Murder Mystery 1

So I submitted this a while ago. But it was before I had a real good grasp of my characters and how I wanted things to go. I have a teeny bit of a better idea now... so we'll see how it goes.

As for my intense dream... I'm bored of it. I have to get it to flow better or it'll fall flat. So I'm working on this one for my month of NOVEMBER!!! Even if it is October right now technically. It's more of a short story right now anyway. Very little to no details right now. I'm just getting the feel down right now.

Tell me what you think, and enjoy.


Murder Mystery Chapter 1

He was trembling with anticipation. Calm down, he told himself sternly, he couldn’t botch this. It had to go perfectly. It had been disconcertingly easy to learn her schedule. Routine was dangerous; it was deceiving. It made people miss things, made them think they were safe. He was out in the open, and she didn’t even notice. Stepping forward quickly --too quickly-- he made his presence known.

She had pulled out her keys and begun to unlock her door, now she turned and screamed frightened by his sudden appearance, and then laughed at her own fear, “Owen, it’s you. What are you doing here?” She stepped closer.

Oh, how long he had waited for this and now his prey was walking to him. He took a deep breath, taking in the moment. Clenching and unclenching his right hand around the knife, he suppressed the laughter welling up inside him, but he couldn’t stop the maniacal grin. It was going to end here, he had let her live long enough.

Natalie hesitated, and noticed that the man in front of her was heavily clothed in black, hands gloved, his breathing was fast and and his eyes... she froze in fear.

Losing both his patience and hold on his self control, he struck and with all his might, unable to hold back a cry of fierce anger.

