Detective Calvin Duster opened the door to his government-issued 2008
Ford Police Interceptor and stepped out in front of Evan Jameson's
apartment building. He winced as the bright sun hit his eyes, adorned
with deep, black bags and accompanied by a large gash above the right
eye, still in its beginning scabbing period. He had barely slept for an
hour wrapping up his last case before his cell rang him awake, calling
him to duty once again, putting him at five hours of sleep for the past
seventy-two hours.
His face was adorned with messy stubble from not shaving for three days,
and his clothes weren't in a much better state. Still wearing the
clothes he had worn the day before, his ruffled, white dress shirt was
accompanied by a loosened tie, the top button of the shirt unbuttoned.
His sleeves were rolled up half-way, and his brown shoulder holster was
messily placed over, scrunching his shirt.
In short, he was a mess. But too tired to care and too focused on his
job at hand, he ignored the stares of the policemen and onlookers,
proceeding directly up to Jameson's floor.
Looking down the hall, he could see the usual crowd formed around the
yellow Crime Scene police tape: various police officers; lab techs; an
ME’s assistant; the usual gawkers who would all have to be questioned
later, but by someone lower on the food chain than him; a group of
reporters. But there was one man that stood out. He wore a wrinkled
dress shirt with a ragged collar, and from the state of his shoes seemed
to have been wading in shallow puddles. He wasn’t a crime scene worker,
nor could he be a reporter – he just stood there, not taking notes, not
trying to get past the tape or get a word with one of the officers –
but he wasn’t just a usual onlooker, either. He seemed overly interested
in the scene, almost fascinated in a way, but not in the same way as
any normal person interested in the commotion down the hall from their
own apartment.
Duster knew that if he tried to leave, an officer would stop and
question him first, so he ignored the man for now, instead focusing on
his task at hand. He pushed his way through the crowd, dodging questions
from reporters, and ducked under the yellow tape and walked into the
apartment. He walked straight toward the desk in the far end of the room
where the body lay, glancing in the bathroom on his way. He took out a
pair of latex gloves and, without looking up, asked the man examining
the body, “What’ve we got here, doc?”
The man crouched by the body was Harrison Moore, the usual Medical
Examiner Duster worked with. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure. No signs
of outward trauma, seems to be in perfect health…nothing to suggest
that he’s dead.”
“Except for the fact that he is dead, doc,” Duster replied, fishing out a
small, leather-bound notebook and pen to take notes with.
“Exactly. But there’s a gun in his right hand, and a suicide note on the
desk.” He picked up the note with a latex-gloved hand carefully,
already having it been photographed, and handed it to Duster. “But no
gunshot wound.”
Duster ran a hand through his messy, light-brown hair. "Alright, thanks doc -- keep looking."
"Of course."
Duster looked around the room. "Who talked to the wife?" he asked one of the uniformed officers.
"What?"
"The wife, who talked to her?" he repeated.
"What wife? There's no wife listed, sir."
Duster sighed. "There's women's products in the bathroom, there's
obviously touches of a woman in this apartment, you can see clothes in
the bedroom--" he pointed to the open bedroom door. "So he's either got a
wife or girlfriend. Considering the ring on his finger--" he pointed
again "--I'd say wife. If she's not listed, she's still gotta be
somewhere. Find her."
"Yessir," the officer answered before walking out of the room.
"You look like h*ll," Moore called from where he was still examining the body.
"Yeah, yeah, I know doc. Didn't get much sleep last night."
"Collinsworth case, still?"
"Yep. Finally wrapped it up yesterday," Duster said.
"What happened to your eye?" the doctor asked, concerned.
"The case. Look, Doc, it's fine; let's focus on this case, shall we?"
"All right, but you should really have that looked at," Moore said.
"Later, later," Duster replied. He rubbed his eyes before continuing his
examination of the room, the tiredness finally hitting him with the
lack of an adrenaline rush. Though he wouldn't admit it out loud, not
being able to have his partner for the last week and this following week
was taking a great toll. Of course a major case would come up the two
weeks his partner was on vacation for. Duster needed a vacation himself
soon.
He felt his phone vibrate and stepped out into the apartment building's hallway to take it.
"Hey, honey," he answered, the caller ID telling him it was his wife. He
had left his wife a note saying he had another case since he didn't
want to wake her. "No, no, I'm fine, I just probably won't be home until
late again." He paused as she spoke on the other end. "All right, seeya
then. Love you." He hung up the phone and started to walk back inside.
"Detective!" someone called behind him.
He stopped and turned to see who it was. The man he had seen early who
was more interested in the scene than he should've been. "Detective,
could I have a moment?"
