.
Something had changed inside Ransack. The calm he had first shown immediately after his little turn was now upon him proper and he felt like a different man. All nerves about fucking up the investigation left him, and as to what any of his colleagues thought, well, it was 'fuck them' too! This was the biggest case of his career and one he could not afford to lose. And maybe he wouldn't. Just as quickly as half his mind had flushed blank a little while ago, now it was back; his head a cistern full of clean and clever police forensic knowledge. Once again he was able to look at the crime scene and see all the little clues and traces and tell-tale signs left behind by the killer. It had all returned. In an instant he knew who his colleagues were, his position, his character. He remembered his book, and the lectures he often gave on forensic policing and the importance of the secondary scene. Even small things like where to get extra evidence bags and spare gloves, or what to do with uniformed officers who lay traumatized and humming to the Gods in public, had returned. Ransack straightened himself to full authoritative height and fixed his tie. He was back! Though that's when things got really weird....
Showing posts with label Crime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Crime. Show all posts
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - part 7
.
Ransack is smoking another cigarette. Mackinstosh's face is partly obscured by his camera. Davies legs have buckled and have somehow walked him backwards and stuck hid stiff straight up against the far wall. In the corner, directly behind the open door, and down off the left bottom edge of the bed, is the body. For Ransack it doesn't look as atrocious as the first time he saw it, and now looking closely, within the mess he can make out what would have been a flimsy nightgown and at least one average sized tit. The centre of the body is a big gaping hole. It looks like it has been stabbed through hundreds of times with a cooks knife. From this wound internal organs and intestines have been ripped out by the handful and are spilled down upon the floor. What was once the top end of a woman is now just a back piece of neck and maybe some windpipe. Who knows??? The entire face and head have been bashed in with such furious violence that there is nothing left except a lump of blood clotted hair. Pooled out a foot, around the entire length of the body, is thick black blood picked through with slithers of skin, teeth, bone and flesh. On the wall, about knee height, there is a round blood splattered imprint where a head has been brutally slapped against stone. Off to the right of the body the bed is trashed. The wooden headboard has been freshly split and has come away at the left side. The mattress is bare and grimy; stained by years of body fluids and spilt drinks. The sheets and covers have been pulled free and hang off the left bottom corner of the mattress and trail over towards the body. It looks like the victim was dragged off the bed by her ankles as she tried desperately to grip a hold of something. It was Crimescene Photographer Mackintosh who broke the silence:
“Inspector, please don't ask for any 'upskirt' shots... I'm suffering from gout and am worried if I go to ground I may not be able to get back up. The last thing we need right now is another player out the game.”
Ransack didn't respond. He just took the words in and thought Mackintosh an even viler specimen of human maggot than he had done so before. From another angle, however, it was interesting what Mackintosh had said. Ransack understood from it that it was down to him to direct the photographer. That all he had to do was show a few discerning looks and order Mackintosh to capture whatever it was he wanted. Ransack tapped an inch of ash onto the carpet and thought. .
“Davies, get yourself over here... you need to start getting this room noted”
“I can't, Sir.... Really... I need a moment....” replied Davies, still pinned to the far wall, his words sounding as though he was chattering with the cold.
“Well, a moment is just what we haven't got!” replied Ransack. “I need you now, Davies.. Right this instant, please!”
“I'm sorry, Sir.. I.. am... but I can't.... I really can't!... I'm sorry, Sir...”
Ransack felt worn, exhausted. It seemed that even when he honestly tried to get on with his job that everything conspired against him. He lowered his head and with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand began to slowly massage his temples, working the stress around in a circular motion .Even with his eyes closed he could still see the blood.
Suddenly, as if someone had connected live electrodes to the sides of skull, there was a flash, and with the flash a sharp pain went right through Ransack's head and deep into his brain. Then it happened again, and again. And each time it happened, not only was there the paralyzing pain, but now the body in the corner seemed to light up electrified and become visible even through the skin of the Detective Inspector's eyelids. Ransack let his cigarette drop to the floor and now clenched his head in both hands and scrunched his face up like he was experiencing a torturous migraine
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
It was Mackintosh, shooting frame after frame after frame... a perverted leer visible just under his camera.
“MACKINTOSH WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!!!” screamed Ransack. “STOP IT THIS FUCKING INSTANT! STOP!!!!”
Mackintosh rifled of a couple more frames, sending Ransack into spasms of pain, and then quit. “Sorry, Sir, just a few personals for a rainy day... You never know when the internet may go down!” he said, aiming his camera down towards Ransack's smoldering cigarette on the carpet and taking a snap of it. “Don't worry Sir, that's for personal too,” he finished, “probably!”
Ransack grinned and stared hard at Mackintosh. Mackintosh gave a squirmy puzzled look back and then gripped a little tighter to his camera as if it could somehow save him. Ransack, once again, produced his pack of John Player Blacks, and still staring intensely at Mackintosh ever so carefully drew a cigarette loose, placed it between his lips and lit it “Don't worry Mac,” he said, in a frighteningly calm tone, “this time I'll use the ashtray.”
(To be Cont'd....)
Ransack is smoking another cigarette. Mackinstosh's face is partly obscured by his camera. Davies legs have buckled and have somehow walked him backwards and stuck hid stiff straight up against the far wall. In the corner, directly behind the open door, and down off the left bottom edge of the bed, is the body. For Ransack it doesn't look as atrocious as the first time he saw it, and now looking closely, within the mess he can make out what would have been a flimsy nightgown and at least one average sized tit. The centre of the body is a big gaping hole. It looks like it has been stabbed through hundreds of times with a cooks knife. From this wound internal organs and intestines have been ripped out by the handful and are spilled down upon the floor. What was once the top end of a woman is now just a back piece of neck and maybe some windpipe. Who knows??? The entire face and head have been bashed in with such furious violence that there is nothing left except a lump of blood clotted hair. Pooled out a foot, around the entire length of the body, is thick black blood picked through with slithers of skin, teeth, bone and flesh. On the wall, about knee height, there is a round blood splattered imprint where a head has been brutally slapped against stone. Off to the right of the body the bed is trashed. The wooden headboard has been freshly split and has come away at the left side. The mattress is bare and grimy; stained by years of body fluids and spilt drinks. The sheets and covers have been pulled free and hang off the left bottom corner of the mattress and trail over towards the body. It looks like the victim was dragged off the bed by her ankles as she tried desperately to grip a hold of something. It was Crimescene Photographer Mackintosh who broke the silence:
“Inspector, please don't ask for any 'upskirt' shots... I'm suffering from gout and am worried if I go to ground I may not be able to get back up. The last thing we need right now is another player out the game.”
Ransack didn't respond. He just took the words in and thought Mackintosh an even viler specimen of human maggot than he had done so before. From another angle, however, it was interesting what Mackintosh had said. Ransack understood from it that it was down to him to direct the photographer. That all he had to do was show a few discerning looks and order Mackintosh to capture whatever it was he wanted. Ransack tapped an inch of ash onto the carpet and thought. .
“Davies, get yourself over here... you need to start getting this room noted”
“I can't, Sir.... Really... I need a moment....” replied Davies, still pinned to the far wall, his words sounding as though he was chattering with the cold.
“Well, a moment is just what we haven't got!” replied Ransack. “I need you now, Davies.. Right this instant, please!”
