The Edge of A Straight Razor

Hello! OK. So, this story is 14, 230 words long. There. If you stil want to give it a go, I'll be forever thankful... but if that scared you away, I won't really blame you. I mean, really. Who wants to read a 23 page story from someone you don't even know. Will it even be good? It's probably just some teenage ramblings.

Well. You see, I don't think it is. And I think if you give it a chance, you won't be dissapointed. "The Edge Of A Straight Razor" is a really short novella, or a really long short story. Whichever you prefer. What's it about? It's about a serial killer. One of my major inspirations when writing it was the movie "Se7en". It's not a ripoff mind you, it's just another tackle of the subject that's been so touched upon in Police Procedurals (including "Se7en") which is the young cop/old cop routine. I think I've tried something new here.

Detective John Mills is a depressed alcoholic, and a work junky. Detective Jacob Hanks, his young partner, takes care of him. Lately things have been going well. It's been a while since Mills last called his ex-wife, and Jacob Hanks is enjoying a no-strings attached relationship with a newsreporter. And that's when the killings start.

Another major source of inspiration: "American Psycho."

Please, please, please, please, puh-leaaaaaaaase take some time to review this story. All the time, when I'm writing one of these it sounds like I'm doing you a favour. But no. Please, please, please review my unworthy story. I think it's pretty good, at least for something I've written. I even use the literally equivalent of split-screen at one point. And multiple narrators. I guarantee that even if you hate it, you'll be entretained by my ineptitude at trying post-modernist bullshit stuff.

Also: the "R" is a really hard "R". It's starts out with dirty language, but the killings get pretty gruesome after that. So that can put people off. But please! Please read it.

And if you do. Thanks a lot.
And then I'll read one of these other long stories.

Plus: I think I've done pretty well, but if there's any grammatic mistakes, or spelling mistakes I'm sorry. I speak Spanish. I'm Peruvian (although that's hardly an excuse, I've been speaking English all my life), and again: Thanks in advance.

Hi Icaruss. I was just wondering if you'd rather I continue to e-mail my thoughts a chapter at a time to you or should I finish the whole thing and then post it here? If you prefer the former, I should have another chapter finished by tonight.

You can post it here, if you'd like. I mean, it'd give you more time and all and it's probably easier. Although, honestly, I'm OK with whatever you prefer. I mean, I'd be thankful either way.

Here you go, one story critique for you, hope it helps.

Thanks a lot! That was really helpful. I know some people are going to have some problems with some of the formatting things, and the different narrators... But it's just one of my quirks. My favourite authors all come from the latinamerican 'boom' or are guys like Irvine Welsh, so you see where that comes from. I'm really glad you thought it was good. Your comments were very helpful, and its always good to have someone helping me with my grammar.

Thanks a lot.

Hmmm. I had trouble uploading the file so I've had to convert it to a .doc document and I'm not sure if it's going to work. If you have any troubles, let me know and I'll re-upload...

I just get some symbols when I open it up. D:

Not good. Hmmm. Should I just copy and paste the text here? Or would that be too long... Do you have an e-mail address I could send it to? Or I suppose I could do it as a series of pm's?

You could e-mail it to ossioj@students.markham.edu.pe if you want. But I think you can post it here.

EDIT: So, I converted the file to a .htm file, and although it had some weird symbols on it, and no paragraphs, I could still read your crits. Thanks a lot! They were really helpful and I'm delighted that you liked the story. Seriously. Thanks a lot. It was worth the wait. =D

Okay, that took longer than I expected but here we go, codes converted and sorry for the delay.

He fixed his tie, finished his drink, and then proceeded [s]to[/s] with the disposal of the body. He left it in an alley, not [s]too[/s] so different from where he found her. [s]the place he had found her at.[/s] He wondered just how fucked up he really was when he decided to go for a second round. He cut her face (she was pretty), her breasts (she was a mother), and her stomach (she was so thin). As he called for the taxi, he felt satisfied. Not happy. He was content with his work, but he was not happy. Being happy would’ve meant that he enjoyed it, and although deep down he knew he had, he couldn’t bring himself to admit that. So, he told himself he just felt immeasurable fulfillment.
When he got back to his apartment, he got naked, burned his six-hundred dollar suit, and had another drink.

THE EDGE OF A STRAIGHT RAZOR

Fuck it, he thinks.[I think you should put this in italics like Fuck it. because the tense switch disrupts the flow and the shorter the sentence, the more effective it is.] Detective John Mills pressed the barrel of his gun against his cheek, and hoped for a quick death. He had been sitting [s]on[/s] in his chair -that old leathered one- for over an hour, before deciding to put an end to all his sorrows. He was fifty-eight. He didn’t have anybody. He had charm, that hadn’t changed, but his face was falling, and his belly was getting larger. He would soon be one of those disgusting old men you see walking down the park, trying to kick that evil cholesterol out of their veins. He didn’t want that for himself. He wanted to be remembered as… He wanted to be somebody. Be[s] on[/s] in the newspapers a few more times. Well. This should do the trick. Hero cop shoots his fucking brains out. Bam. Front page. Book deals for whoever knew him. Who exactly was this John Mills? How did he sink so low? In front of him, two empty bottles of what seemed to be really cheap vodka looked back at him, taunting him, encouraging him to do it. Slowly, he cocked the gun, shutting his eyes as hard as he could. He felt tears running down his cheeks, wetting the cold steel of the gun, and he felt his throat shrink, as he tried to swallow what little spit he had left. He thinks for a while, about the feel of the old ring in his finger.
He presses the trigger. And hears nothing but a click.
Then he cries himself to sleep.

ONE: It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, and the city already feels like hell. I’m walking good old Detective John Mills through the motions. –A couple of kids found her, I begin. The alley is a godforsaken shit-hole in the middle of the ugliest part of the city. It’s the kind of place where the roads are always wet, and clouds are either already pouring, or are about to— which is actually worse. More depressing. It’s the kind of place, a friend of mine once pointed out, that doesn’t believe in summertime. –They were skipping class, a couple of them were, and came over here to grab a smoke, or suck each other’s cocks or something, and found… this. They called 911, and here we are. Watch the vomit, it’s theirs. [I like the colloquial tone this character uses but you need to place speech marks or quotation marks around the sections where he’s talking to John.]
John bites his lip. I’ve never seen him do that before. See? And that’s how I know we’re in trouble with this thing. It usually happens that we walk into a crime scene, and John looks at everything as if he’s used to it. Stares at every fucking detail, at every blood stain, so blankly, so mechanically. He’s an old fuck, and just isn’t surprised anymore. Me? I’m still fascinated by these shit-heads. The senseless violence of it all still amazes me. John, though… He’s just worn out, and done for. –Jesus Christ, he mutters, putting his hand over his mouth. I nod. Jesus fucking Christ is correct. As we walk towards the corpse in front of us, I feel a cold shiver climb up my spine.
The girl looks like she’s about twenty-something, the poor thing. She’s naked, and her skin looks almost translucent. So pale. Her face is the worst part. It’s all swelled up, because of the hitting, and there’s a wound that goes deep into her eye, and then downwards, cutting everything up to her chin. She’s a blonde. Well, she was a blonde. And her hair looks so clean, and shiny. [You say she was a blonde so I take it her hair is covered in blood but then you say that it’s clean. Perhaps make it clear that you mean the parts aren’t covered in blood are clean or something.] John walks in circles around her, passing his hand across the walls, and kneeling down occasionally, to get a better look at something. The disgust in his eyes is gone. He’s already calmed himself. I’ll tell you this though; you can’t just put that kind of anger away. It’ll come back to him, later on. –You’ve already found the murder weapon, right?
-Yeah, I croak. The word vanishes up in the air, swallowed by the alley. I clear my throat, and then repeat myself: –Yeah. We found it right next to the body, and bagged it. It’s a kitchen knife. A very fancy one, too. Looked like it was pretty expensive silverwork. Mills gives me the look, and I shut up right away. He doesn’t care about the details; he’s always told me that. He can look those up later. What he needs is the cold facts. Something that he can remember easily, and that he can carry around with him, so when the hour of le hour hits, and he has to put the pieces together, he won’t waste more time than he already has. –So… [Okay so I just realised you’ve used dashes to show his speech but put the quotation or speech marks in as well.] I’m thinking we need to first identify the victim, ‘cause right now we got jack-shit on her. And then we can… You know, work our way up from there. We’ve already asked around the neighborhood, and nobody knows, or saw anything.
Old John wets his lips, as he reaches towards the girl’s face, moving her hair away, and touching her cheek, ever-so-fucking-tenderly. –Kid… You do know what this is, don’t you?
I play dumb, and shake my head. Mills stands up, and walks towards me. He’s taller than me, the old cat is. And bigger, too. He’s got broad shoulders. That, and the way he moves makes you feel as if he is rampaging his way through the world, and you’re [s]on[/s] in his way. His eyes blow his cover, however. Grey, and old. Very old. They look exhausted.
-It’s a murder, yeah. But I don’t wanna see anything other than that. At least not before I start hearing about other corpses. It’s… I see a lover struggle, or something. Some motherless fuck that wanted more than a blowjob out of a whore, and didn’t have enough money to pay for it.
-Jacob, the old man mumbles, putting his hand behind my back, and escorting me out of the scene. –Crimes as ugly as these always come in groups, kid. The killer… Our man took his time. Those three cuts, the bigger ones, they were done after the girl was killed. You know that. They’re tidy. They… Any one of those could’ve killed her. No. That’s his signature, boy. And you know what kind of… motherless fucks have signatures. And then, I can’t help but nod, and sigh.
So: It’s a mystery.

Old John Mills wasn’t always Old John Mills. He used to be a local legend. A young man, and not without prospects. It used to be that, people were always talking about how he’d make commissioner some day, if he’d just put his mind to it. But the thing was that he fell in love with the job. He became a junky, and that’s what did most of the harm. That’s what made her leave. Every time he took on a case, visited [s]went into [/s]a crime scene, he wouldn’t stop until he had caught the bastards who did it. In Hell, he keeps reminding himself, there must be at least a dozen of those sons of bitches cursing his name, their brains fried by the dreaded two-thousand volts of Gruesome Gertie. Waiting for him to come down, so they can fuck him in the ass two-thousand times each. And he knows this. Maybe that’s the second reason why he became Old John Mills. Because he knows that every minute that goes by, is just another minute[s] in[/s] of his journey towards the bottomless pit, the inextinguishable fire. Because he is certain that when he dies, God will look at him in the eyes –his grey, dead eyes- and tell him there’s a special place for him in Hell. A place reserved for the delirious sinner. The one that believes he is doing the right thing. Because Old John Mills remembers.
He remembers that feeling he had, every time they called him in. Every time they showed him those dead bodies, he remembers that particular tingle in his chest. The littlest euphoria. A certain kind of disguised excitement. At first, he tried to shrug it off, just ignore it. He convinced himself that it wasn’t there, only to find out that it kept coming back. And it was bigger, every time. And then it dawned on him: he didn’t care that these people had been killed; he only cared about feeling the glory again. About punishing the perpetrators, and getting commended for it. That’s why he doesn’t feel scared when he thinks of killing himself, and doesn’t wonder about how he’s gonna explain why he shot his brains out to the man upstairs. He already knows where he’s going. John Mills knows he’s a terrible person.
God probably started to[s] catch on[/s] realise that, too. Maybe that’s why he made Mills realize that he couldn’t solve every crime that made its way onto his desk. And that’s probably what killed Detective John Mills. And as the crime files piled up in front of him, and as he heard more, and more people demand answers –tears in their eyes, cursing, frenetic- that they would never get, he just shut down. And so, one day, it wasn’t John Mills, legend, hero cop, that walked into the precinct. It was Old John Mills. The shell of a man that was once great, and that now was… Completely forgettable.

“How do you feel about samurai swords?” he asks her, smoothly.
The girl smirks, not really understanding the question. She is naked, now. Lying in the bed, with a cigarette in her hand. As the man walks out of the room, she grabs the money and counts it. Two-hundred and fifty dollars. That’s a hundred more than she made last night. And three times what she made the night before. The killer comes back minutes later, with a Japanese blade in his hand and a smile[s] in[/s] on his face. He is completely naked, too, you know, except for his new socks, those he hadn’t had a chance to wear until tonight. He finds comfort in the fact that, this time around, he won’t have to burn anything when he’s done.

TWO: Melissa walks across the room, towards the bed. I was planning on having her leave when we were done, but… I couldn’t get my mind off the girl, and how her stomach was spread all over that damn alley. So, I let her stay over. I just hope she doesn’t get any ideas. Melissa’s a friend. Sure, we’re close, but she isn’t the kind of girl that I would want to be with. You know, that I would want to really be with. It’s just that… We fool around sometimes. It’s an understanding we have. A pretty good fucking understanding, yeah. Melissa is a reporter. That’s how we met.
She touches her stomach, and pouts. –Do I look fat? I think I’m getting fat. Last night, it was like, I was out with Tamara? And we wanted to get something to eat. So, we end up going to this Chinese place— And it’s pretty good, right? Especially this… they have this kind of crab cake, or something? I don’t know what the heck it is, but it tastes like it‘s heaven. She crawls into the bed, groaning. -So, we end up eating like eight-hundred thousand of those little fuckers. Ugh. I want an eating disorder. Why can’t I get an eating disorder? [I like the dialogue here.]
I raise my eyebrows, genuinely concerned. –Melissa, I mumble. –What the fuck are you talking about?
-I’m serious, I can’t throw up. I’ve tried to do it, and all I do is gag. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.
And I go: -It’s supposed to be disgusting. You’re trying to throw up. It’s not supposed to feel good.
-But it’s, like… Even when I’m drunk, I can stick a fist up my throat, and nothing happens. I mean, my body sucks.
-Well, maybe that’s why your blow-jobs are so good. She hits me in the shoulder, softly, and tells me where I can go.
–Seriously, she concludes. -I’m feeling pretty obese.
-You’re enormous. I eye her, chuckling. –Gargantuan. She gives me a laugh, but not a very enthusiastic one. It’s dry, and generous. I’ve gotta get up early tomorrow; get a head-start into the murder. I’m hoping we don’t stumble upon any more bodies. It’s pretty naive to think we won’t, but faith is all we have in this city. That blind optimism, which tells us, even if everything points the other way, that not all people are bad people. And that a murder,[s] not[/s] no matter how ugly it is, maybe, was just a mistake made by some chemically unbalanced, hard-working American guy. I scratch her head, tenderly. -You know, we started investigating a pretty gruesome murder today, I tell her. Just so I can get it out of my chest. Melissa snuggles next to me, but she doesn’t seem surprised at all.
-What, the prostitute thing? Up in Old Town?
-You know about this?
-Yeah, we got a call earlier today. We’re doing a piece about it tomorrow, she informs me. I chuckle, disheartened. I was hoping we could keep away from the vultures for at least a couple of days. Now we’re gonna be timed for this. I could already hear the press conference in my head: we’ve got our best guys behind it. We’ll get him in no time. Empty promises.
-Well… Mills, you know… My partner, he thinks it’s one of those crimes that have “To Be Continued” written all over it.
That seems to get her interested. She sits up, and shows me a grin. -Really? A serial killer?
-I fucking hope not, but it’s really hard to deny the old man has a point. And it was, like… ‘Cause it wasn’t just a crime, Mel. It was a… The real Texas Chainsaw kind of deal, you know? I pause, for a second. And then add: -Messy. Ed Gein type of shit. She slides back into the bed again, with a thoughtful look on her face.
-What do you think they’ll call him?
-What? What do I think they’ll call who?
-The murderer, she says. –How do you think they’ll call him?
-How the fuck should I know? You know, like, what? In the press? We don’t choose the names.
-Yeah, but how do you think they’ll call him, you know: The Old Town Murderer. Eddy Gein Junior, or whatever. What?
I don’t answer the question.
A couple of minutes later, I clap two times, and the lights go out. Before sinking into dream county, I call out to her: -You’re a sick, sick woman, Melissa. We both laugh, softly. [The character of Melissa is well portrayed throughout this section.]

