This week's prompt was: write a 1000 word story about someone who has no self awareness, or, alternatively, someone who has far too much. Include the following words: curve, substitution, relief, sacrifice, strikeout.
I surprised myself when I found Gemma Burton making an early re-appearance!
A Question of Intention
I like baseball. I like DVD's. Jim will not let me have one. Jim is not here. I will have a DVD. There is a DVD about baseball. That is my DVD.
---
"Oh come on, Sarge! You must be kidding."
Detective Constable Burton looked up from the statement made by the arresting officer and fixed the eyes of her bemused supervisor.
"This kid was arrested at 2.00pm yesterday. He's been in the cells for nearly 18 hours. And for what? A DVD of an old movie that was on the 'reduced to clear' stand. What the hell was 'Bull Durham' about anyway?"
Sergeant Smith had composed himself during the short tirade and projected unmoved authority when he responded, "You know the score, Gemma. Shoplifters WILL be prosecuted. It says so all over the shop he was arrested in. Now get down to custody, make him cough and put the job to bed."
Smith felt relief as DC Burton left the office. His eye lingered a little too long on the curve of her posterior as the door swung to.
The young detective felt uneasy as she walked the corridors of the enormous city centre police station heading for the custody suite. The arresting officer had kept his statement to the bare bones of necessity: attendance at the shopping precinct in response to a 'shout' on the radio, the suspect detained in a back office of the media outlet in company with store security men, an unpaid for DVD on the small table in front of him, confirmation of personal details. All very straightforward. It was the matter of fact responses from the suspect recorded by the arresting officer that jarred. Perhaps he had abbreviated what had been said. In her book there was no substitution for being thorough and truthful about what a suspect had to say. "Lazy arse," muttered DC Burton to no-one in particular under her breath.
---
I do not like this room. I do not like these men. Jim is not here. I should not talk to anyone without him.
Here is a new man. He is a police man. I can talk to a police man.
"What's your name, son?"
"Martin Johnson."
"Did you take this DVD?"
You are here with me. The DVD is here. You know this so I do not answer.
"Martin Johnson, I am arresting you on suspicion of theft. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
---
Custody was as busy as always. Police officers trying to make progress had to learn to live with the ever present necessity of competing for the attention of the Custody Sergeants. Gemma Burton patiently joined the queue.
"Well good morning, Ms Burton. Jolly nice to have a detective of the plain clothes variety join us uniformed low-life this morning."
Sergeant MacIntyre was old school. He treated Gemma Burton to a big wink.
"Good morning Mac," Gemma said while returning the favour with her brightest smile. "Tell me about young Mr Johnson in C2 please."
"He wasn't seen yesterday," said Mac. "Not enough hands available. I spoke to Johnson this morning when I came on. He wasn't really making any sense so although he's 22 I've got an appropriate adult to have a look at him. I also sent a car round to his address to see if anyone could shed any light. Strikeout - there was no answer."
---
I don't like this room. It is not comfortable and it is too bright. I want Jim.
"Hi Martin. My name is Bill. I'm a volunteer with the appropriate adult service. It's my job to look after your welfare while in custody. Do you know why you're here?"
Martin was sat on a cell mattress. Bill touched Martin on his shoulder and tried in vain to make eye contact. Martin pulled away and, drawing his legs up to his chest, started to rock backwards and forwards.
Bill is not Jim. Bill is not a policeman. I must not speak to him.
---
"Hi, I'm Bill Flitwick, appropriate adult service. Are you the interviewing officer?"
"Yes, I am, DC Gemma Burton. What do you think Bill?"
"To be honest I'm not happy. Martin is very unresponsive. Are you ok for half an hour while I check things out with Social Services?"
"No problem. I'm going back up to the CID office. It's a real sacrifice but I'll get myself another coffee. Give me a call when you're done."
---
Jim was asleep. He was lying on the floor. I wanted to go out. Jim would not wake up. Day and night. Day and night. I wanted a DVD. Jim would not wake up and take me. I had eaten all the jam. I let myself out. I want to go home now.
---
Gemma Burton had finished her coffee. She was trying to read a forensic report in relation to another case. It was hard to focus. She found herself distracted by Martin Johnson.
The phone rang and she picked it up straightaway.
"Hi Gemma. It's Bill. I've spoken to Social Services. Martin is known to them. Apparently, he is autistic. He lives with his step-dad, Jim Bradbury. I've tried getting him on the mobile and landline numbers on record but he hasn't picked up."
