Exercises
Random crime scene story.
“Coffee ma’am?”
“Thanks.” The coffee was cold and instant, not unlike it’s maker, whom she’d had a brief liaison with several months ago, before she decided he just wasn’t worth the effort.
“So, Jimmy, what do we have?” Senior detective inspector Sonia Levy pulled out a small spiral backed notebook from her pocket and waited.
“Two stiffs ma’am, one male, bald, found in neighbours house naked in bathtub red wine”
“Got that Jimmy.”
“The second female, also bald, also neighbour’s bathtub, this time white wine.”
“Got the other one too. How far have we got? When were they last seen? Do we have a list of all known contacts? What make of wine?”
“Ma’am?”
“Taste it yourself if you have to Jimmy.” That’s if you can tell the difference between merlot and chardonnay, she added silently to herself. She tossed the cold coffee in the bin.
“I’ll get forensics onto it ma’am.”
“You will.”
It was a glorious morning. Far too early to be up working of course. The early sun glanced over the tops of seven identical white brick bungalows lining the outside of a cul-de-sac. Just like every other whitewashed cul-de-sac sac in this white washed suburb. The two houses in question were side by side at the top of the curve. Numbers 4 and 5. Blue and white crime tape flickered in the breeze, already coming undone.
Senior PC Stubs didn’t seem too pleased to see her in charge. No matter, she wasn’t too thrilled to be working with him. She hadn’t been too thrilled to sleep with him either, but that was all behind her now.
“This way” he grunted, as they climbed the stairs of number 5.
Spotless white carpet. No marks on the walls.
“Crime scene undisturbed?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not” he replied. “He was found by the cleaner, who felt obliged to drag the body out of the bathtub and try to revive it.”
“Bugger” she said.
“Exactly” he replied.
“Where’s this trainee life saver now?”
“Down at the station. Doesn’t speak English ma’am. we’re still trying to figure out what he does speak”
“I see.”
The bathroom was tiny. the bathtub one of those older style clawed tubs, white enamel now stained with red wine. The body lay in a puddle of wine on the white tiles. He was young, mid twenties maybe. He was bald, but there was a dark shadow of early re-growth on his head. he seemed fit. And attractive. Shame really.
“Any ID?” she asked the PC.
“Nope.”
“What? No wallet. License. Credit card. ”
“Not on him Ma’am. We’ve searched his house next door. So far nothing.”
“No mail?”
“No Ma’am, nothing”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. No mail. No nothing. Every stick of furniture has been removed.”
“Or it was never there. Neighbours?”
“Not much help. He only moved in a week ago. Hasn’t talked to anyone yet. No-one ever noticed him enter or leave the house.”
As she walked back down the stairs, it occurred to her that the house seemed far too clean, and empty.
“Constable, you neglected to mention that all the furniture was missing from here also.”
“You didn’t ask ma’am.”
PC Stubbs smiled at her, almost a challenge. Sonia smiled back, never one to turn down a challenge.
Number 4 at least was undisturbed. A female body lay submerged face down in the bathtub, which appeared to be full of straw coloured liquid. White wine, so Jimmy had said. She too, was bald. No hair shadow to be seen, but she might have been fair, to judge by the pale colour of her skin. It was impossible to pick her age. Jimmy passed her a pair of bright green disposable gloves. Gently she grasped the head ion either side of the skull, and turned the body over.
The wine had soaked into her features, and leveled them out.
by Karen Goldrick
“But you were having an affair with the deceased, weren't you Mr Brown?”
Mr Brown somehow contrived to look sheepish and defiant at the same time. He took the constable’s elbow and steered him to face away from the scene.
“Well, constable, it may be common knowledge within the village, but it isn’t quite common knowledge with my wife yet, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s all very well sir, but it may be knowledge that’s rather more common by the time this investigation’s through sir. I suggest you get your affairs in order. There’s your wife over there I believe. Ahh, inspector.” he said, and turned to face a youthful man who had just arrived and was now bending over the body. “Inspector Boondock, isn’t it?”