Natalie didn’t have a chance to scream.

~~~

Less than an hour later a young woman in her early twenties, stepped up to the door and rang the doorbell. In the cold she shifted from foot to foot and impatiently pulled out her cell phone, checking the time.

Nothing.
She knocked and eventually rang the bell again.
Again, nothing.

Practically hopping up and down to keep out the cold she dialed in a number and to her surprise heard the ring come from a nearby alley. She followed the sound, until she found the body.

“Oh, no.” Horror filled the young woman as she bent, examining the body. There was little left to examine. Her hands moved expertly, clearly trained. Blood was everywhere. She gasped unable to think, and walked away to clear her head of the strong scent of iron and the nausea that threatened to overcome her. Once she had taken several deep breaths she moved back to the scene. Trying to ignore the blood she looked for the cause of death, a second glance at the corpse told her that the woman had literally drowned in her own blood. It has been slow. A slash at the throat had caused the trachea and both arteries to open, it was the first cut in the sequence of many. She could see the claw marks at the throat and the dirt and skin under her nails. The woman had scratched at her throat desperately trying to get air when the only thing filling her lungs was blood.

“This is horrible.” Unable to believe what her eyes interpreted. She was shaking uncontrollably now, she sat back against the wall and pulled her legs in. A small plop, brought the realization that she was crying. Wiping furiously at her tears she steeled herself to continue what she had started.

The rest of the body had been mutilated, cut again and again, bruised and crushed in some places. The body was still warm and blood was still pooling about her, so she had died recently. Very recently. A chill of dread filled her and she quickly cast around for the murderer, he probably wasn't far away...

“Why did it have to be so slow, so... ?” She swallowed and left the sentence hanging, flinching away from the thoughts that it had formed. Struggling to keep her trembling body and tears under control, she gently probed the body. She noticed a tattoo on the dead woman’s shoulder and bent to examine it. The tattoo was in the shape of a R with a scorpion twisted around it. Thorns and black greenery branched away from it. At the sight of it, she sucked in a breath through her teeth, making the air hiss as it passed the barrier.

The young woman stood and took a shuddering breath. She was about to pull out her cell phone when she noticed that her hands had inevitably been covered in blood from the proximity to the body. They shook slightly but she refused to break down again. She couldn’t, not now. Pulling out her phone, she dialed, she’d have to wash the blood off later. She glanced at the body and turned her back on it for a moment, trying to detach herself from it. Empathy may be considered a good characteristic, but at that moment she didn’t want to live through death.

A female voice pulled her from her thoughts. “This is 911, what is your emergency?”

The young woman let out a long breath, out of fear or exasperation, it was hard to tell. Carefully and as explicitly as she could, she explained the situation and waited for the police.

Sweaty Hands

Did you know that piano players, well the professionals or people aspiring to be professional, play an average of four hours a day? Crazy right? When they play the piano that much (sometimes even more when they are accompanying for plays or shows) the oil on their hands rubs off onto the keys.

You are NEVER supposed to clean a pianos keys though, the players HATE clean keys. They say it feels wrong and some refuse to play on clean keys. I work in the HFAC right? so I'm the one who ends up moving pianos, dusting them etc... and once someone cleaned the keys! Idiot! and the piano guy, Keith, had to rub wax on the keys so they felt... oily and "right" according to the performer. I thought it was pretty weird, Keith agreed with me.

Plus, without all that oil on the players hands makes their fingers dry and makes 'em crack easily. My choir teacher was playing for a show and she had to use super glue to keep her fingers together so they would bleed all over the piano. She said it didn't hurt but... I don't really believe her. Then after she finished the play. She kept rubbing her hands against her pants. She said they felt REALLY oily after being without oil for like a month.

What does this have to do with anything? Well, first off, I thought it was interesting. Second, that's kind of how I feel right now. My hands feel sooooo... bleh... and it keeps hindering my writing.

Anyway here's another piece... i don't know how this story is going to end up.... There are too many directions it could go. Please comment.

Chapter 1... continued

“We call him the Tattoo Killer,” Troy raised an eyebrow and Ellison shrugged, “not original or fancy but it describes this guy well enough. In the past three years he has killed over twenty men and women all with the same tattoo with small variations. He leaves minimal evidence behind; his M. O. changes randomly and he kills in random areas, impossible to track or predict.” He shook his head in frustration. “And the only connection we can find between the victims are the tattoos.”

