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“Blame me” he coughed, “They always do”
A greying man stood from behind his polished wood desk and strode towards the policeman who held his notepad amateurishly and quickly trying to jot down the responses to the accusations. He’d have to document them in evidence later. If a policeman doesn’t finish writing up their reports in the allotted hours then they have to make for it in their own time. Words of advice given to the rookie on his first day; he kept his notes brief – they could be padded out with lies later.
“But tell me,” the old man’s voice cut through the silence, “what solid evidence do you have to pin me down as the culprit?”
The rookie gulped. In training they were taught to deal with violent outbursts by being calm themselves, and politely asking the person to ‘calm down, sir’ three times. If the request is ignored violence can be implemented to any degree deemed suitable. His fingers flirted with the baton strapped to his belt. You had to be a patrol cop for one year before you were given a pistol, 3 years before you got a squad car.
“What do you suppose I used to kill him?” asked the older man in an agitated tone.
“The, um, inquest shows the victim was stabbed through the throat with a sharp wooden object. We know it was wooden because we found splinters embedded in his tissue.”
The rookie jumped slightly as his radio crackled “Jones, come in – over”
He gripped the grey button and pushed it in to speak. “Jones here, um, over”
“Where are you, Jones?” said the voice of the seasoned sheriff, “over”.
“I’m interviewing a suspect, Mr Spencer, about the Graham murder. Over”
“Copy that, Jones. Over and out”
The rookie hooked his receiver back onto his chest pocket and glanced up at the greying man.
“So I’m a suspect, am I?” he numbly added.
A deafening silence hung in the air.
“Stupid amateur, we have a deal!” screeched the greying man, charging towards the rookie. Jones stood up and fell backwards over his chair as the older man lunged at him. Pinned to the floor by his shoulders, the rookie screamed and struggled. The old man, armed with a pencil from his office desk, slammed his fist down with a hollow thud into the rookie’s trachea. His eyes bulged, the whites of his eyes garishly large and his pupils dilated. His mouth hung open, desperately trying in vain to breathe.
The old man pulled the pencil from the rookie’s throat and wiped it off on his crimson tie before depositing it back on his polished wooden desk.
The rookie grasped at his throat, blood spilling through his fingers, spilling his life away.
The receiver again crackled,
“Jones, come in, over.”
“Jones?”
“We’ve found our man for the Graham murder, you can leave Mr Spencer’s place and report back here.”
“Jones?”
“Jones, come in”
“Over”
A greying man stood from behind his polished wood desk and strode towards the policeman who held his notepad amateurishly and quickly trying to jot down the responses to the accusations. He’d have to document them in evidence later. If a policeman doesn’t finish writing up their reports in the allotted hours then they have to make for it in their own time. Words of advice given to the rookie on his first day; he kept his notes brief – they could be padded out with lies later.
“But tell me,” the old man’s voice cut through the silence, “what solid evidence do you have to pin me down as the culprit?”
The rookie gulped. In training they were taught to deal with violent outbursts by being calm themselves, and politely asking the person to ‘calm down, sir’ three times. If the request is ignored violence can be implemented to any degree deemed suitable. His fingers flirted with the baton strapped to his belt. You had to be a patrol cop for one year before you were given a pistol, 3 years before you got a squad car.
“What do you suppose I used to kill him?” asked the older man in an agitated tone.
“The, um, inquest shows the victim was stabbed through the throat with a sharp wooden object. We know it was wooden because we found splinters embedded in his tissue.”
The rookie jumped slightly as his radio crackled “Jones, come in – over”
He gripped the grey button and pushed it in to speak. “Jones here, um, over”
“Where are you, Jones?” said the voice of the seasoned sheriff, “over”.
“I’m interviewing a suspect, Mr Spencer, about the Graham murder. Over”
“Copy that, Jones. Over and out”
The rookie hooked his receiver back onto his chest pocket and glanced up at the greying man.
“So I’m a suspect, am I?” he numbly added.
A deafening silence hung in the air.
“Stupid amateur, we have a deal!” screeched the greying man, charging towards the rookie. Jones stood up and fell backwards over his chair as the older man lunged at him. Pinned to the floor by his shoulders, the rookie screamed and struggled. The old man, armed with a pencil from his office desk, slammed his fist down with a hollow thud into the rookie’s trachea. His eyes bulged, the whites of his eyes garishly large and his pupils dilated. His mouth hung open, desperately trying in vain to breathe.
The old man pulled the pencil from the rookie’s throat and wiped it off on his crimson tie before depositing it back on his polished wooden desk.
The rookie grasped at his throat, blood spilling through his fingers, spilling his life away.
The receiver again crackled,
“Jones, come in, over.”
“Jones?”
“We’ve found our man for the Graham murder, you can leave Mr Spencer’s place and report back here.”
“Jones?”
“Jones, come in”
“Over”
Didnt like the gore. and the holw story of some guy getting killed. the evidence didnt make sense. how was HE linked. anyone could have had a pencil..
Without the description it'd just be dialogue.
and not good am I with words.
and not good am I with words.