Boondock lifted his eyes from the corpse but didn’t rise. “That’s right constable. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to fill me in on the details of the case as they stand.”
“Certainly sir.” Constable McFarlane detached himself from Mr Brown and walked over to the Inspector. A little crowd had gathered by now. It may have been only three hours after dawn but people rose early in these small Lincolnshire villages, and it was the main square after all. “Ferguson, get some barriers set up and these people back behind them will you?”
McFarlane took out a little notebook. “Call came in just after dawn sir, and the duty officer called me right away. Still haven’t identified who rang it in. As you can see, we have a young Caucasian female, late 20s, recently deceased, appears to have hung herself from the cenotaph sir, though the rope appears to have broke. She’s been identified as a Mrs Jane Miller, of 230 Coldcroft Lane. Mr Miller appears to be away on a business trip, according to her neighbour over there.”
Boondock was still on his haunches by the corpse. He looked up to the bronze horseman whose sword reached over his head about ten feet above, then down at the end of the rope he was fondling absentmindedly. He stood and peered at the bronze plaque that adorned the base of the statue. “Colonel Randolph Miller, 37th Light Horse, 1876. Climb every mountain, ford every stream. Hmmm. Rather public place for a suicide, don’t you think ... McFarlane, isn’t it?”
“Yes sir, Constable McFarlane sir. If you don’t mind me asking sir, where’s Inspector Lockinby? He usually comes in from town for the bigger cases.”
“Lockinby’s left for the coast McFarlane. Health reasons. I just came in from London yesterday. I must admit I was expecting things to be a bit quieter on my first day.” He rose, brushing imaginary dirt from his trousers. He was rather smartly dressed. “This your usual Sunday, is it.”
“Not by a long chalk sir. Excuse me ... Ferguson, get that fellow back will you!”
A young, athletic fellow wearing a T-shirt saying “Today’s a low gravity day” sidestepped Ferguson with ease and walked swiftly up to the group. “Look, I know her, I know her!” he cried.
“It’s alright Ferguson,” said McFarlane, “now sir, would you be so good as to identify yourself?”
The man looked down at the corpse with an shocked expression. It was a minute before he answered, while the other men stood and waited silently.
“Frame. Jonathon Frame. My friends call me ‘Leggy’.”
“Well Mr Frame,” said Inspector Boondock, stepping over the corpse in a fashion that seemed rather disrespectful to McFarlane. “Can you tell us your relationship to the deceased?”
“Well, none, really,” said Frame, still looking at the body. “I’ve been staying in the Green Gables B&B on Stamford Street. I’m on a climbing holiday, you see. Today I planned to climb the Walls, some Grade Twenty-Twos about three miles west of the village. I met Jane last night in the Hart & Sickle. We had a few drinks together. I was telling her about climbing, you know, showing her the ropes as it were-” he offered a sickly half-smile- “we got along well, umm ...” he trailed off.
McFarlane looked around to check on the whereabouts of Mr Brown. He was standing outside the police barrier, looking towards them with a quizzical expression on his face while he wife stood beside him, talking. Well out of earshot, he judged.
“Did you have ... errr ... relations with the deceased, Mr Frame?”
Frame looked guilty. “Ummm, well, that is to say ... yes. But she got up and left afterwards,” he added hastily.
Boondock bent over and lifted the end of the rope. “Recognise this rope Leggy?” he asked.
Frame looked horrified. “Oh God,” he said, “she used one of my ropes.”
Perfectly timed, the sound of an siren split the crisp morning air, and an ambulance drove up. “Perhaps we’d best continue this discussion at your station, Constable McFarlane?” said Boondock, dropping the rope. “Oh, and bring that fellow you over there you just checked on, will you? And his wife.”
by Peter Gifford
(Scenario from Peter Miller) Christmas. In a pine forest. It’s snowing. The body of Quentin McNulty, the world’s foremost expert on snow domes, is found dressed in a Santa costume. He has been bashed to death with a snow dome that depicts a similar scene....
Rafe Shadow gazed in disgust at the snow scene before him. The apartment was high up, looking out over the park, and the white powder dusted over nearly every surface and carpet echoed the winter wonderland below.