"Thanks for that, Bill. As far as I know Jim hasn't tried to contact us either. You'd think we would have heard from him by now if he was concerned or, for that matter, able to be concerned about Martin."
Gemma paused for a moment, deep in thought.
"I'm going to send uniformed officers back round to the address. This time we need to take a look inside."
Tuesday 28 August 2012
Wednesday 22 August 2012
Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 93
See the link under Noteworthy Blogs to Flash Fiction Friday. Cycle 93 invites stories using the following words.
Traffic, New Shoes, Calculus, Bus Stop, School, Principal
Trajectory
Detective Constable Burton opened the nearside passenger door of the marked patrol car and let Maureen out by the hospital entrance. The car was parked in an area marked ‘AMBULANCES ONLY’. DC Burton didn’t care.
“What do I call you?” Maureen asked.
“Gemma is fine,” replied the officer.
Ten minutes later DC Burton and her charge were in the waiting room of the pathology department. Maureen was sniffling into the handkerchief offered her by the officer when they first sat down. At least, Gemma thought, she had remembered to pick up a clean one when leaving for work this morning.
A heavy swing door opened. The rubber draught trap attached to the bottom edge caught on the linoleum. It made the same noise as the sliding door effect on Star Trek. Gemma noticed and idly wondered if Maureen got it as well.
A man in a surgical gown approached them. Gemma caught sight of the bodily fluid stains. She hoped Maureen was oblivious. After introducing himself as Richard Tindal, Principal Pathologist, Gemma and Maureen were taken through the door and down a short corridor. It was modern and spotlessly clean. Another heavy door led to a room with nothing other than a gurney situated in the middle. It was clear there was a body under the sheet.
Maureen gasped and gripped Gemma’s hand. Afterwards DC Burton remembered that there had been no hesitation to Maureen’s recognition of Paul, her 14 year old son. The moment was followed by visceral, uncontrolled grief. Gemma did her best to comfort Maureen. Until a couple of hours ago she had never met the woman. Now DC Burton was the person Maureen turned to in a moment of utter torment. Gemma tried hard to be detached and professional. It was tough. The poignancy of Maureen being handed the boy’s clothes and commenting that he had only worn his new shoes once was almost too much.
The drive from the hospital to Maureen’s house was slow going. The rush hour traffic didn’t help. Maureen’s silence was punctuated only by her sobs. Gemma felt guilty for wishing the job could be over and found the prospect of attempting small talk impossible.
"Maureen, I know this is difficult but I need to ask a few questions if you feel up to it," said DC Burton. She had made a cup of tea for the two of them. Maureen sat huddled up on her sofa. There were so many reminders of Paul around her; photos on the mantlepiece, a jacket left carelessly on a chair back, a text book on calculus.
"The accident reconstruction boys will be using that," Gemma said, nodding towards the book.
"What?"
"Calculus, Maureen. It will be possible to work out an approximation of how fast the driver was going when he hit Paul. We know how far he was carried by the collision. His trajectory will tell us a lot about the behaviour of the driver."
"Have you got a registration number?"
"Yes, well, a partial one anyway. With the description of the car it should be enough."
Maureen told DC Burton how Paul had left home that morning, the first of the new school term. From the timing Gemma was able to surmise that he had been at the bus stop 250 metres from his house for about ten minutes before the impact. Witnesses had described how Paul stepped off the kerb as if intending to cross the road and go to a shop on the other side. The green car seemingly appeared from nowhere and hit him. There was no attempt to slow down or stop afterwards.
Gemma knew the Coroner, at the very least, would want family background information. She coaxed Maureen into disclosing that the last few weeks had been difficult but Paul had seemed to cope alright. Mike, Paul's step-father, had eventually left Maureen after a melt down in their relationship. Threats had been made but Maureen blamed herself because of her affair and she put some of the things Mike had said down to the hurt he must have been feeling.
"We will need to speak to him, just to get the complete picture, Maureen."
"Ok."
"Do you have an address or telephone number?"
"No, he's not been in touch and I don't know where he's staying. I tried his mobile but he must have changed it."
"Does he have a car?"
"Yes."
"Do you know the registration number?"
"Not off the top of my head but I've got some old insurance documents in a drawer somewhere."
After a couple of minutes Maureen returned to the living room and handed Gemma a clutch of papers. Gemma looked at the details. The insured car was a green Renault Megane. The VRN - Vehicle Registration Number - was NX09 OJD. That rang a bell. Gemma got her iPhone out. She had been receiving regular emails with updates on enquiries being undertaken by colleagues. There it was. The partial registration number; OJD.