HAVE A NICE DAY, is written across the floor, in big bold letters, painted in what John Mills hopes isn’t blood. He doesn’t hope too hard, though, because he knows that he will probably end up being disappointed. He woke up to the sound of his phone ringing today. It was the chief, telling him to get his ass back to Old Town. They’ve found another body. He doesn’t actually say that, the chief. He just says they’ve found a body, and that Mills has a murder in his hands. [I think this could be phrased better. Perhaps ’and that Mills has a murder to work on.’] He doesn’t talk about another body, another murder. Nobody wants to jinx it. But, it doesn’t take the old man too long to recognize the wounds he’s looking for. He doesn’t find them in the same places as the others, however. There is one –the largest- that cuts through her back, and another that cuts through most of her breasts. It was a different weapon, too. A bigger blade. Nevertheless, there they are. Three separate, clean, tidy wounds, made when the victim was already dead. The old man puts his hands inside his pockets, and groans out loud. If their man kept this up, it was going to be a long week. Davey, one of the science-guys, actually smiles when he sees the message, and Mills feels the urge to kick the living shit out of him.
“I guess he has a sense of humor,” the idiot laughs.
“Yeah...” John Mills pushes him away. “Shut the fuck up, Davey.” He makes himself sound dead serious, like it’s an order. Davey bites his tongue, and watches as John Mills walks out of the alley. He turns the other way when he notices him reaching into his coat and taking out a bottle. A little drink, Detective Mills thinks, to help him get through the day.

-Well, it was the hitting that killed her.
-Really? Not the…?
-The lacerations were deep, but most of them could’ve been treated if she had been given a chance. It would’ve taken hours for her to die from those. She was hit with a blunt object, a club of some sort. He [s]bit[/s] beat the shit out of her. Burst her eye in. Shattered her skull. She had been tied for a few days, too. She has these wounds, rope burns,[s] in[/s] on her wrists, and ankles.
-To a chair, or something?
-I don’t know. Probably, because something was holding her when he was beating her face in. He doesn’t even touch any other part of the body with the weapon, you see? Everything else that isn’t lacerations, are small bruises. Punches, to keep her in check, I guess. Hey, where’s the old bitch?
-Mills? He’s checking the thing up in Old Town. Another girl.
-Booyah, motherfucker.
-What? Just— What? Just yap it. Will you, Cochrane? It’s just another— It’s a body. Doesn’t mean we got something else[s] in[/s] on our hands, alright? Don’t jinx it.
-Hey, Jacob, I’m just saying, man.
-Whatever, yeah. What else?
-Hmm. Oh, well he starved her. She was starved, you know, at least a couple of days. And… Right, most of the cuts were made just before he finished her off. He basically kept his hands off her… until he killed her. Some of the bruises are older than the cuts, presumably from struggle. And… we found there had been sexual intercourse some days ago. Rough. He had basically fucked the shit out of her, before tying her up. There’s no semen inside of her, no, but the… It’s kind of swelled.
-He raped her, then?
-No. There’s no evidence of rape. No skin under her nails, no bruises in on her arms. I mean, I wouldn’t rule it out, but it would seem it was consensual.
-Prostitute?
-Would be my first guess, too. Plus, as you’ve already pointed out, we got the three distinctive cuts made after death. These are clean, no sign of struggle. Yup.
-We got a name, or something?
-Caucasian, female. Um, a prostitute. Around twenty-five years old. Other than that, we got shit. [The characterization of Mills was developed well throughout this chapter and the damage to the new body is described in good detail. Also, it seems realistic, the sort of things that the detectives would discuss so good work.]

THREE: I wanna see my daughter, that’s what I tell them as soon as I get there. They don’t know what I’m talking about. I had heard about her (Jesus Christ, my poor baby) in the morning, watched the news, and all. Just like everybody else. That’s when you realize you’re a terrible mother— when you hear about your daughter being killed [s]in[/s] on the telly. I keep telling myself it’s not my fault, but I know it’s bullshit. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me, and I could’ve been. I just didn’t want to be. I thought I hated her, I thought I hated my little baby for what she had become, but now I see I was being selfish. I drove her to those ways. I thought I didn’t, but it was me. Always working, never being there for her. Bringing her to [s]life[/s] live in this hell. One of the cops tries to calm me down; she keeps telling me to breathe, to be cool. I can tell I’m not crying (not even now, not for her), but my face feels red, hotter than ever, and I can’t seem to gather enough air to say anything. They make me sit down, and ask me again. What do I want? (I want to hold my baby again) And so I tell them about the murder that was on TV this morning, and I tell them that I know who the victim is, and I tell them she was my daughter, and I tell them it was me who killed her. I waited [You switch tenses here which isn’t advisable. Either start with past for this person and use it throughout or change the rest to present.] for over an hour, and that’s when they finally came, those two coppers, the old man and the one that seemed to be the youngest guy in there. And so I ask [So you switch back here. Certainly change that little section to present tense then.] them: are you going to find the man that murdered my little girl?
I can tell from the look on their faces that I won’t get what I’m looking for.

“What you gotta understand is that my girl… She was a good girl, she was just hanging out with the wrong people,” the woman sobs, as John Mills walks her towards the bodies. [Perhaps have a line of dashes between the two changes of persepctive.] He arrives from the murder scene, and this is what he comes back to. Crying relatives. “Jesus, she didn’t deserve this. Not her, not my little girl… she had been bad, but she didn’t deserve it, not this.” That’s the part he hated the most. Not comforting the mothers, he didn’t mind that, but it was the fact that he had to try to get some answers at the same time. It felt insensitive. Next to him, though, the kid is wasting no time. He’s already got his booklet [Booklet? Maybe note-book or note-pad.] out.
“Mrs. Rosebud, I cannot even try to imagine what you’re going through right now, but— just please, remember that anything you can tell us at this stage [s]would[/s] will be helpful.” Mills glares at the kid, Jacob, but he doesn’t take the hint. The woman is still shrieking, pressing her face against the old man’s shoulder. John puts his arm around the woman, trying to smooth her out of it. In front of them, the pathway leading to the door is white, immaculate. It’s still early in the morning, and there aren’t too many people walking around these parts. If there are, they’re all wearing identical white coats, almost invisible as they rush past the three of them: the woman, yesterday’s victim’s mother, Mrs. Rosebud, and the two cops. [This is a little awkward. Perhaps something like - ’Those who are, rush past the three of them in almost identical white coats, almost invisible against the walls and furniture.’] “Like, where was she living, who was she friends with? That sort of thing.”
Mills intervenes. They’re right in front of the door, and they’ve stopped moving. “You just take your time, ma’am, alright? Can you do that for me?” The woman nods, putting her hand over her mouth, trying to calm herself. John Mills rubs her shoulders, warmly, and smiles at her, showing his uneven teeth. “Now— we don’t have to do this now, if you don’t want to. We can go out, have a cup of coffee, and eat some buns. Have ourselves a breakfast, or whatever. What do you say? Can you do this now?”
Jacob clicks his tongue, impatient. [This could be a little smoother. Maybe ’Jacob clicks his tongue impatiently’ would work better.] The woman [s]breaths[/s] breathes heavily, shaking her head. “No… No, let’s just— Let me see her. Just let me see her,” she manages to whisper. John nods, and pushes the door open, leading the woman inside.
The kid’s stomach cringes as they enter the stale, grey environment, and see the bodies laid out, in metal platforms. [What sort of sick morgue is this? The bodies are usually kept cold and out of sight within a sort of metal wrack. Especially at an identification.] Most of them have already been messed around with. Those sport a big ‘Y’-like scar on their chests. One of them, however, is being messed around with as they come in, by a small, black man. Tobey Cochrane. Jacob thinks that being here once this early in the morning is already enough. Cochrane’s small, bald head has a couple of huge headphones wrapped around it, which boom to the sound of music that sounds all around the room.
“Cochrane!” Jacob calls out. The woman jumps a bit, alarmed, as Cochrane turns around, scalpel still in his hand. He smiles at the three of them, visibly surprised by their intrusion.
“What are you doing down here again, dear?” he asks, wryly.
Jacob eyes the lady as he walks towards him. “We’ve gotta take a look at that body of ours, again.”

He’s tied her down, and has her next to him as he watches television. [The last point of view switch wasn’t so bad but you certainly need some sort of line between these two paragraphs.] He’s recorded, on DVD, every police drama on the schedule. The naked woman moans, complaining, as she tries to move her head, trying to get the rope out of her mouth. Her hands are bound to her feet, and she’s been lying on the expensive, three-thousand dollar carpet [s]on[/s] in his living room for over five hours. As the show starts, and the credits begin to roll, he kicks her in the head— just to keep her cool. Thirty-five minutes later, he thinks about masturbating as they reveal who the killer is, but then decides against it. He stands up, and drags the woman back to his room.

-That’s not her, that’s what she says. When we show her the body, the one that’s supposed to belong to her daughter, she just shakes her [s]shake[/s] head, and laughs. She’s crying now. –That’s not my Fiona, that’s not my girl. At first I think what’s coming next is just the usual hyperventilation, but then I see something in her eyes that I normally don’t see in the regular hurting: happiness.
So, I just look at Cochrane, and tell him: -Yeah, cover her up. The Old Man takes the mother to the side, still comforting her, as the woman talks at a thousand miles per hour. She’s so glad, and it fills my heart with warmth just seeing her speak. It’s a rare pleasure to see someone being this glad after seeing a dead body, something we don’t usually get. Most of the times, in our line of work, we can’t really give people hope. We’re Homicide. They call us in when all hope is lost, when the murder has already been committed. All we can do is catch the guy responsible. So, yeah. We were glad. And I could tell the Old Man was too. He grinned at her, hugged her. Took her hand, and walked her outside. Although part of me wished she had recognized the victim that was, as of right now, still unnamed, I couldn’t give my back to the fact that this was the highlight of my day so far. And then, as usual, that useless son of a bitch Cochrane ruins it for me.
-Hey, I was meaning to talk to you, he says, like it’s no big deal. –I’ve got something to show you. I was… I was looking over the wounds, of our girl here, and I was comparing them to some of the other cases, for which we didn’t have a murder weapon yet, just for the sake of it. We walk past half a dozen bodies before we stop next to a smaller one, another woman, covered in a blank sheet. Cochrane reveals her, and there it is. The girl is so pale. Her blonde hair already washed, almost ready for her to be taken away and buried. A horrible scar defaces her, just like it did the other. –And that’s when I realize that this girl we had gotten in from Old Town a week ago had been killed, cut up, with the same knife yours had been. And… So, I start comparing the files, and… Well. Rope burns on the ankles, and wrists. Three large, clean cuts made after she was already dead. Starved. Blunt object. Same age range. Same complexion. I stay quiet for a moment, trying to forget about what Cochrane is talking about, and focusing [Perhaps recalling? Or remembering to prevent confusion.] on the smile on the woman’s face as Old John Mills walked her out. He follows my eyes. –You don’t think…?
-Go bring her back in here. [A very good ending. I love how impersonal this character seems on the surface and how much you linger on how happy the woman is so that it creates an even bigger impact at the end. In general, this chapter needs tidying up a little but your descriptions are good, you use short sentences effectively and this character is currently my favourite so any section from his perspective is great.]

FOUR: The liquor rolled, elegantly, into the glass. John Mills watched it go, mesmerized. He had been on call for over two hours now, but he didn’t care anymore. He had decided on that when that motherfucker upstairs decided to take the only good news he had given all week away from him. Another body. Where the fuck did they get another body from? He thought about the mother, crying. How could he be so cruel? How could anybody? [A good start. It’s nice to see this from Mills’ point of view as well as the other man because you get a good contrast of their personalities.]

I catch a name between the frenetic sobbing of the disheartened mother, and decide to follow on that. [Again, you need some sort of line to indicate a change of perspective.] Amanda Hearst, the name of the girl the victim had been staying with. So, I make a cup of coffee, and then drive myself up to Old Town. John didn’t feel like coming, which doesn’t surprise me. The girl’s building is as shitty as I thought it’d be. This is Old Town— the weathered remains of what used to be the heart of the city. You can find everything in here. An abandoned City Court, a burned down theatre. It makes sense that our killer decided to pick his victims out in here: nobody cares. It’s the big city mentality, we exploit everything we can until it’s exhausted, and then [s]just[/s] move on, never look back. The whole city was built around these parts. This time around, I wonder if anybody other than junkies, and whores, and serial killers, and coppers ever think about even touching these streets. The door is opened right before I go for a second knock. [This is a little awkward. Perhaps ’just before I go for another knock’ would sound a touch more natural.] The girl is really young, and looks as if she hasn’t eaten for at least couple of days. That’s the heroin though. As soon as she sees the look on my face, and the overcoat, and the tie, and I show her the badge, she tries to cover up the needle marks with her sleeves. So, I go: -Amanda Hearst? I’m just here to ask some questions about Fiona Rosebud.
She rubs her eyes (ghoulishly blue, sank in purplish skin), looking completely lost for a second. –She’s not here, she finally growls. Then she tries to close the door on me. I push forward, and come into the apartment. In there, everything’s a mess. –Hey, man, I’ve already told she’s not…! I don’t know where she is, alright? I haven’t seen that bitch in days, she…
-She’s dead. [Again, I love how blunt this character is and your description of the girl was good.] That keeps her quiet for a few moments, as I walk around the miniscule flat, inspecting it. Used, blood-stained needles, folded up papers, dirty clothes scattered around the floor, a huge, black man sleeping in the corner of the room, snoring. –We found her a week ago, and couldn’t identify her until today. Her mother came to visit us. She was murdered, Amanda.
-Fuck, she mumbles. She bites her thumb, and then utters, terrified: -I— I haven’t seen her for days, I… It wasn’t… She was…
-We aren’t looking into anybody, yet, but I really need you to tell me things you think would be useful for our investigation. Was she in trouble with someone? Was there someone around her that maybe seemed dangerous…?
She shakes her head, nervous. –No… No, she was… She was doing pretty well, right? For a… She had been clean for weeks, she tells me, before laughing, scornfully. –She wouldn’t shut up about that. And… She wasn’t doing the streets anymore, because… Fiona was a… She was a working girl, you know? But she wasn’t doing that anymore. She had found this guy, you see? This really nice, wealthy guy who was taking good care of her…
I take out my notebook. This seemed promising. –And what was the name of this gentleman?
Amanda scoffs. –I don’t fucking know. Frederick, or Howard, or Logan, something… I never talked to him much. She sits herself down next to the sleeping man. -He was— He was so fucking weird, though. The first time I saw him… Because, he used to come pick her up here, you know? Like, she was his girl now, or… Or something, right? The first time I saw him, I was jealous. He was this suave… James Bond, kind of prick, you know? Really handsome. But then he came over for dinner, one time. She didn’t invite him over, or anything, he just showed up. High on speed, or some shit. Brought sushi. I don’t even know what sushi is. Well, I mean, I know what it is, but we’ve never tried it. And then he starts asking us these… He starts talking about these really strange things. He talks about… a snail crawling along a knife— this is a dream he had. He goes: that he saw a snail crawling along the edge of a knife… and that it survived. That’s his dream, he keeps going. He thought it was really funny for some reason, and I’m like, what the fuck are you talking about? [I like the way she speaks. You have some really interesting characters and this girl is no exception. I love how she jumps from topic to topic. You have a real talent with dialogue.]
Apocalypse Now. –Apocalypse Now. I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor, and surviving. That’s my dream, that’s my nightmare. It’s from a movie. He was paraphrasing a movie.
-I don’t know, but he was really out of it. He wanted us to… He wanted us to give him a hit… but… in his dick, like. And he kept asking us if we had seen his cat. He thought it was really funny. She was really into him, though. So, when she disappeared I just figured she had gone uptown to live with him.
In the end, I get an address, and with the address, I manage to get a name. And so, an hour after I’ve finished speaking to her, I’m already calling Mills. I remember thinking ‘not again’ right when he answered the phone.