Good, but not your best. It was well written but at times contained a little too much unnecessary description, which is nice in small doses, but drags the piece slightly.
Although I did enjoy the way you built an obvious awkwardness into the rookie policeman, very good.
Although I did enjoy the way you built an obvious awkwardness into the rookie policeman, very good.
Thanks!
Hmmm ... yeah
“Blame me” he coughed, “They always do”
A greying man stood from behind his polished wood desk and strode towards the policeman who held his notepad amateurishly and quickly trying to jot down the responses to the accusations. He’d have to document them in evidence later. If a policeman doesn’t finish writing up their reports in the allotted hours then they have to make for it in their own time. Words of advice given to the rookie on his first day; he kept his notes brief – they could be padded out with lies later.
“But tell me,” the old man’s voice cut through the silence, “what solid evidence do you have to pin me down as the culprit?”
The rookie gulped. In training they were taught to deal with violent outbursts by being calm themselves, and politely asking the person to ‘calm down, sir’ three times. If the request is ignored violence can be implemented to any degree deemed suitable. His fingers flirted with the baton strapped to his belt. You had to be a patrol cop for one year before you were given a pistol, 3 years before you got a squad car.
“What do you suppose I used to kill him?” asked the older man in an agitated tone.
“The, um, inquest shows the victim was stabbed through the throat with a sharp wooden object. We know it was wooden because we found splinters embedded in his tissue.”
The rookie jumped slightly as his radio crackled “Jones, come in – over”
He gripped the grey button and pushed it in to speak. “Jones here, um, over”
“Where are you, Jones?” said the voice of the seasoned sheriff, “over”.
“I’m interviewing a suspect, Mr Spencer, about the Graham murder. Over”
“Copy that, Jones. Over and out”
The rookie hooked his receiver back onto his chest pocket and glanced up at the greying man.
“So I’m a suspect, am I?” he numbly added.
A deafening silence hung in the air.
“Stupid amateur, we have a deal!” screeched the greying man, charging towards the rookie. Jones stood up and fell backwards over his chair as the older man lunged at him. Pinned to the floor by his shoulders, the rookie screamed and struggled. The old man, armed with a pencil from his office desk, slammed his fist down with a hollow thud into the rookie’s trachea. His eyes bulged, the whites of his eyes garishly large and his pupils dilated. His mouth hung open, desperately trying in vain to breathe.
The old man pulled the pencil from the rookie’s throat and wiped it off on his crimson tie before depositing it back on his polished wooden desk.
The rookie grasped at his throat, blood spilling through his fingers, spilling his life away.
The receiver again crackled,
“Jones, come in, over.”
“Jones?”
“We’ve found our man for the Graham murder, you can leave Mr Spencer’s place and report back here.”
“Jones?”
“Jones, come in”
“Over”
A greying man stood from behind his polished wood desk and strode towards the policeman who held his notepad amateurishly and quickly trying to jot down the responses to the accusations. He’d have to document them in evidence later. If a policeman doesn’t finish writing up their reports in the allotted hours then they have to make for it in their own time. Words of advice given to the rookie on his first day; he kept his notes brief – they could be padded out with lies later.
“But tell me,” the old man’s voice cut through the silence, “what solid evidence do you have to pin me down as the culprit?”
The rookie gulped. In training they were taught to deal with violent outbursts by being calm themselves, and politely asking the person to ‘calm down, sir’ three times. If the request is ignored violence can be implemented to any degree deemed suitable. His fingers flirted with the baton strapped to his belt. You had to be a patrol cop for one year before you were given a pistol, 3 years before you got a squad car.
“What do you suppose I used to kill him?” asked the older man in an agitated tone.
“The, um, inquest shows the victim was stabbed through the throat with a sharp wooden object. We know it was wooden because we found splinters embedded in his tissue.”
The rookie jumped slightly as his radio crackled “Jones, come in – over”
He gripped the grey button and pushed it in to speak. “Jones here, um, over”
“Where are you, Jones?” said the voice of the seasoned sheriff, “over”.
“I’m interviewing a suspect, Mr Spencer, about the Graham murder. Over”
“Copy that, Jones. Over and out”
The rookie hooked his receiver back onto his chest pocket and glanced up at the greying man.
“So I’m a suspect, am I?” he numbly added.
A deafening silence hung in the air.
“Stupid amateur, we have a deal!” screeched the greying man, charging towards the rookie. Jones stood up and fell backwards over his chair as the older man lunged at him. Pinned to the floor by his shoulders, the rookie screamed and struggled. The old man, armed with a pencil from his office desk, slammed his fist down with a hollow thud into the rookie’s trachea. His eyes bulged, the whites of his eyes garishly large and his pupils dilated. His mouth hung open, desperately trying in vain to breathe.
The old man pulled the pencil from the rookie’s throat and wiped it off on his crimson tie before depositing it back on his polished wooden desk.
The rookie grasped at his throat, blood spilling through his fingers, spilling his life away.
The receiver again crackled,
“Jones, come in, over.”
“Jones?”
“We’ve found our man for the Graham murder, you can leave Mr Spencer’s place and report back here.”
“Jones?”
“Jones, come in”
“Over”