First Draft

    Scott Ward was of Scottish descent, but most of his ancestors had lived in the United States, where he had been born. As a child, he’d always enjoyed endeavoring in unsolved mysteries, attempting to unravel the unknown. Sometimes it was something as simple as “Who took my food?” Or “Why’d my shoe suddenly disappear?” Others the clich├ęd “What is our purpose in this life?” (To which, in fact, he still didn’t have an answer for. He was convinced that their was no purpose; it was mere coincidence that the human race had spontaneously appeared on this Earth. After all, he was strictly atheist). However insignificant, he had, as far as he could remember, always found joy in solving mysteries. He had grown up with one older brother, Matt, and his mother, Emily, who both had taught him, in the worst ways possible, the lessons in life.
    His memories were merely quick captures of certain moments, most blurred to strange visions. He’d had a harsh childhood, moving from state to state every year or so. He had never found stability in his life, and happiness had been something he had been devoid of for most of the time. His mother had been a weak woman but had kept him in line relatively well, considering the circumstances in which they resided. He couldn’t remember any moments in which she hugged him, let alone flashed a smile at him. Those were very rare occurrences, times when he was able to indulge in the sweet caress of love and delight. He would often stare at the other children in the many schools he had attended hugging their parents every time they got picked up from school. There had always been a void in his heart that had grown over time. He knew of no happiness. He knew of no joy, no love, no care that he longed for more than anything else. A deep envy and hatred towards others had developed over time, and eventually he had turned into the cold, miserable man he now was.
    To make matters even worse, he didn’t have a father. At least to his recollection. He had never met his real father, nor did he even know who he was. His oldest memories didn‘t include a father nor a happy family. In addition, his mother had always been very secretive, never sharing her thoughts, feelings, emotions. Perhaps this was the reason he so gleefully enjoyed deciphering unsolved mysteries.
    His brother hadn’t been any more yielding than his mother, either. Matt had taught him, above all, that you could never trust anyone. Perhaps, Scott often pondered, it had been a good thing that his family had been this way as he grew up. Otherwise, he might never have discovered the solace he found in solving crimes and mysteries that he now incessantly scavenged for. Maybe it had all been for the best, he thought.
    Even though he didn’t know where to start, Scott was excited that he had been assigned a new case. It would help him break the monotony of his daily life. It would make him think, get out on the field, and give him the satisfaction of having solved another case. That is, of course, if he actually solves it.
     The thought that he could not name the victim irked him. He knew he’d seen him before. Was it in one of the schools he had attended? Possibly.
    There wasn’t much to do until he got the results back from the coroner. In the meantime, he would rest. A good night’s sleep would do him good.

Detective Story - Chapter One - First Draft

Read the title. FIRST DRAFT, so don't jump on my ass if there aren't enough adverbs in there for your liking. I usually hate adverbs, so screw off. Also take into account that it's the first story I've ever written, so my writing isn't very developed just yet. Feedback is appreciated. And yes, I realize that it's short. I feel obliged to tell you that it's a short story, if you haven't been paying attention. Without further ado, I present to you Chapter One of my first story.

At three in the morning, Scott Ward’s telephone rang, waking him from a dream he could no longer remember but knew was much more fascinating than having to get up at such early hours. He sighed. It had happened before, and no doubt would happen again. At first he was unwilling to waste the energy, but after about three seemingly endless, raucous rings, he picked up the phone from his bedside table.
    “Yes?” He asked irritably.
    “Sorry for having to wake you so early, Scott, but we seem to have a problem,” remarked the man at the other end of the line, sounding both tired and in a hurry.
    “What is it?”
    “Well, about an hour ago, we got an anonymous call from someone who claims to have seen a body in a fountain,” said the man, who Scott now recognized as the voice of the superintendent of the Virginia State Police, Colonel Mark Johnson.
    The news didn’t come as a surprise to Scott. After all, it was his job.
    “Has the area already been sealed off?” Ward inquired.
    “Yes, of course, but we can’t guarantee it’ll stay that way for much longer. Hurry, if you will.”
    “I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” replied Ward. Another night without enough sleep, he thought.
    Left with no other option, he sat up reluctantly. He began to stare into empty space, lost in thought. After about five minutes he realized he had nearly dozed off. He got up promptly and plodded along the length of his room to his wardrobe and began to get dressed.
    Scott Ward was in his mid-thirties. He had jet-black hair that fell over his ears and covered most of his forehead. His hazel eyes were extremely sharp and missed little to nothing, as they had been trained to do. He was of average height with a strong build. He had a broad chin and a face that revealed nothing.
    After getting dressed, he went downstairs. It was a cool night outside. The moon shined brightly, and the smell of fresh air allowed him to wake up and take in his surroundings, making him more alert. He got in his car and drove off. He was wondering how a body could’ve gotten in a fountain. A murder, no doubt. Still, a peculiar location to leave a body. You would think that if one committed a homicide, one would most likely want to hide the body, not put it on display. Well, I’ll find out soon, he thought.
    As he arrived to his destination, it was still dark out, the moon shining overhead. He saw the superintendent in another car and got out to greet him.
    “How much do you know?” asked Ward, as he shook the man’s hand.
    “About as much as you do. We got the call, an officer came by to confirm the body was here, and I called you immediately. I thought you could be of help.”
    “Yes, yes, of course.”
    As Scott examined the body more closely, he realized that he had seen the victim, a man, before. He was sure of it. There was something about that face… it looked familiar. The man in the fountain looked as though he had been drowned, his legs sprawled out over the edge of the fountain, his head and torso hidden beneath the murky water.
    “Anything jumping at you?” asked the superintendent.
    “Not exactly. Not yet, at least.” He paused, then continued, “I can’t deduce much just yet. There appears to be no blood, so my best guess is that this man was drowned. There are two possibilities, however. The first being that this man was drowned right here, in the fountain; the second being that perhaps this was simply a body dump, albeit a strange place to get rid of a body.”
    “Yes, quite,” replied the superintendent.
    They stood quietly for about a minute or two, when finally Ward added, “As I said, I can’t deduce much from this. I need a coroner to look at it; I need a time of death and a cause of death. Also, if you can, identify the body.”
    “Will do.”
    “Do you have any idea who might have called to inform you about the body?”
    “None whatsoever, detective,” said Johnson.
    “Strange…” He trailed off for a moment. Then, “Forgive me, but I can‘t do much just yet. There are no clues, no trails. There are no suspects--we don’t even know if this was the primary crime scene. I need more information, or at least a suspect.”
    “Quite so,” said the superintendent.
    On that note, they parted ways.

First Post

Well, I'll start off by saying that this is a blog to share my short stories. I enjoy writing. Disregard the title of the blog, I realize that it's moronic and dorky, but it's also irrelevant and I couldn't come up with anything else. Also, take into account that I'm only 14, so if my stories aren't sophisticated enough for your pampered tastes, well, fuck off. So anyways, yeah. Start reading, if you can be bothered.