[s]fucking[/s] Fucking stop! I’m thinking about her again, and I’m thinking about her eyes, and her soft skin, but she was gone so long ago, she is gone, she was always gone, even when she was here but that’s not true, is it? It’s not, I know it’s not, I know it’s not. The music keeps sounding all around me, and I don’t even know what I’m listening to (Lennon?), but I think about how the kid called an hour ago— When is he getting here? I’m always alone, I’ve always been alone, even when she was here. I think I’m going to but I’m too scared to do it, I’m so fucking terrified, and I make my way towards my bed, and reach under my pillow, and there it is. My gun. And it feels that it has always been there, that I’ve never slept away from it, even when I was a kid, and my mother loved me. That it’s the only thing I’ve had forever, and that it’s the only thing I can rely on. Rely. I could rely on her, couldn’t I? I could, but I think that in the end I worn her out, I relied on her a bit too much, and she just couldn’t take it, and I think about calling her, but it’s been so long since I haven’t, and I think I can stand a couple of more years. Fuck! Fuck! There won’t be any more years; I have to get that in my head. I have to get that in my fucking head because I’m and done for. I’m lying in the ground, with the gun in my hand, and I think about how we’ll never get the fucker we’re looking for, just as we never got the last guy we were looking for, and how I feel like this last case is going to take everything I have left in me, and leave me with nothing at all. Old John Mills. Old John Mills is all Old John Mills has left. And the kid, when is Jacob getting in here? We have a lead! We have a lead on the case! We have a lead on the case, and if I get the guy, if I get the guy, I swear to God I’ll leave the gun, then. I won’t even think about blowing my head out, and leaving this hell behind me, and God, you have to listen to me, if you give me this last one, this last fucker, then we can forget all the ugly business. Water under the bridge— was there a bridge? That time? That one time? There was a bridge. When we met, her and me, oh God, you bastard, there was a bridge. It was white, and it had carvings in the sides, and, Jesus I wanna vomit taste in my mouth, and someone pulls me up to my feet, and he is taking me to the bathroom, I think he is taking me there I feel my feet stumble and the cold feel of the bathtub against my back ALL THE THINGS YOU SAID WON’T EVEN MATTER DO WHAT YOU WANT CAUSE I’M NOT GOING TO SAVE YOU BABY WHAT’S GOING ON? Agh! Kid, you son of a fuck! Jacob! You son of a [Normally I hate angsty passages like this but I think you showed the emotion quite well and I like how your broken style reflected how broken Mills is.]

Old John Mills screams in agony as he feels the cold water hit him in the face, and catches a glimpse of his partner, the kid, Jacob, staring at him with disappointment. It wasn’t the first time he had seen him like this, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Jacob used to look up to him, even though he can’t bring himself to admit it. He never talks about these episodes, the same way he doesn’t talk about how he had to talk the Old Man out of killing himself the last time he was there, in his apartment. He won’t report him, although he’d like to. He just watches the water shower down, and hears him scream about how he’ll smash his skull in, and then hears his incontrollable howling about how life has taken all he had. He speaks about Her (that’s all he ever calls her), and he speaks about the job, and his gun. Then he falls asleep. Jacob stays next to him all night, and when he hears him say, when it’s already morning: “Let’s go to work,” as soon as he wakes up, he knows he can put this shameful event behind. Then, they clean themselves up, and head over to see Howard Richards, on Huntington with Guadalupe.

“I guess you’re pretty angry at me,” he begins to say. He puts the cigarette on his mouth, [Perhaps ’to his lips’ would sound better than ’on his mouth.’] and lights it up. The girl looks terrified, as he combs her hair, delicately. It’s so yellowish, and luminous, he thinks. He wets his lips, and drops the ashes of his cigarette on her forehead. He hears a moan, but yearns [Maybe desrires? Or yearns for.] a scream. “But, baby, you have to realize that… it’s on, like Donkey Kong. You won’t be getting out of here, because I don’t want you to get out of here, you see? I’m Master of my Domain. Here, I’m King of the County. Try not to cry about it, will you? A victim of the Modern Age! Poor, poor girl.” He smiles, and takes a long drag, as he watches her eyes wander towards the rifle, which is lying on the ground, a few meters away from them. “That? Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” he slowly explains to her. “I won’t touch you with that. As a matter of fact, I’ll hardly touch you for at least a couple of days… Well, not in a significant way, anyhow.” He puts the cigarette out against her cheek, grinding his teeth together, breathing heavily, hissing, huffing and puffing, licking the sides of his mouth. The girl yells in pain, albeit silently. “I watched a fucking snail crawl down the edge of a straight razor! Do you hear what the fuck I’m saying? It crawled down the edge of a razor, and survived.”
“Ritchie,” the girl manages to croak, muffled by the tape. He drops the cigarette, and watches it roll down to the ground, next to her head. The killer fixes his tie, trying to gain back his composure. His secretary blubbers again, unintelligibly. The man nods, and passes his gloved hand against the cigarette burn, caringly.
“Right,” he says, raising his voice. “I’ll be in my room, if anybody calls. Be sure to tell them I’m doing something important, like… Checking up on the Woodman files, or… Masturbating.” He shakes his heads, and slaps himself in the face, violently. “No. That won’t do. Tell them I’m… Tell them I’m pumping the Primus. Yes. Very well, then. See you back here in a week, darling.”
The man walks out of the room, sighing deeply. He takes his gloves out, and drops them on the floor. He thinks about petting his dragon for a bit, but decides that he would need to go at it with her for a while again before doing that, and he doesn’t really feel like it. He also asks himself what exactly his secretary saw in him that compelled her to go into his apartment when he asked her to. He whimpers, and sinks into his sofa, embarrassed with himself. He is a terrible person, he concludes. He does terrible things. Then he hears his intercom buzz.
He jumps up, and readies himself for the real people. [Hmmm. The ending of this chapter was quite strange but I think you portrayed the crazy character’s mind quite well. I have a suggestion actually. Perhaps you could describe the cigarette burn in more detail? That is afterall quite crucial and a crazy character probably wouldn’t take in much of his surroundings but a vivid description of the pain he’s causing would really add to this section.]

FIVE: A large thud. The door, opening. -Good morning officers- the man, smiling at them, both coppers strolling inside, inspecting the apartment, clean, looking pretty expensive, carpeted floors, large PLASMA TV, pretty artwork, the man wearing what looks to be like at least a five-hundred dollar suit, Jacob seeming disappointed almost, Old John Mills looking out of it, as if he doesn’t know what they’re expecting to get out of this visit, and Howard Richards leading them to the living room, smiling, hoping they don’t notice the blood stains in his white shirt, soft jazz music sounding in the background. -Would you like something to drink? Some bourbon perhaps, or… You know? [A bit of a long sentence. Perhaps break it up just a touch.] A friend of mine just gave me this fantastic vodka. You’d… You’ll be blown away.
-No, that’d be alright, - Jacob, eyeing the Old Man, scratching his chin. –I’m Detective Hanks, and this is Detective Mills. We’re just here to ask some questions.
-Oh, but you don’t understand, - the killer, insisting. -This isn’t just some vodka. This is the vodka, the one you’ve been… Can I just—? Just have some.
-It’s far too early in the morning to be drinking, Mr. Richards, - Old John, managing finally to utter a word.
-But, come on! It’d make this fun. Come on! - Richards, the man, the killer, almost desperate.
-No. We’re just here to ask some questions about Fiona Rosebud, - Jacob, getting a bit irritated, and the old copper, clearing his throat, feeling uncomfortable.
Beat: the man thinks for a brief moment, about what his answer is going to be, before deciding on the least damaging one.
-I don’t know who she is, - the killer, with a tingle in his voice, shaking his head, after looking lost for a moment.
-Well, we were told by one of her friends she had been involved in a relationship with you, - Jacob, firmly.
-Oh! Oh, Fiona. Rosebud? Sure, I knew Fiona Rosebud. I used to fuck her, - the killer, his voice wavering, clicking his fingers. -Horny little piggy, she was. How is she? Is she alright?
Beat: Silence. The killer is sweating, trying to quiet himself down. The two coppers are exchanging nervous looks.
-She’s dead, - Old John Mills, informative.
-Oh! Oh… I didn’t know that, - the killer, lying.
-Well, we found her a week ago, and weren’t able to identify her until recently. She was… found in an alley, up in Old Town. She’s been murdered, - Jacob, sounding resentful, having already made up his mind.
-Jesus! Murdered? Really? I doubt it. She wasn’t murdered. No. No, no, no, no. No, they’ll say it was murder. The doctors will say it was a murder, but I’ll know what it was. A victim of the modern age! The poor, poor girl! - the killer, trying to sound surprised, and failing, miserably.
Beat: Detective John Mills scribbles something down in his notebook, which reads: “This is the fucker.” He leans towards the kid, and shows it to him. Jacob nods, unsettled, before trying to look the killer in the eyes. The man feels terror.
-Well, aren’t we all? - Jacob, mumbling, deceiving.
-Yes. Will you excuse me, please? - the killer, raising his voice, standing up, slapping his leg, and then storming out of the room, the two coppers standing up, simultaneously, as he leaves.
-Let’s take him in, right now, - Jacob, impetuous.
-We can’t, - John, calming him down.
-What the fuck? We can’t? Have you seen the guy? He’s sweating like a madman. He’s… he’s trying to bully us into drinking vodka. He’s lying for no reason. He’s insane! He’s fucking insane.
-I can tell that, but that isn’t enough to arrest him right now.
-Why not?
-Because we need to have a reason.
-We have a reason. Those girls’ insides finger-painted all over the streets. So, what the fuck do we do? Do we wait for him to take another victim? What?
-We go back and get a warrant.
-Shit. A fucking warrant…? The hell with that, man, just— Fine. You know what? Alright, OK? Alright. Let’s wait. Just… Let’s just get out of here, then. Let’s get the fuck out of here, - John, taking a breath. – Jesus-fucking-Christ Superstar, man. Don’t you want to… I mean, Jesus, he’s right there.
Beat: There are three people in the room again. Mills turns around.
-Don’t cuss, – the killer, framed by the doorway, with a rifle in his hands, wearing nothing but his white shirt, now completely covered in blood, and some underwear, having already finished the job inside his room, acting completely calmed, feeling like the bigger man, imagining the coppers can’t tell he is pointing a gun at them, an erection poking out of his boxers, product of the girl’s screaming some seconds earlier. –You’re leaving already, are you, Detective…? Mills, is it? And you are...? Hanks, right? Well, it doesn’t really matter. Where were we, then? Would you like something to drink?
Beat: The collective hearts of the detectives stop. They both reach for their guns, but don’t take them out. He could blow any of them out, whenever he wanted. Jacob is the first one to speak. The killer blinks.
-Put the gun down, - Jacob, trying to sound comforting, convincing, whatever, cold slithering sweat rolling down his back, his mouth dry. -Just put the gun down, man. We can help you.
-What? What…? Oh! – the killer, not moving one inch, the rifle still pointed at the coppers, smiling, acting natural. –It’s a rifle, yeah. Cool. So, yeah, you were asking me about Rosebud, right? Citizen Kane? Right? It’s the sleigh. It’s settled, then. Right?
Beat: John Mills steps forward. The killer does nothing. He is caressing the trigger, waiting for the perfect moment. Jacob can’t bring himself to talk.
-Killing a girl is one thing, son. Killing a cop is a completely different thing, - the Old Man, raising his hands, pretty sure that this is the moment, that this is when he dies. –We can still help, son.
-No, no, no, no, no, no, you can’t, not now, not ever, but I’m fine. Really, thank you, but I’m OK. I’m A-OK, man. Ah… Seriously. I’m glad I helped you with your investigation, Detectives. Really. Rosebud, - the killer, twitching, getting nervous. –The sleigh killed his mother.
-What? [I like this section. It’s a little jerky but that’s good because it reflects the action and you have lots of suspense here. Very nice.]

BANG

Jacob is shot out of the way, pushed by the impact of the round. His chest explodes; blood flies everywhere, the bullet reaps right through him, and he screams. Oh, he screams, as John Mills throws himself to the ground, taking out his gun, and shooting [s]at[/s] in every direction. The killer throws the rifle against them, and rushes towards the open door, as bullets whiz past him. He feels a sting in the back of the leg, but keeps on going, out of the apartment, into the corridor, and towards the elevator.
-Fuck! Shit, shit, shit, shit, -John Mills, not being able to bring himself upwards, loading his gun, and terrified as he hears the kid whimpering, and terrified as he feels his legs go numb, and terrified as he realizes that the killer has escaped, and he could’ve stopped him. –Jesus, oh no. Jesus, fuck. Please, don’t.
Beat: Jacob is lying in the ground, a hole in the middle of his torso. He tries to speak, but all that comes out of his mouth is blood, and noiseless sobbing.

He remembers the night before she left, standing there under the pouring rain, in the middle of the street. He remembers the feel of the gun, as he stroked it, waiting for him to come out. He remembers getting drunk, not because he was feeling sorry for himself, like the other times, but because he needed the courage, and he remembers entering the bar, and asking for the bottle. He remembers that they hadn’t slept together for… months, was it? But that in that particular night, he didn’t come back to the house at all. No. He remembers the address— and standing next to the car, his car, the same car that had matched the tire marks near the scene. All circumstantial, they had ruled. He remembers that word, and how he hated it: circumstantial. And he remembers the two little girls, lying there, raped, and beaten, and shot, and just lying there in a puddle of mood [Did you mean blood or mud here?], and he remembers thinking that he was going to catch that bastard. So, he remembers driving there, drunk, and stumbling out of the car, and taking out his gun, and then hiding it under his coat, and then just waiting there. Waiting for him, soaked, under the pouring rain.
He remembers her laugh, that’s what he misses the most about her. Although there wasn’t much to laugh about as the years piled up, he knows that’s what he’ll always remember about her. First, her really soft chuckles, bringing her head forward, and then making it louder, like a cough. Not a very pretty laugh, but he had gotten used to it. He remembers that one time they had stayed up all night talking, because he had to drive up to Montauk during the weekend, and had to leave really early in the morning. Not the brightest of ideas, he needed to rest, but that’s his favorite night. [Either that was his favourite night or perhaps that’s his favourite memory.] Sometimes, he wishes he could forget all others, and just keep that one memory. He remembers the fights, and her crying in [In doesn’t fit here. Either on or against?] his shoulder, and her storming out the door. He remembers even the first time he noticed she didn’t love him anymore. Her voice had a certain something, and she couldn’t look [s]at[/s] him in the eyes.
His grey, dead eyes.
He remembers that he was thinking about her as the man came out of the building, and that she was the reason he didn’t pull the trigger. He remembers what the man said— that he looked at him, at John, and didn’t even flinch. He asked him: “What the hell are you doing here?” And John remembers that he showed him the gun, and then started to cry, and then he thought about her, and just couldn’t bring himself to do it. This happened years ago. The next day, she was gone.