Duster sighed again, due to exhaustion rather than irritation. "Sure, what is it?"
"My name is Rufus Blackwell, private investigator. I was wondering if we could work together on this case."
Friday, April 13, 2012
Prologue
Evan Jameson, famed and acclaimed writer, puffed away pensively on a pipe as his fingers clattered away on an old typewriter. He came to the end of the page but before removing the milky parchment, he looked out the open window next to his maple desk. The clouds had been swelling up, and if it weren’t for his clock he would have never guessed it was nearly four in the afternoon. Without his two lamps, the room would have been in almost complete darkness.
Moments later, droplets began to tap upon the glass plane of the window as if they desired entrance into the smoky room. The pairs of droplets soon multiplied into scores. The noise resounded through the room as the beads simultaneously hit the glass. The loud clap of thunder was followed by a white dagger piercing the sky.
Turning his attention back to the typewriter, he took out the piece of paper and hastily read it over before crumpling it up into a ball and lobbing it into the already half-full waste basket on the side of his desk from the other various pages he had thrown away today, having made little-to-no process since the night before.
He sighed to himself, taking the pencil from its resting place on his ear and tossing it onto the desk before him, watching it bounce back and forth across the dusty surface before landing horizontally and rolling a short distance. Taking the pipe out of his mouth and placing it on its holder, he stood up from his chair, making his way to the stereo system at the far end of the room to turn on the radio to his favorite music station (classical, of course), and sat down in his preferred chair near the fireplace which spread its warmth throughout the cold room.
The writer picked up a newspaper on the table adjacent to his chair and began to read, calming himself and letting the thoughts about the progress he had made today (or lack thereof) be driven from his mind.
~
After about fifteen minutes of reading and relaxing, Evan came to feel he was ready to begin writing again. The recliner rocked back and forth as he stood up, making his way to his desk again. The soft squeak of his chair was accompanied by the click of his typewriter being reloaded. Nearly an hour later Mr. Jameson found he had written seven full sheets of paper, a commendable feat given his previous failure the night before.
Feeling the pangs of hunger gnawing at him, he abandoned the papers on his desk and proceeded to the kitchen, where he prepared a sandwich with a grilled chicken breast, bacon, cheddar cheese, and lettuce on French bread; consuming it before it could touch the plate he had set out for it. Draining the glass of milk he had poured with his dinner, Mr. Jameson walked back to his desk where he tidied up the stack of pages and stapled them. Counting twenty-seven pages, he was extremely pleased with the novella that had been in-the-works for nearly a week and a half.
"Time to edit," he muttered to himself, the short celebration over.
Leaning back, he turned the lamp on his desk to illuminate the papers sufficiently, and, pencil in hand, he began to read while crossing words out and making various marks.
~
Finishing the thirteenth page, he looked once again at his clock to see that it was approaching midnight rapidly.
Good, he thought, I’ll be able to finish it tonight. He knew that he would be up past one or two, but didn’t let that bother him; he had been up later in the night before, after all.
As the hours flew past, Mr. Jameson could feel the weariness overcoming him. He started to doze off, and after a few minutes he fell asleep completely: this time, with a dreamless sleep.
Moments later, droplets began to tap upon the glass plane of the window as if they desired entrance into the smoky room. The pairs of droplets soon multiplied into scores. The noise resounded through the room as the beads simultaneously hit the glass. The loud clap of thunder was followed by a white dagger piercing the sky.
Turning his attention back to the typewriter, he took out the piece of paper and hastily read it over before crumpling it up into a ball and lobbing it into the already half-full waste basket on the side of his desk from the other various pages he had thrown away today, having made little-to-no process since the night before.
He sighed to himself, taking the pencil from its resting place on his ear and tossing it onto the desk before him, watching it bounce back and forth across the dusty surface before landing horizontally and rolling a short distance. Taking the pipe out of his mouth and placing it on its holder, he stood up from his chair, making his way to the stereo system at the far end of the room to turn on the radio to his favorite music station (classical, of course), and sat down in his preferred chair near the fireplace which spread its warmth throughout the cold room.
The writer picked up a newspaper on the table adjacent to his chair and began to read, calming himself and letting the thoughts about the progress he had made today (or lack thereof) be driven from his mind.
~
After about fifteen minutes of reading and relaxing, Evan came to feel he was ready to begin writing again. The recliner rocked back and forth as he stood up, making his way to his desk again. The soft squeak of his chair was accompanied by the click of his typewriter being reloaded. Nearly an hour later Mr. Jameson found he had written seven full sheets of paper, a commendable feat given his previous failure the night before.
