murder

Violet’s Literary Quotes — The Clue

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Police detective Fred Morrisey has seen a lot in his more than 30 years on the force, but when he sees the mutilated body of a young child found at a dump site, he says to his partner Detective Ron Hayden, “The depravity of man’s heart knows no floor.”

Ron said nothing. He simply stood beside Fred, hands buried in the pockets of his rumpled trench coat, staring at the small shape beneath the white forensic tent. The morning fog drifted lazily across the landfill, softening the mountains of refuse into gray islands. Gulls circled overhead, their cries sounding strangely like laughter.

A crime scene technician approached. “No identification. No missing persons report matches yet. Whoever left the body knew this place. Tire tracks disappear into the garbage trucks’ ruts.”

Fred nodded, but his attention had settled on something almost invisible — a tiny silver item lying several feet away. It was shaped like a paper crane. Clean. Untarnished. Deliberately placed.

“Bag that,” he said quietly.

Ron frowned. “You think it’s connected?”

“I think nothing at a dump stays clean by accident.”

Hours later, back at police headquarters, the medical examiner delivered another surprise. The child had not died where she was found. Soil trapped in her shoes contained traces of white quartz and red clay, minerals absent from the landfill but common in the abandoned quarry north of the city.

The quarry.

Fred leaned back in his chair. Twenty-two years earlier, he’d worked his first homicide there. Different victim. Different killer. But the case had left him with recurring nightmares and a nagging certainty that one crucial detail had slipped through his fingers.

Ron noticed the change in his partner’s expression. “I’ve seen that look before,” he said.

Fred slowly opened a battered notebook he hadn’t touched in two decades. Pressed between its yellowed pages was a photograph of another silver paper crane.

“No,” Fred said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve seen this before.”

Outside, thunder rolled across the city, though the forecast had promised clear skies. Fred had learned long ago that storms rarely announced themselves before they arrived. Neither did evil.

This story has was written for Violet’s Literary Quotes, where she gave us, “The depravity of man’s heart knows no floor,” from Stephen Graham Jones book, The Buffalo Hunter Hunter.

Image conjured using Copilot.

Can You Tell a Story in 28 Words?

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For her “Can You Tell a Story In…” prompt today, Esther Chilton has challenged us to tell a 28 word story incorporating the words scrabble, police, and underwater.

The scrabble tiles drifted underwater from the wreck, spelling warnings the police couldn’t ignore as divers realized the victim had predicted his own murder long before anyone noticed.

Image conjured using ChatGPT.

Writer’s Workshop — A Crisis of Conscience

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For his Writer’s Workshop this week, John Holton gives us six writing prompts and we are tasked with choosing one of the prompts (or as many as we want) and writing a post that addresses that prompt (or those prompts). I am responding to three of the prompts this week:

  1. Write a post inspired by the word crisis.
  2. Write a post in exactly 8 (eight) sentences.
  3. Tell us about a “wrong number” phone call, either one where someone called you or where you called someone in error. (For this item, I wrote a piece of flash fiction about a man — not me — who dialed a wrong number and the result was a major crisis of conscience for the man.)
Image conjured using Gemini.

The rain came down like it had a grudge, each drop tapping Morse code against my apartment window, the night I accidentally dialed the wrong number.

I was trying to get in touch with a client, a small-time grifter who owed me some answers, but the voice that answered wasn’t his — it was a woman’s, low and trembling, asking me if it was done.

I should’ve hung up right then and there and chalked it up to crossed wires in a city that feeds on mistakes.

Instead, I said yes.

There was a silence on the line, the kind that makes you aware of your own breathing, and then she thanked me for “taking care of him” and said she could finally be free of the bum.

She hung up and that was when I realized my stray “yes” had just confirmed a murder to someone who believed she’d ordered it and that was when my crisis of conscience took over.

I tried to call back, but the line was busy, as if fate itself had taken the receiver off the hook.

I sat in the dark, cigarette burning down to my fingers, wondering whether to go to the cops and untangle the lie, or to let a wrong number become the truest confession of the kind of man I really was.


Badge by Patty, http://anothercookieplease.com

The Damsel in Distress

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The office smelled like old paper and older regrets, the kind that cling to the walls no matter how many times you repaint or paper over them. Rain tapped the window with nervous fingers while the city outside practiced forgetting itself. That’s when she walked in and sat down like she owned the room. And maybe me with it.