Well, the last thing I remember is the feel of that nurse’s hand in my chest, and the lights in the ceiling, as they rushed me into the emergency room. I don’t know what came before that, or what happened after. It’s like, all there is after the bullet is that nurse’s hand in my chest. You know what it’s like? It’s like getting drunk. Yeah. It’s like when you get pissed, I mean, really fucking pissed, and you get to a point where your memory gives up, and just leaves you with little bits. Almost nothing. The taste of the vomit in your mouth, or… getting into a car. Meaningless bits of memory. That’s what it’s like. And after that, I remember opening my eyes, and feeling like shit, and seeing Old John sitting next to me. And he smiles, and then I say something. I say: -Hey, man. And then I go to sleep again.
Two nights later I get a visit from the doctor. He tells me I’ve been very lucky, that I should have been killed by the bullet, and I would have if John hadn’t [s]have[/s] rushed me into the hospital straight away. I ask him about the motherfucker who shot me. He tells me that he doesn’t know about that. And then I get that feeling in my stomach, all of a sudden. It’s not good. Melissa comes to visit next. She starts to cry, and hugs me, and whines about how she didn’t know what to do when she heard about me being in the hospital, and that she didn’t know what she’d have done if she’d lost me. But she doesn’t seem to get anything out of me. It just seems completely unimportant. This girl… she’s my friend, but she doesn’t really mean much to me. And after being shot in the chest by a lunatic, and being in a bed, unconscious, for five days straight… It really makes you wonder why you work so hard to keep these people around. You invest so much effort in trying to keep relationships from falling apart, that you neglect the ones that really matter. And I try, I try to think about the ones that are important to me, and I just can’t even come up with one. And this is all happening as Melissa is lying next to me in the hospital bed, hugging me, and sobbing, and saying dumb things like: -I love you, or –Don’t ever do that again. Don’t ever go. And then I start thinking that maybe I can’t think of anybody that really matters to me, because that’s what the job takes. Maybe, I tell myself, I’m just like Old John Mills, and don’t even realize it. Maybe he’s just embraced his nature, and I’m struggling to ignore the fact that all I really care about is the job, and getting those lunatics, and that all I’m thinking about as Melissa embraces me is the guy who shot me, and the women he’s going to kill if we don’t get him, and how I’d like to smash his face in. And then I do a really stupid thing.
I tell myself, fuck it. I’ve got to stop it before it’s too late. And I take Melissa by the chin, and raise her face towards mine, and I’ve got a tremendous head-ache, and I don’t think I’m really thinking this through, and I tell myself that I’ve got to start building relationships that matter before I become John, and so I ask her, dead serious, like: -Would you marry me? She tells me she’s going to think about it.
I don’t think she really means it. [Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought he was going to break up with her. A good twist though and a good piece of conflict. This chapter was very well written, lots of action and I like the extra depth you’ve added to the character. It makes me like him even more.]

SIX: The killer awoke before dawn. It was already Saturday. He had been living in a hotel for the last few days. He hardly ever came out of the room, and when he did, he wore his cap. Not because he didn’t want to be recognized, but because he was embarrassed people would see him staying at the crappy All Year Inn. He had shaved his head, and cut a straight line across his chin with a razor-blade, to make himself unrecognizable. That was Monday. Tuesday, he had caught himself a really nice, black girl prostitute and had a bit of fun with her. He was quickly running out of money. Wednesday was fun, because he had seen his picture in the television, next to the words “killer,” and “serial.” He masturbated for a while after that. Thursday wasn’t fun, but it was funny. A big nigger had come a’ knocking, and started to ask questions about this girl, Mandy. Where’s Mandy? What did you do to Mandy? The killer told him he didn’t know who Mandy was. Then the nigger beat the shit out of him. The killer did not enjoy that. The next day, Friday, he changed rooms and bought a gun. He also found out the names of the two little piggies that had ruined his game. That’s when the killer decided what he was going to do tomorrow. [I like this little diary entry. It’s interesting and very impersonal. A nice touch.]

John Mills took a sip of his coffee, and felt the whiskey in there somewhere. The diner was full of dopers and fuck-ups, but at least it was quiet. Besides, Old Town was always full of dopers and fuck-ups so he couldn’t really complain. He had been driving around all week, every night, hoping he could run into the bastard. He knew he wouldn’t stop, that much was obvious, but the real problem was if Richards would be stupid enough to fish his victims out of the same lake. Apparently not. The old man eyed the nice girl pouring coffee into his cup again, and smiled at her. She was a blonde, [s]and[/s] with these really mesmerizing blue eyes. Incidentally, she had cut marks on her wrists. As the waitress walked away, and Mills poured some of his whiskey into the coffee, he thought about the girls this man had killed. That’s all he was thinking about lately. That, and his partner lying in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of his nose. The chief said the case was taking too much of his time.
Can you believe that?
He said that he knew it was important, and that it was getting a lot of press, but that ultimately no-one cares about these victims. Hookers and junkies, the guy is doing the world a favor. That he knows that what happened to Jacob is fucked up (“Don’t think I don’t know that”), but that the old man shouldn’t let the case take hold of his life. There’re other murders, he told him. There’ve been four murders this week alone. Cleaner, easier murders he could be solving. Here’s a guy that came into the Force twenty years or so after Mills did. He started out handing people their donuts. Now he’s bossing the old man around. John Mills almost punched him. It’s ridiculous. It’s… John Mills smiles, as he slides his finger around the rim of the cup. He has nothing. That’s the truth. He’s got a name, and a face, [s]and [/s]but nothing else. The bastard is a lawyer, he’s got money, he could be anywhere by now. He could be sipping martinis in Rio. Killing European whores. So, what the hell is the old man still doing here? Does he really think Richards will come around, and he’ll just happen to be around when he does?
“I have got to sleep,” he mutters, dryly. Outside, someone is screaming. John turns and looks through the window. Across the sidewalk, out on the street, a long-haired man is slapping a girl around. The girl is apologizing for some reason, kneeling next to him, pulling his coat, and he keeps slapping her, screaming at her. There is absolutely nothing the girl can say or do about it. John Mills licks the side of his lips, takes out his wallet and puts a ten dollar bill on the table. Then he stands up. And this is what he does.
The old man walks out of the diner, calmly. Above him, the grey clouds covering the sky are starting to turn completely black. There’s electricity in the air. His shoes slap the asphalt, as he walks across the street. In front of him, the long-haired man is trying to drag the girl along the sidewalk, take her somewhere else, but she’s crying. She’s crying and just wants him to listen. The buildings around them are worn out, and as old as this city. The paint is crackling down and no-one even cares. Scattered around the street, the fuck-ups and dopers all just stare as the pimp keeps beating the hell out of that girl. And John Mills just walks towards them, staring dead ahead, not giving a shit. The pimp is pulling the girl by the hair.
“I’m sorry! Jesus— I swear I ain’t holding out, I’ll give you a little something from what I saved last week, just—!” The pimp slaps her on the face again, and then looks around, smiling dimly, as if he’s trying to tell everybody that it’s all a game between them, that they’re just playing around, that nothing is happening, that there’s nothing to see here.
“You’re causing a fucking scene—”
“I’m sorry! Just don’t— Stop hitting me, please! Tyson, please!” The woman shrieks as John Mills gets closer and closer. The pimp clenches his fist, and hits her on the mouth, busting her lip. She moans.
And that’s when the pimp notices the old man walking towards them. And he eyes him, and takes his bloodied hands towards his coat, and moves it to a side, flashing the gun he is carrying, as if the old timer hadn’t seen one ever before. And then he raises his eyebrows, and he asks him:
“So, who the fuck are you?”
Detective John Mills reaches into his coat, and takes his revolver out of his holster. He doesn’t say anything, he just points. The pimp screams something, and jumps to the side, the girl [s]in [/s]on the ground screams, and John Mills caresses the trigger and shoots. Then the pi

Then the pimp’s knee-cap shatters, and the copper feels everything is happening in slow motion even though he knows exactly what he’s doing. There’s a thud as the pimp falls to the ground, crying. The sidewalk’s grey has been painted red. And the old man takes two steps more, towards the man sobbing on the floor, and leans towards him. The girl has stood up, and is whining, and grabbing John Mills by the shoulder, trying to get him away from the man.
“Oh, Jesus—! What the hell are you doing? Stop! Fucking stop! Tyson! What the hell did you do to Tyson? What the hell did he do to you?”
John Mills ignores her, and grabs the man by the hair. He pulls his face towards his gun, shows it to him, makes him look at it, and then he turns it around in his finger, holding it by the side. The woman shrieks as Detective John Mills hits the pimp with it. Once. Twice. By the third time, the nose is already shattered, beaten to a pulp, and blood and mucus covers the face. He blubbers unintelligibly. The woman is punching Mills in the arm, and pulling him away, trying to get him to leave the man alone. John puts his gun away. He stands up, and takes his wallet out. He looks around, and takes a hundred and sixteen dollars out. All he has in there.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the woman screams, in between tears. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
The pimp is lying on the ground, shaking. The copper grabs the girl (she’s just a little girl), and puts the money in her hand. Then he speaks, deadpan:
“Here. You go away for a couple of weeks, think about what you’re doing with your life. You want money, you call me. Detective John Mills, in the nineteenth precinct. You ask for me, and I’ll help you out. And when the money runs out, and you’ve thought about it, and you wanna get back on the streets, and come back to that scumbag—! And when you’re absolutely sure that the only way you’ll ever be able to make a buck is by having some stranger fuck you in the bum, then you can come back. About that time, he’ll be able to walk again. But if he ever hits you again, I won’t shoot him in the knee, I’ll shoot him in the face. And I’ll shoot every fucking pimp in this goddamn town. I am sick. I am insane, and I am tired.”
The girl doesn’t say anything. She just leaves. Some of the dopers and fuck-ups watching are clapping, softly.
It looks like it’s about to rain. John Mills is OK with that.[I like this scene. It shows a very dark side to Mill’s character but at the same time, it shows how compassionate he is. Very nicely done.]

My nurse is this girl called Jenna, that I will probably end up falling in love with. Melissa hasn’t returned my calls, but she keeps sending me flowers and “Get Well” letters. I guess that when you think about it I can’t really be angry at her for not wanting to be with me. I don’t want to be with her either. Earlier today, I called the chief. I told him I wanted a transfer. Maybe narcotics, I said. Or vice. Give the least amount of responsibility possible. He told me he’s going to look into it. Haven’t told the Old Man, just yet. I will, though. I really will, I’ll tell him today. He comes to visit every day, but he’s different now. He’s always been depressed, I mean, he’s always had problems, but now he looks completely lost. He hasn’t slept for days. We don’t talk about the murders, or the investigation. Truthfully, I want to put it behind me. Forget about the piece of metal inside my body, and forget about the pain [s]on[/s] in my chest, and don’t think about his eyes.
I should be out of here in a few days. Yesterday, Jenna helped me walk a little. Of course, it was pretty pathetic, but I managed to get some steps on my own. I mean, you hear about these guys who get shot on the line of duty, and don’t come out of their houses for weeks, months even, and then they moan about their pensions, and financial compensations— look, what I’m trying to say is that we know the risks, you know? You’re a cop. I mean, cops get shot, right? It’s pretty stupid to act surprised when something happens. On the room next to me there’s this Mexican bloke who got his hand cut off by a chainsaw. Sometimes, when I’m bored, I try to guess how the hell something like that happens. I’ve been here for two weeks already. I’m getting tired of the stale food, and the jell-O. Jenna keeps telling me I’ve got to eat, but I don’t see how poisoning my body with that shit is going to make me feel any better. My mother came to see me last week, as well. She was all like, Jacob, I told you this would happen to you, I told you. You could’ve been anything. A lawyer, a doctor, a surgeon like your father. I told you this would happen, oh, my poor baby. It’s not something I look forward to experiencing again.
The Old Man comes every afternoon. Each day, there seems like there’s less of him left. He’s got a half-grown beard and [s]he’s[/s] his eyes seem deader than ever. Someone should do something about him. I mean, you gotta understand, I’m the one that takes care of John. He’s got nobody else. That’s why I gotta get out of here. Not because of the food, but because of the Old Man. I mean, he’s completely alone. He’s got no-one, he’s… Jenna thought he was my father. I told her we were just really old friends. She thought that was strange. You know what I hate? I hate hospital beds. They’re always hard for some reason, aren’t they?
I cough a little, and then I reach towards the little black plastic button under my finger. I press the buzzer, and a few minutes later Jenna is poking her head into the room with a smile on her face. Her teeth are white, and her eyes are green. She walks through the room, and I can’t help but feel that she cares about me. She goes: -Jacob, what’s up? And I don’t say anything at first. She frowns, concerned. –Mr. Hanks, what’s the matter? I clear my throat, and swallow some spit.
–I gotta pee, I mumble. She doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. –I have got to pee! What follows is some pretty embarrassing shit. [I like how this character seems to have changed and developed since getting shot and generally I like the interaction between him and Jenna.]












[You need to lose this column format. I’m having great difficulty reading the text because it doesn’t fit into the columns so I’m going to take it out at least for the sake of critiquing.]

Howard Richards makes his way through the marbled floors of the hospital with a big smile on his face. He nods at the nurses walking by, casually. The black suitcase he is carrying seems lighter than it should be. Some minutes earlier, he had been trying to stuff the body of the doctor he had killed into the utility closet. He wonders how long it will take for someone to find it, but doesn’t really care if they do. Today is his last day on this plane of existence. He will finish up what he came here to do, and then leave, surrounded by light, and the singing of a thousand angels. He wonders if the scrubs make him look fat. Around him, people are dying. Pale faces look at him go, their cheekbones poking their way out of their skin, light bouncing off their hairless bodies. The killer finds this amusing.

“I can’t find my mother,” the girl whines in the elevator. The killer eyes her, and doesn’t say a word. “Doctor, I don’t know where my mother is.” She must be twelve years old, or something like that. Richards groans and turns his head towards her.
“She’s probably hiding from you, the whore. You should shoot her,” he concludes. The girl starts to cry. The killer is content with the fact that he’s done his good deed of the day.

Room 606. Room 607. Room 608. Room 609. The killer stops moving. Room 609. Room 608. Room 607. His tanned hands touch the doorknob, and turn it softly. The door creaks open. Detective Jacob Hanks, the little piggy, is sleeping. [I like this. Your killer has a very twisted mind and you illustrate that well.]

The kid opens his eyes and tries to move his finger, but can’t. In front of him, Howard Richards is looking through his suitcase. It takes a while for him to recognize the killer. He has shaved his head, and has a scar on his chin. He’s wearing a doctor’s outfit. When he does recognize him, he tries to scream, but can’t. He moves his eyes around, desperate, as the killer takes [s]out[/s] a big kitchen knife out of the suitcase, and a piece of paper. Calmly, he unfolds the paper and starts to read it in a sick, monotone voice. Jacob tries to roll out of the bed, but can’t.

