[Grasshopper359]

Well, Laura suggested that I start a blog with all my crazy stories in it, so this is what I shall do. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

One time, I was out for a walk, (again, when I lived in St. Catharines), in Port Dalhousie, and just before you get into "Old Port" as it's locally known, there is an old factory that had been abandoned ever since I lived there. It used to be a paper mill, I think I remember being told, but it had been abandoned when the company went out of business after the place had a fire. It was a really creepy looking place that had been completely overgrown with vegetation from years of neglect. There was a chain link fence around the property, but it had gaping holes in it from mischievious intruders. One day, I decided to check the place out. At that point, the only way in was to climb through a small window on the west side of the building. All the windows were broken, but there was steel mesh screening bolted into the bricks that covered them, but this one little window had the screen pulled off. I squirmed my way in, and stuck to the wall, since I was on the second floor, but there was no floor, just the joists, which were all of a row od 2x6 boards. Now, they were too far apart for me to straddle, so I had to walk the balance beam. I walked accross to the far wall, which was probably about 30 feet away to where a staircase was, only there weren't any stairs. I had to hang drop to the floor, which I really didn't want to do, since it was covered with broken glass. I decided not to try it and walked back to where I had entered, hung from the joice, and caught a foothold in the window sill on the ground floor, then stepped down. and looked around.

The room was about 30 feet by the same, and painted a light mint green colour, and it stunk like rancid lime. There was the odd bit of grafitti, but nothing worth taking notice of. Directly in front of me was a doorway into the main part of the factory, but the door was jammed shut from the other side. I thought for a minute, then looked around, and on the third level, there was a window that I knew I'd be able to fit through, so back up I went, past the second level, to the third, and accross to the window. But there was a problem with the window - it took me out onto the roof of the main part, and I wanted to get inside. I decided to give it a shot, and see what I could find. I forced the window open, and started crawling out. It was about three feet above the roof, so I turned around and went out backwards. The roof was steel. Plate steel that was probably 2 inches thick, and I could see the welds where the plates were joined, and it was sloped at a shallow angle to the back. It aws maybe fifty feet from front to back, and about 100 from where I was to the east wing, which was also two floors. The slope was probably 5%, but if I crouched and went accross the back, I wouldn't be seen from the front. So I crouched down and scooted the distance to the East wing of the building, then looked for a way in. There were three large windows along the wall, but the same steel screen was bolted over them. I took out my Swiss Military knife, and tried to unscrew the Tapcons and it worked. But the problem was that I couldn't reach the top of the window, since it was probably about eight or nine feet up there. I tried to bend the screen up so that I could squeeze under, but it was welded to two pieces of angle iron, and wouldn't go.

I walked down to the edge of the building at the back and looked around the corner to see what was on the North side of the building Bingo. There was a door. But it had apparently been over a platform that wasn't there anymore, so I knew that I wouldn't be able to reach the knob to see if it was open. I jumped from the roof to the ground. At the back, it was set into a hill, so it really wasn't that far to drop. Then I walked over to the door and looked around, to find a pair of 2x6 boards that somebody had used to attempt entry. I set one up and walked up it to the door, to find that it would open, but only four inches because of where the board was sitting. I didn't have much choice - I stepped onto the narrow sill and kicked the board down, then reached my foot around the door, opened it enough to get in, and slid in.

My first impression was that the place was disgusting. It was full of pigeons, and the floor was covered in their dung. The walls were pale yellow, and scribbled with various slogans from when the skinhead gangs used to meet there in the mid 1980s. The floor was plank wooden, and the wood had long turned grey since the laquer had worn off. The place was about 50 feet long, and 100 feet wide, but it was partitioned off into where a small office must have been. All that remained of the separating wall were the studs. Now, off to the left, there was a hole in the floor, which led to the ground floor. I walked over and peeked down, but this was an old factory - the ceilings were 30 feet high. I wasn't about to try and jump.

