LITR 3731: Creative Writing
Student Fiction Submission 2005
Andrea Cox
Prologue
September
19, 1995
It was a hot sultry summer night in Florida. Emily Thompson and her best friend, Madison James, just spent it out on the town. Two nineteen year old freshmen at Florida State University, nice girls by all accounts, had no way of knowing one of them was enjoying the last night of her young life.
A truck driver found her. Her legs were sticking out from the edge of the woods along interstate A1, where she had been carelessly thrown. Emily Thompson was dead. The police report explained she was found with multiple stab wounds to her head, arms, chest, and back. The medical examiner pronounced her DOA (Dead on arrival), stabbed to death and sexually assaulted.
Fully clothed Madison was found
within a hundred yards of Emily. Never mind the blood, bruising, and swelling on
their faces, these were two beautiful young women. There was no apparent sign of sexual assault to Madison’s
body, only the awful stab wounds in her arms, legs, and chest. As police officer
Dayton bent down to examine the body, Madison’s right arm shot out and feebly
grazed his chin. With a start of
surprise Officer Dayton yelled, “This one’s alive! Get the paramedics over
here NOW!”
Madison was rushed to the nearest hospital for treatment. Three weeks later the local and surrounding county newspapers reported, “Madison James has been discharged from the County Hospital, is receiving physical therapy and psychiatric help. Her family says that she hasn’t spoken to anyone since the day of the incident.
Investigators at the scene and at the hospital took fingerprints, hair samples and other evidence from the girl’s bodies, belongings and anything else that could be gathered and sent to the crime lab for analysis. Four days later, results came back leaving investigators with but one clue. Out of the evidence collected there was only one fingerprint which did not belong to either of the two girls. Located on Emily’s purse, and confirmed by the military database, the single fingerprint belonged to Private Tucker Mills stationed at Patrick Air Force Base. Investigators had their murderer.
Chapter One
Seated on a tree branch high above the wall separating the military compound from the civilian walkway which paralleled Main Street, a thickly built man with a marine style haircut carefully aimed a small camera in the direction of the airman he had been assigned to watch. With a few more clicks of his digital camera, the images he had been taking since Tucker arrived at his post at 22:00 (10:00 p.m.) would be stored and ready to download onto his boss’s computer. He had no idea what the boss would do with them and he didn’t care.
CLICK. Another shot. CLICK. He was recording it all.
As Tucker’s shift wore on, the assignment became tedious. Sitting in the dark on a hot summer evening, dressed in a pair of camouflage army pants and a dark green t-shirt, the man waited patiently for his target to come out of the guardhouse so that he could snap a usable picture. Unfortunately, that meant prolonged periods of inactivity as Tucker filled out his paper work for the afternoon shift. He would just have to sit back and wait.
At the end of his shift, the thick man observed Tucker as he came out, checked the perimeter, and walked to his car. After recording ten more pictures, the watcher opened a palm-size cell phone and dialed a number. Picked up on the second ring a voice said,
“Frank here.”
“He’s moving,” the cameraman said lightly.
“Got it.” The man on the other end disconnected.
The watcher knew he didn’t have to follow Tucker. Someone always knew where he was going and there would be another qualified person waiting. The truth was the man on the other end of the phone knew everything there was to know about Tucker. Everywhere Tucker went someone would be waiting, watching, and recording his every move.
Chapter Two
Pictures, as clear as any taken by a camera, flashed in his mind. Tucker could see the carnage; he could sense their pain. He wished he could do more, hoping that nothing else would go wrong.
“I am looking for Private Tucker Mills,” a male voice said from behind him.
Tucker turned and saw two men in suits standing in the doorway of the Army Emergency Relief Fund building. One guy towered over him at, no doubt, six foot six. He wore a dark grey suit that had the top two buttons unfastened, probably due to the summer heat. He showed pure hatred on his face. Standing next to him was a man in those awful dark green military uniforms that no one could miss. His expression showed sympathy yet concern for what was about to take place.
“That’s me. What can I do for you?” Tucker said with some uncertainty.
