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.
I did not tell my friends at Creative Copy Challenge (CCC) that I decided the entry on Challenge #113 would be the last of the series. I want this to become a book. I figured I’ll never do that if I keep the series going at CCC. The submissions were written in a short timeframe for each challenge, and some are pretty weak. So, who knows what the final version will look like. But, I have to try.
I hope you enjoyed the series.My goal is to have a polished version in the near future. After all, we wouldn’t want to be left hanging about the fate of Dr. Maggie Sweeney, would we? 🙂
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Challenge #106
Brett Connors wasn’t sure if he was glad the holidays were over. On the one hand, the precinct had been as quiet as Randy Watkin’s workplace. Randy was the city’s coroner. On the other hand, Brett was glad his fellow detective, Pat McNeill, was back from vacation. Now, maybe they could get back to the little things, like finding a serial killer.
Pat walked in with his hands shoved into his windbreaker’s pouch, looking like some kind of baby-carrying marsupial.
“I thought it never rained in southern California.”
“We bring in rain as a delusion tactic for tourists.”
“Yeah, well I find it pretty damn delusional.”
“That’s because you’re from the east coast.”
“And you are such a gnarly dude, Connors.”
Brett chuckled at the detective’s scowl. After 25 years of homicide, Brett was relieved he could still find the humor in life.
“Grab some coffee and let’s take a look at the coroner’s reports on our psycho,” Brett instructed while pulling together the corresponding files. This case had been going on so long he was surprised the pages had not turned yellow.
“I’m not sure what purpose it’ll serve. I swear we have gone over them until our eyes bled.”
“He’s still out there, even though we have DNA, so we are obviously missing something.”
“We have the DNA of a dead guy. So, unless he came back from the grave, how can he be our psycho killer?”
Good question, Brett thought. They thought they finally had a break in the case when the coroner made the grand announcement that the last victim had DNA under her fingernails. After months of investigation, the elation they justly felt, deflated like a New Year’s balloon in March.
Brett’s hatred of this sick M-F took on xenophobic proportions. The killer left one victim without a tongue and the other with no eyes. And that was just, pardon the pun, the visual of his sick torture. Then he made it personal by dumping the last victim on Dr. Maggie Sweeney’s balcony.
Brett had long ago recanted his feigned disinterest in the precinct’s sexy psychiatrist and profiler. In fact, the long-legged, green-eyed seductress had spoiled him for his typical type.
“Hello, Brett, anyone home?”
Brett blinked in surprise at the sound of his fellow detective. Obviously, he had been trying to get Brett’s attention for some time.
“Just thinking about the case.”
“Yeah, right, and I get all moon-eyed over the M-F killer, too.”
Challenge #111
This winter was one mudslide after another. And now it was really cold – okay, cold for San Diego. Wrapped in her warm, fuzzy coat, Maggie felt like a bad imitation of an Ewok, puffed up from lactose intolerance.
As she began to creep down Interstate 5 towards work, she hoped San Diego could kiss the rain good-bye. It had been an unusually rainy winter.
“So spoiled,” she smiled to herself.
Maggie’s thoughts drifted to her day ahead as the Encinitas police district psychiatrist and profiler. Capturing a serial killer had become the district’s obsession. The district funneled almost all its resources into finding the killer and his capture had become very personal – to Maggie and Detective Brett Connors.
Maggie wondered if her pusillanimous behavior stemmed more from having the killer dump a body on her balcony or from the threat of the very sexy detective getting past her defenses.
Okay, she wasn’t going down that path. Shaking off an anxious feeling, Maggie glanced at the clock. She had a 9 a.m. meeting with a colleague from Larkspur (in northern California) and she had some last-minute research she wanted to finish.
It was an interesting case, except for its victims. A serial killer in the small community had a very disturbing calling card. He, or perhaps more likely she, would castrate victims before dumping them alongside a deserted road.
“Come on, Poplolly,” she coaxed, using her nickname for her 1985 VW Bug, “let’s get off this highway to nowhere.”
With her mind on the meeting, Maggie didn’t notice the dark sedan following her down the frontage road.
Challenge #113
He flew under her radar and she did not remember. Soon she would be singing with angels as the devil inside triumphed once more. He watched, though she did not see, as she entered the code into the door. It did not matter. He memorized the code.
His rage built through the tunnels of his mind as he knew he was an incognito form unrecognized by her and all the rest. This wasn’t about a quota. This was revenge, in its purest form. The rest meant nothing. But, she was different. She would regret how she kicked him to the curb like a recalcitrant dog.
He felt the memories war with his need to suppress them. They pounded at him like a nagging wife, in a kaleidoscope puzzle that was his life. He fought for control, as once more he became the hunter.
Detective Connors walked past the precinct’s front desk, greeting Angie, the volunteer receptionist.
“Detective Connors, have you seen Dr. Sweeney?”
Refraining from uttering the sarcastic response that rose to mind, the detective merely replied, “No, why?”
“She had an appointment with the profiler from Larkspur half an hour ago and she hasn’t shown up. That’s not like Dr. Sweeney.”
No, it wasn’t – at all
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