Then I saw something that really struck me as strange. There were dead pigeons over in the office, but nowhere else in the room, so I stood up and walked over to have a look. It went from strange to just disturbing when I saw that some of the pigeons were decapitated, while others were that, as well as being sliced open from stem to stern. But what made it downright creepy was that there wasn't a drop of blood anywhere. None. I figured that I knew what it was, but I found out for sure a few days later when my brother told me that a witches' coven met there, and I had been there just after Hallowe'en. They had killed the pigeons and been drinking the blood.

Kyle

[timio]

That's kinda disgusting, Kyle. But you never expect to see that type of stuff around southwestern ontario... but it exists, I guess.

The problem group around the Sarnia area is the native Chippewas of Sarnia who set cars on fire in the reserve and have put in large land claims to reclaim huge chunks of Sarnia... all have been lost, but it's still quite interesting...

The funniest part of the reserve is their "Cheap Smoke" selling from trailers on their front lawn. People actually stop and buy them too... It's disgusting.

Ah well... Keep writing, you're very descriptive with your stories and it helps build an accurate mental picture of what the situation would be like.

[Laura]

Dangit, I wasn't the first to post in your blog. Oh well. Cool/scary/disgusting story! Here in the Bible belt, I've never had any encounters whatsoever with stuff like that. It fascinates me in a morbid way - I guess in the same way something you had never heard of would do.

So tell me another scary story.

[Grasshopper359]

Hey, thanks, Cap'n. Glad you enjoyed it. That's why I write.

When I was young, I lived in Hamilton, which is a lunchbox town; very industrialised. The railroad was a part of our everyday lives, and it was where we met, planned, built forts, ran races and fought mock battles with sticks and snowballs. I guess it was dangerous, but we didn't think of it like that. We knew enough not to stand on the tracks when a train was coming. It was such a part of our lives that we really didn't think much of it.

Now, I lived on Gage Ave, which was a major North - South artery, right on the corner of King St, which was Hwy. 8 coming through the city. My eight year-old world consisted of King to the South, Gage to the West, Cannon St. to the North, and the CN railway to the East. This encompassed four square blocks, but for me, it presented a new world of adventure for me each afternoon after school, on weekends, which consosted of Saturday because Sunday was Church in the morning and evening, and the afternoon was our family time, and of course, summer. Summer vacation was my childhood fantasy from September to June, because it gave me two whole months of childhood adventure six days a week.

Now, about two blocks North of Cannon St. and on the other side of Gage Ave. to my house was King George Elementary School, named per King George V, whose portrait hung in the main hall just up from his grand-daughter, Elizabeth II. I used to look up at his Royal Navy uniform, complete with a blue sash, with George III's Diamond Star pinned on the left side of his tunic and be struck with the authoritative air he had about him.

Running perpendicular to King George School was Primrose St, where a few of my friends lived. I crossed the street when the crossing guard blew her whistle twice every day and looked down to where my friends walked home, but knew that it was beyond my boundries. As content as I was with Gage Ave, King St. Highland Dr, the halfway point between King and Cannon, Cannon, Fairview and East Bend streets, there was always the curiosity as to what was beyond. One day, I had managed to haggle my parents' permission to go over to my friend's place, so that day after school, I came home, where I mounted up on my bike, and then rode off to my friend's place.

About a block up from his house, there was the CN line, and beyond that was a park where all the youngsters in my friend's neighbourhood played. I thought that it was a little unfair that they had a park, and I had an old parking lot, but then, I could build a fort with the materials found laying about the lot and railway. We had planned to meet a few other friends at the park, so we rode from his house towards the park. As we approached the tracks, he was about five or so metres in front of me, but there was a train coming. I started to slow down, but he gave it what he had and ran the tracks. I immediately followed suit, and crossed the tracks not four or five seconds before the train. I could feel the draft of the train as it passed behind me. As far as the boys were concerned, I was the local hero, the daredevil. As far as my parents were concerned, I was grounded for a long time.

Edit: Just correcting a spelling error

[timio]

I'm actually petrified of trains hitting me while crossing the tracks, so I don't do it if there's one right there... unless they're at a standstill, like some are in our area (loading up at some of the industries).