Shadow’s team moved carefully amongst the expensive furnishings, faces masked and static-free plastic covers on their boots, as they carefully vacuumed up every speck of heroin.
Shadow pushed at a piece of glass with his toe, then pulled it back hastily at the glare from Peterson.
“What’s all the glass?” he asked. “Ampoules? Jars?”
Peterson shook his head and mimed a semicircle with his hands, then jiggled his whole body in a kind of St Vitus Dance.
Shadow shook his head and wondered what the hell Peterson was trying to say this time. He looked up at Conroy for help, but his sergeant was grinning away, arms folded and prepared to enjoy the show.
Peterson gave Shadow an even crankier stare than usual and this time used his hands to draw a little curved shelter over his head, jiggling even more crazily.
Shadow looked on helplessly, not even able to hazard a guess, till Conroy put him out of his misery.
“Snowdomes, Boss,” he said, indicating the whole room. “The place is covered in smashed snowdomes.”
Shadow took an amazed guess. “Snowdomes filled with heroin?”
Peterson nodded and continued to work at his painstaking vacuuming, gradually revealing the tiny plastic scenes that littered the floor.
Hilltop castles jostled pine trees and reindeer. Miniature knights on horseback chased dragons and fish across the carpet and Statues of Liberty lay on their sides next to little Towers of Pisa, finally collapsed.
Shadow walked carefully through the huge room. “There must be hundreds of them. Are there any intact?”
Peterson shook his head.
“Not so far,” said Conroy.
“Where’s the cleaner?” said Shadow and Peterson gestured at a swing door off to the left.
Shadow tried to crunch as little glass as possible as he pushed open the door to the kitchen. The floor was mercifully bare and a young woman sat, white faced, at the small breakfast bar.
“Lisa?” he asked, and she nodded, wide eyed.
Shadow perched on a stool and did his best fatherly look. “What time did you come in this morning?”
“8 am,” she said, “just as usual.”
“Was Mr McNulty here?”
“No, and he usually is, but there was no answer so I got the key from Mr Dogue and when I came in I saw that all Mr McNulty’s collection was smashed and I couldn’t find him anywhere and it wasn’t like this when I left on Sunday, and Mr McNulty was here then so he knows I didn’t leave the door unlocked.” She sat back, red in the face, as Shadow held up his hand to calm her.
“So you don't have your own key?”
“No sir.”
“And who’s Mr Dogue? The next door neighbor?”
“No sir, he’s the caretaker, he’s downstairs in Flat 2.”
“And you rang us straight away.”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you still have the key?”
“Yes sir, here it is,” and she handed it to Shadow.
“Ok, now Lisa, there’s a policewoman outside in the hallway, Constable Marron, and she’s going to take all your details and write down what you just told me. Then you can go home, but make sure we can reach you easily to talk to you again.”
“But I’ve got another job to go to now.”
“That’s fine, no problems, just tell Constable Marron where that is too. OK?”
“OK.”
“Good girl, then off you go.”
She left the room quickly and Shadow glanced around the kitchen. All the appliances looked very expensive to him, and opening the fridge he saw French champagne nestled on the bottom shelf.
There was no sign of any disturbance, as apparently there wasn’t in any room except the lounge, but he supposed they'd have to dust and fingerprint the whole place anyway.
As to the priceless contents of their vacuum bags, he had no idea. He’d never had any experience with hard drugs, and could only hope that some kind of narcotics expert was being sent down from headquarters.
And as for the missing Quentin McNulty, finding him was going to be his first priority.
He went back into the main room where Peterson and Conroy were now picking through all the glass.
“Cleaner said this was his collection. Looks like a bloody big one.”
Peterson drew his arms in a big complete circle.
“Biggest?” asked Shadow.
Peterson stretched his arms even wider and Shadow pursed his lips.“So someone smashes the world’s largest snow dome collection—which I didn’t even know was in this town! How long has McNulty been here?”
