Post by The Thought Police (admin) on Dec 3, 2014 8:38:12 GMT -5
Detective Story
The sun failed to pierce the acrid grey smoke rising from below. The smoke mimicked the colour of the tarmac, the writhing nature of its steady climb an embodiment of the movement of the people below.
Scarlet dashed the tarmac, interlacing the lines on the road, seeping into the indifferent ground below. Shattered glass sparkled like diamonds, some crystal clear, some red, blood diamonds. The smell was powerful, overwhelming, enough to literally knock a man off his feet. A child sat screaming, a teddy forgotten and discarded by her side, even the illusion of innocence torn from her.
Even hours later, looking at the technicolour photographs of the scene, Detective Bruce couldn't imagine what could drive men to commit such an atrocity. They masqueraded behind veils of creed, politics, saying that they stood for a cause, a higher calling. Some would say that their instability was developed through a combination of upbringing and abuse, “a fragile childhood perpetuated by violence.”
A web of intricate red string tacked to numerous pictures and field reports dominated much of one of the darkened room's walls, it's sprawling features ghostly similar to those of a cancer, it's red tendrils creeping out and consuming the space, consuming Bruce's mind. No, that wasn't it. Some men are just evil, some men simply want to see the whole world torn apart. And it was his impossible assignment to deduce the culprit behind these events, to quantify the corrupt and wild thought process of a murderer, man-slaughterer, killer, mutilator... Hell, the list of nefarious acts rolled off the tongue as easily as the list of crimes on his arrest warrant. His dedication to the case could not be doubted by anyone, however dedication could easily slip into obsession, obsession into madness...
He knew these risks, but he knew also that he was stronger willed and better equipped than most for the task, and took it upon himself to decipher the clues presented to him and bring them to a more palatable level for a court to pass judgement.
A noise in the corner made him turn slightly, his young partner and apprentice, PC Wilson lay slumped on the office sofa, sleeping. Bruce let out a soft, almost cruel chuckle to himself. The rookie would have to get used to the 2am shifts if he wanted to make it in this world he had chosen, this world of flickering neon lights, strong caffeine in the blood and the drive of the case the only stimulation keeping a man standing, and the inevitable widening crevasse between you and your loved ones as the job becomes your life. Bruce thought back on the potent words his mentor had once told him; “A true detective never retires, he simply gives up.” He had told himself that this wasn't the case, yet with the recent upsurge in violence, with each blood-soaked case, as the bodies piled up around him, he couldn't help but feel a gnawing inside him, telling him to leave, to run while he still could, to hide from the horrors of the world and live life through the rose tinted glasses of the people he envied, normal people living their happy lives. But then he would remember his true calling, and his duty to protect the lives of the great innocent from the cruelty of the few.
His pager buzzed, it was the chief's secretary, they must be wanted in the Directors' room. He allowed himself a short gaze out of the half-blinded windows before rising, admiring the beauty of the grand Ulster Bank, lit softly in the night by white spotlights, the yellow glow of the city behind it.
“Wilson,” he gently gripped the officer's shoulder, “you need to wake up, the chief wants a debrief on the bomb attack.”
He yawned lazily, swatting at his face, slack with sleep.
“Give us a second boss, I feel halfway to death, let me wash my face first.”
After Bruce's junior made his appearance respectable, they departed the dim office into the harsh, clinical white light of one of the station's corridor's, their hard-bottomed brogues clacking on the marbled floor. The building was old, very old, a magnificent fortress of a building which gave the increasingly perturbed public out-with it's walls at least a slight sense of security, a reminder that even during these most lawless of times, law and it's upholders still remained.
The doorman to the directors' room opened the entrance nodding respectfully towards Bruce and Wilson as he did, the bulge of a concealed handgun evident over his chest. Much of the police force's best and brightest were already seated around large table in the centre of the room, rolled sleeves, loose ties, cigarettes burning to the filter in ashtrays spread around the table. Several of the men and women rose halfway from their seats with Bruce and Wilson's arrivals, handshakes exchanged, murmurs in private, the secret code of conduct for these tight knit colleagues. Piles of paper like leaning towers were scattered all around, scribbled notes switching hands and calls being made, the dynamic of it all appeared entirely undisciplined, the phrase “bull in a china shop” springing to mind.
At the head of the table sat a man cool in his composure, emanating authority with his strong seated posture, a discarded Police chief's jacket slumped over the back of his chair, forgotten amidst the pace of proceedings. He looked up briefly from the monstrous pile of correspondence before him, sheets of paper piled into small mountains, a sense of relief conveyed from his eyes at the sight of Detective Bruce, a man whom he had a great deal of respect for. Placing his hands firmly on the table, he pushed his hulking form out of the chair and grasped Bruce's hands firmly in his own, shaking powerfully.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your full attention please,” he said in a voice that cut through the chaos of the room, summoning the gaze of all towards him.
“I have here Detective Bruce, our expert on violent murder, he was at the scene of the attack today and it would do a great deal of good if you would all listen to what he has to say.”
Bruce looked around the room at the assembled officers, each an exemplar figure of law and justice in their own right, the men and women that those whom would do wrong have sleepless nights about.
“Well, you all know what happened today. Twenty three innocent people lost their lives in what can only be described as an act of the utmost degree of madness. We cannot let this stand. My partner PC Wilson and I will work tirelessly to bring those behind this act of terrorism to light, they must be stopped. I need the support of every man and woman in this room to analyse all angles of this case, not a single detail can be missed.” Bruce spoke with power, with passion, his energy flowing into those around him. “These are dangerous, testing times, but we will not falter, we will not fall, and we will uphold the rights of every man, woman and child under our protection.”
