(no subject)
I'm not sure I really understood what was required, the tutor had asked for a monologue addressed to someone else and this is what I produced. He said it was a bit of a cheat. However,
New to the game
I promised I’d tell you about it, didn’t I? I don’t know why you’d want to know but here goes.
I’d only been in the CID for about a week when we got a 6am call to the Leyton Orient Stadium in Oliver Road. I got there to discover that a groundsman, who must have had a sleepless night or pissed the bed to be up at that hour, had found a dead body, head bashed in, just in front of the home goal.
“What do you make of it?” DI Shaunessy asked me. He was dressed in the usual blue paper onesie, nitrile gloves, and had paper covers on his shoes. I noticed that the zip on the onesie was pulled right to the top just under his chin - you know Shaunessy, he has a reputation for being the best dressed man in the Met, and he probably intended to keep it that way. Anyway, he was standing well back from the corpse, as if he were afraid the blood might spill.
I did my best to be debonair, though this was my first murder scene. “Is the blow on the head the cause of death?” I asked. I don’t think anyone was fooled.
“I can’t be sure at this stage.” I took the woman who answered to be the Home Office pathologist. It seemed a good guess as she was kneeling by the corpse. She said, “I don’t think we’ve met?”
I said, “DC Sheldon. I’m new to the area.”
She said she was Dr Elizabeth Mackintyre.
I reckoned I’d have to stay on her good side, so I asked, “Do we know anything about him?” From what I could see he looked fairly ordinary, but you know looks can be deceiving.
“His clothes are foreign,” said one of the crime scene technicians, the pretty one with red hair. I think her name’s Roberta something. She flipped the jacket open to show the maker’s label on the inside pocket.
I could see that not only was the jacket foreign, the writing looked to me to be Cyrillic. “Russian?” I said. “What’s a dead Russian doing here?”
“I think it’s Serbo-Croat,” said Dr Mackintyre. You know, I knew she’d be cleverer than me. “I think that word - she pointed to one of the unintelligible words - is Budapest. That means he could come from anywhere round there.”
“I see what you mean,” I said.
“I don’t,” DI Shaunessy sounded annoyed, though whether with me or the pathologist, I wasn’t sure.
I told him, “Serbo-Croat is the language used in Serbia, Croatia…”
“I gathered that!” said Shaunessy.
It was my turn to be annoyed. “I hadn’t finished. It’s also spoken in Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Montenegro.” If looks could kill - as the saying goes - Shaunessy’s would have felled me. You know how he can be. “Or,” I continued, “he could be from anywhere and just bought a decent jacket in Budapest. Or even second hand. Lots of Serbians live round here.”
Shaunessy looked at the corpse, meditatively. “It’s a start, though,” he said.
Dr Mackintyre stood up and I could see the corpse properly. It struck me, not for the first time, that seeing pictures of corpses never prepares you for the real thing. I’d seen my grandmother die and that wasn’t pleasant, but she’d been in a nice clean hospice. This was far worse, it had a reality and an immediacy that pictures and the written word lacked. I would never forget this man’s face, or the blood staining the Astroturf.
Comments welcome, as always.
This entry was originally posted at http://lexin.dreamwidth.org/628691.html. You can comment here or there, it's up to you.
New to the game
I promised I’d tell you about it, didn’t I? I don’t know why you’d want to know but here goes.
I’d only been in the CID for about a week when we got a 6am call to the Leyton Orient Stadium in Oliver Road. I got there to discover that a groundsman, who must have had a sleepless night or pissed the bed to be up at that hour, had found a dead body, head bashed in, just in front of the home goal.
“What do you make of it?” DI Shaunessy asked me. He was dressed in the usual blue paper onesie, nitrile gloves, and had paper covers on his shoes. I noticed that the zip on the onesie was pulled right to the top just under his chin - you know Shaunessy, he has a reputation for being the best dressed man in the Met, and he probably intended to keep it that way. Anyway, he was standing well back from the corpse, as if he were afraid the blood might spill.
I did my best to be debonair, though this was my first murder scene. “Is the blow on the head the cause of death?” I asked. I don’t think anyone was fooled.
“I can’t be sure at this stage.” I took the woman who answered to be the Home Office pathologist. It seemed a good guess as she was kneeling by the corpse. She said, “I don’t think we’ve met?”
I said, “DC Sheldon. I’m new to the area.”
She said she was Dr Elizabeth Mackintyre.
I reckoned I’d have to stay on her good side, so I asked, “Do we know anything about him?” From what I could see he looked fairly ordinary, but you know looks can be deceiving.
“His clothes are foreign,” said one of the crime scene technicians, the pretty one with red hair. I think her name’s Roberta something. She flipped the jacket open to show the maker’s label on the inside pocket.
I could see that not only was the jacket foreign, the writing looked to me to be Cyrillic. “Russian?” I said. “What’s a dead Russian doing here?”
“I think it’s Serbo-Croat,” said Dr Mackintyre. You know, I knew she’d be cleverer than me. “I think that word - she pointed to one of the unintelligible words - is Budapest. That means he could come from anywhere round there.”
“I see what you mean,” I said.
“I don’t,” DI Shaunessy sounded annoyed, though whether with me or the pathologist, I wasn’t sure.
I told him, “Serbo-Croat is the language used in Serbia, Croatia…”
“I gathered that!” said Shaunessy.
It was my turn to be annoyed. “I hadn’t finished. It’s also spoken in Bosnia, Herzegovina, and Montenegro.” If looks could kill - as the saying goes - Shaunessy’s would have felled me. You know how he can be. “Or,” I continued, “he could be from anywhere and just bought a decent jacket in Budapest. Or even second hand. Lots of Serbians live round here.”
Shaunessy looked at the corpse, meditatively. “It’s a start, though,” he said.
Dr Mackintyre stood up and I could see the corpse properly. It struck me, not for the first time, that seeing pictures of corpses never prepares you for the real thing. I’d seen my grandmother die and that wasn’t pleasant, but she’d been in a nice clean hospice. This was far worse, it had a reality and an immediacy that pictures and the written word lacked. I would never forget this man’s face, or the blood staining the Astroturf.
Comments welcome, as always.
This entry was originally posted at http://lexin.dreamwidth.org/628691.html. You can comment here or there, it's up to you.