“I'm sorry, Sir.. I.. am... but I can't.... I really can't!... I'm sorry, Sir...”
Ransack felt worn, exhausted. It seemed that even when he honestly tried to get on with his job that everything conspired against him. He lowered his head and with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand began to slowly massage his temples, working the stress around in a circular motion .Even with his eyes closed he could still see the blood.
Suddenly, as if someone had connected live electrodes to the sides of skull, there was a flash, and with the flash a sharp pain went right through Ransack's head and deep into his brain. Then it happened again, and again. And each time it happened, not only was there the paralyzing pain, but now the body in the corner seemed to light up electrified and become visible even through the skin of the Detective Inspector's eyelids. Ransack let his cigarette drop to the floor and now clenched his head in both hands and scrunched his face up like he was experiencing a torturous migraine
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
Click. Flash. ZMMMmmmm.
It was Mackintosh, shooting frame after frame after frame... a perverted leer visible just under his camera.
“MACKINTOSH WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!!!” screamed Ransack. “STOP IT THIS FUCKING INSTANT! STOP!!!!”
Mackintosh rifled of a couple more frames, sending Ransack into spasms of pain, and then quit. “Sorry, Sir, just a few personals for a rainy day... You never know when the internet may go down!” he said, aiming his camera down towards Ransack's smoldering cigarette on the carpet and taking a snap of it. “Don't worry Sir, that's for personal too,” he finished, “probably!”
Ransack grinned and stared hard at Mackintosh. Mackintosh gave a squirmy puzzled look back and then gripped a little tighter to his camera as if it could somehow save him. Ransack, once again, produced his pack of John Player Blacks, and still staring intensely at Mackintosh ever so carefully drew a cigarette loose, placed it between his lips and lit it “Don't worry Mac,” he said, in a frighteningly calm tone, “this time I'll use the ashtray.”
(To be Cont'd....)
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 6
.
If great photographers can make the camera lie, then the primitive, heavy-footed beast who sloped onto the scene next, with his knuckles nearer to the ground than his knees, would have been one of the best. In the past, when occasion had called for it, this man-thing had made swollen black eyes look like shotgun wounds, and brutal police beatings look nothing more serious than restraining marks. Though not a corrupt man in himself, he was corruptible. His historical fault was doing what he was told, just because he was told to do it. Mackintosh, the Crime Scene Photographer, was going to hell on someone else's command.
Davies waved the photographer over towards Ransack who was sucking the entrails out of his cigarette. He introduced the two men, and failing dismally to keep his smile an internal one, said “Well, you did ask for a smoker, Sir.”
Now at a stop, standing there slouching in his white elasticated forensic suit, Photographer Mackintosh cut out an even sorrier sight than what he appeared at a distance. Here was a man who lived vicariously through his camera... pointed it towards any number of perverse scenes and felt innocent because he was looking at it indirectly. His instrument of work was his access to forbidden and secret pleasures; the lens and viewer his own personal little glory holes.
Ransack may not have known quite what to do with a photographer but he somehow knew that men who get to forty-five and have greasy, livery skin, a nose full of blackheads, and who are hunched over through years of mischievous wanking are often not the most sterile of souls. And even if others could support them, Ransack couldn't, and for some reason he detested such squalid, living low-life with a passion.
Ransack looked at Mackintosh like he was a cockroach. “I hope your abdominal muscles are stronger than they look,” he sneered, “beause if not, what lays to the left of this door... what you're about to get down and dirty with, will make you shit and vomit at the same time. Now don't say you've not been warned!”
Mackintosh's eyes crunched into a squint and a sick leer rode upon his lips. He brought his wrist towards his mouth and spat a dollop of foamy gob onto its underside. With it he began cleaning and buffing up the lens of his camera. “Well I hope that's not all boast, Inspector,” he said, never once raising his eyes to his subject, “the last time I saw anything worthy of a few personal frames was over five years ago during my time with the traffic police. That was some gig! Though after you've done road kill there's nothing left. Anyway, if we're all set shall we get on? With a bit of luck maybe I can still make use of the little light that's left.”
Ransack gave the faintest of nods, and together the three men entered the room...
If great photographers can make the camera lie, then the primitive, heavy-footed beast who sloped onto the scene next, with his knuckles nearer to the ground than his knees, would have been one of the best. In the past, when occasion had called for it, this man-thing had made swollen black eyes look like shotgun wounds, and brutal police beatings look nothing more serious than restraining marks. Though not a corrupt man in himself, he was corruptible. His historical fault was doing what he was told, just because he was told to do it. Mackintosh, the Crime Scene Photographer, was going to hell on someone else's command.
Davies waved the photographer over towards Ransack who was sucking the entrails out of his cigarette. He introduced the two men, and failing dismally to keep his smile an internal one, said “Well, you did ask for a smoker, Sir.”
Now at a stop, standing there slouching in his white elasticated forensic suit, Photographer Mackintosh cut out an even sorrier sight than what he appeared at a distance. Here was a man who lived vicariously through his camera... pointed it towards any number of perverse scenes and felt innocent because he was looking at it indirectly. His instrument of work was his access to forbidden and secret pleasures; the lens and viewer his own personal little glory holes.
Ransack may not have known quite what to do with a photographer but he somehow knew that men who get to forty-five and have greasy, livery skin, a nose full of blackheads, and who are hunched over through years of mischievous wanking are often not the most sterile of souls. And even if others could support them, Ransack couldn't, and for some reason he detested such squalid, living low-life with a passion.
Ransack looked at Mackintosh like he was a cockroach. “I hope your abdominal muscles are stronger than they look,” he sneered, “beause if not, what lays to the left of this door... what you're about to get down and dirty with, will make you shit and vomit at the same time. Now don't say you've not been warned!”
Mackintosh's eyes crunched into a squint and a sick leer rode upon his lips. He brought his wrist towards his mouth and spat a dollop of foamy gob onto its underside. With it he began cleaning and buffing up the lens of his camera. “Well I hope that's not all boast, Inspector,” he said, never once raising his eyes to his subject, “the last time I saw anything worthy of a few personal frames was over five years ago during my time with the traffic police. That was some gig! Though after you've done road kill there's nothing left. Anyway, if we're all set shall we get on? With a bit of luck maybe I can still make use of the little light that's left.”
Ransack gave the faintest of nods, and together the three men entered the room...
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 5
Davies is looking at Jenkins and Jenkins is looking at Davies. They are both wearing 'What the Fuck?' expressions across their faces. Ransack is a way back down the hall, hanging behind to see if he can figure out what he ought to do next. He knows his colleagues are finding his behaviour somewhat bizarre, and not just his working practices, but the way in which he keeps losing concentration and drifting off into distant realms of utter blankness. After filling his chest with a good helping of air, Ransack straightened himself an inch and concentrated on looking authoritative. He knew he had to somehow do something normal, something that would take the eyes off him and allow for a few moments of serious thinking time. And so, he took out a pack of John Player Blacks, and shuffling a cigarette free he stuck it between his lips.
The clicking of the Detective Inspector's lighter carried through the house like it was the timing device on a bomb. Just about everyone jumped to a stop and looked his way. Some of the white suited forensics who were still shuffling about taking measurements in the kitchen even lowered their masks and stared at him in disbelief. Jenkins went into some kind of a panic that sounded like flapping bird's wings. He ended by shoving Detective Davies into a run and hissing, “Geddit'offa 'im... fer' fuck's'ache!”