Read more: falkirklanguages.proboards.com/thread/141/detective-essay#ixzz3KqFhWSCU
The sun failed to pierce the acrid grey smoke rising from below. The smoke mimicked the colour of the tarmac, the writhing nature of its steady climb an embodiment of the movement of the people below.
Scarlet dashed the tarmac, interlacing the lines on the road, seeping into the indifferent ground below. Shattered glass sparkled like diamonds, some crystal clear, some red, blood diamonds. The smell was powerful, overwhelming, enough to literally knock a man off his feet. A child sat screaming, a teddy forgotten and discarded by her side, even the illusion of innocence torn from her.
Even hours later, looking at the technicolour photographs of the scene, Detective Bruce couldn't imagine what could drive men to commit such an atrocity. They masqueraded behind veils of creed, politics, saying that they stood for a cause, a higher calling. Some would say that their instability was developed through a combination of upbringing and abuse, “a fragile childhood perpetuated by violence.”
A web of intricate red string tacked to numerous pictures and field reports dominated much of one of the darkened room's walls, it's sprawling features ghostly similar to those of a cancer, it's red tendrils creeping out and consuming the space, consuming Bruce's mind. No, that wasn't it. Some men are just evil, some men simply want to see the whole world torn apart. And it was his impossible assignment to deduce the culprit behind these events, to quantify the corrupt and wild thought process of a murderer, man-slaughterer, killer, mutilator... Hell, the list of nefarious acts rolled off the tongue as easily as the list of crimes on his arrest warrant. His dedication to the case could not be doubted by anyone, however dedication could easily slip into obsession, obsession into madness...
He knew these risks, but he knew also that he was stronger willed and better equipped than most for the task, and took it upon himself to decipher the clues presented to him and bring them to a more palatable level for a court to pass judgement.
A noise in the corner made him turn slightly, his young partner and apprentice, PC Wilson lay slumped on the office sofa, sleeping. Bruce let out a soft, almost cruel chuckle to himself. The rookie would have to get used to the 2am shifts if he wanted to make it in this world he had chosen, this world of flickering neon lights, strong caffeine in the blood and the drive of the case the only stimulation keeping a man standing, and the inevitable widening crevasse between you and your loved ones as the job becomes your life. Bruce thought back on the potent words his mentor had once told him; “A true detective never retires, he simply gives up.” He had told himself that this wasn't the case, yet with the recent upsurge in violence, with each blood-soaked case, as the bodies piled up around him, he couldn't help but feel a gnawing inside him, telling him to leave, to run while he still could, to hide from the horrors of the world and live life through the rose tinted glasses of the people he envied, normal people living their happy lives. But then he would remember his true calling, and his duty to protect the lives of the great innocent from the cruelty of the few.
His pager buzzed, it was the chief's secretary, they must be wanted in the Directors' room. He allowed himself a short gaze out of the half-blinded windows before rising, admiring the beauty of the grand Ulster Bank, lit softly in the night by white spotlights, the yellow glow of the city behind it.
“Wilson,” he gently gripped the officer's shoulder, “you need to wake up, the chief wants a debrief on the bomb attack.”
He yawned lazily, swatting at his face, slack with sleep.
“Give us a second boss, I feel halfway to death, let me wash my face first.”
After Bruce's junior made his appearance respectable, they departed the dim office into the harsh, clinical white light of one of the station's corridor's, their hard-bottomed brogues clacking on the marbled floor. The building was old, very old, a magnificent fortress of a building which gave the increasingly perturbed public out-with it's walls at least a slight sense of security, a reminder that even during these most lawless of times, law and it's upholders still remained.
The doorman to the directors' room opened the entrance nodding respectfully towards Bruce and Wilson as he did, the bulge of a concealed handgun evident over his chest. Much of the police force's best and brightest were already seated around large table in the centre of the room, rolled sleeves, loose ties, cigarettes burning to the filter in ashtrays spread around the table. Several of the men and women rose halfway from their seats with Bruce and Wilson's arrivals, handshakes exchanged, murmurs in private, the secret code of conduct for these tight knit colleagues. Piles of paper like leaning towers were scattered all around, scribbled notes switching hands and calls being made, the dynamic of it all appeared entirely undisciplined, the phrase “bull in a china shop” springing to mind.
At the head of the table sat a man cool in his composure, emanating authority with his strong seated posture, a discarded Police chief's jacket slumped over the back of his chair, forgotten amidst the pace of proceedings. He looked up briefly from the monstrous pile of correspondence before him, sheets of paper piled into small mountains, a sense of relief conveyed from his eyes at the sight of Detective Bruce, a man whom he had a great deal of respect for. Placing his hands firmly on the table, he pushed his hulking form out of the chair and grasped Bruce's hands firmly in his own, shaking powerfully.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your full attention please,” he said in a voice that cut through the chaos of the room, summoning the gaze of all towards him.
“I have here Detective Bruce, our expert on violent murder, he was at the scene of the attack today and it would do a great deal of good if you would all listen to what he has to say.”
Bruce looked around the room at the assembled officers, each an exemplar figure of law and justice in their own right, the men and women that those whom would do wrong have sleepless nights about.
“Well, you all know what happened today. Twenty three innocent people lost their lives in what can only be described as an act of the utmost degree of madness. We cannot let this stand. My partner PC Wilson and I will work tirelessly to bring those behind this act of terrorism to light, they must be stopped. I need the support of every man and woman in this room to analyse all angles of this case, not a single detail can be missed.” Bruce spoke with power, with passion, his energy flowing into those around him. “These are dangerous, testing times, but we will not falter, we will not fall, and we will uphold the rights of every man, woman and child under our protection.”
Read more: falkirklanguages.proboards.com/thread/141/detective-essay#ixzz3KqFhWSCU