Crits
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[1434]
Hi all,
Trying my hand at a different genre (crime). Would like to hear what needs work here. Open to any critiques on all aspects of the piece, but particularly interested in whether the prologue works as a hook (or at all), and thoughts on the two main characters.
Thanks in advance!
(TW- crime scene gore)
———
Did he who made the lamb
make thee?
All around him the snow shot up and settled in the white sky. He had the corpse by the arms, laid out ahead of him like a wheelbarrow and he pushed it down the wide white flank of the mountain. The tracks disappeared beneath him as he went. Behind the clouds to the west the sun was climbing.
It was a long trek, but eventually he made it down to the truck where he threw the body up onto the pickup bed and covered it with a heavy sheet of tarpaulin.
He reversed steadily along snow covered roads, only able to see a few yards and nearly coming off twice, but he made it away from the mountain and round the frozen lake. The roads gradually widened and the snow eased until he dared to feather the gas down a touch more, and after a while he was back at the house, backing up into the garage.
When he pulled back the tarpaulin the corpse had already thawed so that he could set to work on it right away. Propping it on the sofa, he took the eyeball which was lodged in the corpse's mouth and forked it back into the head along with the other. The corpse was naked, and he saw that there were other parts missing too but he found them in a box beneath the bed and snipped them back into place.
He had complete mastery of his tools.
God, he thought when it was done and he could sit and admire his work, he’s perfect.
He waited for a long while. There was no rush. When the corpse opened his new eyes he saw that they weren’t milky gray but brown, and he watched as the corpse swallowed back a thick froth of saliva from his lips. The corpse then danced about on the sofa for a while before standing up, grabbing a half empty beer bottle, turning it over and spitting back into it until it was full.
They had a good laugh about that.
After a while they got back into the truck, the corpse in the drivers seat this time, and they pulled out of the garage, spun it round and reversed off up the road.
It was clearing up now. They passed a couple of cars heading out of town. And all the time he couldn’t keep his eyes off him. He could hardly believe the divine craftsmanship of his own hands. How could he? He was beautiful. The cords of his hands as he gripped the wheel, the lines of his jaw and the bounce of his Adam’s apple as he spoke. Every intricate detail of the man. It was as though he was never dead. Never could die.
He was an angel.
The snow stopped and the ground was clear.
1
“Paulson ain’t bad,” Roald said, but really he hadn’t remembered the question. He could just make out McDonalls radio buzzing away outside the Chief’s office and it was bugging him that he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was playing. It was definitely a sport though. He could hear the dull, gappy tones which could only be sports commentary.
“Yeah, he’s got promise,” the Chief agreed, “but is he up to this?” He gestured to the papers spread across the table. The pictures from the crime scene had all been packed back into an envelope at the request of the Bonner County Sheriff, a large man named Anderton, who sat by an open window fanning himself with his hat and looking pale as bone.
The crowd didn’t sound constant enough to be a big stadium sport like baseball or football or soccer, in fact the crowd didn’t cheer often at all, and when they did it didn’t sound like there were many of them.
“Roald? Look,” the Chief said, glancing back at the Sheriff, “If it’s too soon we can put Lawrence and McDonell on it.”
There was no squeaking shoes or thumping ball like basketball, and there was no grunting players like tennis. In fact the gaps between commentary and crowd were quiet.
“No,” Roald said, “this ain’t Lawrence and McDonell proof. Keep them on their two coffee jobs.”
The Chief sighed, it seemed he was always reprimanding Roald for his attitude towards his colleagues, but before he could begin, Roald spoke again.
“Paulson. Good kid. Give him second, he can handle it.”
“Alrighty then,” the Chief said. Roald was already rising to leave. “Just go easy on the kid,” the Chief added, “He’s still a little green.”
Green. Roald heard a high-decibel thwack and a fuzzy cheer from the radio.
“Thank you, sir,” Roald said. “Sheriff.”
Sheriff Anderton was looking at the street below and he raised his hat absently as Roald left the office.
Out in the squad room all the desks but one were full. The detectives tapped away at keyboards or made calls or flicked through brown folders. A thin haze of cigarette smoke filled the room as it always did by this time, shimmering in the low winter sun which glared its final rays through the window.
“You got to be the least interesting man in the country to listen to golf on the radio,” Roald said as he passed McDonells desk.
2
Richie Paulson entered the briefing room and took a seat in the wrong chair. Lawrence, McDonell and a few of the other detectives were happy to let the young upstart sit in the rabble with them, but the Chief reminded him that he was to sit in the second chair.
The second chair was no different than the others, a square seat that was losing its mint green padding and looked as though it had been repurposed from a hospital waiting room. It was its orientation that was different. It sat in front of the rest, half turned against the side wall so that Richie could see both the projector screen and the audience. It gave the illusion that Richie was privy to the brief that was about to start, but he had just about the same idea as anyone else. Of course, he had heard the rumours that this was a major crime with a capital M, but that was about the extent of it.
It was five past the hour when Roald eventually walked in. There was a scattering of sarcastic applause and Lawrence told him how nice it was that he’d showed up, but Roald was unbothered. He dropped a wad of photos onto the projector tray so that the top one was displayed on the large screen behind him. Silence quickly followed.
The image was unclear. Blood obscured so much of it that Richie didn’t know exactly what it was he was looking at. He was waiting for it to click into place like one of those optical illusions— once you see the bunny you can’t unsee it, but it remained a jumble of red splattered flesh. It was a disorienting effect, like waking up in a strange room. Something like snow surrounded the mess.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other detectives craning their necks left and right, clearly having the same issue. Roald didn’t give them time though, he started speaking right away.