In front of Ransack, Davies used his larger frame to shield the Inspector and in a second manoeuvre tried to coax him around and walk him off in the opposite direction. It's a technique that the Metropolitan Police refer to as 'cloaking' and one which Davies had excelled at during his early days of training at Hendon. It was probably the reason why his first ever active port of call was escorting the mentally ill out of public buildings. Well, Davies hadn't lost his knack for 'cloaking', although he felt quite uncomfortable pulling it on his superior.
“Sir, sir.. what are you doing?” he whispered, “You can't smoke in here! Good God... You'll have to go outside.... really, Sir you can't...”
“Can't?” said Ransack, stopping and straightening. “Well it seems I can! I'm Detective Inspector Ransack and I'm running this operation. I can do whatever I think fit and act in whatever way I think will best help me crack this pot of worms! And if there's a man here who'll stop me I'd like to see him try! No? Ha! Didn't think so! So look here, Davies, and listen because this is how it's going down: I'm smoking this here cigarette, and as I smoke I'm going to think, and as I smoke and think and bring some general calm to this investigation you''ll be off looking for the photographer. And when you've found him, or if we're unlucky 'her', we're gonna walk the primary scene and record it: You with words, the photographer with pictures, and me using guile, experience and logic. If that breaks protocol, well, FUCK IT!... it's never stopped me before. Jesus, I've smoked, drank, lunched, pissed, farted and shit in previous scenes and I believe I cracked the lot! This is how I work Davies, and it's usually why I work alone. Now go and find a photographer, make sure he's a smoker, and be quick about it!" And with that Ransack pushed Davies aside and wandered down towards the Jenkins, down towards the bedroom, smoking and dropping ash on the way...
The clicking of the Detective Inspector's lighter carried through the house like it was the timing device on a bomb. Just about everyone jumped to a stop and looked his way. Some of the white suited forensics who were still shuffling about taking measurements in the kitchen even lowered their masks and stared at him in disbelief. Jenkins went into some kind of a panic that sounded like flapping bird's wings. He ended by shoving Detective Davies into a run and hissing, “Geddit'offa 'im... fer' fuck's'ache!”
In front of Ransack, Davies used his larger frame to shield the Inspector and in a second manoeuvre tried to coax him around and walk him off in the opposite direction. It's a technique that the Metropolitan Police refer to as 'cloaking' and one which Davies had excelled at during his early days of training at Hendon. It was probably the reason why his first ever active port of call was escorting the mentally ill out of public buildings. Well, Davies hadn't lost his knack for 'cloaking', although he felt quite uncomfortable pulling it on his superior.
“Sir, sir.. what are you doing?” he whispered, “You can't smoke in here! Good God... You'll have to go outside.... really, Sir you can't...”
“Can't?” said Ransack, stopping and straightening. “Well it seems I can! I'm Detective Inspector Ransack and I'm running this operation. I can do whatever I think fit and act in whatever way I think will best help me crack this pot of worms! And if there's a man here who'll stop me I'd like to see him try! No? Ha! Didn't think so! So look here, Davies, and listen because this is how it's going down: I'm smoking this here cigarette, and as I smoke I'm going to think, and as I smoke and think and bring some general calm to this investigation you''ll be off looking for the photographer. And when you've found him, or if we're unlucky 'her', we're gonna walk the primary scene and record it: You with words, the photographer with pictures, and me using guile, experience and logic. If that breaks protocol, well, FUCK IT!... it's never stopped me before. Jesus, I've smoked, drank, lunched, pissed, farted and shit in previous scenes and I believe I cracked the lot! This is how I work Davies, and it's usually why I work alone. Now go and find a photographer, make sure he's a smoker, and be quick about it!" And with that Ransack pushed Davies aside and wandered down towards the Jenkins, down towards the bedroom, smoking and dropping ash on the way...
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 4
The securing officer of a murder scene is the unfortunate git who stumbles across the mess, often into it, without any kind of warning. The initial call out can be anything, from young kids smoking cigarettes around the back of a building to a neighbourly dispute, only for the despatched officers to arrive and find ears and teeth all over the place. The securing officer who called this crime scene was unfortunately meeker than most. He hadn't joined the police fantasizing of drug busts and gangland shootouts but rather yearning to do the paperwork and wear the tit-shaped hat. Ransack, Davies and Jenkins found him sitting out in the front yard, his arms clasped tightly around his knees, and rocking to and fro on the heel of his buttocks... humming.
“Mmmm mmmm mmm mmmm MMMMMMM Mmmmm mmm mmMMMMM...” and he went on, just like that, his brain even more lost than the Detective Inspector Ransacks.
As it was Jenkins who was still leading the party of three it was his form that moved in and towered over the securing officer. With the little light there was blocked out, the distraught officer withdrew even further inside of himself, and with his eyes shot through with an unspeakable horror his hums then turned to whimpers. Jenkins squatted down besides him.
“Constable... Constable,” he said softly, “now we understand this is a difficult time for you, that you've seen things which you weren't prepared for, but we need to take a quick statement from you... just a few questions, nothing more, and then we'll get you seen to properly and hopefully off home. Ok? Do You Hear Me? CONSTABLE!!?”
“MmmMMMMmmMMmmmMMMMmmMMmm.....”
With the above as a response Jenkins suddenly gripped the officer by either side of his shoulders, steadied him and twisted him around so as they were both in each others faces. “Now Constable, you're gonna have to get a fucking grip of yerself... this is serious business! You can crack up afterwards, but right now we've got the fucking world ticking down on us and we need to take your statement before we can get on! Now what's your fucking name?”
The traumatised PC let out a series of noises like he was crying the wrong way. He was obviously trying to say something but no matter how hard he tried only incomprehensible drivvel came out. It also happened that the more he panicked the harder and faster his rocking became, until Jenkins was shaking too, vibrating away like he was holding onto a jack hammer. If it was not for the following words, from a new voice on the scene, Jenkins would very likely have tried to slap him into reality.
“His name's Jameson, PC Alan Jameson,” it said. “I'm PC Sanderson and was with him when he came across the scene. It was actually me who called it... not that I've seen it... but I did call it! He's been like that since it happened... well, it took just over three minutes of silence first and then he lost it.”
As the PC Sanderson spoke Inspector Ransack slyly eyed Jenkins and Davies to see what they were doing. Both had whipped out their notepads and were scribbling things down – though it didn't look much like writing. Ransack patted around his pockets, found his own notepad and a pen attached, and started scribbling down nonsense too. Just to make sure he could still write if he wanted to, that he hadn't forgotten that art, he wrote the word 'bumrub' and then crossed it out. And then he did something that even surprised him: he flipped over to a new page, and the moment he put pen to paper his mouth opened and he instinctively asked:
“And why was you here, Constable? What were the details of your initial call out?”
PC Sanderson now turned to Ransack. He began by pulling a face like there was not much to tell and then proceeded to tell it in the most drawn out manner possible...