“I know you’re probably wondering who I am. I’m Howard Richards. The reason you can’t recognize me is because of my clever disguise. If you can’t figure out what I did, stop trying because you’ll never figure it out. I’m too smart for you people. That’s why you’ll never catch me. Not that you need to catch me now. After tonight, I’m through. Also, you’re probably wondering why you can’t move, or speak, or scream, or hit me. What you are feeling now is a moderate sedation/ analgesia or conscious sedation induced by this drug I got, Pancuronium bromide. It’s one of the drugs they use in lethal injections. What it does is, you will be feeling what I’m about to do to you, but won’t be able to do anything about it. For that, I’m sorry.”

“This is a kitchen knife. This is what I’ll be using. Now, people will probably ask for reasons. Why did he do it? What was his problem? So, I will tell you right now because I trust you, and I love you. I do this because I think that someone should just take this city and just… flush it down the fucking toilet. Another reason is population control. Now that you know, let’s begin. Thank you for listening.” The killer folds the paper again, and puts it back in his pocket. Then he walks to the side of the bed. Jacob’s eyes follow him. They shake, desperate, terrified, as Richards puts the cold, steel blade on his forehead. There’s a long pause. Nothing happens. Then, he slithers the knife downwards. Blood creeps out of the wound, and rolls down his face. Jacob closes his eyes, trying to get his mind away from the pain. Breathing hard, the killer puts his hand on the kid’s neck, and shakes his head. “Don’t go away. Stay here. Stay here.” The knife slices through the nose, and blood splutters upwards, and to the sides. The white, immaculate sheets are soaked now. The killer chuckles, and Jacob opens his eyes, praying to God it’ll end soon. “That’s it. That’s the way, uh-huh. Uh-huh. I like it. Uh-huh.”

The killer licks the blade, then he stabs the kid’s arm again. He moves his hand towards Jacob’s face, and puts his finger in between the cut on his cheek. Jacob’s eyes stare at the killer’s face, coldly. Then Richards pulls as hard as he can, and the skin rips, and shreds off, and blood bubbles in between the kid’s teeth, and the killer laughs uncontrollably. By the look on his face, you can tell this is the greatest moment of his life. He doesn’t even hear the door open. He’s so excited that he doesn’t even hear the door opening, and the gun cocking, and Detective John Mills muttering:

Detective John Mills doesn’t say anything. He just does as he’s told, and puts his badge on the table. The chief, that piece of yuppie scum, leans towards the items, and slides them away. John Mills walks out of the room. He needs a drink. At least he gets to keep his gun.

His old car rattles as he drives towards the hospital. He’s bought a Blue Label with money he should probably be saving, but hasn’t touched it yet. Rain showers down, cleansing the city. He finds the sound of the water hitting the metal soothing.

The red light shines on his windshield, faint. On the car next to him, two lovers can’t wait to get home and take advantage of the few seconds they have right now. John Mills looks away. He hasn’t touched a woman since God knows when.

John Mills walks out of car with his hands inside the pocket of his coat, and runs towards the entrance of the hospital, trying not to get too wet.

“Who?” he asks the nurse with the bright, yellowish eyes. The woman sighs, as if she’s doing him a big favor.
“He said his name was Travis Bickle. He asked me where the room was, that’s all. So I told him. I don’t know if he’s till in there, maybe he’s already left,” she mutters, slowly.
“Who the hell is Travis Bickle?”

John Mills rushes through [Perhaps along the corridoor would sound better?] the corridor. He just knows something is happening.

“Don’t move.”

John Mills ignores the tears running down his face and tries not to break down as he stares dead ahead towards unimaginable horror. The gun he is holding is pointed directly towards the monster’s head. He turns around and looks at Mills. The kid is not moving. He may be dead already. “Don’t fucking move,” he croaks again, sobbing. Richards shakes his head and takes a step forward. John Mills tightens his grip on the gun. “Get back, damn it!”
The monster doesn’t listen. “I’m not done yet,” he complains. Richards is covered in blood that isn’t his. The knife is still stuck on Jacob’s arm. He takes another step forward. “This isn’t how it ends. Look, I’m not—”
John Mills presses the trigger. The monster dies.
Then he puts his gun down. Oh, God. He tries to build up the courage to walk towards the bed. He sniffs, and leans forward. The monster’s body is lying on the ground, with a hole where his face used to be at. Mills is still crying when he takes the kid by the hand, softly. Oh, God. Or maybe, he thinks, there really is no God. The kid’s eyes are open.
“What did he do to you…? What the hell did he do to you?” As soon as his eyes meet Jacob’s, behind the blood and all the gore, he knows what it is he wants Mills to do. “Fuck, kid… Oh, Jesus.” John Mills stops talking. He just passes his hand across Jacob’s hair, and then softly raises the kid’s head a bit. Enough to take the pillow beneath it. Then he clenches the blood stained pillow with both hands, and puts it over the kid’s face. He presses. As life leaves him, Jacob Hanks wishes he could’ve said thank you. [Very strong emotions here and a great job. I didn’t want the kid to die so full credit to you for making a very likeable character.]




EPILOGUE (months pass): John stares at the medal, caressing it with his thumb. In the distance, he can hear the band playing. An hour ago, he had been standing in front of a hundred people, and the chief was putting this piece of metal around his neck. Well, he made the papers alright. An outstanding hero, they said. An example for every young member of the force. It felt wrong. He could’ve milked it. He really could’ve milked it. Go to every interview. Write a book. Quit the job, make a big deal out of it. Two days ago he had gotten a call from the kid’s mother. She had told him thank you. John couldn’t help but ask: “What for?”
He opens his hand, and let’s the medal slip from his fingers. It falls on the ground, rattling softly. The trees around him are rocked by the wind, and the sun shines for the first time in months, lighting the green grass on the ground, and the dirty paths of the park. He should be getting back to the ceremony. After all, it’s his. But he doesn’t want to. The girl, the one he saved, hasn’t called. His suspension was cancelled after the… incident, because the powers that be decided to spin the cluster-fuck that was that mess. Next week he gets a new partner. Some kid transferred in from Newark. Can you imagine that? From Newark to the City. He hasn’t touched a bottle of alcohol in days, because that’s what the kid hated the most. Having to drive up to his apartment to sober him up. So, he’s trying to keep away from the booze for a few days. So far, so good. He closes his eyes and imagines a world in which none of this exists. Then he hears her voice:
“What are you thinking about?” she asks. He raises his head and looks at her, barely recognizing her at first, as her shoes slide across the grass towards him. Then he thinks that maybe he is imagining this, that it can’t be her. “John?” He raises his eyebrows, and looks away.
“You came. I thought you wouldn’t come,” he manages to say, pathetically.
“Well, you invited me. I thought it would be nice to see you finally getting commended… although I imagine this is not the kind of thing that you would like to be commended for, right?” She sits next to him, and is beautiful. John stares at her, and her pale skin, with her black eyes, and her long, flowing hair. She looks like she hasn’t aged a year. “I read the papers,” she adds.
“You dyed your hair,” he points out. She smiles. “I kind of liked you when you were a blonde.”
“Well, it was getting grey.”
“No, I like it. I like how it looks,” he says, shaking his head. And then he looks her directly in the eye. She shies away from his saddened stare, but he puts his hand on her chin, softly. “I like how you look. I mean… God, I love how you look.”
“John…”
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he tells her, and she takes his hand away from her face, and smiles at him, tenderly. “You are.”
There’s silence. She coughs. He looks away. “Why did you invite me here, John?” she asks, uncomfortable, changing the subject. “I hadn’t heard from you for a long time, you know? I was wondering where you were.”
“I… I don’t know. I just… They told me to bring my family, and… I couldn’t think of anybody else. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s OK. I was surprised, that’s all.” There’s a long pause. Neither of them says anything. They can still hear the band playing. She wets her lips, and says: “So, how are you, John? I mean, do you want to talk to somebody? Are you alright?” John shakes his head, and holds her hand. She thinks about taking it away, but doesn’t. He is looking at a wounded bird, not too far away from them. It’s trying to fly away, but can’t. It keeps tripping into the muddied dirt.
Then he turns his face towards her. “I don’t know,” he answers. “Some days I am. Some days I go out on the streets, and I think that I am doing something important. Something that, you know… something that no-one else will do. That can only be done by me. But then there’s days that… I get… I think about stuff. Like, you. Or… what happened to Jacob. And I ask myself if it’s really worth it. That maybe… That I’m alone. You know, thousands of people die in a day because of wars, and hate, and famine, and… And I’m losing everything I have because of this one guy? Or because some fucking junkie got killed? So, I get drunk. Or put a gun against my head.”
She gasps. “Oh, John.”
“No. No, don’t pity me. I don’t need pity. I need… I don’t know. Just don’t do that, and act like you care. You don’t care.”
“I care,” she whispers. And then she leans forward, and kisses him on the cheek, on the hand, on the chin, and rests her head on his shoulder. “Hey, I care.”
“No, you don’t. But… No, you used to care. You used to care, but now? No, you stopped caring a long time ago. You put me behind you, and that’s alright. I understand that. I wouldn’t care either.”
“John, you’re not alone,” she says in a way that makes it sound so true, when it’s not. “You’ve got friends, you can come see me. Talk to me.”
“What? And sit through dinner with your asshole husband and your punk step-kids? Wondering why you left me all the time? Fuck that. Go back to that?” John curses under his breath as she takes her head away from his shoulder, and tries to clean the tears away from his eyes without having her notice. “I don’t… I mean, thank you. Alright? Thank you so much, but… No. No, I’m just gonna keep doing what I’m doing, and… You know? Whatever that is, I’ll keep doing it.”
She stands up. John closes his eyes.
“You know what your problem is, John?” she asks him, poignant. John doesn’t. “You never let anybody change things. You act like you’re sad about the way things are, but can’t bring yourself to make a change, because you love it so much. You like being sad. You like being alone, because that’s the way you do your job the best. And you love it so much. So, you stay that way and feel completely… miserable all of the time.”
John sighs:
“I don’t think that’s my major malfunction.”
“Jesus Christ,” she laughs. “You’re just… I don’t know what you are.” She blows some hair away from her face and hesitates. Then she ducks down towards John, and puts her hand on his face. Without a word, she brings his face closer to hers, and kisses him on the lips, gently. Without a word, she stands up and starts to walk away. Without a word, the sound of her shoes sliding across the grass is lost amongst the banging of the drums.
John watches her leave. John opens his eyes. And then she’s gone. He tries not to think about how her mouth felt so close to his. He tries not to think about what she said. What he really tries to think about is that tomorrow will be a Monday. And the day after that will be a Tuesday. And by the time he reaches the end of the week he won’t feel so depressed. And then the next month will come. And then the next. And then a year will pass, and maybe he won’t have to get drunk to forget about the pain. And then ten years will pass, and then ten more, and by the time he is lying on his death bed he won’t remember how it went on, and on, and on, and on…[I like how open you left the ending and in general, this is a really well written story. You have some excellent characterization, some detailed description and a brilliant, if slightly predictable, plot. Very good work!]

·cough·bump·cough·

They say you're not supposed to bump threads around here...I guess that's why no one reads mine...heh.

Well, I've read it. I had a hard time figuring out who was talking at times, and it seemed too vague at other points. I'm kind of big on letting other writers figure out what works in their stories and what doesn't, but I do suggest that you work on making it clear who's speaking, and who's doing what. That was the only part of this that really irritated me. Otherwise it was fine.

He fixed his tie, finished his drink, and then proceeded to with the disposal of the body. He left it in an alley, not too so different from where he found her. the place he had found her at. He wondered just how fucked up he really was when he decided to go for a second round. He cut her face (she was pretty), her breasts (she was a mother), and her stomach (she was so thin). As he called for the taxi, he felt satisfied. Not happy. He was content with his work, but he was not happy. Being happy would’ve meant that he enjoyed it, and although deep down he knew he had, he couldn’t bring himself to admit that. So, he told himself he just felt immeasurable fulfillment.
When he got back to his apartment, he got naked, burned his six-hundred dollar suit, and had another drink.

THE EDGE OF A STRAIGHT RAZOR

Fuck it, he thinks.[I think you should put this in italics like Fuck it. because the tense switch disrupts the flow and the shorter the sentence, the more effective it is.] Detective John Mills pressed the barrel of his gun against his cheek, and hoped for a quick death. He had been sitting on in his chair -that old leathered one- for over an hour, before deciding to put an end to all his sorrows. He was fifty-eight. He didn’t have anybody. He had charm, that hadn’t changed, but his face was falling, and his belly was getting larger. He would soon be one of those disgusting old men you see walking down the park, trying to kick that evil cholesterol out of their veins. He didn’t want that for himself. He wanted to be remembered as… He wanted to be somebody. Be on in the newspapers a few more times. Well. This should do the trick. Hero cop shoots his fucking brains out. Bam. Front page. Book deals for whoever knew him. Who exactly was this John Mills? How did he sink so low? In front of him, two empty bottles of what seemed to be really cheap vodka looked back at him, taunting him, encouraging him to do it. Slowly, he cocked the gun, shutting his eyes as hard as he could. He felt tears running down his cheeks, wetting the cold steel of the gun, and he felt his throat shrink, as he tried to swallow what little spit he had left. He thinks for a while, about the feel of the old ring in his finger.
He presses the trigger. And hears nothing but a click.
Then he cries himself to sleep.

ONE: It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, and the city already feels like hell. I’m walking good old Detective John Mills through the motions. –A couple of kids found her, I begin. The alley is a godforsaken shit-hole in the middle of the ugliest part of the city. It’s the kind of place where the roads are always wet, and clouds are either already pouring, or are about to— which is actually worse. More depressing. It’s the kind of place, a friend of mine once pointed out, that doesn’t believe in summertime. –They were skipping class, a couple of them were, and came over here to grab a smoke, or suck each other’s cocks or something, and found… this. They called 911, and here we are. Watch the vomit, it’s theirs. [I like the colloquial tone this character uses but you need to place speech marks or quotation marks around the sections where he’s talking to John.]
John bites his lip. I’ve never seen him do that before. See? And that’s how I know we’re in trouble with this thing. It usually happens that we walk into a crime scene, and John looks at everything as if he’s used to it. Stares at every fucking detail, at every blood stain, so blankly, so mechanically. He’s an old fuck, and just isn’t surprised anymore. Me? I’m still fascinated by these shit-heads. The senseless violence of it all still amazes me. John, though… He’s just worn out, and done for. –Jesus Christ, he mutters, putting his hand over his mouth. I nod. Jesus fucking Christ is correct. As we walk towards the corpse in front of us, I feel a cold shiver climb up my spine.
The girl looks like she’s about twenty-something, the poor thing. She’s naked, and her skin looks almost translucent. So pale. Her face is the worst part. It’s all swelled up, because of the hitting, and there’s a wound that goes deep into her eye, and then downwards, cutting everything up to her chin. She’s a blonde. Well, she was a blonde. And her hair looks so clean, and shiny. [You say she was a blonde so I take it her hair is covered in blood but then you say that it’s clean. Perhaps make it clear that you mean the parts aren’t covered in blood are clean or something.] John walks in circles around her, passing his hand across the walls, and kneeling down occasionally, to get a better look at something. The disgust in his eyes is gone. He’s already calmed himself. I’ll tell you this though; you can’t just put that kind of anger away. It’ll come back to him, later on. –You’ve already found the murder weapon, right?
-Yeah, I croak. The word vanishes up in the air, swallowed by the alley. I clear my throat, and then repeat myself: –Yeah. We found it right next to the body, and bagged it. It’s a kitchen knife. A very fancy one, too. Looked like it was pretty expensive silverwork. Mills gives me the look, and I shut up right away. He doesn’t care about the details; he’s always told me that. He can look those up later. What he needs is the cold facts. Something that he can remember easily, and that he can carry around with him, so when the hour of le hour hits, and he has to put the pieces together, he won’t waste more time than he already has. –So… [Okay so I just realised you’ve used dashes to show his speech but put the quotation or speech marks in as well.] I’m thinking we need to first identify the victim, ‘cause right now we got jack-shit on her. And then we can… You know, work our way up from there. We’ve already asked around the neighborhood, and nobody knows, or saw anything.
Old John wets his lips, as he reaches towards the girl’s face, moving her hair away, and touching her cheek, ever-so-fucking-tenderly. –Kid… You do know what this is, don’t you?
I play dumb, and shake my head. Mills stands up, and walks towards me. He’s taller than me, the old cat is. And bigger, too. He’s got broad shoulders. That, and the way he moves makes you feel as if he is rampaging his way through the world, and you’re on in his way. His eyes blow his cover, however. Grey, and old. Very old. They look exhausted.
-It’s a murder, yeah. But I don’t wanna see anything other than that. At least not before I start hearing about other corpses. It’s… I see a lover struggle, or something. Some motherless fuck that wanted more than a blowjob out of a whore, and didn’t have enough money to pay for it.
-Jacob, the old man mumbles, putting his hand behind my back, and escorting me out of the scene. –Crimes as ugly as these always come in groups, kid. The killer… Our man took his time. Those three cuts, the bigger ones, they were done after the girl was killed. You know that. They’re tidy. They… Any one of those could’ve killed her. No. That’s his signature, boy. And you know what kind of… motherless fucks have signatures. And then, I can’t help but nod, and sigh.
So: It’s a mystery.