When I was about 3, I lived about 3 houses down from the tracks, and one night I had a nightmare that I was standing in the middle of the street and a train jumped the tracks and started to chase me down the street. I believe that's where my fear came from.

If I'm on a train, I'm perfectly fine with it, but it's just the waiting for the train to reach the platform... I don't know how I withstood the metros over in Europe.

Ah well... Life continues for me. Keep Writing!

[GirlNextDoor]

Wow..
Ever since I've lived in Oklahoma I've lived near traintracks.. last one was like, in my back yard.. that's loud. Especially at 6am on Saturday.

What an interesting life you have.

[Grasshopper359]

The first time I ever went down to Toronto on my own was on an April morning to go to the Ontario Legislative Building. I had been through the city a few times before on stopovers when visiting my friends in St. Catharines, but I had never spent time in downtown on my own before.

The bus rolled up University Avenue, and I saw on my left the Ontario Legislative Building and Queen's Park, which was dedicated by Queen Victoria to commemorate the Canadian Confederation in 1867. The Legislative Building is a magnificent building, standing high above the Park, with sandstone walls that gave it a deep brown colour, and a distinctively Colonial French look. On my right was the Royal Ontario Museum, which in contrast to the OLB, was grey limestone, with a definite classical Old World look, with a magnificent grand entrance, arching high the wide staircase with four columns separating the doors, and a single staff hoisting the Canadian Flag rose above a turret in the middle of the building.

Further along was a series of modern high-rise office buildings, veritable houses of glass which reflected the sunlight blindingly back into my face. Just before the bus turned left onto Gerard St., on my right, looking quite out of place with the modern glass and concrete office buildings was a two-storey Old-World-styled building with a wrought iron fence in front, and a stairway which was draped over with a red canopy, and the stairs were covered with a red carpet. The gold calligraphic printing on the front of the canopy read "Royal Canadian Military Institute", the guardians of Canada's military history and heritage. On the left side of the enterance were two flag pikes; the left pike flew the Canadian Flag, and the right flew the Royal Union Flag. Behind the fence on the right of the staircase, horizontally opposed to eachother and at a forty five degree angle facing outwards, were two antique cannons, of mid 19th century vintage.

The bus turned left, and steamed up Gerard St. for the short block to the Toronto Transit Terminal, which was on the corner of Gerard and Elizabeth Streets, and turned in. I stepped off, and slung my backpack over my shoulders, and started down Gerard St. back towards University Ave, then turned right, going North towards where University Ave split off in two directions to encircle Queen's Park, where it took that name, the rejoined on the other side, and resumed the original designation.

University Ave. is a wide boulevard, with a strip down the middle lined with various national flags, benches and trees where the employees of the local office complexes took their dinner (lunch to you guys) breaks, and sat in the shade. Up the left side of the street is Mount Sinai Hospital, and right beside that is Princess Margaret Hospital, which is where the majority of Canada's cancer research is done. Accross the street is the Hospital for Sick Children and Queen Elizabeth Hospital.

Looking North on University, the immediate dominating structure is the Ontario Legistalive Building, with two tall flag poles, perhaps 100 feet high, flying the Canadian and Ontario flags on the left and right respectively, divided by a wide concrete walkway which lead up to the Main Staircase, which was the entrance. If you're from Ontario, you would probably agree with me refering to the OLB as a nuthouse. This is literal, as well as figurative. The present building was constructed in 1886 where the old University Hospital for the Insane sat until 1842. Legend has it that the building is haunted by three women, one wearing a long white dress (The White Lady) with long hair wanders the halls, looking quite sorrowful, while The Maiden wears a chequered dress and holds an apron over her face. Perhaps the most disturbing of the apparitions is The Hanging Woman, who dangles from a hook in the long tunnel in the basement. All three are believed to be past residents of the Hospital. I have my own theory about that, but I'm just relaying the legend. The most recent arrival is an apparition of a soldier in full regimental dress who angrily descends the Grand Staircase in the main hall. Nobody is quite sure what the story is behind him.

