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 #11
It was sheer stupidity for the Birdcage Bandit to keep playing his game. With each murder, he became increasingly bold, taking deathtrap chances with his life. But, where was it written that murder followed rules?
Homicide detective, Brett Connors, had been working the case for a year. Each time he thought he had the killer, he found another woman, murdered in the name of love. Or was that a game, too? The killer had called them whores, and his one true love. So much of it felt like he was playing them.
The press had a field day, speculating on the meaning behind the birdcage ornament, hanging from each victim’s toe. Now, homicide had something new – something they kept from the press. Lying beside the bloodstained bed of the latest victim was a switchblade.
The Gray Titan with the gunpowder-colored handle was sold as “double edge, double action.” The coroner’s office confirmed this blade had seen a lot more than “double action.”
“Getting sloppy, asshole,” Brett murmured. Or had they gotten that close? At times, Brett swore he could feel the disturbed breath of the killer. What would they have found if they arrived five minutes sooner? Why didn’t he just clobber the doorman who stood in his way?
“Don’t go there – not yet,” Brett thought, but, it was hard not to. The latest victim was a kindergarten teacher, for God’s sake. What had she ever done but try to start a kid’s life out right? He could still hear the wails of her mother’s sorrow.
Witnesses saw someone running from the victim’s home. As was so often the case, the descriptions varied so much, you’d think an army of men had fled. He was bald – he had long hair. He had a goatee – he was clean-shaven. What they had in the description department was a whole lot of nothing. Ouija boards and insane asylum patients made more sense.
Somehow, Brett had to figure it out. It had gone on far too long. Far too many women had died. He couldn’t let it continue. He couldn’t destroy another family’s life.
Challenge #13
Brett wondered how he got involved in this world. He was pretty sure those who called San Diego, America’s Finest City, had not strolled through this neighborhood.
This wasn’t the home of high-priced coke dealers. Their clientele was up the coast, closer to where Brett worked as a homicide detective. It had been a long time since he had been to this part of San Diego, where cops were about as welcomed as a ship-bound glacier off the coast of Alaska.
He had the Birdcage Bandit to thank for his tour of this sad, cesspool life the city had thrown away. The serial killer had terrorized the north beach community of Encinitas for over a year now. There had been 12 women murdered – their bodies dumped on the beaches of Encinitas, like left-over trash from the Over-the-Line tournament.
The media, with all their irreverence, coined the Birdcage nickname. Derived from the discovery of a birdcage ornament left with each victim, Brett seethed at its dehumanizing mockery.
The case had earned Brett the 15 minutes of fame he never wanted, much to the delight of the killer. The media christened him Maverick, from a paparazzi shot of Brett riding a horse. He didn’t know what he hated more, the incessant hounding of the media or the taunting notes the killer left at the crime scenes. It was the latest note that led Brett to this part of town.
Dear Detective Maverick:
I find it so entertaining to see how famous you have become. You should thank me, you know. Before me, you were a nobody – a worthless hack of a detective with all the appeal of an aging, balding womanizer. You are such a loser!
I am growing weary of our game. There is simply no challenge anymore. So, I’m upping my stakes. Take yourself south from the ocean shores. Travel to the rancid side of life, where the toxic is laid to rest. You know it, don’t you, Detective Maverick – the place where you can see the concrete underbelly of broken dreams, where many leap from their pathetic lives. Go to the place, sliced by 5 and forgotten by most. There you will find the answer. But, hurry. I will not be so generous again.
“Barrio Logan,” was what popped into Brett’s mind. He’d bet his meager paycheck on it.
Interstate 5 cuts off the industrial and low-income community that is a couple of miles from downtown San Diego. All the clues were there. Barrio Logan became a dumping site for toxic waste in the early 1990s, and the Coronado Bay Bridge split the community in two. More than a few suicide jumpers took their final dive off that bridge.
“But, why here? Is he playing us again?”
Brett vowed it would end today. He would expose the killer as the imposter he was. The killer’s tablet-sized notes of arrogance were really just an illusion. He was not the cunning, invincible portrait of evil. His overconfidence would blind him to his certain fate. It would end now, or Brett would abandon his shield for good.
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