As the gentlemen walked toward Tucker, the larger of the two took a quick professional glance around the spacious entry room.
“Who are you?” Tucker asked.
The big man reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small leather wallet, opened it, and showed his identification.
“I’m Special Agent J.D. Stryker of CID, Criminal Investigation Division, and this is Lt. Woodrow Wilson from Patrick Air Force Base,” the man with the insufferable expression said.
“What’s going on?” Tucker said perplexed.
“Place your hands on top of your head. You are coming with us.” Agent Stryker said.
“WHAT the hell?” Tucker responded surprisingly. “I don’t under-“
“Just do as he asks and this will be over more quickly.” Wilson said.
Tucker complied and stepped to the center of the room.
“Turn around.” Agent Stryker announced.
His heart raced and he felt his face flush. “There must be some mistake.” Tucker felt a hand seize his left wrist, a second later Tucker felt the metallic bracelet, heard the final click and a muted ratcheting sound.
“What is going on?” Tucker demanded in a voice louder than he intended. As he spoke, Agent Stryker turned the cuff so that it dug into his wrist and guided Tucker’s hand behind his back. Before Tucker could ask his question again his right hand was miraculously attached to his left.
“I demand an answer.” Tucker fumed over his shoulder. “What is going on?”
Stryker ignored him and shoved Tucker toward Wilson to be patted down. Carefully patting Tucker’s pockets, the captain reached in and pulled out whatever he found: keys, wallet, coins, and a piece of paper with a number on it.
“This has to be some kind of mistake.” Tucker said with fear and anger.
“I’m afraid not, Private Mills,” Wilson said. “We have a warrant.”
“For what?”
“We will discuss it in interrogation.”
“I want to know now!” Tucker demanded.
Wilson turned Tucker so they were facing one another. The compassion on his face was gone and was replaced by a professional stare. “No, and you are only going to make this worse if you don’t cooperate fully.”
“What could possibly be worse?” Tucker asked more to himself than to the two gentlemen.
“Get on my bad side and you might just find out. Isn’t that right Lt. Wilson?” Stryker asked nonchalantly.
“Yes Sir!”
“But this has to be some kind of mistake.” Tucker was getting more upset by the minute because he didn’t know what was going on and these gentlemen didn’t seem to be in any hurry to tell him anything.
“Tucker, I forgot-“
Tucker turned to see Sergeant Anderson (his boss) coming in the doorway of AERF building. He stopped short, his mouth hung open, and his eyes wide with disbelief at what he was seeing.
“Sergeant-“
“What are they doing?” Sergeant Anderson asked loudly. Turning to Stryker he shouted, “What the hell is going on here?”
Anderson charged at Stryker, which with his height and size was unheard of considering Anderson was only 5’ 10” at the most and weighed maybe 150 lbs. Anderson stomped right over to Stryker grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him down to his level and asked again, “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?”
The whole base knew Sergeant Anderson had a mind of his own and everyone thought Anderson was just plain crazy. It was said around the compound that Anderson was known to injure the biggest of men if they didn’t follow his orders. No one crossed him. Lt. Wilson who had worked with Anderson before knew this and stepped forward to ease some tension between David and Goliath.
“Listen to me, Sergeant Anderson,” Wilson said firmly, fixing his eyes on Anderson. “We are here doing our job. This here is Agent Stryker from CID.”
“I don’t care who he is. I want to know why he’s here.”
“They think I have done something wrong and have a warrant for an arrest,” Tucker interrupted.
“That’s crazy,” Anderson said staring straight at Stryker. “What is he being arrested for?”
“That’s a very good question,” Tucker said facing the two men who were there to arrest him.
“Murder,” Stryker said angrily.
“Murder?” Sergeant Anderson and Private Tucker said in unison.
“It will be explained to you during your interview. It’s time we got going.”