I approached the ground for the OLB, which were usually frequented by various people milling about; office employees, and University of Toronto students, mainly, but there was a variety. The main entrance to the OLB is guarded by two 32-pounder SBML (smooth bore, muzzle-loading) cannons, dating from the 1840s, sitting with their trunions soldily set into dark brown truckless sandstone carriages, and iron muzzle plugs welded over their huge mouths. During more turbulant times, these would have been manned by men of the Royal Regiment of Artillery, and used to defend the premises from invaders, engaging them at up to 2000 yards. Each would have been manned by one officer and six men, and would be capable of firing solid, hollow or shot charges, taking about 90 seconds to reload. It served to remind me that life in Ontario wasn't always as peaceful as it is now.

Above the main entrance flew two Canadian flags, flanked on the left by the Royal Union Flag, and on the right by the Ontario Flag. Just prior to reaching the main entry, on either side of the walkway, there stand two brazen statues, but I can't remember of whom.

The entry staircase was about ten steps up, with wide columns on either side which ran up to the arched roof of the wide entrance. I ascended the stairway and pulled open the heavy oak door, and walked into the main lobby, which was crowded with youngsters on a school trip. It was the most majestic room I had ever seen, all floored and panelled in hardwood, with high vaulted ceilings and hardwood pillars which held up arched gates. Directly in front of me was the Grand Staircase, which I previously mentioned. I spoke with the security guard, and asked where I might find the Lieutenant-Governor's library, to sign a book of condolences on the death of a well-liked figure in Canada, and he directed me to climb the five or so stairs, and turn left, then walk down to the first corner and turn right, and the elevators would be on my left. The wide halls had a dark red carpet running down the centre, and the portraits of all the past Premiers and Prime Ministers of Ontario, going back to J.S. MacDonald, in 1867 hung on either side.

I stepped off the elevator, and turned right, and walked down the hall, perhaps 50 metres, past the Premier's Cabinet Office on my left towards the grand entrance to the The Honourable Hillary M. Weston's office, which was hard to miss, given that the doorway was flanked by two six foot high flags. I walked in and standing in front of me as a four-stripe Colonel in service dress. Now, in my world, of military existance, officers of that rank were never seen. I greeted him, but since I was in civilian dress, I did not salute (saluting outside of uniform is a definite no-no). The library was a large room, again, finished in stained hardwood, that measured perhaps forty feet by thirty, with the doors to Mrs. Weston's office sitting to the left. They were closed, since she was not in, so I signed the book, and then had a brief conversation with the Colonel, before turning and walking out.

To some, this story would seem rather uneventful, but for me, it's worth remembering.

Kyle

[Grasshopper359]

I'm just going to make a story up. Just for the fun of it. Enjoy!

Inspector James Reid rolled over and turned his alarm off, still weary from a mere four hours of sleep, sat up, rubbed his eyes, and tried not to think about the throbbing pain in the sinus cavaties behind his eyes. His wife Kim was still asleep, and so he tried his best to slide out of bed without disturbing her, but she was a very light sleeper, and strirred, then opened her eyes. She knew what time James had finally made it to bed, but she knew that his job was important, and often demanding in many different ways. He had been a member of the Metropolitan Toronto Police Service for sixteen years, and had gone from a walking a beat up Yonge St. to Chief Homocide Investigator, which was usually a position held by an officer of higher rank, but his promotion to Chief Inspector was on the way, but just had to be approved by the Toronto Police Services Board. The military equivalent of this was a Captain, a position that some men spend an entire career reaching.

"Well, good morning to you too." She said teasingly.
"Sorry. I thought you were still asleep. I have to run - literally." He stood up and went to the bathroom, where he went about his morning routine, dressed, and made his way downstairs, where he put two pieces of bread in the toaster, and poured himself a glass of orange juice. He did not have time to make tea; he would have to buy that on the way to work or possibly do without until he went out to investigate the next crime scene. He pulled the toaster lever up, and took out his half-toasted breakfast, then quickly buttered it, then took out a Kellogg's Nutri-Grain bar and a yogurt cup. He ate the yogurt as fast as he could and drank his orange juice, but realised that he would have to take his toast and cereal bar with him in the car.

