A Killing at Cross Guns Bridge

LionelNashe

Hi folks, This is the first scene from a longer story. Any feedback and criticism would be welcome.

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When did I become my father? Detective Sergeant Theodore Flynn asked himself for the hundredth time as he caught his reflection in the cafe window. If it wasn't for his long-ago broken nose, it could have been a ghost that met his eyes. His face was fuller than usual and his neck fat bulged against his shirt collar. The cause, he knew, was on his breakfast plate. Fried sausages, rashers, eggs, and black pudding. Kennedy's had a healthy menu of five different cereals, eggs cooked three ways, and six different kinds of toast, but he liked a fry-up with ketchup for its morning-after alcohol-absorbing properties. Lately, every morning had been a morning after.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he checked the screen. A text from Fogarty. "Diver is here." Flynn sent a reply "I'm around the corner. Be back in a minute". Swallowing the last bite of food, he drained his coffee and left the cafe, raising one hand in thanks to the women behind the counter. He turned right and walked to the pedestrian lights at Doyle's Corner. Three boys in the uniform of St. Declan's stood restlessly on the kerb, craning their necks for a gap in the slow moving traffic. New school year, new uniforms. Slightly on the large size, so they could grow into them. No need for jackets. What do they call it? An Indian summer? Always happens when the kids go back to school.

One boy dragged on a cigarette that was concealed in his cupped hand. Too young to be smoking. Stunt your growth. Flynn unwrapped the cellophane from his own pack of cigarettes and removed one from the box and lit it. He inhaled deeply, squinting against the smoke and the September sunshine. He toyed briefly with the idea of showing his I.D., asking the kid where he had bought his cigarettes, putting a bit of a scare into him. Then he saw himself as they would see him, his gut hanging over his belt, a cigarette in his hand. Hypocrite. Probably get a cheeky response. D'yis not have any real criminals to catch, no? Nothin' better to do? Well, now that you mention it, there's that woman at the bottom of the canal. A gap appeared and the boys darted through the traffic, prompting a beep from a bread delivery van.

Flynn was in less of a hurry. Fogarty already had the canal banks cordoned off. The divers would bring her up, and then forensics and the medical examiner would do their thing. Until then, the less feet stamping around the better. She was dead. Not getting any deader. The lights changed and he crossed over. He walked past the almost-closed metal shutters of John Doyle's pub on the corner. The head of a sweeping brush darted out and in, pushing dust onto the street. He continued past the fast food outlets and the charity shops, past the old shopping centre. Older than me. Going to be demolished this year.

After four minutes he reached Cross Guns Bridge. The fire engine was still parked on the footpath, behind a Garda patrol car with blue flashing lights. There were more onlookers leaning on the green metal balustrade than there had been twenty-five minutes before. Stand here for a minute. Just one of the crowd. Finish this cigarette.

"What's after happenin?" An old woman with a tartan two-wheeled shopping bag was standing at Flynn's elbow. For an instant he recognised her, and then he didn't. Another ghost.

"Don't know, love," he said. It wasn't exactly a lie. Looking at the wide flat paths on the north and south banks of the canal, he couldn't see any place where someone could fall in accidentally.

"Theo." Another female voice. Flynn turned and saw Louise Hopkins crossing from the far side of the bridge. The strap of her medical bag was pulling on the shoulder of her blouse, exposing a couple of inches of tanned collar bone, but no hint of cleavage. His eyes lingered a moment too long on the pendant in the hollow of her throat. She wagged her finger in mock reproach. She meant the cigarette, he realised with relief. He dropped it and crushed it carefully underfoot.

"Morning, Lou. Just the person I wanted to see."

"I'll bet," she replied. "So, what have you got for me today?"

"I'll show you. This way."

They walked down from the bridge and through the kissing gate on the north bank of the canal. Beyond the stone wall on their left, a train moved noisily eastwards, already slowing for Drumcondra station. When it had passed, Flynn indicated the far end of the apartment building that ran along the other side of the canal.

"Someone on a balcony there spotted a woman in the water this morning, on the bottom. They were looking at her for a while before they knew what they were seeing. The fire service responded, but I asked for the water unit to come in and recover the body more carefully. If it wasn't an accident, well, you know yourself. There might be some evidence."

A couple of hundred meters along the canal bank, there were signs of of movement around the lock gates. As they walked towards it, Flynn could make out a diver in a wet-suit checking his breathing apparatus and talking to a fireman. A uniformed Garda stood nearby, watching the white suits of the forensic team beyond the police tape. As they walked even closer, he saw that what he had taken to be one crouched forensic investigator was a pair of white swans, resting on the grass beneath the drooping branches of the willow tree. They seemed to be paying no attention to the activity around them, or to the dead woman visible in the water.

The diver turned to look at them. Jim Ryan.

"Just yourself, Jim?" Flynn asked.