Old John Mills wasn’t always Old John Mills. He used to be a local legend. A young man, and not without prospects. It used to be that, people were always talking about how he’d make commissioner some day, if he’d just put his mind to it. But the thing was that he fell in love with the job. He became a junky, and that’s what did most of the harm. That’s what made her leave. Every time he took on a case, visited went into a crime scene, he wouldn’t stop until he had caught the bastards who did it. In Hell, he keeps reminding himself, there must be at least a dozen of those sons of bitches cursing his name, their brains fried by the dreaded two-thousand volts of Gruesome Gertie. Waiting for him to come down, so they can fuck him in the ass two-thousand times each. And he knows this. Maybe that’s the second reason why he became Old John Mills. Because he knows that every minute that goes by, is just another minute in of his journey towards the bottomless pit, the inextinguishable fire. Because he is certain that when he dies, God will look at him in the eyes –his grey, dead eyes- and tell him there’s a special place for him in Hell. A place reserved for the delirious sinner. The one that believes he is doing the right thing. Because Old John Mills remembers.
He remembers that feeling he had, every time they called him in. Every time they showed him those dead bodies, he remembers that particular tingle in his chest. The littlest euphoria. A certain kind of disguised excitement. At first, he tried to shrug it off, just ignore it. He convinced himself that it wasn’t there, only to find out that it kept coming back. And it was bigger, every time. And then it dawned on him: he didn’t care that these people had been killed; he only cared about feeling the glory again. About punishing the perpetrators, and getting commended for it. That’s why he doesn’t feel scared when he thinks of killing himself, and doesn’t wonder about how he’s gonna explain why he shot his brains out to the man upstairs. He already knows where he’s going. John Mills knows he’s a terrible person.
God probably started to catch on realise that, too. Maybe that’s why he made Mills realize that he couldn’t solve every crime that made its way onto his desk. And that’s probably what killed Detective John Mills. And as the crime files piled up in front of him, and as he heard more, and more people demand answers –tears in their eyes, cursing, frenetic- that they would never get, he just shut down. And so, one day, it wasn’t John Mills, legend, hero cop, that walked into the precinct. It was Old John Mills. The shell of a man that was once great, and that now was… Completely forgettable.

“How do you feel about samurai swords?” he asks her, smoothly.
The girl smirks, not really understanding the question. She is naked, now. Lying in the bed, with a cigarette in her hand. As the man walks out of the room, she grabs the money and counts it. Two-hundred and fifty dollars. That’s a hundred more than she made last night. And three times what she made the night before. The killer comes back minutes later, with a Japanese blade in his hand and a smile in on his face. He is completely naked, too, you know, except for his new socks, those he hadn’t had a chance to wear until tonight. He finds comfort in the fact that, this time around, he won’t have to burn anything when he’s done.

TWO: Melissa walks across the room, towards the bed. I was planning on having her leave when we were done, but… I couldn’t get my mind off the girl, and how her stomach was spread all over that damn alley. So, I let her stay over. I just hope she doesn’t get any ideas. Melissa’s a friend. Sure, we’re close, but she isn’t the kind of girl that I would want to be with. You know, that I would want to really be with. It’s just that… We fool around sometimes. It’s an understanding we have. A pretty good fucking understanding, yeah. Melissa is a reporter. That’s how we met.
She touches her stomach, and pouts. –Do I look fat? I think I’m getting fat. Last night, it was like, I was out with Tamara? And we wanted to get something to eat. So, we end up going to this Chinese place— And it’s pretty good, right? Especially this… they have this kind of crab cake, or something? I don’t know what the heck it is, but it tastes like it‘s heaven. She crawls into the bed, groaning. -So, we end up eating like eight-hundred thousand of those little fuckers. Ugh. I want an eating disorder. Why can’t I get an eating disorder? [I like the dialogue here.]
I raise my eyebrows, genuinely concerned. –Melissa, I mumble. –What the fuck are you talking about?
-I’m serious, I can’t throw up. I’ve tried to do it, and all I do is gag. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.
And I go: -It’s supposed to be disgusting. You’re trying to throw up. It’s not supposed to feel good.
-But it’s, like… Even when I’m drunk, I can stick a fist up my throat, and nothing happens. I mean, my body sucks.
-Well, maybe that’s why your blow-jobs are so good. She hits me in the shoulder, softly, and tells me where I can go.
–Seriously, she concludes. -I’m feeling pretty obese.
-You’re enormous. I eye her, chuckling. –Gargantuan. She gives me a laugh, but not a very enthusiastic one. It’s dry, and generous. I’ve gotta get up early tomorrow; get a head-start into the murder. I’m hoping we don’t stumble upon any more bodies. It’s pretty naive to think we won’t, but faith is all we have in this city. That blind optimism, which tells us, even if everything points the other way, that not all people are bad people. And that a murder, not no matter how ugly it is, maybe, was just a mistake made by some chemically unbalanced, hard-working American guy. I scratch her head, tenderly. -You know, we started investigating a pretty gruesome murder today, I tell her. Just so I can get it out of my chest. Melissa snuggles next to me, but she doesn’t seem surprised at all.
-What, the prostitute thing? Up in Old Town?
-You know about this?
-Yeah, we got a call earlier today. We’re doing a piece about it tomorrow, she informs me. I chuckle, disheartened. I was hoping we could keep away from the vultures for at least a couple of days. Now we’re gonna be timed for this. I could already hear the press conference in my head: we’ve got our best guys behind it. We’ll get him in no time. Empty promises.
-Well… Mills, you know… My partner, he thinks it’s one of those crimes that have “To Be Continued” written all over it.
That seems to get her interested. She sits up, and shows me a grin. -Really? A serial killer?
-I fucking hope not, but it’s really hard to deny the old man has a point. And it was, like… ‘Cause it wasn’t just a crime, Mel. It was a… The real Texas Chainsaw kind of deal, you know? I pause, for a second. And then add: -Messy. Ed Gein type of shit. She slides back into the bed again, with a thoughtful look on her face.
-What do you think they’ll call him?
-What? What do I think they’ll call who?
-The murderer, she says. –How do you think they’ll call him?
-How the fuck should I know? You know, like, what? In the press? We don’t choose the names.
-Yeah, but how do you think they’ll call him, you know: The Old Town Murderer. Eddy Gein Junior, or whatever. What?
I don’t answer the question.
A couple of minutes later, I clap two times, and the lights go out. Before sinking into dream county, I call out to her: -You’re a sick, sick woman, Melissa. We both laugh, softly. [The character of Melissa is well portrayed throughout this section.]

HAVE A NICE DAY, is written across the floor, in big bold letters, painted in what John Mills hopes isn’t blood. He doesn’t hope too hard, though, because he knows that he will probably end up being disappointed. He woke up to the sound of his phone ringing today. It was the chief, telling him to get his ass back to Old Town. They’ve found another body. He doesn’t actually say that, the chief. He just says they’ve found a body, and that Mills has a murder in his hands. [I think this could be phrased better. Perhaps ’and that Mills has a murder to work on.’] He doesn’t talk about another body, another murder. Nobody wants to jinx it. But, it doesn’t take the old man too long to recognize the wounds he’s looking for. He doesn’t find them in the same places as the others, however. There is one –the largest- that cuts through her back, and another that cuts through most of her breasts. It was a different weapon, too. A bigger blade. Nevertheless, there they are. Three separate, clean, tidy wounds, made when the victim was already dead. The old man puts his hands inside his pockets, and groans out loud. If their man kept this up, it was going to be a long week. Davey, one of the science-guys, actually smiles when he sees the message, and Mills feels the urge to kick the living shit out of him.
“I guess he has a sense of humor,” the idiot laughs.
“Yeah...” John Mills pushes him away. “Shut the fuck up, Davey.” He makes himself sound dead serious, like it’s an order. Davey bites his tongue, and watches as John Mills walks out of the alley. He turns the other way when he notices him reaching into his coat and taking out a bottle. A little drink, Detective Mills thinks, to help him get through the day.

-Well, it was the hitting that killed her.
-Really? Not the…?
-The lacerations were deep, but most of them could’ve been treated if she had been given a chance. It would’ve taken hours for her to die from those. She was hit with a blunt object, a club of some sort. He bit beat the shit out of her. Burst her eye in. Shattered her skull. She had been tied for a few days, too. She has these wounds, rope burns, in on her wrists, and ankles.
-To a chair, or something?
-I don’t know. Probably, because something was holding her when he was beating her face in. He doesn’t even touch any other part of the body with the weapon, you see? Everything else that isn’t lacerations, are small bruises. Punches, to keep her in check, I guess. Hey, where’s the old bitch?
-Mills? He’s checking the thing up in Old Town. Another girl.
-Booyah, motherfucker.
-What? Just— What? Just yap it. Will you, Cochrane? It’s just another— It’s a body. Doesn’t mean we got something else in on our hands, alright? Don’t jinx it.
-Hey, Jacob, I’m just saying, man.
-Whatever, yeah. What else?
-Hmm. Oh, well he starved her. She was starved, you know, at least a couple of days. And… Right, most of the cuts were made just before he finished her off. He basically kept his hands off her… until he killed her. Some of the bruises are older than the cuts, presumably from struggle. And… we found there had been sexual intercourse some days ago. Rough. He had basically fucked the shit out of her, before tying her up. There’s no semen inside of her, no, but the… It’s kind of swelled.
-He raped her, then?
-No. There’s no evidence of rape. No skin under her nails, no bruises in on her arms. I mean, I wouldn’t rule it out, but it would seem it was consensual.
-Prostitute?
-Would be my first guess, too. Plus, as you’ve already pointed out, we got the three distinctive cuts made after death. These are clean, no sign of struggle. Yup.
-We got a name, or something?
-Caucasian, female. Um, a prostitute. Around twenty-five years old. Other than that, we got shit. [The characterization of Mills was developed well throughout this chapter and the damage to the new body is described in good detail. Also, it seems realistic, the sort of things that the detectives would discuss so good work.]

THREE: I wanna see my daughter, that’s what I tell them as soon as I get there. They don’t know what I’m talking about. I had heard about her (Jesus Christ, my poor baby) in the morning, watched the news, and all. Just like everybody else. That’s when you realize you’re a terrible mother— when you hear about your daughter being killed in on the telly. I keep telling myself it’s not my fault, but I know it’s bullshit. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me, and I could’ve been. I just didn’t want to be. I thought I hated her, I thought I hated my little baby for what she had become, but now I see I was being selfish. I drove her to those ways. I thought I didn’t, but it was me. Always working, never being there for her. Bringing her to life live in this hell. One of the cops tries to calm me down; she keeps telling me to breathe, to be cool. I can tell I’m not crying (not even now, not for her), but my face feels red, hotter than ever, and I can’t seem to gather enough air to say anything. They make me sit down, and ask me again. What do I want? (I want to hold my baby again) And so I tell them about the murder that was on TV this morning, and I tell them that I know who the victim is, and I tell them she was my daughter, and I tell them it was me who killed her. I waited [You switch tenses here which isn’t advisable. Either start with past for this person and use it throughout or change the rest to present.] for over an hour, and that’s when they finally came, those two coppers, the old man and the one that seemed to be the youngest guy in there. And so I ask [So you switch back here. Certainly change that little section to present tense then.] them: are you going to find the man that murdered my little girl?
I can tell from the look on their faces that I won’t get what I’m looking for.

“What you gotta understand is that my girl… She was a good girl, she was just hanging out with the wrong people,” the woman sobs, as John Mills walks her towards the bodies. [Perhaps have a line of dashes between the two changes of persepctive.] He arrives from the murder scene, and this is what he comes back to. Crying relatives. “Jesus, she didn’t deserve this. Not her, not my little girl… she had been bad, but she didn’t deserve it, not this.” That’s the part he hated the most. Not comforting the mothers, he didn’t mind that, but it was the fact that he had to try to get some answers at the same time. It felt insensitive. Next to him, though, the kid is wasting no time. He’s already got his booklet [Booklet? Maybe note-book or note-pad.] out.
“Mrs. Rosebud, I cannot even try to imagine what you’re going through right now, but— just please, remember that anything you can tell us at this stage would will be helpful.” Mills glares at the kid, Jacob, but he doesn’t take the hint. The woman is still shrieking, pressing her face against the old man’s shoulder. John puts his arm around the woman, trying to smooth her out of it. In front of them, the pathway leading to the door is white, immaculate. It’s still early in the morning, and there aren’t too many people walking around these parts. If there are, they’re all wearing identical white coats, almost invisible as they rush past the three of them: the woman, yesterday’s victim’s mother, Mrs. Rosebud, and the two cops. [This is a little awkward. Perhaps something like - ’Those who are, rush past the three of them in almost identical white coats, almost invisible against the walls and furniture.’] “Like, where was she living, who was she friends with? That sort of thing.”
Mills intervenes. They’re right in front of the door, and they’ve stopped moving. “You just take your time, ma’am, alright? Can you do that for me?” The woman nods, putting her hand over her mouth, trying to calm herself. John Mills rubs her shoulders, warmly, and smiles at her, showing his uneven teeth. “Now— we don’t have to do this now, if you don’t want to. We can go out, have a cup of coffee, and eat some buns. Have ourselves a breakfast, or whatever. What do you say? Can you do this now?”
Jacob clicks his tongue, impatient. [This could be a little smoother. Maybe ’Jacob clicks his tongue impatiently’ would work better.] The woman breaths breathes heavily, shaking her head. “No… No, let’s just— Let me see her. Just let me see her,” she manages to whisper. John nods, and pushes the door open, leading the woman inside.
The kid’s stomach cringes as they enter the stale, grey environment, and see the bodies laid out, in metal platforms. [What sort of sick morgue is this? The bodies are usually kept cold and out of sight within a sort of metal wrack. Especially at an identification.] Most of them have already been messed around with. Those sport a big ‘Y’-like scar on their chests. One of them, however, is being messed around with as they come in, by a small, black man. Tobey Cochrane. Jacob thinks that being here once this early in the morning is already enough. Cochrane’s small, bald head has a couple of huge headphones wrapped around it, which boom to the sound of music that sounds all around the room.
“Cochrane!” Jacob calls out. The woman jumps a bit, alarmed, as Cochrane turns around, scalpel still in his hand. He smiles at the three of them, visibly surprised by their intrusion.
“What are you doing down here again, dear?” he asks, wryly.
Jacob eyes the lady as he walks towards him. “We’ve gotta take a look at that body of ours, again.”

