I started the Death and the Detective series from the writing prompts challenges at Creative Copy Challenge. The words in bold are the writing prompts from the challenge.
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Challenge #9
Homicide detective, Brett Connors, had never been much of a daydreamer. Long before he collected his shield, Brett knew the harsh reality of life. He’d seen a mother trapped by the ugly silkworms of drugs, spinning their lying silken threads of promise.
People were always looking for painkillers. If you got lucky, you found someone special to help you through the pain. For Brett, that had been his grandmother. If not for her, he probably would have ended up on the other side of the shield.
Crouching over the body of one of the beach’s homeless, Brett hoped she was finally home, in a better place. The catcall of a senseless soul, tugged at Brett’s need for justice. The arrogance of murder offended him. When no one else would take up the cause, Brett made it his mission to bring dignity to life.
The sun slept beneath the ocean floor. Murder didn’t wear a wristwatch.
“Do you have a phobia about sleeping?” yawned Mark Johnson, the precinct’s top criminal technician.
“It’s overrated. What do you have?”
“Besides the iron-ore rock with dried blood and hair?” Mark smirked.
“Yeah, I think you could say we are on the same wavelength on that,” Brett countered. “Besides the obvious, what else do we have?”
“She was hit several times with a closed fist and was probably the desire of a perverted killer.”
“Mark, I wouldn’t quit your day job.”
Challenge #10
After 25 years on the force, homicide detective, Brett Connors, had seen more than his share of depravity. It never ceased to amaze him how cruel humans could be to other human beings. Maybe that was a good thing. Brett hoped he never got used to the likes of the latest sick f****r terrorizing the quiet beach town of Encinitas.
Called the Birdcage Bandit by the local media, the serial killer once again left his calling card – a gilded birdcage ornament, dangling from the victim’s big toe. The killer’s propensity for dumping the body on one of Encinitas’ 11 beaches kept little of his M.O. from the public eye. It added to Brett’s problems in solving the crimes.
What started as an isolated case a year ago, had hit every form of media with the culmination of threats that “heads would roll” if the killer was not found. As the lead investigator, Brett became the scapegoat. Little by little, his private world ended and soon his image was on news shows nationwide. Us Weekly dubbed him “Maverick” from a photo taken of him on horseback. The paparazzi had invaded Brett’s final means of escape. And it pissed him off.
But, murder pissed him off more. There had been seven murders within the last year – a birdcage ornament hanging from each victim’s big toe. The killer, however, had secret messages hidden on each victim. Recently, he addressed them Dear Detective Maverick. Each time Brett found one, the rage inside him built. The latest message was written on an ammonia-soaked cloth, crammed in the victim’s mouth and secured with bubble wrap circling her head. The cloth was now laid flat on the coroner’s table.
Dear Detective Maverick: What have we here? As I dragged my knife across this poor girl’s lovely breasts, I could feel her heart beat right through my knife and up my arm. It seems I may have been a tad overzealous in my attempt to revive this poor girl from her irregular heartbeat. I didn’t have any smelling salts so I used the ammonia. Alas, her heart beats no more. It’s what a whore deserves! Until next time…happy trails.
P.S. I left you a sweet treat for all your hard work.
“Brett,” the coroner murmured. “I think I found your sweet treat.” He held out his forceps that held a cherry red gumdrop.
“Where did you find that?” Brett questioned.
“Don’t ask.”
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