*Yeah, so this is an idea I came up with. But anyways, I have a favor to ask you people: Could you check out my story called the Chronicles Of Gwen? It's my favorite story I've written, and I got less than five reviews for two chapters. -.- Anyways, please enjoy this :)*
I sighed as I looked around the police station. Being a detective isn't all it's cracked up to be on CSI. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, what am I doing as a detective? Well, it turns out the art business isn't all it's cracked up to be either. I was behind on my rent and my pieces just weren't selling. I had an older aunt who used to live in this town, and whom had a favor to ask of the sheriff, and ta-da! I ended up here. It wasn't so bad, I mean I get a gun, and I can look at gory bloodfests all day without people thinking I need therapy, but it also had a downside. For one, I had to dye my hair due to the "no crazy hair colors" policy. I twirled a piece of my black waist-length hair in between two of my fingers. I basically dressed as "Gothic" as I could without violating the dress code. I was allowed to wear a choker, I've had the thing since I was fourteen. I was also wearing a form-fitting plain black T-Shirt and black jeans that were tucked into my combat boots. They were allowed, as long as the creepy little supervisor's assistant gave the okay on heel height. I had a black belt around the jeans as well. What was the other cruddy part of being a detective? The teasing NEVER stops!
I'm only nineteen, which is pretty young for a detective, but I don't see why it calls for all the teasing by the older cops. Last week, one guy from the SWAT team replaced my water bottle for a baby bottle. Real mature.
I propped my head up on my arm right when the phone rang. I answered before the second ring.
"Hello?" I asked excitedly.
"Um, is this Detective Gwen Ash of the-" The voice asked. The man sounded African-American.
"Yeah, that's me." I confirmed.
"Well, we've got a four-nineteen in the alley between Todd and West Nineteenth Street. Cheif said to you and your partner over here ASAP." The guy said.
"I'll be there." I said before slamming the phone back onto the reciever. I poked my head out the nearby window. It was a slightly chilly night. I grabbed my hoodie off of my desk chair and zipped it up halfway before grabbing my gun and attaching the holster to my belt. I slid my I-Phone into my pocket and grabbed my keys before running down to the police parking lot. I heard my feet slap on the concrete as I searched for mine and my partner's black SUV. I found it with her at the wheel. She was buckling her seatbelt and looked like she was on the phone with someone. I opened the passenger seat door and hopped into the seat.
"No, no. I want sunflowers!" She yelled into the phone. I looked at her a little funny. She never yells. "Ugh!" She said, then rolled her eyes and slammed her cell shut.
"What was that about, Bridgette?" I asked. Yeah, that's right, Bridgette Halifax is my partner on the force. She did start out as a pro surfer after the show, but like me, she didn't have the best of luck. After surfing through some rough waters in Hawaii, she tore her knee and couldn't surf anymore...well, at least she couldn't surf pro. And apparently, my little old aunt's got this town wired. So, Bridgette became my partner.
"Wedding stuff." She replied wearily as she backed out of the parking garage. Detective Bridgette Halifax was set to become Detective Bridgette Stapleton as soon as she got married to her fiance, Geoff, they were still going strong.
"Isn't that what you hired a planner for?" I asked my long-time friend.
"I know it is. But I just want to make sure Beth knows EXACTLY what I want." She answered at a stoplight.
"You hired Beth?" I asked curiously. I knew she had become a wedding planner, but she lived in like New York City or something...right?
"Of course I did, but I'm seriously reconsidering. Planning this thing over the phone isn't as easy as I thought." She said as she nervously pulled her engagement ring up and down her finger. It was really beautiful, a huge sparkly diamond in the shape of a surfboard. Leave it to Geoff to be completely flashy and unpractical. Soon, she pulled over to the curb, and I knew we had arrived. I slipped either of my hands into my back pockets and waited for Bridgette to come. She was threading her enormous amount of blonde curls through a baby blue elastic that matched her quarter-sleeve button-down perfectly. Once it was done, she patted her blue skinny jeans and we walked over to the alley. There were red and blue police lights flashing all over the place, and caution tape covering the entrance to the alley. I pointed to the gold badge on my waist as the dark-skinned policeman lifted the yellow tape to let me by.