Self evaluation:
This story is based on something that happened to my father in the military. The place and names are not the same but the details that are in it are simply the basic of the setting. Since the end is not available to the class the short version is Tucker (is actually the Uncles name to the kid in the true story) was accused of a crime (not the crime in the story) and the FBI thought for sure they had him until my father whose real name is Anderson Frank (that’s where the names in the story come from) said that he couldn’t have and proof that the kid was with him and the troop at that time and day all day everyday for the week (guard duty). He did do it just not that day. Tucker (the Uncle) shows up in a stretch limo a few days later and went looking for my father, Thanked my father, and come find out the guy was the head of the NJ mafia. The kid was discharged and Tucker still contacts my dad when he wants too.
Now to the story-the best help a person can get is getting someone who will be honest and Mary and Jennifer were great at that. They didn’t offend me and my paper flowed better in the end. We have communicated through e-mails and class for weeks and I think it in the long run when this story gets published it will be a best seller. I am learning more than I ever did about grammatical errors and verb usage throughout a story. I hope as I continue to write these same girls will want to critique the rest of the rest.
(earlier version of story, followed by critiques)
Prologue
September 19, 1995
It was a hot sultry summer night in Florida. Emily Thompson and her best friend, Madison James, just spent it out on the town. Two nineteen year old freshmen at Florida State University, nice girls by all accounts, had no way of knowing that one of them was enjoying the last night of her young life.
A truck driver found her. Her legs were sticking out from the edge of the woods along interstate A1, where she had been carelessly thrown. Emily Thompson was dead. The police report said she was found with multiple stab wounds to her head, arms, chest, and back. The medical examiner pronounced her DOA, stabbed to death and sexually assaulted.
Fully clothed, Madison was found
within one/a
hundred yards of
Emily. Never mind
the blood, bruising, and swelling on their faces, these were two beautiful young
women. There was no apparent sign
of sexual assault to Madison’s body, only the awful stab wounds
in her
arms, legs, and chest. As police officer Dayton bent down to examine the body,
Madison’s right arm shot out and feebly grazed his chin.
With a
start of surprise officer Dayton yelled, “This one’s alive! Get the
paramedics over here NOW!”
Madison was rushed to the nearest hospital for treatment. Three weeks later the local and surrounding county newspapers reported, “Madison James has been discharged from the county general hospital, is receiving physical therapy and psychiatric help. Her family says that she hasn’t spoken to anyone since the day of the incident.”
Investigators at the scene and at the hospital took fingerprints, hair samples, and other evidence from the girl’s bodies, belongings, and anything else that could be gathered and sent it to the crime lab for analysis. Four days later, results came back leaving investigators with but one clue. Out of the evidence collected there was only one fingerprint that didn’t belong to the two girls. Located on Emily’s purse, and confirmed by Codas, the single fingerprint belonged to a Private Tucker Mills of Patrick Air Force Base. Investigators had their murderer.
Chapter One
Seated on a tree branch high above the wall that separated the military compound from the civilian walkway that paralleled Main Street, a thickly built man with a marine style haircut carefully aimed a small camera in the direction of the airman he had been assigned to watch. With a few more clicks of his digital camera, the images he had been taking since Tucker arrived at his post at 22:00 (10:00 p.m.) would be stored and ready to download onto his boss’s computer. He had no idea what the boss would do with them and he didn’t care.
CLICK. Another shot. CLICK. He was recording it all.
As Tucker’s shift wore on, the assignment became tedious. Sitting in the dark on a hot summer evening, dressed in a pair of camouflage army pants and a dark green t-shirt, the man waited patiently for his target to come out of the guardhouse so that he could snap a usable picture. Unfortunately, that meant prolonged periods of inactivity as Tucker filled out his paper work for the afternoon shift. He would just have to sit back and wait.
At the end of his shift, the thick man observed Tucker as he came out, checked the perimeter, and walked to his car. After recording ten more pictures, the watcher opened a palm-sized cell phone and dialed a number. Picked up on the second ring, a voice said,
“Frank here.”
“He’s moving,” the cameraman said lightly.
“Got it.” The man on the other end disconnected.