Tawnia nodded approvingly. “You’ve been investigating it?” It was more of a statement than a question.

He nodded once, “On my own time, of course.” He added for the sake of his superior.

“Of course.” Troy agreed reassuringly, not really believing his partner. In truth the hard detective didn’t mind and Ellison’s hard work was paying off. Troy rounded on Tawnia, “Alright, Natalie Banks could’ve been killed by this guy. Question is why?” he asked Tawnia.

Troy and Ellison waited expectantly as Tawnia gathered her thoughts. “Natalie Banks was involved in what you might call… a gang or a cult, an organization that tattooed its members with a symbol so they would all recognize each other—”

“You’re saying this is a just gang fight?” Troy asked incredibly.

She shook her head. “No, it’s much bigger than that. These people are untouchable, influential and very powerful and the people hunting them down are the same way. It’s an underground war.”

The older detective shook his head in disappointment. “This sounds like conspiracy theory.” He muttered under his breath.

Tawnia’s eyes hardened and she shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I know.”

“And how do you know all of this, Miss Henderson? Are you apart of one of these… battling organizations?” His last words were dripping with sarcasm. “The more I hear the more I think that you have something to do with all of this. You were here within minutes of the murder, you just happen to know the significance of the tattoo, how the victim died, and you conveniently are too weak to have pulled it off. I’m sorry, Miss Henderson, but I just have a hard time believing it all.” He stood up straight and ended politely. “Thank you, Miss Henderson, if you remember anything else, perhaps of some use, please give us a call.” He handed her a card and turned on his heel.

Ellison gazed after his partner; Troy was headed back to the scene, talking to some of the officers, but he lingered, delayed by conflicting emotions. Tawnia held the small white business card, looking dejected and defeated.

“You okay?” Ellison asked. “I know he can be harsh. He’s just… old.”

Tawnia flashed him a smile, appreciating his concern. “Nah, he’s just doing his job. He’s a good detective I didn’t really think he would believe me. It’s just… frustrating.”

“Frustrating that he doesn’t believe you? Or that you have critical information on who’s behind it and you can’t do anything about it?”

She looked up at Ellison, “Both, they are interrelated.” Sighing she cupped her chin in her hand and watched Detective Troy examine the scene.

“How do you know?”

When she returned her gaze to the young detective she sat up slightly. His eyes were determined, almost angry. She answered cautiously, watching his eyes. “You could say I’m nosy. I was intrigued by a co-worker years back. I guess he was more of a partner.” She shook her head remembering, pursing her lips in thought. “He was elusive, dodging my questions about his tattoo. He wasn’t a liar, and I could tell he didn’t want to lie to me. It made me angry that there was someone or something in his past that forced him to.” She fell silent gazing out into space. “He was a good man, a good man, who saved a lot of lives. He shouldn’t have had to die.”

“I was angry, understandably. It’s hard when you are surrounded by death and you can’t do anything about it. So… I did everything in my power to find his killer. I did some… not… so… legal things but...” she shrugged, tears starting to form. She bit her lip and fiercely wiped at her betraying tear ducts. “I found out and I found out I couldn’t do anything about it. I tried going to the police with what I knew, but they wouldn’t believe it. I had gotten my information illegally and it couldn’t be used in court. There was absolutely nothing I could do. So I went back to work and waited.” She paused. “I thought this was my chance.”

She looked up at the tall Detective. He was deep in thought, eyebrows furrowed. “Who do you think did it, Detective?”

Jerked from his thoughts, his eyes rose to meet hers and he grinned, running a hand through his wavy hair. “Well, that’s the question isn’t it? I mean the door was still locked, keys found next to her, and nothing has been touched on the inside, her money is still in her purse and this is considered a safe neighborhood. She didn't resist, there are no bruises on her arms or neck to suggest she fought. It was a frontal attack; and the only thing that touched her neck was the knife. She saw the man's face. She knew him. She trusted him."

Tawnia was tempted to whistle in awe. “How long have you been a detective?”

Proudly he grinned one-sidedly. “A year, I advanced quickly.”

“Obviously.” She considered what he had said. “So we’re looking for a strong man, who recently became acquainted with Miss Banks.”

“Why recently acquainted? Couldn’t he have known her for a long time?”

Tawnia shook her head. “No. Think about the other twenty people who died. If he had killed all of them he’d have roughly…” she paused, brow furrowed. “Fifty-four days for each murder and that’s if you leave out the time it takes to find these people. Two months isn’t a lot of time to get to know someone under the radar. He’d have wanted to remain invisible so he wouldn’t have met her friends or work partners, who could identify him.”

Ellison opened his mouth to argue when a harsh voice muttered, "Ellison, find out who Miss Banks knew, who her friends were, associates and such." Ellison looked over apologetically at Tawnia, nodded and left.