This place was a real sight. Sure, this wasn't the better part of town, but this was hardly what I had expected. Right in the middle of the alley was a white sheet with dark brown or red splotches smudged here and there. The sheet was, as always, covering a lumpy mound that used to be a real, living, person. there were little yellow triangles scattered all over the place that each marked a piece of evidence. The highest number I spotted was thirty as I strode over to the white mound. crouched over the covered body was Our M.E. (A/N: Means medical examiner, or that they do the autopsies) Dr. Noah Hollister. Yeah, Noah was the town's coroner. He used to tell me when we were on the show that he always knew he would end up working with dead people, and apparently he was right.
"Hey Noah, what've we got?" I asked, pulling on a pair of latex gloves, which would ensure that I wouldn't disturb the crime scene. I crouched down across from him and he flipped the white sheet off her face. The body was of a pale, middle-aged woman. She had short choppy brown hair that was mostly a bloody mess.
"Cause of death was a stab to the heart with a small knife not found here." He explained, I pulled the sheet back a bit more to get a better look at the wound. There was only one of them, so the killer was obviously experienced. There wasn't much blood on her muticolored floral blouse, but she was lying in a huge pool of it. She didn't look like she belonged in this neighborhood.
"Do we have a name yet, Doctor?" I asked Noah.
"Oh, police identified her as Christie Shane." Said a young lab tech who happened to be walking by and heard our conversation. I nodded as if to say "thanks", and he continued to snap photos.
"Hey, Bridge! Come here!" I yelled. She was standing out of the tape by a group of people about our height. She had her notebook flipped open and it looked like she was writing something down. She hesitantly walked under the police tape and slowly made her way over to me and the body.
"Those guys over there found him." She began, pointing to where she was standing before.
"And?" I asked eagerly.
"A good half of them are stoned." she said as she still scribbled in her notepad.
"Well, Bridge!" I yelled, grabbing her shoulder as she statred to walk away. She looked at me and I asked what I was wondering. "Does she look familiar to you?" I whispered as I pointed to the dead body. She tapped her pen on her chin and looked at the face of the victim. Bridgette usually doesn't look at the dead bodies, she can hardly take it most of the time, but this woman seemed familiar.
"Hm, a little." She said slowly. "Name?" She asked.
"Christie Shane." I replied. She tapped her pen on her chin again.
"What exactly did she do for a living?" She asked. Wow, she's really getting into this detective thing. I looked to Noah for an answer.
"She produced TV Shows or something." Noah said as he began to write something down on his clipboard. I gasped.
"Could it be?" I whispered. Did someone murder one of the producers of Total Drama?
"Ask Noah." Bridgette commanded. I did as I was told almost immediately.
"Noah." I whispered, tapping his shoulder. He looked up from his clipboard and beckoned for me to get on with it. "Is she-" I began until Noah cut me off.
"Producer from Total Drama? Uh...yeah." He asnwered laxly, then dropped his attention back down to his clipboard. I decided to go try and interview the druggies for myself. They had better listen to me. I dove under the bright yellow tape and crept over to the the police car where the local troublemakers were waiting. I snatched a notebook from a passing CSI and opened it to a fresh page.
"Okay." I began in a flat voice. "Tell me your names and exactly what happened. One of them grabbed my forearm and leaned close to me.
"I'd like to know your name, Babe." He whispered. He reeked of alcohol. I scoffed and pulled the arm he was holding away from him.
"Okay, all of the sober ones tell me your name and exactly what happened." I clarified. They all looked at each with confused looks on their faces. I slapped my hand to my forehead. "Are any of you sober?" I asked desperately. There was a lot of junk in that alley that was seriously compromising evidence. I was desperate for a lead. One raised his hand comfidently.
"I'm pretty sober...and underage." He said. I rolled my eyes. Being a smart alec gets you nowhere with me.
"Is that so?" I asked, moving close to him. Well, he didn't smell like alcohol.
"You've got it, Sweetheart." he whispered, getting in my face as well. I cringed at the nickname.
"Name?" I asked, pushing it away from my mind.
"You first." He shot back. I rolled my eyes.
"Detective Tell Me Your Name." I replied. There were a few "oh's" from his buddies.
"They call me-" He began, but some other drunk guy ran over to us.
"Yo, Duncan!" The guy yelled.
"Thanks for ruining that." He said sarcastically. This day just keeps weirder and weirder. Could I really be talking to Duncan? There's only one way to find out...
*I felt like this was a pretty cruddy ending, but eh, please review anyways.*