The watcher knew he didn’t have to follow Tucker. Someone always knew where he was going and there would be another qualified person waiting. The truth was the man on the other end of the phone knew everything there was to know about Tucker. Everywhere Tucker went someone would be waiting, watching, and recording his every move.
Chapter Two
Pictures, as clear as any taken by a camera, flashed in his mind. Tucker could see the carnage; he could sense their pain. He wished he could do more, hoping that nothing else would go wrong.
“I am looking for a Tucker Mills,” a male voice said from behind him.
Tucker turned and saw two men in suits standing in the doorway of the Army Emergency Relief Fund building. One guy towered over him at, no doubt, six foot six. He wore a dark grey suit that had the top two buttons unfastened, probably due to the summer heat. His face showed that of pure hatred. (Or à He showed pure hatred on his face.) Standing next to him was a man in those awful dark green military uniforms that no one could miss. His expression showed sympathy yet concern for what was about to take place.
“That’s me. How may I help you gentlemen?” Tucker said with some uncertainty.
As the gentlemen walked toward Tucker, the larger of the two took a quick professional glance around the spacious entry room.
“May I ask who you gentlemen are?” Tucker asked.
The big man reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small leather wallet, opened it, and showed his identification.
“I’m special agent J.D. Stryker of CID, Criminal Investigation Division, and this is Lt. Woodrow Wilson from Patrick Air Force Base,” the man with the insufferable expression said.
“I don’t understand. Why do you have need of me? (Or à What’s going on?)” Tucker said perplexed.
“If you will come with us we will be happy to explain things, sir, but first, would you step forward and place your hands on top of your head?” Agent Stryker said.
“WHAT?!” Tucker responded surprisingly. “I don’t under-”
“I understand that sir,” Wilson said firmly. “Just do as he asks, so this will be over sooner.”
Tucker complied and stepped to the center of the room.
“Please turn around,”
Agent Tucker announced.
His heart raced and he felt his face flush. “There must be some mistake.” Tucker felt a hand seize his left wrist, a second later Tucker felt the metallic bracelet, heard the final click and a muted ratcheting sound.
“What is going on?” Tucker demanded in a voice louder than he intended. As he spoke, agent Stryker turned the cuff so that it dug into his wrist and guided Tucker’s hand behind his back. Before Tucker could ask his question again his right hand was miraculously attached to his left.
“I demand an answer,” Tucker fumed over his shoulder. “What is going on?”
Stryker ignored him and shoved Tucker toward Wilson to be patted down. Carefully patting Tucker’s pockets, the captain reached in and pulled out whatever he found: keys, wallet, coins, and a piece of paper with a number on it.
“This has to be some kind of mistake.” Tucker said with fear and anger.
“I’m afraid not, Private Mills,” Wilson said. “We have a warrant.”
“For what?”
“We will discuss it in the interrogation room.”
“I want to know now,” Tucker demanded.
Wilson turned Tucker so they were facing one another. The compassion on his face was gone and was replaced by a professional stare. “No, and you are only going to make this worse if you don’t cooperate fully.”
“What could possibly be worse?” Tucker asked more to himself than to the two gentlemen.
“Get on my bad side, and you might just find out. Isn’t that right Lt. Wilson?” Stryker asked nonchalantly.
“Yes Sir!”
“But this has to be some kind of mistake.” Tucker was getting more upset by the minute because he didn’t know what was going on and these gentlemen didn’t seem to be in any hurry to tell him anything.
“Tucker, I forgot-“
Tucker turned to see Sergeant Anderson (his boss) coming in the doorway of AERF building. He stopped short, his mouth hung open, and his eyes wide with disbelief at what he was seeing.
“Sergeant-“
“What are they doing?” Sergeant Anderson asked loudly. Turning to Stryker he shouted, “What the hell is going on here?”
Anderson charged at Stryker, which with his height and size was unheard of considering Anderson was only 5’ 10” at the most and weighed maybe 150 lbs. Anderson stomped right over to Stryker grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him down to his level and asked again, “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?”
