Young Writers Society

this is my second draft, so bare with me, there still are things to change.

CL

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Thomas Pippin stared at the sight utterly disgusted. It made his stomach churn just thinking about it. In front of him lay the mangled body of Ms. Molly Shippen and he had to explain to Inspector Traverton what he thought had happened. The prospect was just comparingly better than looking at the wretched body of Ms. Shippen, or what was left of her, for that matter. She had been killed almost instantly by the two gashes that sliced her windpipe, but this killer was clearly nuts for he had not stopped there but slashed her from thigh to navel, almost disembowling the poor wretch. All made by the same man, one with a formidable right, he could tell by the angle and density of the wounds and by what he suspected looked something like a kitchen knife. Other things made Thomas think this killer was clearly wacked and should have been placed in a wackateria was the position in which they found her, face up in a corner of her own stone patio, skirts hitched up passed her knees and knickers disoriented.

If I stay in here any longer, I'll have to commit myself to the asylm. Where is Inspector Traverton? And where is Rhodera when I need her.

He had already sent an urgent post to fetch Rhodera up to Edinburgh and he hoped she saw fit to come.

"Pippin, good ta see ya." Traverton's Scottish was almost as bad as his English.

Thomas nodded gravely.

"So what do we have here? Ah thee lovely Ms. Shippen."

Is there anything lovely about this that I'm missing? I don't think so.

"Yes Inspector. Killed by a wacko with a kitchen knife," Thomas put forth rinsing and drying his hands.

"Ahmmm," was all the Inspector could say and Thomas was glad for the momentary silence to calm his raging stomach.

"A wacko you say. Why?"

Damn yer inferiority an insolence! 'A wacko you say'! Bah humbug. Ye disagreable snit.

"Look at her; the way he first pressed her, killed her, and then multalated her. I'd say he's clearly nuts. This ain't no ordinary murder, Inspector." Thomas said laying on his thick glasgowegian accent.

"I guess I'll take that," the Inspector said looking a little bit miffed.

Oh, you better take that, Inspector or we might have another murder on our hands.

"Why a kitchen knife? How do you know? Doesn't look like one to me."

Probably cause ye never been MURDERED with one!

Thomas dearly would have loved to say that, but kept his trap shut.

At this point, Thomas would have rather slept with the dead mangled body than talked one more second with Inspector Traverton.

"Kitchen knife, because ye see here," Thomas pointed at the gash along her stomach, "the wound is deep, wide, and has a curve to it. Throwin knives or killin knives or blades have no curve in them, they're made that way, Heinvessens, Golds, Holts, Kieners, Ritchers, Perrys, every last one of em, all made with the same basic rule no curve. It make it hard to throw or grab. A kitchen knife, you've seen one of those, right Inspector, are made with a long, large blade with a curve to it. The handle is short, the blade long. All these gashes have the same exact pattern, long swiping move with a kitchen knife with the right arm. Inspector, this poor wretch was killed by a kitchen knife. Now if ye excuse me, I'll go see to me more important business." Thomas spat at the Inspector, throwing away dignity.

He turned on his heel and left the Inspector there with his thoughts.