“It was an anonymous caller, a woman, and for some reason she thought her friend may have been hurt or assaulted in her property. The call was traced to the phone box just around the corner on Perkins Avenue. The only other info we received along with the address was that the caller sounded 'toothless drunk' and so we thought we was gonna arrive and end up in the middle of one of these alcoholic domestics with both parties accusing each other of every kind of perverted crime under the sun.... You know the kind, Sir, her screaming and bawling rape and sodomy and when asked if she wants to bring official charges against her significant other she looks through you all blurry and you know the previous accusation is already forgotten. The next thing you're warning the man that if he tugs at your uniform once more he'll be spending the night in the cells and he answers by telling you that she sucked so and so's cock and that's why he walloped her. Then she's laughing and bouncing off him, saying “But I walloped ya back... good an proper, ya lousy maggot! I gave jist as good as I got! I ain't scared of no two bit shitheap like you... I've 'ad worse... you ain't nothing, Jack!” And then he's gone and smacked himself square in the nose and through a mouthful of black blood he's screaming: “No bitch has ever hurt me! I can take much more than any whore can ever give!!! 'Ere, ya see these fists? Ya see this one, it's knocked seventeen people sober... the best fucking rehab there is! The other... I save that one for me enemies!” And then she's showing you what she thinks is a secret, sexy smile, but actually it's a mouthful of missing teeth and those that are left are stained shit-brown and each one points to a different hour of the day and you hope she doesn't cough or they'll end up all over you. Then her smile has gone and her whole posture has sunken a foot and she's scowling through the demons of drink, and suddenly she's on her man again. And all the while it's a miracle he's still standing because since he stopped showing you his bloated grazed and cut fists he's been swaying around like one of those 'wibbly-wobbly toys' with his eyes nine tenths closed, and if he can see anything it's the faintest blur of light through singed eyelashes. And then the wind from her missed punch brings him around like it it was full of smelling salts, and he's wild drunk again and it starts all over... back to how she hasn't washed her cunt in years and if ever she did manage to prise her knickers off the stench would kill all the wildlife within a ten mile radius. And then her skirts hitched up and the filthiest pair of knickers bar none are whipped down and she's saying “You'll never get none of it, so dream on ya old fucka!!” And though it smells something rank nothing actually dies. And then they both need a drink, so suddenly they're working in cahoots, acting all piss-drunk lovey-dovey... waving us away, saying they've overdone it with the drink, and they're sorry for wasting our time but they'll just get on to bed and suffer the hell of it in the morning... You know, Sir, a drunken dispute where the most you'll ever get is a 'drunk and disorderly' charge and a car full of stink. Well, that's what we imagined we'd be arriving to. And when we got here, the door was open and sure as hell it smelt like we'd imagined, but it wasn't messy at all – as you know. Then as as I looked around in the front room PC Jameson went down the hall, and not even 30 seconds later he was back, staggering so wildly I thought he'd been shot or stabbed. I steadied him and led him outside and when I tried to re-enter, to see what was inside, he gripped a hold of me so tightly and with such fear shot through his eyes that I never did dare return and look at what he'd seen... and I couldn't really, not even if I'd have wanted to, because it was just then that he lowered himself to the ground and started up with his incessant shaking and humming. And That's when I called it, Sir... nothing much to it.”
By the finale of the Uniform's incredibly detailed monologue all eyes were on Ransack, waiting for his next question... Only it never came. Instead, as one member of the Metropilatn Police rocked to and fro on his haunches... humming, another had ceased up completely, stood there in freeze-frame, his pen on paper and a huge blue ink splodge breaking out across the page...
(to be cont'd....)
“Mmmm mmmm mmm mmmm MMMMMMM Mmmmm mmm mmMMMMM...” and he went on, just like that, his brain even more lost than the Detective Inspector Ransacks.
As it was Jenkins who was still leading the party of three it was his form that moved in and towered over the securing officer. With the little light there was blocked out, the distraught officer withdrew even further inside of himself, and with his eyes shot through with an unspeakable horror his hums then turned to whimpers. Jenkins squatted down besides him.
“Constable... Constable,” he said softly, “now we understand this is a difficult time for you, that you've seen things which you weren't prepared for, but we need to take a quick statement from you... just a few questions, nothing more, and then we'll get you seen to properly and hopefully off home. Ok? Do You Hear Me? CONSTABLE!!?”
“MmmMMMMmmMMmmmMMMMmmMMmm.....”
With the above as a response Jenkins suddenly gripped the officer by either side of his shoulders, steadied him and twisted him around so as they were both in each others faces. “Now Constable, you're gonna have to get a fucking grip of yerself... this is serious business! You can crack up afterwards, but right now we've got the fucking world ticking down on us and we need to take your statement before we can get on! Now what's your fucking name?”
The traumatised PC let out a series of noises like he was crying the wrong way. He was obviously trying to say something but no matter how hard he tried only incomprehensible drivvel came out. It also happened that the more he panicked the harder and faster his rocking became, until Jenkins was shaking too, vibrating away like he was holding onto a jack hammer. If it was not for the following words, from a new voice on the scene, Jenkins would very likely have tried to slap him into reality.
“His name's Jameson, PC Alan Jameson,” it said. “I'm PC Sanderson and was with him when he came across the scene. It was actually me who called it... not that I've seen it... but I did call it! He's been like that since it happened... well, it took just over three minutes of silence first and then he lost it.”
As the PC Sanderson spoke Inspector Ransack slyly eyed Jenkins and Davies to see what they were doing. Both had whipped out their notepads and were scribbling things down – though it didn't look much like writing. Ransack patted around his pockets, found his own notepad and a pen attached, and started scribbling down nonsense too. Just to make sure he could still write if he wanted to, that he hadn't forgotten that art, he wrote the word 'bumrub' and then crossed it out. And then he did something that even surprised him: he flipped over to a new page, and the moment he put pen to paper his mouth opened and he instinctively asked:
“And why was you here, Constable? What were the details of your initial call out?”
PC Sanderson now turned to Ransack. He began by pulling a face like there was not much to tell and then proceeded to tell it in the most drawn out manner possible...
