literature

A Message from SC

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      Nighttime had fallen in the small neighborhood, but it was hardly the time of peace and rest that everyone was used to. Something terrible had happened, unimaginable in one of the safest and quietest parts of town. The tired man ran his fingers through messy brown hair as he told his wife to stay inside and look after the children. He did not want them to see this. He did not want them to be exposed to this, but he found himself inexplicably drawn to it. He had to know.
      The yellow tape had already been placed around the house and at least a dozen policemen were going back and forth from the scene or simply standing around and carefully eying the curious neighbors who had come out to see what all the fuss was about. No doubt they would have even more work on their hands soon when the rest of the neighborhood rose from their beds and became aware of the situation. The sleepy man came as close as he dared. The nearest officer nodded politely as he stopped beside the long yellow strand that flapped gently in the breeze. The bold black letters stood out clear as daylight. CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS.
      The man felt awkward about distracting the officer from whatever it was he was supposed to be doing, but he decided it was worth it to risk asking. There is nothing worse than not knowing.
      “Excuse me, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir, but do you know what happened? I called the police as soon as the noise woke me up. I mean, I’m sure others called too, but I was one of them. I swear, it sounded just like gunshots. My neighbor Annie Harraway lives in that house. Do you know if she’s OK?”
      A pained look flashed across the officer’s face. He answered with soft, measured words.     
      “I’m sorry, but I really can’t say. We aren’t allowed to talk about-”
      He stopped abruptly and both men turned to look in the direction of a new source of noisy activity. Several officers had gathered around what looked like a civilian’s car and stood like soldiers waiting to receive orders. The man who was stepping away from his car and toward the scene reminded the confused father of the detectives he had seen on television shows. He would have had a hard time explaining why. Perhaps it was the leather trench coat. The leather-clad man barked out commands like a territorial dog as he lifted up the tape and stepped across the threshold of the crime scene.  
      “Okay, I want everybody to clear the area right now! What are all these people doing here? Who let them get this close? Keep ‘em away! This is serious. I can’t have someone getting in my way and breaking my concentration.”
      The neighbor caught a glimpse of the man’s hard and wild-eyed face before he was asked firmly but politely by one of the officers to return to his house.

      The policemen were silent as the jumpy looking man entered the house and began to take a sweeping look at the scene. Many had heard of detective Mark Jarvis, but few had any experience working with him. All, however, knew the reason why his particular area of expertise had been requested.
      “I’m gonna need to start from the point of entry and work my way to the place where the victim was killed,” he mumbled to no one in particular as he moved through the front living room. “Came in through this window here, obviously. What a mess. Musta cut himself pretty bad. Can’t believe how much blood there is. Heh, even left some bloody footprints on the carpet here.”
      The officers followed him as he made his way into the dining room, but kept their distance. They had never seen anyone look at evidence in such an engrossed way before. The detective smiled like an excited child as he continued his narration.
      “She musta been sitting right here when he came in. Couple of papers still on the table, couple spilled on the floor. She tossed a chair and tried to hide under the table. He probably waved a gun around and told her to come out. She did, ran into the bedroom.”
      Mark followed the splotchy red dots that drip drip dripped their way out of the dining room. The officers had already been back to the bedroom. As much as they didn’t want to see it again, they followed the enthusiastic detective as he headed in.
      “Doesn’t look like she was taken here by force. Mighta thought she could lock the door or get out the window or something. Maybe wasn’t thinking anything at all. Primal urge to return to the most comforting part of your turf when danger rears its ugly head and all that.”
      He stood still and silent for over a minute as he peered down at the figure lying on the bed. When he spoke again there was a sobering firmness to his voice.    
      “Yep, it’s him again. Good ole SC. Dad gone it baby, I'm sorry this had to happen to you. I really am.”

