|main menu | youngsters categories | authors | new stories | search | links | settings | author tools|
|The Dead Don't Talk (standard:horror, 7999 words)|
|Author: Grace Hunter||Added: Aug 02 2006||Views/Reads: 1712/1133||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|This is a story about a New York detective, who has visions of her victems deaths. She sees strange apperitions that gide her through the horrors and puzzles that her ex-partner has trouble beliving in. Until now.|
The Dead Don't Talk. The apartment was dark when I entered, long bloody tracks were already beginning to turn brown, leading from the wood stained sitting room up the two steps on to the small corridor, that then navigated the team and I into the bathroom. The bright fluorescent light blinked as if it had been knocked by the killers arm, or the instrument that he wielded above his head to knock her down in such a peculiar position. Her arm was draped over the high raised sink, while the top half of her body was slumped over the bath's edge. She was dressed in a silk night dress that was unrecognisable of ever been white. The chequered black and white tiled floor was drenched with the thick, syrup like blood, while on one of the walls a long hand print ran downward almost like the person had slipped in his own handy work, or could it just be her husbands panic stricken steps into his wifes disturbing, resting place. It wouldn't surprise me if we tagged the husband in the next 24 hours, it always ended in the same way these kind of cases, they just always seemed to open and close on their own. Behind me, I could hear the click of the forensic cameras and the slight brush of a presence behind made me look round. The apartment had become surprisingly cold making me fold my arms over my body, however, people around seemed not to feel the chilling draft. “Detective Scott, is everything alright?” A squeaky voice spoke at me from the corridor that drew my attention round. The head forensic photographer, Alice Cooms, pulled free her face mask, smiling widely in her cheeky almost childlike grin. Her auburn eyes went to the body inside the small room and her smile dropped. “No matter how many times you see something like that you can't help but feel sick to your stomach. So what you doing for supper?” She laughed, after all everyone who deals with murders all day has to have some kind of sense of humour no matter how morbid. It was just the way they were. I smiled back politely, not wanting to offend. “Do you know where the husband is?” I asked getting back to the work at hand. “With Detective Lock, he came just after the first police squad car showed up. Did he not radio you?” she asked “With him, the word partner means nothing. I had to hear about it on the radio scanner.” I shook my head becoming hot under the collar when a hand took my shoulder. “Scott what are you still doing here? John already has the husband at the station, he's waiting for you to start the questioning” It was the sergeant of the homicide borough. Allan McManus a tall gaunt man with a thick moustache and thin glasses. His brown suits were always perfectly ironed even at this time of the night and it was all thanks to his stay at home wife, Margery. I knew what kind of man McManus was, an over confident control freak, if he was like that at work I hated to think what he was like at home. “I'm on my way, sir.” The office was quiet, everyone opting for the morning shifts rather then the dead shift at night. I on the other hand only ever took the night shift, finding the nights work far less strenuous and all the facilities were easy to access rather than having to fight for resources. The other detective, my partner, John Lock was so used to being, almost the only person on shift at this time of night, I think he even sometimes forgets I work the graveyard shift too. Coming to the interview room with my cup of coffee still steaming in my hand I pushed open the door with my left shoulder into the small room. John shook his head as I glanced to him, then he tapped his wrist watch. He was dressed in casual clothes, a blue t-shirt, brown combats and a pair of base ball sneakers. It was very unlike him to be dressed in a suit. I had to admit he was unorthodox. On the other side of the Click here to read the rest of this story (790 more lines)
Authors appreciate feedback!
Please vote, and write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
Grace Hunter has 1 active stories on this site.
Profile for Grace Hunter, incl. all stories
For a quick, anonymous response to the author of this story, type
a message below. It will be sent to the author by email.