“It was an anonymous caller, a woman, and for some reason she thought her friend may have been hurt or assaulted in her property. The call was traced to the phone box just around the corner on Perkins Avenue. The only other info we received along with the address was that the caller sounded 'toothless drunk' and so we thought we was gonna arrive and end up in the middle of one of these alcoholic domestics with both parties accusing each other of every kind of perverted crime under the sun.... You know the kind, Sir, her screaming and bawling rape and sodomy and when asked if she wants to bring official charges against her significant other she looks through you all blurry and you know the previous accusation is already forgotten. The next thing you're warning the man that if he tugs at your uniform once more he'll be spending the night in the cells and he answers by telling you that she sucked so and so's cock and that's why he walloped her. Then she's laughing and bouncing off him, saying “But I walloped ya back... good an proper, ya lousy maggot! I gave jist as good as I got! I ain't scared of no two bit shitheap like you... I've 'ad worse... you ain't nothing, Jack!” And then he's gone and smacked himself square in the nose and through a mouthful of black blood he's screaming: “No bitch has ever hurt me! I can take much more than any whore can ever give!!! 'Ere, ya see these fists? Ya see this one, it's knocked seventeen people sober... the best fucking rehab there is! The other... I save that one for me enemies!” And then she's showing you what she thinks is a secret, sexy smile, but actually it's a mouthful of missing teeth and those that are left are stained shit-brown and each one points to a different hour of the day and you hope she doesn't cough or they'll end up all over you. Then her smile has gone and her whole posture has sunken a foot and she's scowling through the demons of drink, and suddenly she's on her man again. And all the while it's a miracle he's still standing because since he stopped showing you his bloated grazed and cut fists he's been swaying around like one of those 'wibbly-wobbly toys' with his eyes nine tenths closed, and if he can see anything it's the faintest blur of light through singed eyelashes. And then the wind from her missed punch brings him around like it it was full of smelling salts, and he's wild drunk again and it starts all over... back to how she hasn't washed her cunt in years and if ever she did manage to prise her knickers off the stench would kill all the wildlife within a ten mile radius. And then her skirts hitched up and the filthiest pair of knickers bar none are whipped down and she's saying “You'll never get none of it, so dream on ya old fucka!!” And though it smells something rank nothing actually dies. And then they both need a drink, so suddenly they're working in cahoots, acting all piss-drunk lovey-dovey... waving us away, saying they've overdone it with the drink, and they're sorry for wasting our time but they'll just get on to bed and suffer the hell of it in the morning... You know, Sir, a drunken dispute where the most you'll ever get is a 'drunk and disorderly' charge and a car full of stink. Well, that's what we imagined we'd be arriving to. And when we got here, the door was open and sure as hell it smelt like we'd imagined, but it wasn't messy at all – as you know. Then as as I looked around in the front room PC Jameson went down the hall, and not even 30 seconds later he was back, staggering so wildly I thought he'd been shot or stabbed. I steadied him and led him outside and when I tried to re-enter, to see what was inside, he gripped a hold of me so tightly and with such fear shot through his eyes that I never did dare return and look at what he'd seen... and I couldn't really, not even if I'd have wanted to, because it was just then that he lowered himself to the ground and started up with his incessant shaking and humming. And That's when I called it, Sir... nothing much to it.”
By the finale of the Uniform's incredibly detailed monologue all eyes were on Ransack, waiting for his next question... Only it never came. Instead, as one member of the Metropilatn Police rocked to and fro on his haunches... humming, another had ceased up completely, stood there in freeze-frame, his pen on paper and a huge blue ink splodge breaking out across the page...
(to be cont'd....)
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 3
.
There are times in life when we know we are alone. It's a feeling, and can happen anywhere. And no matter how many others are around it changes nothing, because this absolute loneliness always arrives at the height of our most personal inner moments; be it death, or serving for match in a tie-breaker for the US open. When Inspector Ransack dropped anchor and stopped in forward motion, he knew he was alone. He had been having one of his inner moments since he'd puffed up and decided on taking the lead. With a slight wince across his face he held still and concentrated, hoping to sense the company of his colleague behind him, but it was useless – Detective Davies was just not following. Ransack turned slowly around.
“Well come on Davies, move it along... you're with me on this one!” he said, though lacking any real authority. Even so, Davies squirmed in his shoes, desperately struggling not to surrender and obey the command. He looked up at the taller Jenkins for help. Jenkins gave him a subtle nod and then stepped forward. He had a weird, almost embarrassed smirk on his face. He started off hesitantly. “Sir, erhm, shouldn't we speak to the securing officer first? Maybe take his statement? Find out how he came to be upon the scene? Enquire about witnesses, etc? I mean, really, at the moment we don't know Jack Shit, Sir... for all we know the murderer could be sitting cuffed in the kitchen after having called the law on himself! We need to know such things... they change the way we even look at the scene, nevermind process it. Even by your standard this is strange, Sir... more than strange!”
From the looks on both his colleagues faces Ransack knew he had fucked up, overlooked a huge lump of basic protocol which it seemed wasn't for the missing. He had been preoccupied about making such a balls-up from the very start, and now it had happened and barely four footsteps into the investigation. Fortunately for Ransack there just wasn't the time to panic, he could only react.
“Are you seriously telling me that neither one of you two cones had the initiative to take care of that? Jesus Christ!! These are the basics, Boys... the absolute fucking basics!”
At that Jenkins let out an astonished sound. Whether it came from his mouth, nose or ears wasn't quite sure. “Sir, have you lost your mind?” he gasped, “If we worked like that it'd be a complete mess before we've even began. We'd not be able to cross reference... back up each others statements... nothing! And have you forgotten our roles? We take notes because you do... that's how it works. You're the lead... it's your case.. we back it up. What was you imagining, that afterwards we'd all huddle together round back and confer???”
“Well, I wouldn't have called it 'confering',” Ransack shot back, “more a case of a friendly exchange of notes. But, no, you're quite right Jenkins... that's not the way of things. Surely the crime, the time, it's all got to me. Forty five minutes isn't long in such circumstances, and maybe it'd be smarter to use them correctly rather than wisely? Won't give us a headstart in solving the crime but at least the stars will all be nicely fucking aligned! Now where is this “securing' officer” Jenkins? … You've permission to lead the way!”
Jenkins felt baffled. It was as if a very simple joke had gone straight over his head. He had forced the issue, was absolutely correct in all he'd said, yet still, had somehow been completely outwitted. And Ransack knew it too – lingering behind, smarting at his own cleverness, and thinking that Jenkins may just think twice before opening his mouth again.
As Jenkins led the small group back down the hallway and out to find the securing officer, Davies dragged his feet until he was alongside Ransack. Ransack shot him a suspicious glare. “What d'you want, Davies?” he asked. “Why are you loitering alongside me at ear height?” Davies gave a smile that would have had him found guilty in any court outside of Nigeria, “It's nothing fantastic, Sir... only, am I really with you on this one? And walking the primary scene?”
Ransack didn't quite know what to make of such a question. All he could conclude from it for sure was that Davies, for whatever reason, wasn't his usual choice of partner. In that light Ransack gave a strategical response, one that even if wrong would serve firstly as a compliment, and secondly to encourage some loose talk from Davies mouth.
“Yes, you heard correctly... you're with me on this one,” said Ransack, “so I hope you've got your full wits about you, coz you'll be needing them. Anyway, what's so surprising about it? You're a great detective, Davies, why shouldn't you be going over the primary scene with me?”
“It's not about me in the primary scene, Sir... The surprise is that you'll be in there! You always take the secondary scenes... and alone. Well, you and a photographer. You put your success down to it, lecture on the under-investigated side of the secondary scene.... how it's the first trail leading to the 'physical criminal' and not to chasing or hunting down a 'psychological ghost'. We've all read your book, and it's really about that, how conventional police investigating focusses too much on “the drama of the reason” rather than trying to apprehend the suspect... that nowadays detectives can climb the ranks through 'brilliant profiling' regardless as to whether they actually catch that 'profile' or not. This'll be the first primary scene you've covered in nine years, Sir.... So it's a little surprising to hear... that's all.”
Inspector Ransack took in Davies' words with intent. Although he hadn't the slightest idea of what 'book' he had written, 'lectures' he had spoken, or 'theories' he held, it all seemed quite genius and left him salivating over his own brilliance. From what was said of him he also deduced he was quite a maverick, and as he was also in an obvious position of authority he also concluded that his unorthodox techniques must have yielded great results. Still, it was hard enough to figure out what the logical steps through a crime scene would be, let alone some oddball mavericks weird manoeuvrings and theories. He may just have a chance of busking and wriggling his way through normal, boring procedure but there was no way he'd be able to pull himself off (certainly not in public) and he knew it. Ransack lowered his eyes and looked off knowingly somewhere just left of Davies' right bollock.