The whole base knew Sergeant Anderson had a mind of his own and everyone thought Anderson was just plain crazy. It was said around the compound that Anderson was known to injure the biggest of men if they didn’t follow his orders. No one crossed him. Lt. Wilson who had worked with Anderson before knew this and stepped forward to ease some tension between David and Goliath.
“Listen to me, Sergeant Anderson,” Wilson said firmly, fixing his eyes on Anderson. “We are here doing our job. This here is Agent Stryker from CID.”
“I don’t care who he is. I want to know why you are here.”
“They think I have done something wrong and they have a warrant for an arrest,” Tucker interrupted.
“That’s crazy,” Anderson said staring straight at Stryker. “What is he being arrested for?”
“That’s a very good question,” Tucker said facing the two men who were there to arrest him.
“Murder,” Stryker said angrily.
“Murder?” Sergeant Anderson and Private Tucker said in unison.
“It will be explained to you during your interview. Now it is time we got going.”
Critiques
from peers:
Andrea,
sorry it has taken me so long to get back to you. I want to know what happens in
the interview… It is a good story and kept my attention well. One thing I did
see were several spelling and spacing errors. You
might go over it yourself to correct these. Also in the later part of the story
you say Agent Tucker, this was confusing because he isn’t a policeman or
detective... so you might try Private Tucker instead. Also, I would like to hear
more about the girls in the chapter. Maybe you could fit in flashbacks of what
the detectives saw or bits and pieces of what they know. Good story hope this is
helpful. Audra
From:
Jennifer Jones
Sent:
Wed, 16 Mar 2005 23:55:42 -0600
Subject: your fiction
Andrea,
What a great mystery!!
Reminds me of CSI... I'm a fanatic for that show.
I'm sending you my
critique of things *I* would change. You can definitely take them or leave
them. It's up to you. :) Everything I changed is pink and
highlighted green.
I had a little confusion
at the beginning, though, because you talk about one girl getting killed
and then talk about Megan's "body" and I was thrown at first, but I
figured it out... I think my problem was that when someone says "body"
I think dead. You weren't using it that way though.. :)
About the "stood six
foot six" part and the "stood 5'10" part... I'm not sure but I
didn't know if "stood" was the right word... You'll see when you look.
This is your fiction
you're submitting for class right? You definitely have to finish it.
I want to know what happens.
I hope this is all useful
information. I was really totally honest, I know I appreciate it when
people are with me. I appreciated you telling me what you did before my
fiction reading, so I wanted to help as much as I could. Please let me
know if you have questions. Thanks for letting me read it! :)
It's really captivating!
See ya Monday,
Jennifer
From: moomoobabies (Mary
Kay)
I read the story and the
content of the story is wonderful. This story wanted more, I felt as if you left me hanging and
wanting to know what the outcome would really be. As with all good things there needs to be some minor little
bad things. On pg 1 you should
change freshman to FRESHMEN, talking about two or more. Also would you consider changing their to her, you may want
to check the first paragraph.
In the 2 paragraph
remember a police report cannot talk so instead of said use the police report
explained. Spell out abbreviations
so everyone knows what you are talking about. In paragraph 4 take out the
general before hospital it flows better.
I am cutting down what she
actually said and tell you that I need to work on my grammer and take out some
of the “THAT’s”-thanks to Mary the paper flows better taking that’s out.
She said “One factor that I learned while I was in the service, actually at my
first duty station when writing a synopsis to my report take out the word THAT
and see if the flow is any better and there is much more direct sentences and it
just flows better.
Andrea,
What a great story. I am
a Grisham and Patterson junky so murder/mystery is my favorite genre. Your
story flows really well and it left me wanting more so if you are really
writing a longer story, feel free to share! You have some minor
grammar errors and typos but you may have already corrected these by the time
you read this. If you want me to send you something, let me know. My
only real question is, What is Codas? I have an idea that it is some
sort of crime lab but what does it stand for? You may want to spell out
the meaning of the acronym with the first mention.
Karen
Daniel
832-385-1147
President,
Texas Alpha Tau Chapter
Alpha
Chi National Honor Society
University
of Houston, Clear Lake