Walter dreaded his office desk, clustered with papers and portfolios. The oak had started to loose it shine a few years ago, worn out by the detectives that owned it beforehand. What Walter dreaded the most was how disorganized everything was, he couldn't ever find the time to clean it, however. Whenever he was at his desk was to do the aftermath paperwork of a case. It wasn't till later in the evening did his partner walk up to his desk, smile large, Walter was afraid the poor boy's face would break.
"Looks like we have a case. A shooting, down on Greene Street (real street in New York, i googled it guys) . No witness but there was a body," Polit said, flipping through the portfolio that was near exact to the ones sitting on Luke's desk.
"Alright, let's go check this out," Walter said, standing and grabbing his jacket, pulling it over his narrow shoulders before snatching his scarf. He followed after Pilot, down the hall, and out of the precinct. The black trench coat draped by the boy's knees, it being a present that he never quite grew into, the blue scarf was torn and faded, given to him by his ex on a cold night while the two were out at a football game. He's never lost track of that scarf for eight years.
Arriving on the scene a few short minutes later, Walter and Pilot were handed gloves that both pulled over their freezing hands. Winter in New York was something the two Australians had never quite gotten use to.
"Death from blood loss due to an obstructed artery. The victim's death falls between 8:50 and 9:00pm," Their medical examiner, Paris, said, pointing to an obvious gunshot wound from the large pool of blood drained from the body.
"I'm guessing it wasn't suicide by the looks of it," Pilot shook his head softly, he was the one who tried to keep everyone happy, it was quite a depressing day sometimes, the world could be such a horrible place.
"You're right on that one, Pacer," Paris nodded softly, pulling the zipper to a close on the body bag, "Can we get this to the morgue please," She asked her assistant, or Pilot's daughter, Charlotte. She gave a small nod in response, tightening the coat around her frame as she called over some of the officers to transport the body back to the morgue.
Griffin's P.O.V
There were some days the girl didn't deem necessary to leave the safety of her bed- face the real world and all that. Days like today were the ones spent curled up in her blankets, laptop in her lap, staring at a blank screen. Oh. The things a blank screen could contain. Poems. Stories. Scripts. Oh the things a blank screen could contain, sometimes it felt there were two swollen, lifeless eyes staring back blankly.
A ring from her phone distracted the her from the glaring page. Griffin sighed, setting her laptop atop her bedside table before standing. She cracked her unbelievably stiff limbs, sleepily carrying herself across the room to where her phone was hidden away in a pair of jeans discarded on the floor. Rifling through them quickly before managing to pull her phone to her face, eyes squinting in attempts to read Trent's message. Trent was one of Griffin's closest friends, correction, probably her only closest friend. Best friend, probably.
Griffin rolled his eyes, quickly sending Trent a reply before grabbing the jeans that previously sat on the floor, pulling them up her snowflake paled legs, and sliding on her converse. Making her way out of the apartment was no problem, the elevator was a task however. Griffin wasn't of much fond to the enclosed space. Being a writer, she always was questioning, thoughts tumbling into beginnings of plots or snowballing into a flop.
Like, what if the elevator were to get stuck and she was left to starve before the idea of escaping through the hatch
YOU ARE READING
Everything I Didn't Say
RandomA collection of writing excerpts that have found themselves forgotten about in my drive.