      They stepped out on the back porch to get some fresh air. Mark checked his watch. 5:33 AM, Sunday morning. There would be daylight soon enough, but right now everything just looked black. He couldn’t wait to get home again. The crime scene may hold all the evidence, but he did his best thinking at home. There weren’t so many people there. It was quiet, private.  
      A team of paramedics had been called to the scene early on. Mark spotted them and ordered them over. He asked if they had moved the body.
      “No Sir,” one man answered. “By the time we got here it was too late for resuscitation. No one could have survived long after… after what he did to her face.”
      Mark thanked the men and immediately turned away from them. He leaned against the side of the house, staring off into space and mumbling quietly to himself.
      “It fits. It’s a perfect fit. Knocked her to the floor with the first shot, moved her to the bed. You predictable bastard.”
      His head hung down as he trailed off, lost in thought. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to ward off the coming headache. At the sound of a voice speaking mere feet away he snapped his head back up and turned to the man, a bewildered expression plastered on his face.
      “Oh, uh, sorry about that. Sorry if you were busy with something there. The name is Thomas Claymore. I work with the forensics team. Just stepped out to take a quick break. I’ve read about your work. Very impressive stuff. It’s a pleasure to have a chance to meet you.”
      The man’s messy red hair, face full of freckles, and boyish grin gave him an air of youthful optimism. He held out his hand to the detective. Mark eyed him for a moment, then spoke with a tone of restrained annoyance.
      “Don’t do that. It breaks my concentration.”
      Thomas rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.
      “Sorry. You, uh, you were right though. About the girl being moved. Looks like she took a shot to the back of the neck while running away. Might have been killed instantly by that one, but it looks like he dragged her to the bed and lay her out before shooting her in the face again. It’s really terrible, doing such a senseless thing to a poor innocent girl like that.”
      Mark’s voice was deep and distant, as if viewing memories of past cases while he spoke.
      “Not senseless. There is meaning and purpose to everything he does.”
      The younger man lowered his voice, though by now most of the others had returned to their work inside the house.
      “You really think it’s him? The serial killer known as the Smooth Criminal?”
      Mark laughed bitterly.
      “He don’t deserve a name like that. Too fancy. I just call him SC. And he aint a serial killer either. He’s a hit man. At least that’s what he calls himself. Nothin betteren a glorified psycho for hire really. You’re right about one thing though- his methods are a lot more symbolic and pattern-oriented than what you usually get with these types. Kinda like a lot of your run-of-the-mill serial killers.”
      Thomas looked horrified.
      “You mean someone took a hit out on this poor girl?”
      Mark smiled and shook his head.
      “Nah. She’s not the target. It’s gonna be someone she knew, someone who was close to her. Family, boyfriend, someone like that. You can tell who the target is by the way he kills them. If somebody wants someone bumped off directly he’ll abduct ‘em and take ‘em to some secret location where he can torture ‘em to death. This thing is a message to someone out there who is still very much alive. Dig deep enough, and you’ll find she knew somebody who got themselves in trouble with the wrong sort of people.”
      Thomas felt terrible hearing about this, but morbid curiosity drove him on.
      “Wow. Well, I guess if you follow somebody’s work long enough you’ll eventually start to see how their mind works. What’s the significance of the ‘message killings’ then?”
      Mark stepped away from the building and began to pace around on the back porch. With his strangely excited tone he sounded like a professor delivering a lecture after drinking too much coffee.
      “Ah, good question. Well of course I can’t presume to read his mind or anything like that, but I believe there must be some reason for his consistency. Whenever possible he recreates the same scenario. Victim is surprised at home or some other place where he can catch ‘em alone. Victim is shot once to take ‘em down quickly. Victim is placed in some natural looking pose. Might be propped up in a chair or lying on a bed. Victim’s face is obliterated with multiple shots, even if already dead. It’s personal. It’s cruel. It says, ‘I don’t care who this person was, but I will be the last one to see their sweet sweet face in any form that resembles how you remember them. Best get on the good side of whoever’s riding you for whatever debt you owe them, or your whole body is gonna look like this by the time I’m through with you.’ That is the message he leaves for them.”
      Thomas looked away and sighed sadly to himself.
      “What is this world coming to? I really hope we get this guy. How long have you been after him?”
      Mark leaned against the wall again.
      “Year or two. Depends on how you count it. I studied the case a while before I ever got involved personally. Department requested my assistance after the last guy they had leading it was found dead. I’m sure you heard something about that. Messy, messy business, that. Not like the others. It was personal, a little treat he gave all to himself.”
      The two men watched as the deep pink and orange hues of sunrise began to peek up from the dark silhouette of the trees in the backyard. The light did nothing to dispel the feeling of dark foreboding that hung over their minds. When Mark continued he sounded distant again, talking more to himself than the man standing beside him.
      “They say he was ready to hit some sort of breakthrough in the case. Had some kinda theory that he wanted to test before he brought it to his superiors. Musta been a coincidence that SC decided to take him then. Had to have been. I aint a superstitious man. No. I aint afraid to get close. Your blood, your DNA, your fingerprints- we’ll nail you on something one of these days you bastard. Think you can get off on intimidating people? I’ll show you. I don’t know when. I dunno…”
      Thomas reached out and gingerly placed his hand on the detective’s shoulder. Mark whirled around as if he had already forgotten he was there.
      “Are you all right, Sir? You look tired.”
      Mark relaxed and rubbed his eyes.
      “Yeah, guess I am. Should probably head on home and get some sleep. Couple of aspirin too. Don’t wanna stretch myself too thin and make some bonehead mistake. Well, thanks for the talk, kid. Dunno why I said so much to ya, but it feels good to get it off my chest. It was… what’s the word… uh, cathartic. Yeah, that’s the one. One big messy catharsis. Hope you didn’t mind.”
      Thomas smiled in that friendly sort of way of his.
      “Not at all Sir. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
      He held out his hand reflexively, then his face fell as he remembered.
      “Nah, nah, it’s OK,” the detective replied as he gave the younger man’s hand a limp shake. “Hope you find some good stuff in there. I usually work in the background with these things, but if we cross paths again feel free to step over and say hello.”
      Thomas recovered from his momentary feeling of awkwardness and grinned again.
      “Will do, Sir. Don’t worry; I know we’ll catch this guy. Can’t give up yet.”
      The words had barely been spoken when detective Mark Jarvis turned away and headed back to his car. Thomas watched him go, his mind overflowing with new and disturbing thoughts. One pleasant thought stood out from among them. If SC had intended to leave a message for his employer, there would be others waiting to receive it too. Forensic clues tell stories, rat out criminals, avenge the injustices done to the wronged. Thomas had a feeling that soon this smooth criminal would be in for a very rough patch of luck.
For the June edition of :iconsimplyprose: Miscellaneous Prompt: A story inspired by art (a picture, sculpture, piece of music, etc.)