Peterson held up one finger and Conroy chimed in. “Next door neighbor said he moved in only one month ago.”TO BE CONTINUED
by Pil Lee
The Knitting Circle
Pavel arrived early, as he always did. His walk to work was his daily meditation, the time when his best work was done. That one hour accounted for more productive time than the next eight behind his desk.
This morning, an entire abstract for quantum fluctuation in massively parallel computing grids had aligned itself neatly in his mind. This morning, he thought, counted for a month’s worth of work behind a desk.
The frost on the university outlined the paths in sharp white lines. The water from sprinkler left on overnight had frozen into a pale flat icicle that looked, he thought in another part of his mind that dealt with the here and now, vaguely like a human limb.
He took out his keys, cold from his bag, and opened the heavy wooden door of the Great Hall. Not really his job, he could have gone straight up the stone steps to his room, but eventually one of the students would have to come and get the keys to do it anyway, so he did it out of politeness more than anything else.
It wasn’t like there wass anything to steal in there, after all.
He swung the door open and flicked on the lights. Cold.
If particles escaped from the grid according to the new calculations made by his undergraduate, Nguyen, then it was possible that quantum computation was withing the grasp of the faculty. A real achievement for the university. A very special achievement for him.
He pulled the door closed again.
And then swung it open. Everything snapped into cold hard fast reality. It was partially the smell. Not a bad smell. A harsh metallic, maybe even slightly medical smell.
And it was partially the strange, uncomfortable-looking dark woolly shape lying spreadeagled on the marble floor.
Pavel took one cautious step forward.
Oh yes. That was a dead body alright. Dead, dead, dead.
The abstraction part of his brain cycled up again. Funny how quickly he realised what he was seeing, he thought. No double-take, no ‘maybe this is a bundle of rags’. There was a body lying in the middle of the Hall.
He walked over to it.
No blood. A woman’s head. A bulky woollen coat.
Pavel’s mind was made to gather facts. It was habitual.
More facts.
Oversized woollen trousers. One foot wearing a man’s shoe. One foot wearing a woman’s shoe.
One hand partially open, loosely clutching some kind of painted wooden doll. Bright red nail polish. A man’s hand.
The other hand, twisted at a completely unnatural angle and tangled in a long piece of rope.
Pavel looked up. It was an odd thing to do, but something made the body look like it had fallen from some height. He could see immediately that that was unlikely.
----
Detective Jane Francis pushed a pencil into the sleeve of the coat. The photographer fired off another shot.
“And it was exactly like this?” she asked.
“I didn’t touch anything,” Pavel said. “I came straight out and called emergency. I shut the door and waited for the police to come. No-one else has been in.”
“One hand is a woman’s hand, and the other is a man’s,” he said.
“Yes. And the rope is made of hair.” She lifted it a little with the pencil to get a closer look at the female hand.
Pavel could see students curiously milling outside the door, beyond the police tape. It was probably a little dark in here to see anything too clearly, but the police were setting up lights, so he went to the doorway and spoke to one of the plainclothes cops.
“Maybe you’d better make your cordon a bit wider,” he suggested. “The students don’t really need to come inside the Quadrangle. They can all get to classes via the Eastern stairway, if you close the refectory door.”
The photographer fired off another flash as the forensic pathologist arrived.
----
Francis came to see him later in his room.
“I’ll need to get a complete timeframe for this morning,” she said.
“I understand. It’s not just one person, is it?”
“No.” She looked out the window at bare branches against the grey sky.
“It’s five different people.”
He looked at her, a detched part of his mind thinking that she was very self-assured. It was attractive. “All arranged in the clothing to look like one body.” he said.
“Not exactly just arranged. Sewn together. Well, technically, not sewn either. Knitted. The body parts have all been joined together with knitted human hair.”
“Ah,” said Pavel.
“You don?t seem surprised.”
“Oh, no, I am surprised,” he said, “It’s very odd. I was just thinking about it. And the woollen coat? And the trousers?”
“Yes,” she said. “Knitted from the same hair.”
“Ah,” he said, his mind racing ahead. “Hair from five different people.”
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly so.”
by Peter Miller