“Well, maybe in all my years I've never seen anything quite like this,” he said sombrely, “.... maybe my thoughts/theories were based on more conventional crimes, things that become predictable and finally circumstantial. But what lays in that room, Davies... that mountain of flesh and shit and whatever else, well, that's not normal... to treat it as such would be a serious breach of duty. For all my fancy ideas I'm no different from any man in this house: I've never seen nor contemplated such a despicable mess before. So I think with this one, especially as the media will be involved, it'll be in all our interests to proceed along recommended codes of practice... it's back to basics. We're gonna play this one straight down the line, following the book to the letter.”
Jenkins must have been earwigging in, as it was his mouth which opened next, and once again one too many words fell out. “If we're following the book should we even be here, Sir?” he called back. “Making deals with the fucking collectors... ready to sidestep even the most basic aspects of protocol... ha, the book, don't make me laugh!”
On receiving his words Inspector Ransack boiled up. He had a feeling that even outside of amnesia he and Jenkins weren't the greatest of toilet buddies. He eyed the back of Jenkins' head, wondering what the hell he must do when someone undermines his charge? The answer was: he just didn't know. And so he called Jenkins, and when Jenkins turned around, Ransack shot him a stare like he was trying to melt meat.
(to be cont'd....)
There are times in life when we know we are alone. It's a feeling, and can happen anywhere. And no matter how many others are around it changes nothing, because this absolute loneliness always arrives at the height of our most personal inner moments; be it death, or serving for match in a tie-breaker for the US open. When Inspector Ransack dropped anchor and stopped in forward motion, he knew he was alone. He had been having one of his inner moments since he'd puffed up and decided on taking the lead. With a slight wince across his face he held still and concentrated, hoping to sense the company of his colleague behind him, but it was useless – Detective Davies was just not following. Ransack turned slowly around.
“Well come on Davies, move it along... you're with me on this one!” he said, though lacking any real authority. Even so, Davies squirmed in his shoes, desperately struggling not to surrender and obey the command. He looked up at the taller Jenkins for help. Jenkins gave him a subtle nod and then stepped forward. He had a weird, almost embarrassed smirk on his face. He started off hesitantly. “Sir, erhm, shouldn't we speak to the securing officer first? Maybe take his statement? Find out how he came to be upon the scene? Enquire about witnesses, etc? I mean, really, at the moment we don't know Jack Shit, Sir... for all we know the murderer could be sitting cuffed in the kitchen after having called the law on himself! We need to know such things... they change the way we even look at the scene, nevermind process it. Even by your standard this is strange, Sir... more than strange!”
From the looks on both his colleagues faces Ransack knew he had fucked up, overlooked a huge lump of basic protocol which it seemed wasn't for the missing. He had been preoccupied about making such a balls-up from the very start, and now it had happened and barely four footsteps into the investigation. Fortunately for Ransack there just wasn't the time to panic, he could only react.
“Are you seriously telling me that neither one of you two cones had the initiative to take care of that? Jesus Christ!! These are the basics, Boys... the absolute fucking basics!”
At that Jenkins let out an astonished sound. Whether it came from his mouth, nose or ears wasn't quite sure. “Sir, have you lost your mind?” he gasped, “If we worked like that it'd be a complete mess before we've even began. We'd not be able to cross reference... back up each others statements... nothing! And have you forgotten our roles? We take notes because you do... that's how it works. You're the lead... it's your case.. we back it up. What was you imagining, that afterwards we'd all huddle together round back and confer???”
“Well, I wouldn't have called it 'confering',” Ransack shot back, “more a case of a friendly exchange of notes. But, no, you're quite right Jenkins... that's not the way of things. Surely the crime, the time, it's all got to me. Forty five minutes isn't long in such circumstances, and maybe it'd be smarter to use them correctly rather than wisely? Won't give us a headstart in solving the crime but at least the stars will all be nicely fucking aligned! Now where is this “securing' officer” Jenkins? … You've permission to lead the way!”
Jenkins felt baffled. It was as if a very simple joke had gone straight over his head. He had forced the issue, was absolutely correct in all he'd said, yet still, had somehow been completely outwitted. And Ransack knew it too – lingering behind, smarting at his own cleverness, and thinking that Jenkins may just think twice before opening his mouth again.
As Jenkins led the small group back down the hallway and out to find the securing officer, Davies dragged his feet until he was alongside Ransack. Ransack shot him a suspicious glare. “What d'you want, Davies?” he asked. “Why are you loitering alongside me at ear height?” Davies gave a smile that would have had him found guilty in any court outside of Nigeria, “It's nothing fantastic, Sir... only, am I really with you on this one? And walking the primary scene?”
Ransack didn't quite know what to make of such a question. All he could conclude from it for sure was that Davies, for whatever reason, wasn't his usual choice of partner. In that light Ransack gave a strategical response, one that even if wrong would serve firstly as a compliment, and secondly to encourage some loose talk from Davies mouth.
“Yes, you heard correctly... you're with me on this one,” said Ransack, “so I hope you've got your full wits about you, coz you'll be needing them. Anyway, what's so surprising about it? You're a great detective, Davies, why shouldn't you be going over the primary scene with me?”
“It's not about me in the primary scene, Sir... The surprise is that you'll be in there! You always take the secondary scenes... and alone. Well, you and a photographer. You put your success down to it, lecture on the under-investigated side of the secondary scene.... how it's the first trail leading to the 'physical criminal' and not to chasing or hunting down a 'psychological ghost'. We've all read your book, and it's really about that, how conventional police investigating focusses too much on “the drama of the reason” rather than trying to apprehend the suspect... that nowadays detectives can climb the ranks through 'brilliant profiling' regardless as to whether they actually catch that 'profile' or not. This'll be the first primary scene you've covered in nine years, Sir.... So it's a little surprising to hear... that's all.”
Inspector Ransack took in Davies' words with intent. Although he hadn't the slightest idea of what 'book' he had written, 'lectures' he had spoken, or 'theories' he held, it all seemed quite genius and left him salivating over his own brilliance. From what was said of him he also deduced he was quite a maverick, and as he was also in an obvious position of authority he also concluded that his unorthodox techniques must have yielded great results. Still, it was hard enough to figure out what the logical steps through a crime scene would be, let alone some oddball mavericks weird manoeuvrings and theories. He may just have a chance of busking and wriggling his way through normal, boring procedure but there was no way he'd be able to pull himself off (certainly not in public) and he knew it. Ransack lowered his eyes and looked off knowingly somewhere just left of Davies' right bollock.
“Well, maybe in all my years I've never seen anything quite like this,” he said sombrely, “.... maybe my thoughts/theories were based on more conventional crimes, things that become predictable and finally circumstantial. But what lays in that room, Davies... that mountain of flesh and shit and whatever else, well, that's not normal... to treat it as such would be a serious breach of duty. For all my fancy ideas I'm no different from any man in this house: I've never seen nor contemplated such a despicable mess before. So I think with this one, especially as the media will be involved, it'll be in all our interests to proceed along recommended codes of practice... it's back to basics. We're gonna play this one straight down the line, following the book to the letter.”
Jenkins must have been earwigging in, as it was his mouth which opened next, and once again one too many words fell out. “If we're following the book should we even be here, Sir?” he called back. “Making deals with the fucking collectors... ready to sidestep even the most basic aspects of protocol... ha, the book, don't make me laugh!”