When he turned about to leave, he saw Kim standing by the door in her house coat, with her arms folded, and a friendly look on her face. She knew what life married to a policeman would mean before she wed him, and was not disappointed the erratic life schedule; it was James she married, and no matter what job he had, he was still the same man. It was hectic at times, especially when the children had been young, but they had grown accustomed to thier father's life, and appreciated him for being with them at every possible time.

James took a bite of his toast, chewed it and swallowed it, then stopped. Even right out of bed, Kim was beautiful. He had learned to appreciate any time he saw her, because he didn't know in a given day if he would.

"What?" he asked. Kim held up his pistol, a .40 calibre Beretta Cougar, sitting strapped into a low-profile nylon pancake holster that clipped to his belt. He hadn't ever drawn his pistol since he was a beat cop, but it was a vital piece of his kit. I wasn't anything particularily fancy to look at, with a matte, non-glare finish and plastic grips, but it worked, and that was all he cared about it doing.
"I was just on my way up to get that." He said.
"I'm sure you were." Kim teased. "Admit it. You would've walked out the door and realised when you got to work that you didn't have it."
"I don't think so." He muttered. "Alright, maybe."
"What would you do without me?" She said with a slight grin.
"I'd lose my mind. And half my stuff." He briefly kissed her, and was out the door.

He had lived and worked in Toronto all his life. He had attended Danforth Secondary School, graduated, and joined the Queen's Own Rilfes of Canada while he studied criminology through York University with the intention of going into the Canadian Forces Military Police Branch, before he decided to make Toronto Police his career. He lived just off Avenue Rd, just North of Eglington Ave. West, so the trip to work was quite short. He turned left on College St. and inched his way along the short distance to Metro Police Headquarters, crossing University Avenue, and then Bay Street, and turned left into the driveway, then drove into the underground parking garage. So who was dead in Toronto today?

He sat down at his desk and started to look over current case files, most of which he had investigated to some degree or another himself. Two days prior, they had been called to a lot on Front St. just past Yonge, accross the street from Union Station, and just down from the magnificent Royal York Hotel, which had been the scene of a multiple murder some fifteen years prior, when the current chief, William McCormack was a homocide cop. That was in the mid 70s, and it was now 1992. Bill McCormack had been the Chief of Police for going on three years, and had made every effort to make Toronto a safer place in every aspect, but lent excpetional leeway to the Homocide Squad. It was much appreciated, since the world of murder in Toronto was changing, gravitating towards random and gang-related acts, rather than the more traditional motives of anger, greed and witness elimination.

The body was of an unidentified male, approximately thirty to forty years of age, cause of death determined as blunt-force trauma to the head. From the looks of it, the weapon was either a baseball bat, or a pipe; it was hard to tell which, because there was so much damage done. He stared at the photograph. The victim's skull was smashed on the left side, the jagged pieces of bone sticking out of the gap making the skull look like a broken vase. The victim's eye socket was smashed, giving his head a lop-sided look where his skull was caved in. His brain was easily seen from the gaping hole, and was badly damaged. There were broken fragments of bone on the ground around the victim's head, indicating that he had died there and not been moved from elsewhere. The irony of it was absurd - beaten to death right accross from the busiest building in Canada, but so far, nobody had come forward with any information. The sad truth was that his murder would probably never be found, since the body hadn't been identified, and there didn't appear to be any witnesses. All said and done, it didn't look very promising.