The officer made an excuse and stepped into the kitchen. She hit a number in speed dial.
"Sarge, I've reason to believe the fatal hit and run was deliberate."
Traffic, New Shoes, Calculus, Bus Stop, School, Principal
Trajectory
Detective Constable Burton opened the nearside passenger door of the marked patrol car and let Maureen out by the hospital entrance. The car was parked in an area marked ‘AMBULANCES ONLY’. DC Burton didn’t care.
“What do I call you?” Maureen asked.
“Gemma is fine,” replied the officer.
Ten minutes later DC Burton and her charge were in the waiting room of the pathology department. Maureen was sniffling into the handkerchief offered her by the officer when they first sat down. At least, Gemma thought, she had remembered to pick up a clean one when leaving for work this morning.
A heavy swing door opened. The rubber draught trap attached to the bottom edge caught on the linoleum. It made the same noise as the sliding door effect on Star Trek. Gemma noticed and idly wondered if Maureen got it as well.
A man in a surgical gown approached them. Gemma caught sight of the bodily fluid stains. She hoped Maureen was oblivious. After introducing himself as Richard Tindal, Principal Pathologist, Gemma and Maureen were taken through the door and down a short corridor. It was modern and spotlessly clean. Another heavy door led to a room with nothing other than a gurney situated in the middle. It was clear there was a body under the sheet.
Maureen gasped and gripped Gemma’s hand. Afterwards DC Burton remembered that there had been no hesitation to Maureen’s recognition of Paul, her 14 year old son. The moment was followed by visceral, uncontrolled grief. Gemma did her best to comfort Maureen. Until a couple of hours ago she had never met the woman. Now DC Burton was the person Maureen turned to in a moment of utter torment. Gemma tried hard to be detached and professional. It was tough. The poignancy of Maureen being handed the boy’s clothes and commenting that he had only worn his new shoes once was almost too much.
The drive from the hospital to Maureen’s house was slow going. The rush hour traffic didn’t help. Maureen’s silence was punctuated only by her sobs. Gemma felt guilty for wishing the job could be over and found the prospect of attempting small talk impossible.
"Maureen, I know this is difficult but I need to ask a few questions if you feel up to it," said DC Burton. She had made a cup of tea for the two of them. Maureen sat huddled up on her sofa. There were so many reminders of Paul around her; photos on the mantlepiece, a jacket left carelessly on a chair back, a text book on calculus.
"The accident reconstruction boys will be using that," Gemma said, nodding towards the book.
"What?"
"Calculus, Maureen. It will be possible to work out an approximation of how fast the driver was going when he hit Paul. We know how far he was carried by the collision. His trajectory will tell us a lot about the behaviour of the driver."
"Have you got a registration number?"
"Yes, well, a partial one anyway. With the description of the car it should be enough."
Maureen told DC Burton how Paul had left home that morning, the first of the new school term. From the timing Gemma was able to surmise that he had been at the bus stop 250 metres from his house for about ten minutes before the impact. Witnesses had described how Paul stepped off the kerb as if intending to cross the road and go to a shop on the other side. The green car seemingly appeared from nowhere and hit him. There was no attempt to slow down or stop afterwards.
Gemma knew the Coroner, at the very least, would want family background information. She coaxed Maureen into disclosing that the last few weeks had been difficult but Paul had seemed to cope alright. Mike, Paul's step-father, had eventually left Maureen after a melt down in their relationship. Threats had been made but Maureen blamed herself because of her affair and she put some of the things Mike had said down to the hurt he must have been feeling.
"We will need to speak to him, just to get the complete picture, Maureen."
"Ok."
"Do you have an address or telephone number?"
"No, he's not been in touch and I don't know where he's staying. I tried his mobile but he must have changed it."
"Does he have a car?"
"Yes."
"Do you know the registration number?"
"Not off the top of my head but I've got some old insurance documents in a drawer somewhere."
After a couple of minutes Maureen returned to the living room and handed Gemma a clutch of papers. Gemma looked at the details. The insured car was a green Renault Megane. The VRN - Vehicle Registration Number - was NX09 OJD. That rang a bell. Gemma got her iPhone out. She had been receiving regular emails with updates on enquiries being undertaken by colleagues. There it was. The partial registration number; OJD.
The officer made an excuse and stepped into the kitchen. She hit a number in speed dial.
"Sarge, I've reason to believe the fatal hit and run was deliberate."
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