On receiving his words Inspector Ransack boiled up. He had a feeling that even outside of amnesia he and Jenkins weren't the greatest of toilet buddies. He eyed the back of Jenkins' head, wondering what the hell he must do when someone undermines his charge? The answer was: he just didn't know. And so he called Jenkins, and when Jenkins turned around, Ransack shot him a stare like he was trying to melt meat.
(to be cont'd....)
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness - Part 2
.
With his tall, slightly stooped back to his colleagues Ransack tried desperately to think. His head was filling up with a building pressure. He could feel it everywhere, a pounding of confusion which let him know that time was moving on and he was expected to do something about it. Even from behind he looked bemused. .
"...SIR... sir... SIR... Sir...” The words floated in and around his consciousness like dreamsmoke, finally registering in some far recess and leading him out into reality.
“Er... Yes.... What is it...What?... Who called me?” asked Ransack, turning around looking physically disorientated. He steadied himself on the bedroom dresser. His legs seemed quite unsure of their function.
“Sir, it's just Davies has spoken with forensics and they're waiting on us.... we need to get cracking.”
"Yes... Cracking... ? … W'eve got to crack on with it!" said Ransack to The Man Who Wasn't Davies. "God! It's just sometimes these things cease you up, makes you forget such banalities for a moment - no matter who you are! It's a sick world and it's getting sicker... What in the hell kind of monster would do something like this?!"
For a moment all three men slid their eyes back across to the atrocity laying in the far corner of the room. Ransack was right, it was a sick world, though not that he cared for any of that right now. All that interested him was seconds worth of wriggling space, and he would make a play for them using whatever means it took.
Cutting short his meditation on the despicable scum of modern life Ransack quietly slipped out the room, his head lowered but his eyes struck forward looking at hands and feet and badges; his ears open to catch names or other snippets of information which would maybe help him piece together just what his next move should be. As he drifted about the crime scene he felt dizzy and non-existent, like he wasn't really there – rather trapped in some nightmarish drunken state, where things not only looked unfamiliar but bizarre too. Seeing nothing but scary looking forensic collectors, pottering about measuring things or sealing off passages, ransack returned to the safety of power, making his way back over towards his team who were now waiting for him outside the bedroom. Ransack's head started pounding again. It felt like his airways were being constricted. He clawed two fingers down over his tie and tugged it loose a couple of drops.
"Er, Davies,” asked ransack, “ you say those men, the foreign six, are waiting on me? Us?"
"You mean the 'forensics', Sir. Yes,” said a young fair haired detective with a pigbutton nose, “we've haggled forty five minutes outta them and then must give the place over. Because of the mess they don't want anymore than two of us and a flasher entering either of the primary scenes. The secondary scene, which encompasses the rest of the house, the back yard, and of course the main exit and front yard, same story: 45 minutes."
Ransack let out a long puff of air and tried to make it look like he was thinking. He was, kinda, but not on the crime rather on what were primary and secondary scenes, was 45 minutes long or short for such things, where does he get a photographer from? Is one of his team the photographer? Who will record anything else? How and where should it be recorded? Can he take things? Move things? Bag things? Where are bags? In short: what the fuck was he supposed to do? One thing he did know is that he was not a seemingly successful detective for no reason. Already he could feel his mind processing his current predicament in a detective-kinda way, taking in and analysing all that was going on... calculating sly ways to extract information, and using a system of logical subtraction to conclude the unknown. That gave him a reassuring self-confidence. He at least felt he was a man of ability, and not one who had sucked, fisted or stabbed his way to the top.
As such thoughts went through Ransack's mind he started to believe that this was far from a hopeless situation, that he was smart enough to get through it. Already, just through words and acts, he had sussed out so much. He even knew the name of one of his subordinates and was pretty sure he'd soon discover who the other was. And even if he didn't, so what!? There was no doubting that he had enough authority to get away with forgetting a name. And it was that authority, that privilege of power, which would maybe save his bacon.
With a sudden loud clap of the hands Inspector Ransack got everyones attention: “Ok boys, forty five minutes... let's be 'aving yous then! Davies you grab a photographer and follow me, and you , er... er....”
“Jenkins, sir?”
“Yes, exactly! Jenkins, you'll work through the secondary scene alone until the photographer can join you. If you've any questions, save them for over coffee and biscuits... now's not the time! We need to get moving, get prooving, get what we Got and Get the fuck out!”
Ransack was impassioned. It was a great speech. Only not a speech that should ever come from the mouth of a renowned Detective Inspector heading up a murder investigation. It was b-movie talk, or even worse, dialogue like you'll only ever read in fifth rate internet fiction. Luckily for Ransack he remained blissfully unaware, moving off at a pace that he hoped would drag Davies into action with him...
With his tall, slightly stooped back to his colleagues Ransack tried desperately to think. His head was filling up with a building pressure. He could feel it everywhere, a pounding of confusion which let him know that time was moving on and he was expected to do something about it. Even from behind he looked bemused. .
"...SIR... sir... SIR... Sir...” The words floated in and around his consciousness like dreamsmoke, finally registering in some far recess and leading him out into reality.
“Er... Yes.... What is it...What?... Who called me?” asked Ransack, turning around looking physically disorientated. He steadied himself on the bedroom dresser. His legs seemed quite unsure of their function.
“Sir, it's just Davies has spoken with forensics and they're waiting on us.... we need to get cracking.”
"Yes... Cracking... ? … W'eve got to crack on with it!" said Ransack to The Man Who Wasn't Davies. "God! It's just sometimes these things cease you up, makes you forget such banalities for a moment - no matter who you are! It's a sick world and it's getting sicker... What in the hell kind of monster would do something like this?!"
For a moment all three men slid their eyes back across to the atrocity laying in the far corner of the room. Ransack was right, it was a sick world, though not that he cared for any of that right now. All that interested him was seconds worth of wriggling space, and he would make a play for them using whatever means it took.
Cutting short his meditation on the despicable scum of modern life Ransack quietly slipped out the room, his head lowered but his eyes struck forward looking at hands and feet and badges; his ears open to catch names or other snippets of information which would maybe help him piece together just what his next move should be. As he drifted about the crime scene he felt dizzy and non-existent, like he wasn't really there – rather trapped in some nightmarish drunken state, where things not only looked unfamiliar but bizarre too. Seeing nothing but scary looking forensic collectors, pottering about measuring things or sealing off passages, ransack returned to the safety of power, making his way back over towards his team who were now waiting for him outside the bedroom. Ransack's head started pounding again. It felt like his airways were being constricted. He clawed two fingers down over his tie and tugged it loose a couple of drops.
"Er, Davies,” asked ransack, “ you say those men, the foreign six, are waiting on me? Us?"
"You mean the 'forensics', Sir. Yes,” said a young fair haired detective with a pigbutton nose, “we've haggled forty five minutes outta them and then must give the place over. Because of the mess they don't want anymore than two of us and a flasher entering either of the primary scenes. The secondary scene, which encompasses the rest of the house, the back yard, and of course the main exit and front yard, same story: 45 minutes."