She crossed her legs slowly and deliberately, showing enough gam to make a bishop kick through a stained-glass window. The black skirt rode up like it had somewhere important to be. Her white blouse looked innocent until you noticed how carefully it wasn’t. Sharp heels and a small hat tilted just enough to suggest secrets, not manners, completed her outfit. She didn’t smile. Women like that never do until it costs you something.

“Mr. Malloy?” Her voice was like honey, smooth and sticky.

I stubbed out my cigarette in the glass ashtray that sat on the desk calendar. “That’s what it says on the frosted glass door.”

“I need a private investigator. One who doesn’t ask too many questions,” she said.

“Questions are my business, sister. It’s the answers that cost extra.”

Her red lips curved into something that might’ve been a smile in better lighting. “My husband is going to be murdered.”

I lit another Chesterfield, watching her through the smoke. “That’s usually something you tell the cops, not a two-bit shamus working out of a third floor walk-up on Seventh.”

“No cops!” she shouted. “The police can’t help me. They cannot be involved. My twelve-year-old daughter was taken this morning on her way to school.” Suddenly her well-practiced composure started to crumble like blue cheese. Her voice sounded like cracked, thin ice and her eyes started to tear up. “I got a call about an hour ago and the guy on the phone said not to contact the police. If I do, he’ll kill my little girl.”

I leaned forward, and I caught a whiff of expensive perfume fighting a losing battle with cheap gin. “What does he want from you? Did he ask you for a ransom? And how is the kidnapping related to the murder threat against your husband?”

“No, Mr. Malloy,” she said as she started sobbing. “He wants me to kill my husband.”

Now that was a curve ball I didn’t see coming, and I’d been playing this game since Hoover wore knickers. “Do you know why?”

“I don’t know. My husband never tells me anything about his business dealings or associates and I think he’s been dealing with some shady characters lately. I need your help, Mr. Malloy. I’m desperate.”

I held out my hand to her. She grabbed it and I could feel her hand trembling like a leaf in an autumn wind. Outside, a siren wailed and then faded, like a conscience losing interest.

She seemed vulnerable, but I had been caught in a web of deceit by more than one dame in the past. I knew that some of what she told me was the truth, but she hadn’t told me everything. What she left out was likely to come back and bite me where the sun don’t shine.

I sat back and poured myself three fingers of rye. This was going to be that kind of case.

Image from Midjourney at Pinterest.

The End of Respect

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The rain slicked streets of the city had a way of swallowing secrets whole. Neon signs buzzed like dying insects, casting fractured light across the alley where Detective Fred Morrisey dropped his cigarette and crushed it out with the sole of his shoe. Respect. That was the word rattling in his skull. In this town, respect was currency, and someone had just cashed out.

The body lay crumpled against the brick, a man who once commanded fear with a glance. Vincent “the Gentleman” Russo. He built his empire on manners. He always tipped the waitress, always shook hands before breaking them. Even the cops called him “Sir.” Now he was soon to be nothing but a chalk outline waiting for rain to wash it away.

Morrisey knew the city’s rules: you don’t kill a man like Russo unless you’re ready to inherit his debts. Respect wasn’t kindness here. It was armor. Strip it away, and you left yourself naked in a world of knives.

The clues were thin: a cufflink glinting in the gutter, a lipstick smear on Russo’s collar, and whispers of a deal gone sour. Morrisey traced the trail to a smoky nightclub where the singer’s voice curled like smoke around broken hearts. Roxanne met his gaze, eyes sharp as razors. She already knew of Russo’s untimely demise. “Respect,” she said, “is just another word men use before they betray you. Look at he who sits on the right side of the king.”

By dawn, Morrisey had the truth. Russo’s right‑hand man pulled the trigger, tired of bowing to a king who no longer ruled. No ceremony, no honor. Just raw ambition dressed in shadows. The city would forget Russo by next week, but Morrisey wouldn’t. He knew respect was the only thing keeping the wolves from tearing each other apart. And in this city, wolves never slept.

Morrisey crushed his cigarette underfoot, the smoke fading like memory. Respect was dead. And the city was already hungry for the next funeral.