Feeling the pangs of hunger gnawing at him, he abandoned the papers on his desk and proceeded to the kitchen, where he prepared a sandwich with a grilled chicken breast, bacon, cheddar cheese, and lettuce on French bread; consuming it before it could touch the plate he had set out for it. Draining the glass of milk he had poured with his dinner, Mr. Jameson walked back to his desk where he tidied up the stack of pages and stapled them. Counting twenty-seven pages, he was extremely pleased with the novella that had been in-the-works for nearly a week and a half.
"Time to edit," he muttered to himself, the short celebration over.
Leaning back, he turned the lamp on his desk to illuminate the papers sufficiently, and, pencil in hand, he began to read while crossing words out and making various marks.
~
Finishing the thirteenth page, he looked once again at his clock to see that it was approaching midnight rapidly.
Good, he thought, I’ll be able to finish it tonight. He knew that he would be up past one or two, but didn’t let that bother him; he had been up later in the night before, after all.
As the hours flew past, Mr. Jameson could feel the weariness overcoming him. He started to doze off, and after a few minutes he fell asleep completely: this time, with a dreamless sleep.
Rufus Crosier Character Profile
Name: Rufus Crosier
Nickname: Rue
Date and place of birth: 1974, Portland
Character Role: Failed Private Investigator
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Age: 38
Race: German-Irish
Eye Color/glasses/contacts/etc: Bley, no glasses
Hair Color/Style: Dark brown with premature graying, bearded
Build (Height/Weight): 5 foot 10 inches, 200 pounds
Physical Attributes (facial features, skin tone/complexion, etc): Dark skin
Identifying marks (tattoos, scars, moles, etc): Several scars on hands
MANNERISMS & DIALOGUE SPECIFICS (hand gestures, ticks, etc): Gestures with palms downward, hands in pockets, mumbles, jumps from topic to topic without explaining. Knows all languages except Swedish
PERSONALITY TRAITS: Nice guy but is too outgoing, is crazy
BACKGROUND: Has tried his hand at many trades and has a lot of hobbies
INTERNAL CONFLICT: Fails at everything but is a genius
EXTERNAL CONFLICT: Unprepossessing
OCCUPATION/ EDUCATION: Private Investigator, Dropped out of highschool
MISCELLANEOUS NOTES: Smokes a pipe
He is terrible at noticing physical clues, likes puzzles and riddles and chess, and is awesome at seeing relationships between apparently unrelated things.
And has significant knowledge gaps.
Rufus Crosier, private detective. Five foot two, bearded, wears various clothes and cares little about them. Widower, age 31, a jack of all trades and a master of none. Has in time been a mediocre artist, a mediocre politician, and many other things, finally a mediocre and unsuccessful private investigator. His main flaw in detective work is his failure to notice physical clues. The mark of a heel in the mud, the smudge of ash on a windowsill or a faint and peculiar smell do not stand out for him as they did to the legendary Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Crosier is more like Dr. Watson. Tendency to be blunt and sometimes overly honest.
Nickname: Rue
Date and place of birth: 1974, Portland
Character Role: Failed Private Investigator
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Age: 38
Race: German-Irish
Eye Color/glasses/contacts/etc: Bley, no glasses
Hair Color/Style: Dark brown with premature graying, bearded
Build (Height/Weight): 5 foot 10 inches, 200 pounds
Physical Attributes (facial features, skin tone/complexion, etc): Dark skin
Identifying marks (tattoos, scars, moles, etc): Several scars on hands
MANNERISMS & DIALOGUE SPECIFICS (hand gestures, ticks, etc): Gestures with palms downward, hands in pockets, mumbles, jumps from topic to topic without explaining. Knows all languages except Swedish
PERSONALITY TRAITS: Nice guy but is too outgoing, is crazy
BACKGROUND: Has tried his hand at many trades and has a lot of hobbies
INTERNAL CONFLICT: Fails at everything but is a genius
EXTERNAL CONFLICT: Unprepossessing
OCCUPATION/ EDUCATION: Private Investigator, Dropped out of highschool
MISCELLANEOUS NOTES: Smokes a pipe
He is terrible at noticing physical clues, likes puzzles and riddles and chess, and is awesome at seeing relationships between apparently unrelated things.
And has significant knowledge gaps.
Rufus Crosier, private detective. Five foot two, bearded, wears various clothes and cares little about them. Widower, age 31, a jack of all trades and a master of none. Has in time been a mediocre artist, a mediocre politician, and many other things, finally a mediocre and unsuccessful private investigator. His main flaw in detective work is his failure to notice physical clues. The mark of a heel in the mud, the smudge of ash on a windowsill or a faint and peculiar smell do not stand out for him as they did to the legendary Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Crosier is more like Dr. Watson. Tendency to be blunt and sometimes overly honest.