Troy glared at Tawnia. She, in turn, innocently looked up at him. “Anything I can help you with Detective?”

"No, you’ve helped enough, Miss Henderson. I’ll stay in touch.”

I Lied!

Okay I lied, I have another part of the story for you. I'm liking how it's developing but... well... give me some feedback!

Chapter 1 (Untitled)

To put it in simple mathematical terms: Police = trouble. It doesn’t matter where you are or what situation you are in, if you can, avoid the police.

Even worse than police? Detectives.

These police brought with them two detectives, it had taken them half an hour to arrive. The more experienced was called Detective Troy; he was in his early thirties, about 6'1" and had dark eyes and cropped hair. His face was lined and seemed to have a permanent scowl; he didn't smile much when he was working. His companion, and assistant, was maybe 25 or 27, built but lean. He was taller than his superior by a two or three inches but his manner was deferring. His dark eyes were bright and clear, square jaw firm. This man's name was Detective Ellison; he smiled as he got out of the car and seemed to stroll over to the police tape. Troy was already speaking with the police officer in charge.

The woman who had been killed had been a small business owner, fresh out of college. Her business had rapidly expanded and she had done well, gotten her own small house and lived in a good and safe neighborhood. Her name was Natalie Banks, no criminal record, no jail time, only a few parking and speeding tickets.
"Who found her?" Troy was still grilling the officer trying to piece everything together.
"That woman over there," he pointed to a young woman sitting on the steps that led to the door. She had a blanket and was slumped over, elbows on knees, with an indiscernible expression. "Her name's Tawnia Henderson. She—"
"Thank you." Troy left the officer and moved toward the stairs. "Miss Henderson, might I ask you a few questions?" Tawnia looked up briefly and nodded. "Tell me what happened, what you were doing here and if you have any connections with Miss Banks." He watched her carefully as she answered looking for the tale-tell signs of a liar or suspect.

With her chin resting in one hand, she replied, "I came to discuss a job offer she had for me. I had never actually seen her face until tonight. I came to her house at about..." She glanced at her phone, "20 to 10. I rang the doorbell, knocked,” she waved a hand dismissively, “no one answered. We had made an appointment so I called her cell phone, thinking I had been early or she was held up somewhere. I heard a phone ring in the alley, so I went to investigate. I found her, called 911, and here you both are." Troy had been joined by Ellison.

Troy didn’t turn to address his partner and continued his inquisition. "You had no other affiliation with Miss Banks?"

Tawnia said very clearly, "No." Troy could tell she was trying to be polite but the stress was wearing at her. "I can, however, tell you why she died and how. I don't know who but I can give you a fairly good description of the kind of person you should be looking for." She said this statement with such clarity and confidence that Troy felt sure she believed she had discovered the truth. He sighed inwardly. People believed that after watching a few Sherlock Holmes videos they could solve anything.

He studied Miss Henderson again. She was average height, taller than she was shorter, maybe 5'7", he couldn't be sure with her sitting. Her hair was dark brown and long tied back simply. She wasn't remarkably beautiful but there was something about the way she held herself. He tried to pin point what it was, but couldn't. She had complete confidence in herself, and her eyes... They say eyes are windows to the soul. He suppressed a shudder.

For a moment he thought maybe just maybe she was telling the truth, but it was more likely that she was connected to the murder herself.

She was still waiting for his response to her declaration. "Miss Henderson, are you feeling alright? You have just seen a murdered victim and you don't seem to think much of it." He raised his eyebrows at her expectantly. At first she had seemed slightly confused, but she was quick and intelligent, he saw that, and she understood what he was implying.

She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position against the hard ground and sat up against the wall. Almost sighing she answered, "Detective, I'm studying to be a surgeon and have been researching unexplained deaths from the past century. Forgive me if I'm a little insensitive. I can however tell you that this woman's throat was cut with real force. The knife cut through her trachea and both of the arteries on either side. For a wound that deep it would have to have been a young man who is strong and practiced at murder."

Tawnia didn't wait for a reaction or interruption. "Miss Banks also had a tattoo on her shoulder." She rubbed her own shoulder.

Ellison stiffened.

Both Tawnia’s and Troy’s eyes flickered to him, digesting his reaction.

“Ellison?” Troy prompted.

Ellison nodded once and launched into an explanation.

Chapter uno...

Okay,

I work at the HFAC (Harrison Fine Arts Center) down at BYU. Which is actually a really sweet set up. I mean... I get to watch shows for free, even work some of them, I know the building like the back of my hand (trust me, it comes in handy, ESPECIALLY if you adore singing like me.)