He placed the photographs back in the file-folder when his telephone rang.
"Homocide, Inspector Reid." He said.
"There's a body in St. Mary's Cemetary." A man's voice said.
"It's a cemetary. There are lots of bodies there." He replied, and hung up. The phone rang again a moment later.
"Homocide, Inspector Reid."
"I'm serious, there's a body in St. Mary's Cemetary!" The voice insisted.
"Look, you're not funny, alright? I don't have time to sit around and play silly bugger with prank callers! Now if you call here again, I'm going to find out where you are and twist your arse into a bottle!" He dropped the handset into the cradle. "Idiot."
"Who was that?" Another detective asked.
"Some jackass calling to tell me that there's a body in St. Mary's Cemetary." Insp. Reid said in a deeply irritated tone.
The phone rang again.
"Homocide, Inspector Reid."
"I know you think I'm playin' a prank, but I'm totally serious." The voice said. "I was out walkin' my dog and I saw a body laying on the ground in the cemetary. At first, I thought it was some homeless guy, but when I walked over, I saw his shirt was all bloody and he was dead!"
"Alright," Reid said. "I'll check it out. But I need your name and address, as well as telephone number, because we may need to call you back as a witness."
The man co-operated, and Inspector Reid, was soon standing over the body with somebody from the Ontario Coroner's Office. The body was laying on its back, although somewhat sprawled, with the left leg slightly bent inward, and the right arm tucked underneath. The victim had been shot six times in the chest, but had evidently lived for a period of time, because there had been profuse bleeding which had all but soaked the shirt.

"Well," Reid said, "For starters, he didn't die here. There's no blood anywhere. He bled a lot before he died, in fact, he probably bled to death, but there's no blood anywhere here. Crime scene technicians were still busy photographing the scene, and Reid turned to one and tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention.
"What can I do for you, Sir?" The technician asked.
"How long do you think you'll be?" Reid inquired.
"Oh, we're pretty much done here. He's all yours."
Reid thanked the man, then put on a pair of latex gloves, tucked his tie into his shirt, and squatted down beside the body, then opened the victim's shirt.
"What can you tell me about who killed you?" He muttered to himself as he pulled the body into a sitting position and looked at the back. There were six entry wounds, but only four exit wounds, meaning that two bullets were still inside the body. Where was anybody's guess. Bullets bounced around in all manners of strange ways when they hit people, so it would take an X-ray to locate them, but judging by the entry and exit wounds, the weapon was a pistol, probably 9mm, but there wasn't any way to confirm that until he had a bullet. There were powder burns on the shirt, indicating that the murder weapon had been discharged in extremely close quarters, probably under three feet. Powder burns resulted when a firearm was discharged at such a short range that remnants of ash and burning powder that were spewed from the muzzle behind the bullet landed before they had a chance to cool, and burned the surface. The range would be determined when the bullets were found, since they would reveal what type of round was used, which would tell forensics how much powder there was, and how much burning occurs at what range.

"Well, we've got two rounds still in there." He told the coroner, who nodded. "Small arms fire, probably a niner. Definately a pistol, or an SMG fired in single fire mode. The holes are too far apart to have been inflicted by a weapon firing on repetition. But I'm betting on a pistol." He set the body down, and rolled it over, then searched for a wallet, which he found in the victim's back pocket. There was also an expensive Sako diver's watch on the victim's left wrist, so robbery was not the motive. He pulled out the wallet and looked for a driver's licence, credit cards, or anything else that would identify the body. Inside was a laminated Ontario driver's licence with the name Robert St-Jerome printed on it with a North York address, and several family photographs. The victim was twenty-four, and apparently, a student at the University of Toronto, according to his student card. The fact that he had a driver's licence meant that he probably had a car as well, but there was no insurance slip in the wallet. Some people carried it there, others did not, but since they knew who he was, it was no trouble to look him up with the Ministry of Transportation. There were no other apparent injuries anywhere, and no signs of a fight, indicating that the incident had probably happened fairly quickly, as well as the killer's intention to murder the victim, as opposed to a fight that escallated into this.

"Alright. Take him away." Reid said. "Well, let me know what you come up with and we'll work it from there."
The coroner nodded. One of the constables then flagged him to come over to the car, and it looked urgent, so Reid pulled his gloves off, threw them into a garbage bag, and proceeded over to the patrol car.
"We've got another one." The constable said.
"Oh, isn't that great, where?"
"In an alley off King St." The young man said, "Accross from Henry's"

The electronic store was something of a landmark in downtown Toronto; it was one of the few independant stores left that hadn't been put under by large chains like Future Shop. It was what little remained of the old buildings that used to be downtown Toronto, that stretch of King St, having mostly storefronts and the odd warehouse, but probably the biggest thing there was The Toronto Sun building. Reid's stomach was growling from not having lunch, but he had a more important matter to deal with. Some detectives were of the opinion that the body would still be there after lunch, but Reid wanted to get there before some well-meaning but uninformed patrol constable did something like throw a sheet over the body.