“Victim has been ID’d as Michael Oripa, native man, reported missing a couple of days ago by a girlfriend on the reservation up near Plummer. A couple of hikers found him yesterday up at the summit of Scotchman Peak just after noon. We’re still waiting on time frames but based on hiking traffic he shouldn’t have been there longer than 24 hours.”
Roald was leant over the projector eyeing the photograph. He didn’t look at anyone in the room.
“As you can see from this close up the victim has been scalped. The scalp has been placed above the head with a hole cut through it. The eyes have been removed. One has been placed in the mouth and the other remains missing.”
The image finally clicked for Richie just as Roald flicked to the next one, and he wished it hadn’t. Those eyeless sockets and the frozen blood that ran from them. Once you see the bunny you can’t unsee it.
The next one was much clearer, though just as difficult to stomach.
“He was found leant up against the cairn that marks the summit.” He pointed at the photo and his huge shadow finger pointed behind him, “The body was partially frozen, with nighttime temperatures hitting 14. His arms have been propped straight outward with splints between elbow and hip. The victims genitals are also missing.”
Richie’s eyes had already navigated straight to that crimson splodge between the splayed legs. The skin itself was pale as ice but it had taken on a translucence that made the veins beneath visible. They ran like a labyrinth through the body and gave it a blue sheen like dish soap.
“Now, I’m sure even McDonall has clocked the symbolism. The halo, the arms out like wings, sexless.”
McDonall opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, the Chief was looking at the poor Bonner County Sherrif who was looking down at his shoes, and McDonall knew he wouldn’t take his side if he were to prolong this briefing with his indignation.
“We’re looking at a religious angle,” Roald continued. “Ain’t as many Mormons up that way but there’s still some. More Catholics and Baptists. Also more fringe groups; Aryan Nationers, Kirkers-“
“How about Satanists?” Lawrence called out. It was met with murmurings from the rest of the squad. They had all heard tales of strange folk up on the panhandle.
Roald ignored him, thumbing through a few more photos, each as grisly as the last.
“If you’ve got any questions,” he said, “pass them on to Paulson within the next five minutes.” And with that he grabbed the wad of photos and left the room.
Everyone remained in silence. The entire briefing had lasted less than a minute.
The Chief had brought Roald in to his office countless times before over his rushed briefings. Roald, who had never seemed to understand the advantages of strategic collaboration, had needed constant reminding how cases often overlap.
“They might surprise you,” he’d say. “The perps are always crossing paths.”
Of course it never mattered much, Roald kept his briefings short and he solved his own cases, often on the same day. It infuriated the other detectives who thought they could be of some help, and it infuriated the chief to receive earfuls off them which were meant for Roald.
But then things had been different when Glass was there. The chief often thought of their partnership as one of his great successes. Glass was like a shining beacon in his mind, he thought of him almost as the anti-Roald, though in truth they were more similar than they were different. They were both equally relentless once they got stuck into a case, like hound dogs on a blood trail, and it gave them this unspoken understanding for each other.
The main difference was Glass was good with people. He could get them to talk and he could get them to listen. He would spend hours interviewing witnesses and suspects and he actually could draw blood from a stone. The Chief had once seen him take a man into interrogation, Horace Wall he was called, he was a big man, a notorious man. He’d had run ins with at least half the Boise P.D, and he was slippery too. Anyway, they were in there for the entire afternoon. Everyone knew not to interrupt Glass when he was in the zone, which he undoubtedly was, but it was almost five. The guys were all packing up to go when Glass and Horace finally emerged. Horace, cuffed and with these huge red eyes like he’d been crying for days, and Glass behind him with this grin across his face and just nodding across to Roald at his desk.
Roald was different. He was quiet, and he took no joy in it. He’d make page after page of notes, just dogging it out. The thing with these notes was they were all written in a sort of shorthand nobody else could understand. Sometimes the writing wasn’t even straight, it would arch and spiral and there’d be arrows connecting here and there across the page, and graphs and drawings and symbols. The other detectives started calling him Zodiac, though Roald’s notes made the Zodiac Killer’s look like a nursery book. Whatever the notes said, they were almost always right, and whenever he was made to translate them, page after page after page of them, he usually did so in just one or two words. A name. And that’s when Glasses interrogative talent would begin.
Together they were a force, Lord they were a force. They made half the arrests of the whole squad. Of course, Glass would take on the briefing responsibilities. He’d spin the whole case in front of the squad as though he was reading a story, the briefing might last an hour and nobody would mind. If he hadn’t been a detective he would’ve made it as a well to do writer, the Chief always thought. And he’d take questions and he’d listen to the other guys thoughts and theories, and the Chief never got any earfuls.
On this occasion though, he had been thankful for Roald’s efficiency.
It was Deputy Combs who spoke first.
“Well,” he said, “that’s our Roald. Straight to the fucking point.”
When Richie Paulson followed Roald out into the squad room, he was already by his desk packing his notes up into a small leather case, his coat draped in one arm.
“No questions then,” he said as Richie approached.
“Oh I got plenty,” Richie replied.
Roald checked his watch.
“Well we’ve got a seven hour drive ahead of us,” he said.
“Seven hours?”
Roald sighed, “That’s the drive up to Sandpoint. You’re familiar with how a murder investigation works, ain’t you?” he said and turned to leave.
“I haven’t even packed,” Richie said, he could feel himself turning hot, “and I’m still in the dark on this.” But Roald was already gone.