"How'ya Theo. Yep, just me today. The rest of them are looking for that man who drowned off Sandycove last week."

"Can we walk here?" Flynn shouted to the forensics team.

"Sure, just keep to the tarmac if you can."

The uniformed figure was Fogarty. He raised the police tape for them. Hopkins ducked underneath, and Flynn followed.

"The champ returns to the ring," said Fogarty, slapping Flynn on the shoulder. "For the super heavyweight title." He grinned at his own joke.

"Would you ever **** off," said Flynn, "or Jim'll be pulling you out next."

"I'll have you know I've still got my life-saving badges from the boy-scouts," Fogarty replied, mock serious. He turned to Louise Hopkins. "What's up, Doc? Looking well."

"Hello, Sergeant Fogarty. Good to see you."

"Well, I'm ready to rock and roll," said Jim Ryan. He pulled on his face mask and adjusted it. One of the firemen handed him a vinyl mesh body bag. He took a step into the shallows at the edge, bent his knees and then slipped easily into the deeper waters. Everyone on the bank was quiet for a few minutes as they watched him work. Flynn tried to estimate the depth of the water. It seemed to be just six feet at this spot, even in the centre.

He broke the silence and pointed at the swans. "What are you going to do about them? Is this what you call securing the scene?"

"I was hoping you'd just shoot them," said Fogarty. "They can break your arm with one flap of their wings, you know."

"That's a myth, actually," said Dr. Hopkins. They were silent again, and then she added "But I think the males can get quite aggressive when defending a nest."

A suspect, then. "I wonder which one is the male?" said Flynn.

"This one," said Dr. Hopkins."The males have a large bump on top of the beak."

"Like Flynn," said Fogarty, smirking.

Flynn ignored him. He studied the male swan, and glanced up at the CCTV camera that covered this stretch of the canal, and then checked the screen of his phone. No messages."I wonder if Collins managed to get any footage?"

"Ah, give the poor woman a chance," said Fogarty. "The council staff are probably still eating their breakfast rolls."

The crown of Jim's head broke the surface as he headed back to the bank. He was holding the body bag in front of him without too much apparent difficulty, just below the surface of the water. Two firemen stepped into the reeds and lifted it from him, and placed it down on the path. The figure inside did not seem very large. Dr. Hopkins crouched beside it and opened her medical bag, and snapped on a pair of blue forensic gloves.

"She's not a child, is she?" asked Flynn. The question was addressed to Jim Ryan as he stepped up onto the canal bank. He didn't answer. Probably can't hear a thing in that wet-suit hood.

Dr. Hopkins unzipped the body bag. Not a child. Flynn let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. A small blonde woman lay on her side, in a semi-foetal position. Wet leaves and other bits of vegetation were caught in her hair. Flynn and Fogarty moved away a couple of feet, so as not to block the light from the low morning sun.

"Anything on the door-to-doors?" asked Flynn.

"I'll just check," said Fogarty. He asked the question into his radio, and soon got three negatives in reply.

"Well, in my opinion, she's dead..." said Dr. Hopkins.

"OK, let me write that down," said Flynn, patting his pockets in a show of looking for his notebook.

"...about ten to fourteen hours. No obvious sign of bruising. No defensive wounds on the hands or forearms."

Flynn produced his notebook for real and noted down what the doctor had said. As he did so, he glanced at the dead woman's face and forgot what he had been about to ask next. He moved closer and crouched beside the body, mindful of his creaking left knee. I know her from somewhere. Who is she? The gallows humour no longer seemed appropriate. He studied her features. About thirty-five years old. A couple of years older than Flynn himself. Blonde hair, shoulder-length. It had been tied back but had mostly come loose. Lime green fluorescent running jacket. Black running tights and white running shoes. All brand-name stuff, expensive. A wedding ring. A black plastic watch. It's her face that's familiar, not her clothing. She was dressed differently before. More formally.

Flynn pulled on a pair of his own forensic gloves. "Do you mind?" he asked.

"Work away," said Dr. Hopkins, sitting back and balancing easily on her heels.

Flynn quickly checked the dead woman's pockets. There were two exterior pockets, zipped closed. They contained nothing but a key-ring. There was one pocket inside the jacket, which was empty. There were no pockets in the running tights. The key-ring contained a gym membership bar-code tag, two door keys, what looked like a mailbox key, and a Ford car key.

"Do either of you run?" he asked.

"Yes," said Hopkins.

"Triathlons," said Fogarty.

Flynn didn't comment on this piece of extra information. "Do you carry a wallet or any kind of ID when you do?"

"No."

"Not usually".

"Well, at least this is kind of an ID," said Flynn, holding up the gym membership tag.

"That's a GPS watch she's wearing," said Fogarty. "They're fairly waterproof."

Flynn placed the key-ring in an evidence bag. He lifted the dead woman's dripping arm and carefully unbuckled the watch from her slim wrist. He angled it in the light to see the face better, but it was blank. "It doesn't seem to be working."