Calvin Duster Character Profile
Name: Calvin Duster
Nickname: Dusty
Date and place of birth: May 5, 1981; Los Angeles.
Character Role: Main Detective/Lead Role
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Age: 31
Race: Caucasian
Eye Color/glasses/contacts/etc: Brown; no glasses/contacts
Hair Color/Style: light brown/short, spikey/messy…fairly clean-shaven, sometimes with slight goatee
Build (Height/Weight): 6’2”/175lbs
Physical Attributes (facial features, skin tone/complexion, etc): slightly big nose, tanned skin, dimples.
Identifying marks (tattoos, scars, moles, etc): “Marine Corps” text tattooed on his left breast; scar over his right eye (recently acquired shortly before “Bob Did It”). Small mole on left cheek.
MANNERISMS & DIALOGUE SPECIFICS (hand gestures, ticks, etc): Military mannerisms – stands straight, is neat, cares about details. Quick in his actions/talking; efficient.
PERSONALITY TRAITS: Very concerned about detail – about cases, in his dress (left over from Marine Corps). Seems to act as a father-figure for some; left over because he loves being a dad. His wife and son are the most important things in his life, then his work. He is very proud of the Marine Corps, very patriotic. Has highly organized thinking, attention to detail, notices stuff well. Logical thinker. Detail oriented.
BACKGROUND: Proposed during his first year of service – 23 years old. Married at age 26; had Liam at age 27. Likes to write fiction, considered being a journalist. Very good grades, great thinker, has a good eye for homicide-things – was good from the start and transferred quickly into homicide. Has become a “legend” of sorts in the police department.
INTERNAL CONFLICT:
EXTERNAL CONFLICT:
OCCUPATION/ EDUCATION: 4 years of college, 4 years Marine Corps; became a cop afterward.
MISCELLANEOUS NOTES: (Anything that doesn’t fit anywhere else can be placed here.) Hates reporters that always pester him, but are understanding to the more “mature” one as he likes to write himself and considered a career in journalism before joining the Corps. High school sweethearts with his wife. Likes basketball.
Name: Liam Duster
Nickname: “Little Liam”
Date and place of birth: 2008
Character Role: Calvin Duster’s baby
Age: 4
Character traits: Adorable little kid : D
Nickname: Dusty
Date and place of birth: May 5, 1981; Los Angeles.
Character Role: Main Detective/Lead Role
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Age: 31
Race: Caucasian
Eye Color/glasses/contacts/etc: Brown; no glasses/contacts
Hair Color/Style: light brown/short, spikey/messy…fairly clean-shaven, sometimes with slight goatee
Build (Height/Weight): 6’2”/175lbs
Physical Attributes (facial features, skin tone/complexion, etc): slightly big nose, tanned skin, dimples.
Identifying marks (tattoos, scars, moles, etc): “Marine Corps” text tattooed on his left breast; scar over his right eye (recently acquired shortly before “Bob Did It”). Small mole on left cheek.
MANNERISMS & DIALOGUE SPECIFICS (hand gestures, ticks, etc): Military mannerisms – stands straight, is neat, cares about details. Quick in his actions/talking; efficient.
PERSONALITY TRAITS: Very concerned about detail – about cases, in his dress (left over from Marine Corps). Seems to act as a father-figure for some; left over because he loves being a dad. His wife and son are the most important things in his life, then his work. He is very proud of the Marine Corps, very patriotic. Has highly organized thinking, attention to detail, notices stuff well. Logical thinker. Detail oriented.
BACKGROUND: Proposed during his first year of service – 23 years old. Married at age 26; had Liam at age 27. Likes to write fiction, considered being a journalist. Very good grades, great thinker, has a good eye for homicide-things – was good from the start and transferred quickly into homicide. Has become a “legend” of sorts in the police department.
INTERNAL CONFLICT:
EXTERNAL CONFLICT:
OCCUPATION/ EDUCATION: 4 years of college, 4 years Marine Corps; became a cop afterward.
MISCELLANEOUS NOTES: (Anything that doesn’t fit anywhere else can be placed here.) Hates reporters that always pester him, but are understanding to the more “mature” one as he likes to write himself and considered a career in journalism before joining the Corps. High school sweethearts with his wife. Likes basketball.
Name: Liam Duster
Nickname: “Little Liam”
Date and place of birth: 2008
Character Role: Calvin Duster’s baby
Age: 4
Character traits: Adorable little kid : D
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