I chose the song Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson. It is one of my favorite songs. Though I’ve only seen a short clip of the original from the movie Moonwalker I have the version performed by the band Alien Ant Farm on my playlist and listen to it often. I’ll admit that I have never really understood the song very well, but I like coming up with possible explanations for background stories with stuff like this. Hopefully in drawing it out into a full-length short story I preserved the essence of it alongside my own interpretation.
As I mentioned when I wrote another story prompt, I have only a vague idea of how law enforcement operates. I apologize for any inaccuracies. :XD:
I really like how I was able to develop Mark’s character with this. =) I imagine him being a very multitalented individual, with a special focus on criminal psychology. Nice guy, but kind of weird and antisocial. =p

*Edit 10/27/09: Typo catches, changed category placement
© 2009 - 2024 Leonca
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Leah-the-Red's avatar
:star::star::star::star: Overall
:star::star::star::star::star: Vision
:star::star::star::star::star: Originality
:star::star::star::star-empty::star-empty: Technique
:star::star::star::star::star-empty: Impact

First off, I really liked the over all story. And I do like that song that it's based off of. I think you captured the feeling of the song- both versions of it.

This is more of a personal thing, but I think the story could have been just as effective and good without the little first part from the neighbor's point of view. It seemed to just delay the action of what was going in the house and seeing what had happened, and not in a good way. There didn't seem to be any suspense built.

I did like how you described the scene once it was switched over to the detective- his monologue painting the visual. I thought that was creative, and done well. Not many could have done that without making it sound bland or boring.

I was a little confused by the last paragraph. I almost though for a moment it was Thomas who was the bad guy, the way the sentence about the employer was phrased. The way it almost suddenly switched to his point of view was a little jarring too. I think if it was reworded it could still go, but it just got to me, I guess.

Overall the work was good, and it leaves a nice story that leaves the reader looking for more, possibly what happens if they ever catch this "SC". If you ever get bored you should consider maybe doing that- it would be pretty sweet.

PS: I am sorry this is so delayed in appearing, it has been both a combination of being pretty busy, and also procrastinating a bit. For that I apologize.