Another writer from The Story Mint family. Joe Labrum started creatively writing just four years ago. This was written two years after he started. This work, part of a serial, also shows how writers tackle any subject; not just the clean adventure or mystery but good old crime and pools of blood. I like this especially as Joe is currently writing about his favorite genre - political fiction - and getting stuck into a strange genre and sometimes, tense, is a real test for any writer.
Something about the timing didn’t make
sense. Jason wondered why Albert left an empty container just before the ship
sailed. A thought occurred to him. He jumped to his feet and hurried from the
coffee shop.
Taking a detour on his way back to the
ship, Jason stopped by Albert’s flat in the old Quilt Building. The door was
locked. He slipped a credit card between the door and the jamb, then gave it a
push. It swung away and he stepped in. A computer monitor sitting on a small
desk showed the Windows screen saver logo floating across its face. Jason moved
the mouse and Outlook came alive with a message dated February 3rd , 18:42pm.
Al, a container was dropped today while I
was out. What gives?
“What gives is right,” Jason muttered.
The email was sent the night he and Al were
playing pool in the bar.
Puzzling over the email, Jason pulled the door shut behind him and
hurried to the dock. There he boarded a launch that took him out to the ship
lying at anchor in Elliot Bay.
When he boarded, Jason went straight to
Albert’s cabin looking for answers. He stepped inside, stumbled over an object
and fell into the unlit room. Grunting as he struggled to his feet, he turned
on the light. Albert’s overturned footlocker, with its contents strewn across
the floor and unmade bunk, lay on its side in front of the door. A pile of
papers from the wastebasket covered a small desk in a roughly organized way. He
sniffed and frowned. The smell of stale tobacco filled the room. Dozens of
butts filled a coffee mug. As he was leaving, something on the floor caught
Jason’s eye. He picked up a discarded matchbook with the embossed name
‘Snohomish Exchange’. Pensively shaking his head, he rolled a butt between his fingers.
Albert didn’t smoke.
A cop stopped Jason in front of some yellow crime scene tape at the end
of the drive leading to the Exchange..
Jason flashed his business card and
explained he had an appointment with Whitehall. He quizzed the the cop, who
told him that someone had made a nuisance report about an odor coming from a
shipping container. A forensic team was investigating. Jason detoured to where
the police were gathered.
The smell, noticeable from the end of the
road, grew acrid as he got closer to the container. Sparks sprayed from a
screaming abrasive saw a cop was using to cut the latching mechanism. The door
flew open with a loud bang, releasing a cloud of flies. The smell of rotting
flesh escaped and hung heavy in the air. Retching uncontrollably, Jason turned
away.
The forensic investigator climbed into the
container and flashed his light toward a scratching sound. Several large rats
scattered. After a few minutes, the investigator came out and Jason heard him
shout,
“Lieutenant, it’s going to be tough to I.D.
this victim… the head is missing”.
Joseph Labrum, USA
No comments:
Post a Comment