Posts Tagged ‘detective’

I am a writer, a writer of fiction

July 16, 2009
“Alright, Mewes,” the old man said with a harrumph. He had small, piercing eyes and thin white hair. “Welcome to upper management. Now that you’ve signed all the appropriate paperwork, you’re ready to know the main operational secret of the Seattle Paranormal Investigation Squad.”
“I’m eager to start, Mister Humphries, sir,” Mewes replied. He was a pudgy young man with an open face and a trusting smile. It was all he could do not to gawk at Humphries’ luxurious office with its massive fireplace and many awards.
“Then I’m sorry that I’ll have to quash that enthusiasm so soon,” Humphries growled. “The first thing you should know about the SPIES is that there is no such thing as ghosts.”
Mewes’ jaw dropped. “I’m sorry sir, but– what?”
Humphries stood up from his desk and shook his head. “Very little that our operation does has to do with anything that could actually be classified as ‘paranormal.’ No ghosts, clairvoyance, no precognition, no spirits, no etheric energies.”
Mewes found his voice. “Sir! The entire operation is based on the use of paranormal techniques to uncover evidence that could be discovered in no other fashion! Through our operations, countless names have been cleared, countless criminals discovered and brought to justice through the techniques YOU pioneered, sir!”
Humphries grunted. “And that, young man, is where you are mistaken. This entire operation is based on a principle that my partners and I discovered before you were a twinkle in your father’s eye. Let me explain what it is we do.
“When a person lives in a place, interacts with people, and lives his or her life, or she he makes an imprint.”
Mewes’ face brightened. “Yes! A psychic imprint on space, something indefinable! It’s the first thing we learn in the field!”
Humphries shook his head. “No, son. You’d best learn to listen, and not to interrupt your elders. As I was saying, lives create unique imprints. These imprints, however, have nothing to do with any scientifically inexplicable processes. They have to do with the million little things we do in our daily lives. What sort of pipe a man smokes, what brand of socks a woman wears, what someone’s favorite color is, what neuroses dictated the organization of their things. Everything they touch will be impressed with this imprint– how they arrange their furniture, how often they take out their garbage, even how they park their damn car.
“All these things add up to a very clear picture of a person. The gestalt they create can survive significant contamination and disruption. And someone like, say, Doyle’s famous detective Holmes would have no problem in absorbing and processing the entire thing in a few moments. We poor, real people, though, have no such luck.”
Mewes was silent, and stared at his hands. “I’ve worked so hard to get to this point, Mister Humphries. I could swear I have seen and spoken to the dead. And now you’re telling me that the SPIES are just a bunch of very clever frauds?”
Humphries’ dark expression went suddenly gleeful. “Not at all, my boy! Because, you see, here is the clever bit.
“The human mind is completely capable of absorbing the cornucopia of information with which it is commonly presented, but not in a conscious manner. Human intuition is an incredibly powerful tool, young man; but access to the subconscious’ vaults is commonly restricted to times of extreme duress or fear. And therein lies the secret!
“We send our agents into the field with the full expectation they will not act rationally, they will not think rationally, and they will put themselves into situations in which they feel quite completely that they are in the presence of, well, a presence of some kind, be it ghost, demon, or angel. The “sixth sense” many people report in these cases is nothing paranormal in any way– it is simply the mind’s way of dealing with a frightening situation by drawing on all its sources of perception as completely as possible.
“This is why we trained you to be a ghost hunter, Mister Mewes. You were hunting ghosts, attempting to communicate with the dead. You reported which items made you most strongly sense a ‘presence,’ anything that sent chills down your spine, anything you perceived to be somehow wrong or out of place.
“Your reports were closely analyzed. Your pareidolia, overall emotional state, your dreams for the weeks following, were all catalogued, organized, cross-referenced, and statistically analyzed. Your intuition was flayed open for our equipment to digest, and from this process– the process which, when first invented, took reams of paper and countless man-days at the slide rule, yet now takes only one specialist per case with a properly equipped computer cube– murderous intent, fear, motive, opportunity, all revealed themselves like the title of a dusty book when breathed upon.
“You are now at the reins of your own team. Welcome to the upper echelon, Agent Mewes. We’ll give you your team their first assignment Monday.”

And I have written a shitty story about the ghostbusters wing of the Seattle Police Department.

Click on along to read.

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Bleakly Twelve

June 26, 2008
I did my best to calm and comfort her. I made tea, brought a blanket in from my car, and began mentally compiling any scrap of information that could help me figure out exactly what was wrong with Thomas. She finished telling me what she knew over a cup of tea. She told me everything- she’d gone to Bleakly, Bleakly had poked around. She’d bought him a sandwich.

He liked her, and it wasn’t hard to see why. She was earnest, intelligent, and heartbroken.

I shook my head. “The question is, where is he now? I know he hasn’t abandoned you or your father.I know Tom. He wouldn’t abandon a case. ” Especially not with a beautiful, heartbroken woman involved.

 


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Bleakly Eleven

June 25, 2008
I was holed up in one of the few places I knew I would be really safe. I was in the dirtiest part of the city’s worst slum, where there are just two types of people who don’t get ripped off and torn apart:the synth-juicers with arms bigger around than my chest… and the insane. Luckily for me, I fell into the latter category.
   

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Bleakly Ten

June 25, 2008
It’s a short one today, but it’s still technically a page long.

I woke up two days later, face-down in the scum that collects on the floors of restrooms in bars of sufficient dinginess. I pushed myself up from the floor and realized I’d been using broken bits of mirror as a pillow.

 

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Bleakly Nine

June 24, 2008
“Do you know why they outlawed the ShockCollar, Bleakly?”

 At this point, I’m pretty sure my brain was on “Record-only” mode. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to respond. I was having a pretty bad day, and for me… for me, that’s saying a lot. “I was having a bad day,” said the guy for whom having a good day meant throwing up less than twice and not getting shot at.

 So yeah. If I responded, it was probably by spitting up blood.

 

 

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Bleakly Seven

June 21, 2008

Hello! And thanks for reading Air Theremin. In order to try and make this story a little easier to read, I’ve scraped together the first chapter in one place and will put it in the next post.In the future, if you want to go back and read some Bleakly, all you have to do is click the “Thomas Bleakly” tag and you can go clear back to the beginning.

Hit the jump for the seventh installment of Thomas Bleakly, Private Eye.

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Bleakly is as Bleakly Does (4)

June 16, 2008

 I fumbled around in my desk, working through the clutter to find my pen and well-worn notebook.

“Take it from the top, toots,” I said, riffling past the used pages and readying my pen.

For all her tears a few minutes earlier, she was cool now. Collected. Her gaze was firm, if tear-reddened.

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Bleakly Three: Hannah

June 15, 2008

In all honesty I wasn’t sure what to expect when I walked into his office. I’d heard everything about him- that he was insane. That he talked to himself. That he suffered delusions of grandeur and persecution.

That he was the fucking best.

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