In the meantime, here's another entry of "Story Time"! I wrote this one a long time ago, on the same forum site that I posted "Writer, Father" on. Both were untitled at the time, but unlike the last one, this one intrigued me so much that I decided to take the character and give him his own book series. Just one of my many, many projects for the future.
Anyway, here's my next entry, for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!
Shade
A dark street corner. Thirty
minutes after one 'o clock, A.M. A rolling fog. A haunting breeze. A
pool of blood.
Inspector Julian Shade feared
none of these things, even though each showed itself plainly on
this autumn night in Dublin. The wind struck his black leather duster
and made it wave ominously in the darkness. A single, dim streetlamp
hung over the crime scene, casting light upon his wide-brimmed,
jet-black, Andalusian hat and covering his face with a deep shadow.
Shade had been tracking this
madman for weeks, but it seemed that he had finally slipped up in his
latest crime: a small string of thread, undetectable to the untrained
eye, rested indifferently next to the crimson puddle. Shade crouched
down, picked up the thread and examined it thoroughly. Shade pulled
one hand from its black leather glove and felt the scrap of thread
between his fingers. He suddenly felt his intuition surging: the time
of day, the murder weapon, the killer's position, the victim's
position, where the criminal came from and went to, it was all open
to him. The perpetrator used another large tool, this time, a heavy
wrench. He had crept up to her and spinelessly attacked her from
behind. This, however, was not the murder scene. Judging from the
impression marks in the bloodstains on her head and neck, he had used a cloth
to stop the blood flow. He had taken her to this location several
hours ago, and stuffed her into the strangely bent trash can in the
nearby alley. The can was precariously positioned, and some time after the body was deposited, the can fell on its side,
exposing the body; Shade could tell that this murder was sloppy and
rushed, as if the killer were desperate, maybe even panicked—as he should be.
The killer wore a cheap
suit—the thread of which Shade was now holding—and, likely not
paying to use a Laundromat or anything similar, proceeded home to wash his clothes and the
bloody rag. His eagerness to return was obviously accented by the
fact that he lived far away, outside the city, but not by much, and
the thread could only have come off after brushing against the
traffic sign on the corner, catching his suit jacket from the side
and tearing it. This meant that the killer fled the scene along this
very street, most likely heading straight for the highway.
Inspector Shade turned and
stared down the street, a mixed look of triumph and determination
barely seen on his shadow-covered face. This time, the murderer would
not escape again. This time, Shade would finally have the answers to
this mystery.