Written for Esther Chilton’s Weekly Writing Prompt, where the word is “respect.” Image conjured using Copilot.

Can You Tell a Story in 50 Words?

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For her “Can You Tell a Story In…” prompt today, Esther Chilton has challenged us to tell a 50-word story using the words poem, critique, murder, cupcake, and dice.

I threw the dice and when they came up seven, it was a sign to publish my love poem on my blog.

I ate a cupcake as I waited for the likes and comments to arrive, But the first was a harsh critique equating my poem to committing literary murder.

Image conjured using Copilot.

Weekend Writing Prompt — The Dilemma

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The tavern’s air was thick with smoke. Sam nursed his drink, deep in his own thoughts. It was never his intention to eavesdrop, but when a phrase sliced through the din, his pulse spiked.

“We’ll do it tonight. He won’t see it coming.” The two men at the next table leaned in, voices low but edged with certainty, plotting routes, tools, silence.

Sam gripped his glass. Should he warn someone and risk being noticed, or stay quiet and live with the weight of overheard murder?

Written for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt, where the challenge is “eavesdrop” in exactly 85 words. Image conjured using ChatGPT.

Six Sentence Story — Means, Motive, and Opportunity

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“Means, motive, and opportunity,” Detective Ron Hayden said to his partner, Fred Morrisey. “That’s what you always say are the critical ingredients to solving any murder.”

“Yes,” Morrisey said, “but it’s going to be a challenge in this case since nearly everyone had the means and the opportunity. And as far as motive, one can make a case that they all benefit to some extent from his death.”

“So where do we start?” Hayden asked.

“We interview everyone who was here last night,” Morrisey said, “and see if we can figure out who had the most to gain from his death.”

Written for the Sunday Six Sentence Story prompt from Girlie on the Edge, where the prompt word is “benefit.” Image credit: ideogram.ai.

NTT/STS — She Loves You

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Elizabeth Wright felt very confused as she looked out of the window of the plane that was taking her back to her home, her husband, and her two young children. A defense attorney specializing in capital crimes, she had been dispatched from her Boston firm to serve as first chair in an extremely difficult murder case at her firm’s LA office. Functioning as second chair was an experienced trial lawyer, Barbara Andrews. But this was Miss Andrews’ first murder trial and the firm wanted to groom her to handle murder trials for the LA office just as Elizabeth was doing at the firm’s Boston headquarters. So Barbara was instructed to shadow Elizabeth for the duration of the trial.

As the trial progresses, Barbara was, indeed, Elizabeth’s shadow, spending nearly every waking moment at Elizabeth’s side. The two women grew very fond of one another, having a lot in common. Except that Barbara wasn’t married. They truly enjoyed each other’s company and often discussed the case and the defense strategy over dinner and drinks and, sometimes, afterwards late into the night.

About two weeks into the trial, the two were working late in Elizabeth’s hotel room. Barbara stretched, looked at her watch, and said, “Oh my god, it’s almost two in the morning. I need to go home and get at least a few hours of sleep.”

Elizabeth looked at Barbara and saw a truly beautiful, smart, witty, ambitious woman, much like Elizabeth. “Don’t be silly,” Elizabeth said. “Stay the night here. I have some pajamas you can wear, and the bed is king-sized, so we can share it.”

“But I don’t even have a toothbrush here. Or make-up, or an outfit to wear tomorrow,” Barbara listed as objections.

“I brought a backup toothbrush and you can use that. We are about the same size, so you can borrow one of my outfits for tomorrow and you can use my make-up, too,” Elizabeth said. “It’s simply too late for you to go home now, so as your mentor, I insist you stay here tonight.”

Elizabeth couldn’t believe that she had just invited another woman to spend the night with her. She had never before felt any kind of physical attraction for another woman, but she was drawn to Barbara.

A few minutes later both women were in bed, and Elizabeth felt an unfamiliar tingling in her stomach. She surprised even herself when she moved closer to Barbara and said, “Goodnight, Barbara,” before leaning over and kissing her deeply on the mouth.

When Elizabeth heard Barbara gasp, she quickly moved away, but Barbara’s hand reached out and stopped Elizabeth from pulling away. She put her hand on Elizabeth’s cheek, and moved in close to Elizabeth, and returned the kiss, and then some.