"Alright. Give me twenty minutes to get there." Reid stated flatly as he walked over towards his car, fumbling for his keys. Unlike many of his counterparts, he was not highly organised, he was more like a Columbo type of character. The Queen's Own had instilled some organisational skills into him, but for the most part, he was still himself. He opened the car, and flopped down into the driver's seat, then closed the door, started the engine, and drove off. The radio in his car squacked as the dispatcher called for various emergencies, break ins, traffic lights down, accidents, and domestic disturbances. Those were always the worst.

He remembered when he was just a green rookie who'd been walking a beat for a year, when he was called to a domestic disturbance at a home on Wellesley. He arrived to find that the husband had just killed his family, and was in the middle of dismembering their bodies with an electric circular saw. He looked up at Reid, then went right back to cutting his dead wife's legs off. Reid drew his service revolver, an old .38 calibre Ruger, and told the man to put the saw down, and place his hands on top of his head, then stand up and walk backwards slowly. The man stopped, then turned around and told Reid to shut up unless he was going to help, then proceeded to decapitate the body, and then began to place the dismembered parts into a garbage bag.
"Put the saw down NOW!" Were the words that he had then used as he cocked the hammer. Then man stood up, turned around, and charged Reid with the saw running at full speed. Blood was flying off the blade as it spun around, making a familiar splattering of droplets all over the floor. Reid had squeezed the trigger, and the man had jerked as the bullet hit him in the chest, but he kept coming. Reid fired again, and again, and again, until all six rounds were spent. The man was still standing, and had then lurched towards Reid, who had drawn his baton and struck the man in the side of the face, then swung down into the knee. The man had collapsed as his kneecap shattered, and Reid reloaded his pistol, and approached the man with caution. He was severely bleeding, and he was still alive, though not for long. He died on the way to the hospital. Reid felt for the ones who had to answer those calls.

He parked his car up the street, and walked up to the crime scene, because he prefered to see who was in the crowd, in case the killer wanted to have a look at his artwork. He didn't notice anything unusual, and made his way past the tape, past the ambulance, and into the alley. The body was slumped over in a pile of garbage, and as soon as Reid saw it, he knew what the cause of death was. The skin on the victim's face was discoloured by dark purple blotches, the lips were purple, and there were peteachial hemorrhages in the whites of the eyes, as well as the tongue being swollen and black, and blood trickling from the mouth, nose and ears. It was definately ligature strangulation that caused the victim to die; the signs were unmistakable.

"He was strangled." Reid said simply. "And the marks on his throat look like it was a nylon stocking or something, since there aren't any braid lines, and it's a fairly wide bruise." There was really nothing else he could do, since the scene was already hopelessly contaminated.
"What do you think happened?" A senior constable asked him.
"I don't know." Reid responded. "A mugging..." He stopped midsentence, and looked up at the building against which the body was found, and followed the wall up. From the fire balcony on the fourth floor there was a scrap of something tied to the railing that looked like it might be a nylon stocking.
"What does that look like to you, constable?"
"Reasonable and Probable Grounds." The man replied without missing a beat. Reid motioned for the constable to follow him. They buzzed the front desk, identified themselves, and were let in. The superintendant went with them to the door to the apartment where the fire balcony would lead.
"Who lives here?" Reid asked.
"Nobody. Not for the past three months, anyway."
"Who lived here last?"
"Some woman. She only lived here for a month, but the landlord evicted her for selling drugs. I think she kept coming back, because the neighbours complained about noise, but every time I came to check it out, the place was empty." The superintendant opened the door and let the two policemen in.

