Previous Challenge Entry (Level 2 – Intermediate)
Topic: Write in the MYSTERY genre (04/05/07)
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TITLE: Stereotyping Murder | Previous Challenge Entry
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04/11/07 -
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Lazy sop. All I had to do was give him one look over to know he deserved what he got. His belt la yin on the floor next to him, wearing a stained a-frame undershirt. You know, there's a good reason those shirts are called "wife-beaters."
That wasn't my main concern though. This guy was dead, but I didn't see anyone with a gun. That doesn't get me anywhere. On the radio, they said that there was a domestic disturbance call. Lots of shouting and the like, the usual stuff you get from a place like this. Stereotypes, you know? Dishes overflowing from the sink. Cars on blocks out in the front lawn, all gutted. Empty beer bottles everywhere. And a guy lying here next to the door, pants around his ankles, shot in the chest. I'm practically standing in his blood.
I call in the situation. Possible homicide. It's a homicide, but in everyone's innocent until proven guilty. You know the score. I tell them to send back-up, I'm going to look around. They advise me not to, but I click the volume down before I can hear the whole thing.
I step out of the doorway and into the living room. Unholstering my gun, I scan the room. Stereotypes. It's hard to overcome them. Couch with holes in it. Paint peeling off the walls. Dust covered air vents.
I move to the hallway. There's two doors on the left. I move carefully to the first, and peek out, gun first, around the corner. It's the bathroom. It's the smell that hits me first. The toilet paper's spooled out on the floor. The toilet's a mess to say the least. You try to hide your personal feelings, but you know how that goes.
I look for any sign of footprints or anything.
Nothing.
I'm sure this is the way the person had to go. It's the only way to go. I heard the gunshot afterall.
I inch my way towards the next opening. Gun first, I turn the corner. There's a little girl huddled in the corner. She's rocking. I tell her she's going to be alright, but she's not looking at me. She's looking at the other side of the bed. The side I can't see. I duck back behind the wall.
"Come out with your hands up!" I shout.
There's no response.
"Come out now, or I will fire!" I shout again.
No response. This is the part I hate. Actually owning up to your word. I let my gun lead the way around the corner again and there stands the little girl in front of me, with a gun. This was unexpected. I hear another gunshot. But this one's only loud for a second.
I go down to my knees. There's a warm tingling feeling around my midsection. I don't feel much else below that. The bullet must have hit my spine. The little girl stands there shaking. She had to know I was a cop. I had a badge and uniform on. I fall the rest of the way to the ground. That's when I see the missing pieces. There's a badge on the ground. And past that is a blue shirt, with some patches on it. It's from the next precinct down. The guy was a cop. I look up at the little girl as much as I can. She's scared. She drops the gun. Standard issue.
I get a glimpse past the girl to the dresser where a picture of her and the guy in the living room are standing side by side, him holding her. Both smiling.
Stereotypes. Makes you sick.
I hear the sirens approaching. The little girl starts to cry. She raises her arm to her eyes. There's glass in the side of her arm. Probably from the window in the living room. I hate my job sometimes.
When the back-up arrives, I'm still lying on the ground in front of the girl. I'm not dead. I may die, but I'm not dead.
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