Sadly, this weeks I'm going to be swamped by a show that I'm working, Cinderella. It's a ballet. It's long... and the prince is the only one in awkward tights. You'd think that the costume designer would have thought it through... I mean ... it's BYU, no one wants to see that kind of thing and isn't the Prince supposed to be drop dead gorgeous? It's kind of hard to tell when you're so busy NOT looking at the guy. I have to say though, I was impressed with his self confidence. He pranced around just like everyone else.

I have a confession to make.

I have a story practically complete... and I hate it. I mean I went through all the work of writing the darn thing and then when I get to the end I'm... rather angry. My good guys suck. I find really interesting good guys hard to write. No one in their right mind just does what super heroes do for fun. Think... Hancock. When I write a good guy they're fake. They don't make sense and are out of character. I love my bad guy though and that's the problem. So.... for the next few weeks. I'm going to throw some stuff at you. I want comments. I want plot ideas. (that's actually where I struggle most.) I want you to read it and think... "now how would I make this better?" Okay?

Awesome, hope you guys enjoy my stuff. (By the way... I FAIL at grammar. Please don't judge.)

Chapter 1 (Untitled)

The movements were smooth and well-practiced. With complete ease he mutely followed his victim, shoes noiseless on the concrete sidewalk. It had been easy to learn her schedule. Routine was dangerous; it was deceiving. It made people miss things, made them think they were safe. His target seemed to think that she was impervious to everything. He was out in the open, and she didn’t even notice. Sloppy… and rather depressing.

She pulled out her keys and began to unlock her door; he pulled out his knife and ever so carefully stood behind her.

"Natalie" he said very quietly she jumped and dropped her keys whirling around.

"James!" she laughed at her fright, and bent to pick up her keys, hand going to her pounding heart. She hadn't seen the knife yet. "What are you doing here?"

Too easy, they were always so trusting. James gave her no time to react. Swiftly he slit her throat before she could scream. Blood filled her lungs and clogged her throat making any sound impossible. Before she could collapse he was behind her and carrying her into a nearby alley. Alleys were so convenient, out of the way and in the dark.

Stashing her behind a dumpster, he went back and picked up the keys she had dropped for the second time. His dark eyes scanned the doorway and front step looking for any sign of blood.

Good, there wasn't any blood until you were close to the dumpster. A clean kill. He brought the keys back to her and laid them gently next to her.

She was still struggling to breathe, clawing at her own throat.

He watched her for a moment, feeling completely empty as she flailed her arms at him. Gurgling sounds escaped from her as she inadvertently sucked air through the gash in her throat. Her eyes were wide and crazed desperate to reject the blood in her lungs and fill them with air instead. A pang of pity shot through him and he considered finishing it quickly, stroking his knife thoughtfully.

By the time he had come to a decision, however, she had taken her last shuddering attempt at a breath. Another one gone. Frowning as his thoughts turned inward, he checked the scene twice making sure there was no sign of his appearance. Finally satisfied, he walked away.

Less than an hour later a young woman in her early twenties, stepped up to the door and rang the doorbell. In the cold she shifted from foot to foot and impatiently pulled out her cell phone, checking he time.

Nothing.

She knocked and eventually rang the bell again.

Again, nothing.

Practically hopping up and down to keep out the cold she dialed in a number and to her surprise heard the ring come from a nearby alley. She followed the sound, until she found the body.

Only in moments of extremities do we learn the truth about ourselves. Questions that can't really be answered until you are actually in the situation. Would I kill another person to save myself? Would I freeze up or fight desperately if attacked? and if I found a body... would I go into shock or calmly get help?

The young woman gasped and bent, examining the body, checking for life signs. Her hands moved expertly, clearly trained. A glance at the corpse told her that the woman had literally drowned in her own blood. It has been slow. She could see the claw marks at the throat and the dirt and skin under her nails. The body was still warm and blood was still pooling about her, so she had died recently. Very recently.

A chill of dread filled her and she quickly cast around for the murderer, he probably wasn't far away. She shivered in horror as she imagined the course of events.

The young woman stood and dialed, turning her back on the corpse for a moment, trying to detach herself from it. Empathy may be considered a good characteristic, but at that moment she didn’t want to live through death.

A female voice pulled her from her thoughts. “This is 911, what is your emergency?”

The young woman let out a long breath, out of fear or exasperation, it was hard to tell. Carefully and as explicitly as she could, she explained the situation and waited for the police.