To Reid's surprise, there sitting in the corner was a ragged looking woman pointing a pistol at him, holding it with both hands. Her eyes were all purple and baggy, and she was completely disshevelled. He stopped dead in his tracks and raised his hands to shoulder level.
"How did you find me?" The woman snarled.
"Did you kill that man outside?" Reid asked calmly. "Did you strangle him with one of your stalkings?"
"Who told you? Who sold me out?"
"Nobody told me. The stalking is still tied around the balcony where you hung him."
"My name is James, but you can call me Jim, and this is Rob, but we call him Fozzie." When dealing with a potentially deadly situation, the first thing to do is to tell them what your name is. That way, you're now a person with a name and not just a face. Using a pet name like Jim or Mike makes you appear to be more friendly, as does identifying a person by a nickname. It makes the person feel as if they're in your circle of friends.
"What do you want?"
"Sorry, I didn't catch your name." Reid said with a sheepish grimace.
"Tiff."
"Hey, my daughter's name is Tiffany. How about that." He said. Now, not only was he Jim, but he was Jim who had a little girl at home named Tiffany. The idea was to personalise one's self with the other person, and thus make it more diffucult for them to bring themself to kill. "She's just turned eight." He continued. The more information that he gave, the more he became a person and the less he was just a cop.
"So what exactly happened here?" He asked. Asking questions told her that he didn't know everything, and he trusted her to tell the truth.
"Actually, don't worry about that. You look like you could use a decent meal. I know I can; I haven't had lunch." He pressed. Now, he not only implied that he trusted her, but he began to ask about her welfare, which indicated that he cared. Which he did, but his main concern was to defuse the situation before there were four dead bodies more to add to the week's tally.
"Tell you what." He said as he reached over and put his arm on the constable's shoulder and pulled the man in beside him. "You tell Fozzie here what you'd like, and he'll go get it." As he said this, he reached his hand down concealed by the man in front of him, pushed back his jacket and quietly drew his Beretta. This woman wasn't going for his show, and in one direction or another, bullets were about to fly any second.
"No!" She yelled. "He'll come back with a SWAT team! Lie down on the floor!"
"Okay, okay!" He said. "I'm getting down. Come on, Fozzie, get down." He said. As the constable dropped down to his knees, Reid raised his Beretta and fired twice into her centre of mass, killing her instantly. He breathed out a sigh of relief and replaced his pistol.
"Anybody hurt?" He asked.
"Well, I'm shaking a bit, and my ears're ringing pretty badly, but I think I'm alright." The constable said.
"Count yourself lucky, and thank my wife."
"Why?"
"Because I almost forgot my pistol this morning. I haven't drawn it in fifteen years, and the day I almost forget it is the day it saves three people's lives. Figure that one out."

Kyle

[timio]

You should consider journalism for a hobby if not a career.

[Laura]

Good story. I was thinking more along the lines of fictitious writing, Timio - journalism is mainly for the uncreative folks who like to write - like myself.

If you ever want to start writing books, I'll volunteer as your editor!

[timio]

It could go either way, actually... He has the detail in there that gives a vivid image of the setting... that's a good quality to have in writing.

[Elizabeth]

That was a great story, Kyle. I love writing, but I have this really bad habit of starting stories and never finishing them.

[timio]

All my stories use Tim Logic, which makes perfect sense when I write it out, but no one else seems to understand it... So I don't write.

[Grasshopper359]

Originally posted by EnglishDreams84
That was a great story, Kyle. I love writing, but I have this really bad habit of starting stories and never finishing them.

Elizabeth, you know, I do the same thing! I actually started to post those exact words, but Netscape crashed .

I have three stories on the go, but I'm only really working on one. I'll wrtie another one either when I'm done watching MacGyver (I have my priorities, you know ), or tomorrow. I'm glad that you people all enjoyed it.

Kyle

[H.M. Murdock]

I'm loving it so far.
More!

As for my stories: working on three.
My journal,
essays on stuff (comedic, of course. My first book, composed of short, wierd/funny stories)
and I do a lot of G.I. Joe stuff. Not ever gonna post 'em here, though.... too violent. (I go into a lot of detail when the ninjas start fighting with their katanas)