He’s tied her down, and has her next to him as he watches television. [The last point of view switch wasn’t so bad but you certainly need some sort of line between these two paragraphs.] He’s recorded, on DVD, every police drama on the schedule. The naked woman moans, complaining, as she tries to move her head, trying to get the rope out of her mouth. Her hands are bound to her feet, and she’s been lying on the expensive, three-thousand dollar carpet on in his living room for over five hours. As the show starts, and the credits begin to roll, he kicks her in the head— just to keep her cool. Thirty-five minutes later, he thinks about masturbating as they reveal who the killer is, but then decides against it. He stands up, and drags the woman back to his room.

-That’s not her, that’s what she says. When we show her the body, the one that’s supposed to belong to her daughter, she just shakes her shake head, and laughs. She’s crying now. –That’s not my Fiona, that’s not my girl. At first I think what’s coming next is just the usual hyperventilation, but then I see something in her eyes that I normally don’t see in the regular hurting: happiness.
So, I just look at Cochrane, and tell him: -Yeah, cover her up. The Old Man takes the mother to the side, still comforting her, as the woman talks at a thousand miles per hour. She’s so glad, and it fills my heart with warmth just seeing her speak. It’s a rare pleasure to see someone being this glad after seeing a dead body, something we don’t usually get. Most of the times, in our line of work, we can’t really give people hope. We’re Homicide. They call us in when all hope is lost, when the murder has already been committed. All we can do is catch the guy responsible. So, yeah. We were glad. And I could tell the Old Man was too. He grinned at her, hugged her. Took her hand, and walked her outside. Although part of me wished she had recognized the victim that was, as of right now, still unnamed, I couldn’t give my back to the fact that this was the highlight of my day so far. And then, as usual, that useless son of a bitch Cochrane ruins it for me.
-Hey, I was meaning to talk to you, he says, like it’s no big deal. –I’ve got something to show you. I was… I was looking over the wounds, of our girl here, and I was comparing them to some of the other cases, for which we didn’t have a murder weapon yet, just for the sake of it. We walk past half a dozen bodies before we stop next to a smaller one, another woman, covered in a blank sheet. Cochrane reveals her, and there it is. The girl is so pale. Her blonde hair already washed, almost ready for her to be taken away and buried. A horrible scar defaces her, just like it did the other. –And that’s when I realize that this girl we had gotten in from Old Town a week ago had been killed, cut up, with the same knife yours had been. And… So, I start comparing the files, and… Well. Rope burns on the ankles, and wrists. Three large, clean cuts made after she was already dead. Starved. Blunt object. Same age range. Same complexion. I stay quiet for a moment, trying to forget about what Cochrane is talking about, and focusing [Perhaps recalling? Or remembering to prevent confusion.] on the smile on the woman’s face as Old John Mills walked her out. He follows my eyes. –You don’t think…?
-Go bring her back in here. [A very good ending. I love how impersonal this character seems on the surface and how much you linger on how happy the woman is so that it creates an even bigger impact at the end. In general, this chapter needs tidying up a little but your descriptions are good, you use short sentences effectively and this character is currently my favourite so any section from his perspective is great.]

FOUR: The liquor rolled, elegantly, into the glass. John Mills watched it go, mesmerized. He had been on call for over two hours now, but he didn’t care anymore. He had decided on that when that motherfucker upstairs decided to take the only good news he had given all week away from him. Another body. Where the fuck did they get another body from? He thought about the mother, crying. How could he be so cruel? How could anybody? [A good start. It’s nice to see this from Mills’ point of view as well as the other man because you get a good contrast of their personalities.]

I catch a name between the frenetic sobbing of the disheartened mother, and decide to follow on that. [Again, you need some sort of line to indicate a change of perspective.] Amanda Hearst, the name of the girl the victim had been staying with. So, I make a cup of coffee, and then drive myself up to Old Town. John didn’t feel like coming, which doesn’t surprise me. The girl’s building is as shitty as I thought it’d be. This is Old Town— the weathered remains of what used to be the heart of the city. You can find everything in here. An abandoned City Court, a burned down theatre. It makes sense that our killer decided to pick his victims out in here: nobody cares. It’s the big city mentality, we exploit everything we can until it’s exhausted, and then just move on, never look back. The whole city was built around these parts. This time around, I wonder if anybody other than junkies, and whores, and serial killers, and coppers ever think about even touching these streets. The door is opened right before I go for a second knock. [This is a little awkward. Perhaps ’just before I go for another knock’ would sound a touch more natural.] The girl is really young, and looks as if she hasn’t eaten for at least couple of days. That’s the heroin though. As soon as she sees the look on my face, and the overcoat, and the tie, and I show her the badge, she tries to cover up the needle marks with her sleeves. So, I go: -Amanda Hearst? I’m just here to ask some questions about Fiona Rosebud.
She rubs her eyes (ghoulishly blue, sank in purplish skin), looking completely lost for a second. –She’s not here, she finally growls. Then she tries to close the door on me. I push forward, and come into the apartment. In there, everything’s a mess. –Hey, man, I’ve already told she’s not…! I don’t know where she is, alright? I haven’t seen that bitch in days, she…
-She’s dead. [Again, I love how blunt this character is and your description of the girl was good.] That keeps her quiet for a few moments, as I walk around the miniscule flat, inspecting it. Used, blood-stained needles, folded up papers, dirty clothes scattered around the floor, a huge, black man sleeping in the corner of the room, snoring. –We found her a week ago, and couldn’t identify her until today. Her mother came to visit us. She was murdered, Amanda.
-Fuck, she mumbles. She bites her thumb, and then utters, terrified: -I— I haven’t seen her for days, I… It wasn’t… She was…
-We aren’t looking into anybody, yet, but I really need you to tell me things you think would be useful for our investigation. Was she in trouble with someone? Was there someone around her that maybe seemed dangerous…?
She shakes her head, nervous. –No… No, she was… She was doing pretty well, right? For a… She had been clean for weeks, she tells me, before laughing, scornfully. –She wouldn’t shut up about that. And… She wasn’t doing the streets anymore, because… Fiona was a… She was a working girl, you know? But she wasn’t doing that anymore. She had found this guy, you see? This really nice, wealthy guy who was taking good care of her…
I take out my notebook. This seemed promising. –And what was the name of this gentleman?
Amanda scoffs. –I don’t fucking know. Frederick, or Howard, or Logan, something… I never talked to him much. She sits herself down next to the sleeping man. -He was— He was so fucking weird, though. The first time I saw him… Because, he used to come pick her up here, you know? Like, she was his girl now, or… Or something, right? The first time I saw him, I was jealous. He was this suave… James Bond, kind of prick, you know? Really handsome. But then he came over for dinner, one time. She didn’t invite him over, or anything, he just showed up. High on speed, or some shit. Brought sushi. I don’t even know what sushi is. Well, I mean, I know what it is, but we’ve never tried it. And then he starts asking us these… He starts talking about these really strange things. He talks about… a snail crawling along a knife— this is a dream he had. He goes: that he saw a snail crawling along the edge of a knife… and that it survived. That’s his dream, he keeps going. He thought it was really funny for some reason, and I’m like, what the fuck are you talking about? [I like the way she speaks. You have some really interesting characters and this girl is no exception. I love how she jumps from topic to topic. You have a real talent with dialogue.]
Apocalypse Now. –Apocalypse Now. I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor, and surviving. That’s my dream, that’s my nightmare. It’s from a movie. He was paraphrasing a movie.
-I don’t know, but he was really out of it. He wanted us to… He wanted us to give him a hit… but… in his dick, like. And he kept asking us if we had seen his cat. He thought it was really funny. She was really into him, though. So, when she disappeared I just figured she had gone uptown to live with him.
In the end, I get an address, and with the address, I manage to get a name. And so, an hour after I’ve finished speaking to her, I’m already calling Mills. I remember thinking ‘not again’ right when he answered the phone.

fucking Fucking stop! I’m thinking about her again, and I’m thinking about her eyes, and her soft skin, but she was gone so long ago, she is gone, she was always gone, even when she was here but that’s not true, is it? It’s not, I know it’s not, I know it’s not. The music keeps sounding all around me, and I don’t even know what I’m listening to (Lennon?), but I think about how the kid called an hour ago— When is he getting here? I’m always alone, I’ve always been alone, even when she was here. I think I’m going to but I’m too scared to do it, I’m so fucking terrified, and I make my way towards my bed, and reach under my pillow, and there it is. My gun. And it feels that it has always been there, that I’ve never slept away from it, even when I was a kid, and my mother loved me. That it’s the only thing I’ve had forever, and that it’s the only thing I can rely on. Rely. I could rely on her, couldn’t I? I could, but I think that in the end I worn her out, I relied on her a bit too much, and she just couldn’t take it, and I think about calling her, but it’s been so long since I haven’t, and I think I can stand a couple of more years. Fuck! Fuck! There won’t be any more years; I have to get that in my head. I have to get that in my fucking head because I’m and done for. I’m lying in the ground, with the gun in my hand, and I think about how we’ll never get the fucker we’re looking for, just as we never got the last guy we were looking for, and how I feel like this last case is going to take everything I have left in me, and leave me with nothing at all. Old John Mills. Old John Mills is all Old John Mills has left. And the kid, when is Jacob getting in here? We have a lead! We have a lead on the case! We have a lead on the case, and if I get the guy, if I get the guy, I swear to God I’ll leave the gun, then. I won’t even think about blowing my head out, and leaving this hell behind me, and God, you have to listen to me, if you give me this last one, this last fucker, then we can forget all the ugly business. Water under the bridge— was there a bridge? That time? That one time? There was a bridge. When we met, her and me, oh God, you bastard, there was a bridge. It was white, and it had carvings in the sides, and, Jesus I wanna vomit taste in my mouth, and someone pulls me up to my feet, and he is taking me to the bathroom, I think he is taking me there I feel my feet stumble and the cold feel of the bathtub against my back ALL THE THINGS YOU SAID WON’T EVEN MATTER DO WHAT YOU WANT CAUSE I’M NOT GOING TO SAVE YOU BABY WHAT’S GOING ON? Agh! Kid, you son of a fuck! Jacob! You son of a [Normally I hate angsty passages like this but I think you showed the emotion quite well and I like how your broken style reflected how broken Mills is.]

Old John Mills screams in agony as he feels the cold water hit him in the face, and catches a glimpse of his partner, the kid, Jacob, staring at him with disappointment. It wasn’t the first time he had seen him like this, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Jacob used to look up to him, even though he can’t bring himself to admit it. He never talks about these episodes, the same way he doesn’t talk about how he had to talk the Old Man out of killing himself the last time he was there, in his apartment. He won’t report him, although he’d like to. He just watches the water shower down, and hears him scream about how he’ll smash his skull in, and then hears his incontrollable howling about how life has taken all he had. He speaks about Her (that’s all he ever calls her), and he speaks about the job, and his gun. Then he falls asleep. Jacob stays next to him all night, and when he hears him say, when it’s already morning: “Let’s go to work,” as soon as he wakes up, he knows he can put this shameful event behind. Then, they clean themselves up, and head over to see Howard Richards, on Huntington with Guadalupe.

“I guess you’re pretty angry at me,” he begins to say. He puts the cigarette on his mouth, [Perhaps ’to his lips’ would sound better than ’on his mouth.’] and lights it up. The girl looks terrified, as he combs her hair, delicately. It’s so yellowish, and luminous, he thinks. He wets his lips, and drops the ashes of his cigarette on her forehead. He hears a moan, but yearns [Maybe desrires? Or yearns for.] a scream. “But, baby, you have to realize that… it’s on, like Donkey Kong. You won’t be getting out of here, because I don’t want you to get out of here, you see? I’m Master of my Domain. Here, I’m King of the County. Try not to cry about it, will you? A victim of the Modern Age! Poor, poor girl.” He smiles, and takes a long drag, as he watches her eyes wander towards the rifle, which is lying on the ground, a few meters away from them. “That? Oh, you don’t have to worry about that,” he slowly explains to her. “I won’t touch you with that. As a matter of fact, I’ll hardly touch you for at least a couple of days… Well, not in a significant way, anyhow.” He puts the cigarette out against her cheek, grinding his teeth together, breathing heavily, hissing, huffing and puffing, licking the sides of his mouth. The girl yells in pain, albeit silently. “I watched a fucking snail crawl down the edge of a straight razor! Do you hear what the fuck I’m saying? It crawled down the edge of a razor, and survived.”
“Ritchie,” the girl manages to croak, muffled by the tape. He drops the cigarette, and watches it roll down to the ground, next to her head. The killer fixes his tie, trying to gain back his composure. His secretary blubbers again, unintelligibly. The man nods, and passes his gloved hand against the cigarette burn, caringly.
“Right,” he says, raising his voice. “I’ll be in my room, if anybody calls. Be sure to tell them I’m doing something important, like… Checking up on the Woodman files, or… Masturbating.” He shakes his heads, and slaps himself in the face, violently. “No. That won’t do. Tell them I’m… Tell them I’m pumping the Primus. Yes. Very well, then. See you back here in a week, darling.”
The man walks out of the room, sighing deeply. He takes his gloves out, and drops them on the floor. He thinks about petting his dragon for a bit, but decides that he would need to go at it with her for a while again before doing that, and he doesn’t really feel like it. He also asks himself what exactly his secretary saw in him that compelled her to go into his apartment when he asked her to. He whimpers, and sinks into his sofa, embarrassed with himself. He is a terrible person, he concludes. He does terrible things. Then he hears his intercom buzz.
He jumps up, and readies himself for the real people. [Hmmm. The ending of this chapter was quite strange but I think you portrayed the crazy character’s mind quite well. I have a suggestion actually. Perhaps you could describe the cigarette burn in more detail? That is afterall quite crucial and a crazy character probably wouldn’t take in much of his surroundings but a vivid description of the pain he’s causing would really add to this section.]