"It might just need recharging" said Dr. Hopkins. "They only last for a few hours on each charge."

"Ah, well, exercise and computers. Neither one is my strong point. The lab can check it." He placed the watch in another evidence bag. Then he placed an evidence bag over each of the woman's hands and secured them with elastic bands, on the off chance that there was something useful preserved under her fingernails.

"Sorry, Lou, I'll let you finish." He raised his bulk to a standing position and massaged his legs above his knees. He turned his head to one side, studying again the features of the dead woman, trying to remember where he had seen her before.

His phone rang. He checked the screen before answering. Sarah. The CCTV cameras. "Detective Collins. What have you got for me?"

Don't have much in the way of criticism, except to say I enjoyed reading it and look forward to the next instalment.

Das Kitty

Excellent Lionel. Some great detail, and you do a fantastic job with the tension.

A couple of things that you can take or leave.

Flynn is a bit of a cliche. Fat alcoholic smoker, turning into his father.

This line is a cliche that's used so much these days it now grates.

Flynn let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

Could you start the scene closer to the end. There's a lot of "walking to the scene" text. Would you think about dropping us in at the moment the body is being carried out?

But I'm really being nit-picky. It's a fine piece of writing.

niallb

Likewise. I'm involved!

LionelNashe

OK, thanks folks. I'm going to make some changes to the level of alcoholism, obesity and general mood of the main character.

Found this funny blog piece about overuse of "released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding".

http://readeroffictions.com/2013/04/the-evil-sentence/


I have a specific question. Do any of you have an opinion on whether any of the following work better than the other, or if they work the same? I've lost objectivity. If the first one reads smoothly, I think it would shorten the distance between the reader and the protagonist, but if it doesn't read smoothly then it could be distracting.

1. Internal thoughts in first person, present tense, like I used in the first post:

Flynn produced his notebook for real and noted down what the doctor had said. As he did so, he glanced at the dead woman's face and forgot what he had been about to ask next. He moved closer and crouched beside the body, mindful of his creaking left knee. I know her from somewhere. Who is she? He studied her features. About thirty-five years old. A couple of years older than Flynn himself. Blonde hair, shoulder-length. It had been tied back but had mostly come loose. Lime green fluorescent running jacket. Black running tights and white running shoes. All brand-name stuff, expensive. A wedding ring. A black plastic watch. It's her face that's familiar, not her clothing. She was dressed differently before. More formally.

2. The same but with italics.

Flynn produced his notebook for real and noted down what the doctor had said. As he did so, he glanced at the dead woman's face and forgot what he had been about to ask next. He moved closer and crouched beside the body, mindful of his creaking left knee. I know her from somewhere. Who is she? He studied her features. About thirty-five years old. A couple of years older than Flynn himself. Blonde hair, shoulder-length. It had been tied back but had mostly come loose. Lime green fluorescent running jacket. Black running tights and white running shoes. All brand-name stuff, expensive. A wedding ring. A black plastic watch. It's her face that's familiar, not her clothing. She was dressed differently before. More formally.

3. Internal thoughts in 3rd person, past tense:

Flynn produced his notebook for real and noted down what the doctor had said. As he did so, he glanced again at the dead woman’s face and forgot what he had been about to ask next. He moved closer and crouched beside the body, mindful of his creaking left knee. He knew her from somewhere. Who was she? He studied her features. About thirty-five years old. A couple of years older than Flynn himself. Blonde hair, shoulder-length. It had been tied back but had mostly come loose. Lime green fluorescent running jacket. Black running tights and white running shoes. All brand-name stuff, expensive. A wedding ring. A black plastic watch. It was her face that was familiar, not her clothing. Wherever he had seen her before, she’d been dressed differently. More formally.

Das Kitty

First option. It's immediate and perfectly clear.

Italics aren't necessary.

niallb

I think internal thoughts in the first person works better for Flynn.
I do like the italics in example 2, though I wasn't bothered by them not being there when I read the first part.

the14thwarrior

the lads are standing on doyles corner wearing st. declans uniform. st. declans is a good bit away in cabra but near enough to wonder what they are doing in cabra. pick another saint name. any name!

LionelNashe

the14thwarrior wrote: »

the lads are standing on doyles corner wearing st. declans uniform. st. declans is a good bit away in cabra but near enough to wonder what they are doing in cabra. pick another saint name. any name!

You mean they're too far from the school? That's why they're hurrying. They're going to be late.

Lapse

Hi , I'm relatively new to boards and I only just read your scene today. I enjoyed reading it , this could be a silly little thing but I thought the main character Flynn would have been a lot older, until I got to the bit , about 35 years old a coupe of years older than Flynn. Starting to look like your Father and creaking knees would'nt be something I'd associate with a 33 year old. As I said probably something silly out of me and not really constructive but up to that point I was really picturing the character in my head as older.