Elizabeth dutifully called her husband every evening at around 6 pm LA time to say goodnight to him and to her kids. But other than the case, all she could think about was Barbara. Elizabeth checked out of her hotel and moved into Barbara’s apartment. Sex with Barbara was incredible, better than it ever was with her husband. Barbara was sexually fluid before meeting Elizabeth but she was mostly with men. However, all of this intimacy with another woman was something entirely new for Elizabeth. She was still in disbelief that this was happening to her.

A few weeks later the trial they were working on together was over and their side won. It was time for Elizabeth to fly back home to Boston to her husband and children. Tearfully, Elizabeth said goodbye to Barbara at LAX. “I love you, Elizabeth. When will I see you again?” Elizabeth turned around and boarded the plane without answering Barbara.

“She loves you,” Elizabeth thought to herself as she looked at the rapidly darkening sky from her first-class seat. “And I love her” she admitted.

She had a few hours before her plane would land at Logan where her husband would be picking her up. She wondered what she was going to say to him.

This post was written for Kevin’s No Theme Thursday prompt. Kevin presents us with 20 AI-generated images and we can choose any one and write a post about the image. Also for My Vivid Blog’s Song Title Story, where the song title is “She Loves You.”

Song Lyric Sunday — Never a Single

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For this week’s Song Lyric Sunday, Jim Adams has asked us to find a song that was not originally released as an album single, or never became a single. The Rolling Stones album, Let It Bleed, is possibly my favorite of all of The Rolling Stones albums. And my favorite track from that album is the first track on side 1, “Gimme Shelter.” This song has never been released as a single.

“Gimme Shelter” is the opening track of the 1969 album Let It Bleed. The song was written by The Rolling Stones’ lead vocalist Mick Jagger and guitarist Keith Richards, the band’s primary songwriting team. As I said earlier, The Stones didn’t release this song as a single, so it never charted.

The song is about the political and social unrest at the time. There was the war in Vietnam, race riots, and Charles Manson. Mick Jagger sings of needing shelter from this “storm.” He said, “That song was written during the Vietnam War and so it’s very much about the awareness that war is always present; it was very present in life at that point.”

While political and social unrest and the horrors of war are what the song eventually came to be about, Keith Richards, who wrote most of the song, said that wasn’t what initially inspired him to write the song. He had been sitting by the window of a friend’s apartment in London with an acoustic guitar when suddenly the sky went completely black and an incredible monsoon came down. It was just people running about looking for shelter. “That,” Richards said, “was the germ of the idea. We went further into it until it became, you know, rape and murder are just a shot away.”

After the first verse is sung by Jagger, American gospel singer Merry Clayton enters. It was a late night recording session and Clayton, who was pregnant at the time, got the call at the last minute when the song’s producer, Jack Nitzsche, decided the song needed a female vocalist. Clayton showed up with curlers in her hair and wearing silk pajamas. Jagger explained to her that she’d be singing the line, “Rape, murder, it’s just a shot away.”

She did a take of her line, then decided to “blow them out of this room” on the next take. This time, she delivered a chilling vocal an octave higher, her voice cracking on “murder.” And then she went home and went back to bed.

Here are the lyrics to “Gimme Shelter.”

Come on
Ooh, a storm is threat'ning
My very life today
If I don't get some shelter
Lord, I'm gonna fade away

War, children, it's just a shot away
It's just a shot away
War, children, it's just a shot away
It's just a shot away

Ooh, see the fire is sweepin'
Our very street today
Burns like a red coal carpet
Mad bull lost its way

War, children, it's just a shot away
It's just a shot away
War, children, it's just a shot away
It's just a shot away

Rape, murder!
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away

Rape, murder!
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away

Rape, murder!
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away, yeah

The floods is threat'ning
My very life today
Gimme, gimme shelter
Or I'm gonna fade away

War, children, it's just a shot away
It's just a shot away
War, children, it's just a shot away
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away, shot away, shot away
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away, shot away, shot away
I tell you love, sister, it's just a kiss away
I tell you love, sister, it's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away, kiss away, kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away
It's just a kiss away, kiss away, kiss away, kiss away, kiss away
Gimme shelter
Gimme shelter
Gimme shelter
Gimme shelter
Gimme shelter
Gimme shelter
Gimme shelter