Ransack let out a long puff of air and tried to make it look like he was thinking. He was, kinda, but not on the crime rather on what were primary and secondary scenes, was 45 minutes long or short for such things, where does he get a photographer from? Is one of his team the photographer? Who will record anything else? How and where should it be recorded? Can he take things? Move things? Bag things? Where are bags? In short: what the fuck was he supposed to do? One thing he did know is that he was not a seemingly successful detective for no reason. Already he could feel his mind processing his current predicament in a detective-kinda way, taking in and analysing all that was going on... calculating sly ways to extract information, and using a system of logical subtraction to conclude the unknown. That gave him a reassuring self-confidence. He at least felt he was a man of ability, and not one who had sucked, fisted or stabbed his way to the top.
As such thoughts went through Ransack's mind he started to believe that this was far from a hopeless situation, that he was smart enough to get through it. Already, just through words and acts, he had sussed out so much. He even knew the name of one of his subordinates and was pretty sure he'd soon discover who the other was. And even if he didn't, so what!? There was no doubting that he had enough authority to get away with forgetting a name. And it was that authority, that privilege of power, which would maybe save his bacon.
With a sudden loud clap of the hands Inspector Ransack got everyones attention: “Ok boys, forty five minutes... let's be 'aving yous then! Davies you grab a photographer and follow me, and you , er... er....”
“Jenkins, sir?”
“Yes, exactly! Jenkins, you'll work through the secondary scene alone until the photographer can join you. If you've any questions, save them for over coffee and biscuits... now's not the time! We need to get moving, get prooving, get what we Got and Get the fuck out!”
Ransack was impassioned. It was a great speech. Only not a speech that should ever come from the mouth of a renowned Detective Inspector heading up a murder investigation. It was b-movie talk, or even worse, dialogue like you'll only ever read in fifth rate internet fiction. Luckily for Ransack he remained blissfully unaware, moving off at a pace that he hoped would drag Davies into action with him...
A Bad Case of Forgetfulness
It was a grisly murder, maybe the worst there has ever been. Outside No.34 the cordons were up and the sky was depressed above it. There was no rain, just dark metallic clouds and off in the distance a weird pewter light that spoke of storm and said the world is a wild and dangerous place. Down along the street the trees were dressed for autumn, and amongst rustic yellows and faded greens there were leaves the colour of fire and leaves the colour of blood. From the north a wind blew in which whipped up dust and made dogs whine. And with the wind there came three men, and one was dressed in black.
It was a tall, slightly stooped figure who ducked in under the police tape first and made his way over towards the small crowd of uniformed officers and forensics who were gathered outside the house. A cigarette end hit the pavement and sparked, then a shiny patent leather shoe closed in over it and scrunched it into the ground. “Detective Inspector Mike Ransack, South Thames Police,” he said, shaking a hand here and there. "Where's the body?”
A man in a white forensic suit pulled his hood back and dropped his mask, "What's left of it's in the bedroom 'round back, “he said. “Though be warned, it's not a pretty sight."
“It never is,” replied Ransack, “but I'm not here for a hard-on!”
Ransack didn't hang about. He continued up to the house, tensed his face into a serious shape, and entered waving his small team in behind him. As they followed the general buzz of activity along the unlit hallway Ransack poked his head into various rooms trying to pick up a general feel of who may be shot or battered to pieces in the end room. Over the years crime scenes had become second nature to him and he had acquired a bored, almost cynical regard towards them. He knew only too well that even if the locations are different, or the murder executed in some ever more stupendous way, his job (and everyone's around him) was intrinsically the same each time: they would come, do their thing and then leave. It is slow, formulated work, a matter of capturing every single detail as it was left, and bagging the trail of clues which lead to and away from the body. As a little indicator of his experience in such matters, Ransack would often be seen showing a nonchalant disregard for certain objects of evidence - handling photographs... using ashtrays... lifting up pots, etc, classing them as “pieces of shit!” and knowing that they were not evidence at all and would more than likely finish up in police auction rooms up and down the country. Today however there was nothing to touch, not yet anyway. The hallway was completely bare of any furnishings, the only thing vaguely ornamental being a young uniformed officer who stood guard outside a dark room at the bottom.
Ransack approached the uniformed constable. “Was it you who called the scene?” he asked.
The young officer pulled his mask down, “No sir, it was PC Barnes. He's in the kitchen still quite shook up. I arrived as backup to his initial alert.”
The young officer pulled his mask down, “No sir, it was PC Barnes. He's in the kitchen still quite shook up. I arrived as backup to his initial alert.”
“And have you entered the room?” asked Ransack.
“No Sir.. not really. I put a foot in and peered around the door, but I never entered. God, seeing it was enough... more than enough!”
Ransack nodded like he understood, but really he didn't. He only understood cold indifference to such sights and viewed any other emotion as being potentially damaging to the investigative procedure. “Has anyone entered the room?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir. Three forensic collectors and a doctor. But they didn't stay... had a brief look and then left almost immediately.”
“OK, that's fine,” concluded the inspector. “At least this time those arseholes haven't fucked up my investigation before its even got off the ground!”
Ransack then stood silent, kinda looking off into nowhere. He had fussed around enough, asking quite useless questions as a way to build the tension and savour the suspense of the moment. As a final little delaying tactic he moved his eyes over to the bedroom. The door was pushed wide open and a dull depressing light sat low inside. Even from where he stood blood was visible, splatterred up the far wall and also huge smears across the visible stretch of carpet to the right. Ransack moved forward and stopped at the doorway. He looked intently at the uniformed officer who averted his gaze and started up with a slow shaking of his head. Ransack cast a puzzled look back towards his two colleagues then entered the room and froze.
A body. God! More a mash of flesh. Is that even human? Jesus! Blood! An arm. Maybe? Stabbed and torn and stamped and ripped open. Bare bone. Oh no! Jesus, no! Shouldn't a head be there? Is that a head?! Fuck! What the hell smashed that in? And who did the smashing? Oh, Mother of Christ! Slithers of 'stuff'. WTF! A huge grey damaged sack leading from what was maybe once the belly. Intestines? Whale blubber? Haggis? God, no! Skin turned inside out. Yellow fish eggs. Exposed and ripped flesh. Red fish eggs. No, no, NO! A large room with atrocious carnage slumped in the left corner, where a million things could or could not have happened! Jesus H Christ! What the fuck !
“Oh My...!!!”
“what in the hell???”
“...holy mother of fuck!!!”
“Sir... sir.. sir........”
Ransack was rooted to the spot. He felt that weird feeling he had felt once before on the night he had entered the bridal suite and seen his angelic wife splayed and ready on the bed wearing the crooked smile of a street whore. That weird feeling that had made him panic, feel nauseous and desperate to escape. Which had left him incapable of flapping even a semi hard-on into his disobedient penis . Indeed, he was suddenly so confused that he was quite unsure as to whether it was he who had even gotten married, and if not, wondering what the hell he was doing in a bridal suite in such a predicament?
“Wedding night nerves!” his doctor friend explained, after Ransack had closed himself in the bathroom and made a frantic call to the sound of running water. But Ransack knew better. It was more than nerves or panic he was suffering from. There was nothing of him there, just an empty feeling down below and an even emptier feeling in his head, which had froze him to the spot and made all actions seem alien and tricky. Well, now it had happened again... only worse: for the second time in his life, Detective Inspector Mike Ransack had not quite forgotten who he was, but how to do the things he was charged to do. And so, as he did on his wedding night, trying to insert a scrunched up, limp and useless penis into his wife (going as far as pushing his balls in to give more of a pack ) so now it was time for him to improvise again – to rely on skills that go further back than anyone can ever remember...
(to be cont'd....)
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