FIVE: A large thud. The door, opening. -Good morning officers- the man, smiling at them, both coppers strolling inside, inspecting the apartment, clean, looking pretty expensive, carpeted floors, large PLASMA TV, pretty artwork, the man wearing what looks to be like at least a five-hundred dollar suit, Jacob seeming disappointed almost, Old John Mills looking out of it, as if he doesn’t know what they’re expecting to get out of this visit, and Howard Richards leading them to the living room, smiling, hoping they don’t notice the blood stains in his white shirt, soft jazz music sounding in the background. -Would you like something to drink? Some bourbon perhaps, or… You know? [A bit of a long sentence. Perhaps break it up just a touch.] A friend of mine just gave me this fantastic vodka. You’d… You’ll be blown away.
-No, that’d be alright, - Jacob, eyeing the Old Man, scratching his chin. –I’m Detective Hanks, and this is Detective Mills. We’re just here to ask some questions.
-Oh, but you don’t understand, - the killer, insisting. -This isn’t just some vodka. This is the vodka, the one you’ve been… Can I just—? Just have some.
-It’s far too early in the morning to be drinking, Mr. Richards, - Old John, managing finally to utter a word.
-But, come on! It’d make this fun. Come on! - Richards, the man, the killer, almost desperate.
-No. We’re just here to ask some questions about Fiona Rosebud, - Jacob, getting a bit irritated, and the old copper, clearing his throat, feeling uncomfortable.
Beat: the man thinks for a brief moment, about what his answer is going to be, before deciding on the least damaging one.
-I don’t know who she is, - the killer, with a tingle in his voice, shaking his head, after looking lost for a moment.
-Well, we were told by one of her friends she had been involved in a relationship with you, - Jacob, firmly.
-Oh! Oh, Fiona. Rosebud? Sure, I knew Fiona Rosebud. I used to fuck her, - the killer, his voice wavering, clicking his fingers. -Horny little piggy, she was. How is she? Is she alright?
Beat: Silence. The killer is sweating, trying to quiet himself down. The two coppers are exchanging nervous looks.
-She’s dead, - Old John Mills, informative.
-Oh! Oh… I didn’t know that, - the killer, lying.
-Well, we found her a week ago, and weren’t able to identify her until recently. She was… found in an alley, up in Old Town. She’s been murdered, - Jacob, sounding resentful, having already made up his mind.
-Jesus! Murdered? Really? I doubt it. She wasn’t murdered. No. No, no, no, no. No, they’ll say it was murder. The doctors will say it was a murder, but I’ll know what it was. A victim of the modern age! The poor, poor girl! - the killer, trying to sound surprised, and failing, miserably.
Beat: Detective John Mills scribbles something down in his notebook, which reads: “This is the fucker.” He leans towards the kid, and shows it to him. Jacob nods, unsettled, before trying to look the killer in the eyes. The man feels terror.
-Well, aren’t we all? - Jacob, mumbling, deceiving.
-Yes. Will you excuse me, please? - the killer, raising his voice, standing up, slapping his leg, and then storming out of the room, the two coppers standing up, simultaneously, as he leaves.
-Let’s take him in, right now, - Jacob, impetuous.
-We can’t, - John, calming him down.
-What the fuck? We can’t? Have you seen the guy? He’s sweating like a madman. He’s… he’s trying to bully us into drinking vodka. He’s lying for no reason. He’s insane! He’s fucking insane.
-I can tell that, but that isn’t enough to arrest him right now.
-Why not?
-Because we need to have a reason.
-We have a reason. Those girls’ insides finger-painted all over the streets. So, what the fuck do we do? Do we wait for him to take another victim? What?
-We go back and get a warrant.
-Shit. A fucking warrant…? The hell with that, man, just— Fine. You know what? Alright, OK? Alright. Let’s wait. Just… Let’s just get out of here, then. Let’s get the fuck out of here, - John, taking a breath. – Jesus-fucking-Christ Superstar, man. Don’t you want to… I mean, Jesus, he’s right there.
Beat: There are three people in the room again. Mills turns around.
-Don’t cuss, – the killer, framed by the doorway, with a rifle in his hands, wearing nothing but his white shirt, now completely covered in blood, and some underwear, having already finished the job inside his room, acting completely calmed, feeling like the bigger man, imagining the coppers can’t tell he is pointing a gun at them, an erection poking out of his boxers, product of the girl’s screaming some seconds earlier. –You’re leaving already, are you, Detective…? Mills, is it? And you are...? Hanks, right? Well, it doesn’t really matter. Where were we, then? Would you like something to drink?
Beat: The collective hearts of the detectives stop. They both reach for their guns, but don’t take them out. He could blow any of them out, whenever he wanted. Jacob is the first one to speak. The killer blinks.
-Put the gun down, - Jacob, trying to sound comforting, convincing, whatever, cold slithering sweat rolling down his back, his mouth dry. -Just put the gun down, man. We can help you.
-What? What…? Oh! – the killer, not moving one inch, the rifle still pointed at the coppers, smiling, acting natural. –It’s a rifle, yeah. Cool. So, yeah, you were asking me about Rosebud, right? Citizen Kane? Right? It’s the sleigh. It’s settled, then. Right?
Beat: John Mills steps forward. The killer does nothing. He is caressing the trigger, waiting for the perfect moment. Jacob can’t bring himself to talk.
-Killing a girl is one thing, son. Killing a cop is a completely different thing, - the Old Man, raising his hands, pretty sure that this is the moment, that this is when he dies. –We can still help, son.
-No, no, no, no, no, no, you can’t, not now, not ever, but I’m fine. Really, thank you, but I’m OK. I’m A-OK, man. Ah… Seriously. I’m glad I helped you with your investigation, Detectives. Really. Rosebud, - the killer, twitching, getting nervous. –The sleigh killed his mother.
-What? [I like this section. It’s a little jerky but that’s good because it reflects the action and you have lots of suspense here. Very nice.]

BANG

Jacob is shot out of the way, pushed by the impact of the round. His chest explodes; blood flies everywhere, the bullet reaps right through him, and he screams. Oh, he screams, as John Mills throws himself to the ground, taking out his gun, and shooting at in every direction. The killer throws the rifle against them, and rushes towards the open door, as bullets whiz past him. He feels a sting in the back of the leg, but keeps on going, out of the apartment, into the corridor, and towards the elevator.
-Fuck! Shit, shit, shit, shit, -John Mills, not being able to bring himself upwards, loading his gun, and terrified as he hears the kid whimpering, and terrified as he feels his legs go numb, and terrified as he realizes that the killer has escaped, and he could’ve stopped him. –Jesus, oh no. Jesus, fuck. Please, don’t.
Beat: Jacob is lying in the ground, a hole in the middle of his torso. He tries to speak, but all that comes out of his mouth is blood, and noiseless sobbing.

He remembers the night before she left, standing there under the pouring rain, in the middle of the street. He remembers the feel of the gun, as he stroked it, waiting for him to come out. He remembers getting drunk, not because he was feeling sorry for himself, like the other times, but because he needed the courage, and he remembers entering the bar, and asking for the bottle. He remembers that they hadn’t slept together for… months, was it? But that in that particular night, he didn’t come back to the house at all. No. He remembers the address— and standing next to the car, his car, the same car that had matched the tire marks near the scene. All circumstantial, they had ruled. He remembers that word, and how he hated it: circumstantial. And he remembers the two little girls, lying there, raped, and beaten, and shot, and just lying there in a puddle of mood [Did you mean blood or mud here?], and he remembers thinking that he was going to catch that bastard. So, he remembers driving there, drunk, and stumbling out of the car, and taking out his gun, and then hiding it under his coat, and then just waiting there. Waiting for him, soaked, under the pouring rain.
He remembers her laugh, that’s what he misses the most about her. Although there wasn’t much to laugh about as the years piled up, he knows that’s what he’ll always remember about her. First, her really soft chuckles, bringing her head forward, and then making it louder, like a cough. Not a very pretty laugh, but he had gotten used to it. He remembers that one time they had stayed up all night talking, because he had to drive up to Montauk during the weekend, and had to leave really early in the morning. Not the brightest of ideas, he needed to rest, but that’s his favorite night. [Either that was his favourite night or perhaps that’s his favourite memory.] Sometimes, he wishes he could forget all others, and just keep that one memory. He remembers the fights, and her crying in [In doesn’t fit here. Either on or against?] his shoulder, and her storming out the door. He remembers even the first time he noticed she didn’t love him anymore. Her voice had a certain something, and she couldn’t look at him in the eyes.
His grey, dead eyes.
He remembers that he was thinking about her as the man came out of the building, and that she was the reason he didn’t pull the trigger. He remembers what the man said— that he looked at him, at John, and didn’t even flinch. He asked him: “What the hell are you doing here?” And John remembers that he showed him the gun, and then started to cry, and then he thought about her, and just couldn’t bring himself to do it. This happened years ago. The next day, she was gone.

Well, the last thing I remember is the feel of that nurse’s hand in my chest, and the lights in the ceiling, as they rushed me into the emergency room. I don’t know what came before that, or what happened after. It’s like, all there is after the bullet is that nurse’s hand in my chest. You know what it’s like? It’s like getting drunk. Yeah. It’s like when you get pissed, I mean, really fucking pissed, and you get to a point where your memory gives up, and just leaves you with little bits. Almost nothing. The taste of the vomit in your mouth, or… getting into a car. Meaningless bits of memory. That’s what it’s like. And after that, I remember opening my eyes, and feeling like shit, and seeing Old John sitting next to me. And he smiles, and then I say something. I say: -Hey, man. And then I go to sleep again.
Two nights later I get a visit from the doctor. He tells me I’ve been very lucky, that I should have been killed by the bullet, and I would have if John hadn’t have rushed me into the hospital straight away. I ask him about the motherfucker who shot me. He tells me that he doesn’t know about that. And then I get that feeling in my stomach, all of a sudden. It’s not good. Melissa comes to visit next. She starts to cry, and hugs me, and whines about how she didn’t know what to do when she heard about me being in the hospital, and that she didn’t know what she’d have done if she’d lost me. But she doesn’t seem to get anything out of me. It just seems completely unimportant. This girl… she’s my friend, but she doesn’t really mean much to me. And after being shot in the chest by a lunatic, and being in a bed, unconscious, for five days straight… It really makes you wonder why you work so hard to keep these people around. You invest so much effort in trying to keep relationships from falling apart, that you neglect the ones that really matter. And I try, I try to think about the ones that are important to me, and I just can’t even come up with one. And this is all happening as Melissa is lying next to me in the hospital bed, hugging me, and sobbing, and saying dumb things like: -I love you, or –Don’t ever do that again. Don’t ever go. And then I start thinking that maybe I can’t think of anybody that really matters to me, because that’s what the job takes. Maybe, I tell myself, I’m just like Old John Mills, and don’t even realize it. Maybe he’s just embraced his nature, and I’m struggling to ignore the fact that all I really care about is the job, and getting those lunatics, and that all I’m thinking about as Melissa embraces me is the guy who shot me, and the women he’s going to kill if we don’t get him, and how I’d like to smash his face in. And then I do a really stupid thing.
I tell myself, fuck it. I’ve got to stop it before it’s too late. And I take Melissa by the chin, and raise her face towards mine, and I’ve got a tremendous head-ache, and I don’t think I’m really thinking this through, and I tell myself that I’ve got to start building relationships that matter before I become John, and so I ask her, dead serious, like: -Would you marry me? She tells me she’s going to think about it.
I don’t think she really means it. [Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought he was going to break up with her. A good twist though and a good piece of conflict. This chapter was very well written, lots of action and I like the extra depth you’ve added to the character. It makes me like him even more.]

SIX: The killer awoke before dawn. It was already Saturday. He had been living in a hotel for the last few days. He hardly ever came out of the room, and when he did, he wore his cap. Not because he didn’t want to be recognized, but because he was embarrassed people would see him staying at the crappy All Year Inn. He had shaved his head, and cut a straight line across his chin with a razor-blade, to make himself unrecognizable. That was Monday. Tuesday, he had caught himself a really nice, black girl prostitute and had a bit of fun with her. He was quickly running out of money. Wednesday was fun, because he had seen his picture in the television, next to the words “killer,” and “serial.” He masturbated for a while after that. Thursday wasn’t fun, but it was funny. A big nigger had come a’ knocking, and started to ask questions about this girl, Mandy. Where’s Mandy? What did you do to Mandy? The killer told him he didn’t know who Mandy was. Then the nigger beat the shit out of him. The killer did not enjoy that. The next day, Friday, he changed rooms and bought a gun. He also found out the names of the two little piggies that had ruined his game. That’s when the killer decided what he was going to do tomorrow. [I like this little diary entry. It’s interesting and very impersonal. A nice touch.]

John Mills took a sip of his coffee, and felt the whiskey in there somewhere. The diner was full of dopers and fuck-ups, but at least it was quiet. Besides, Old Town was always full of dopers and fuck-ups so he couldn’t really complain. He had been driving around all week, every night, hoping he could run into the bastard. He knew he wouldn’t stop, that much was obvious, but the real problem was if Richards would be stupid enough to fish his victims out of the same lake. Apparently not. The old man eyed the nice girl pouring coffee into his cup again, and smiled at her. She was a blonde, and with these really mesmerizing blue eyes. Incidentally, she had cut marks on her wrists. As the waitress walked away, and Mills poured some of his whiskey into the coffee, he thought about the girls this man had killed. That’s all he was thinking about lately. That, and his partner lying in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of his nose. The chief said the case was taking too much of his time.
Can you believe that?
He said that he knew it was important, and that it was getting a lot of press, but that ultimately no-one cares about these victims. Hookers and junkies, the guy is doing the world a favor. That he knows that what happened to Jacob is fucked up (“Don’t think I don’t know that”), but that the old man shouldn’t let the case take hold of his life. There’re other murders, he told him. There’ve been four murders this week alone. Cleaner, easier murders he could be solving. Here’s a guy that came into the Force twenty years or so after Mills did. He started out handing people their donuts. Now he’s bossing the old man around. John Mills almost punched him. It’s ridiculous. It’s… John Mills smiles, as he slides his finger around the rim of the cup. He has nothing. That’s the truth. He’s got a name, and a face, and but nothing else. The bastard is a lawyer, he’s got money, he could be anywhere by now. He could be sipping martinis in Rio. Killing European whores. So, what the hell is the old man still doing here? Does he really think Richards will come around, and he’ll just happen to be around when he does?
“I have got to sleep,” he mutters, dryly. Outside, someone is screaming. John turns and looks through the window. Across the sidewalk, out on the street, a long-haired man is slapping a girl around. The girl is apologizing for some reason, kneeling next to him, pulling his coat, and he keeps slapping her, screaming at her. There is absolutely nothing the girl can say or do about it. John Mills licks the side of his lips, takes out his wallet and puts a ten dollar bill on the table. Then he stands up. And this is what he does.
The old man walks out of the diner, calmly. Above him, the grey clouds covering the sky are starting to turn completely black. There’s electricity in the air. His shoes slap the asphalt, as he walks across the street. In front of him, the long-haired man is trying to drag the girl along the sidewalk, take her somewhere else, but she’s crying. She’s crying and just wants him to listen. The buildings around them are worn out, and as old as this city. The paint is crackling down and no-one even cares. Scattered around the street, the fuck-ups and dopers all just stare as the pimp keeps beating the hell out of that girl. And John Mills just walks towards them, staring dead ahead, not giving a shit. The pimp is pulling the girl by the hair.
“I’m sorry! Jesus— I swear I ain’t holding out, I’ll give you a little something from what I saved last week, just—!” The pimp slaps her on the face again, and then looks around, smiling dimly, as if he’s trying to tell everybody that it’s all a game between them, that they’re just playing around, that nothing is happening, that there’s nothing to see here.
“You’re causing a fucking scene—”
“I’m sorry! Just don’t— Stop hitting me, please! Tyson, please!” The woman shrieks as John Mills gets closer and closer. The pimp clenches his fist, and hits her on the mouth, busting her lip. She moans.
And that’s when the pimp notices the old man walking towards them. And he eyes him, and takes his bloodied hands towards his coat, and moves it to a side, flashing the gun he is carrying, as if the old timer hadn’t seen one ever before. And then he raises his eyebrows, and he asks him:
“So, who the fuck are you?”
Detective John Mills reaches into his coat, and takes his revolver out of his holster. He doesn’t say anything, he just points. The pimp screams something, and jumps to the side, the girl in on the ground screams, and John Mills caresses the trigger and shoots. Then the pi