sunflowers
optimist
@Extinct
Flowers of Asphodel:
A one on one thread by Extinct and ArcticJunky.
In the case of civil criminal monotony, it was yet another cumbersome and time-consuming bore left to thought-inducing discussion, and that left a lot alone to be desired. It was on a particularly dreary afternoon when an event of what seemed to be a brutal and baffling homicide was called to attention, and the rain that fell from heavy, dense and cumbersome clouds added to the somewhat dim feeling of atmosphere that was clouding the already musty air of the room in which the bureau of federal crime investigation was meeting. Men fiddled uncomfortable with the noose-like feeling of tweed suit collars and ties around their throats, and ran fingers along the edges of crime doctrine. Apparently, the body of the man had been discovered in the room of a pristine and local inn-- facedown, with a pool of crimson blossoming through the Egyptian cotton sheets like a twisted blossom clawing its way from the ground. By the looks of his ashen skin and his glazed eyes, he had been dead for at least twelve hours, and it was housekeeping that had found him. There were only a few subtle details that had been amiss. The man's name was Lawrence Doyle, and he was a journalist for the local British Tribune. He hardly seemed suspect for an incident of what seemed to be fatal stabbing; (there had been a puncture in his left side that seemed to have contacted directly with his heart,) and nothing from the room had been taken. The only small details were the slight dusting of ashes across the artisan carpet, and a few witnesses describing a tall man exiting the building and climbing into a cab, though, such details were sadly enough rather diminishing.
Alistair Caswell, a somewhat sullen and mystique-bestowed man of thirty sat somewhat meditatively in his chair as he listened amiably to the chief investigator of sorts drone about the killing that had stricken Halliday's Inn earlier that week. All of the information and theories were, in his mind, a mere bore, though, the manner in which he sat, with his lips parted and his eyebrows furrowed as if in thought signified that the slightest bit of interest had began to shuttle about in his mind like skittering, frantic centipedes.
If one were to spool apart the coils of his brain in metaphor like a child, they would find the neurological focal points and thought to be somewhat unnerving, and truth could be settled that Caswell was a somewhat different man. He did all of his work, yes, and he did it correctly-- however, in a certain extent, the way he did things was a bit too pristine-- a bit too orderly. Now, for instance, he sat with his standard issue notepad in front of him with a pencil placed in a careful manner over the yellowed pages, and his elbows on the table as his dark eyes remained fixated at some distant focal point while words slithered into his brain. His slender fingers were folded; pressed subtly over his lips like a teepee as he pursed them ever so slightly. In notion, he was sifting through the investigator's theories- and many of them were wrong, which was in fact sliding right over the heads of the bureau to his astonishment. The killer would have had to indicate some sort of evidence in the room other than the murder on the bed. Had no one sought to examine the ashes of the cigar that were found to determine its type? Surely, that could give leeway to the class and wealth of the man who had been smoking it-- however, Caswell was always one for immaculate detail.
"If I may," he finally begins as the chief investigator opens his mouth to begin yet another long and seemingly pointless rambling about the killing, "the body hasn't been produced for autopsy, has it?" Frankly, a lot could be determined about a murderer from the corpse he produced. Position of the knife could indicate handedness- and knowing the blade of the utensil could definitely lead an investigator to the killer, however, Caswell was more intend on the capture of the killer than a court trial. It was, in a way, game hunting to him-- to a cannibal, anyways. His dark eyes almost seemed to reflect the dim fluorescent lighting in the room as he dropped his hands and gestured towards the photos posted on a board of the scene of the crime. The instructor was now looking through his records.
"Well, yes," the man begins, "but... The evidence has already been jotted down and taken care of."
"I'd like to request further examination." Alistair's voice was somewhat soft upon his request, though, it was unclear of his exact thoughts at the moment. "Clearly, there had to be something that was left undiscovered."
Flowers of Asphodel:
A one on one thread by Extinct and ArcticJunky.
In the case of civil criminal monotony, it was yet another cumbersome and time-consuming bore left to thought-inducing discussion, and that left a lot alone to be desired. It was on a particularly dreary afternoon when an event of what seemed to be a brutal and baffling homicide was called to attention, and the rain that fell from heavy, dense and cumbersome clouds added to the somewhat dim feeling of atmosphere that was clouding the already musty air of the room in which the bureau of federal crime investigation was meeting. Men fiddled uncomfortable with the noose-like feeling of tweed suit collars and ties around their throats, and ran fingers along the edges of crime doctrine. Apparently, the body of the man had been discovered in the room of a pristine and local inn-- facedown, with a pool of crimson blossoming through the Egyptian cotton sheets like a twisted blossom clawing its way from the ground. By the looks of his ashen skin and his glazed eyes, he had been dead for at least twelve hours, and it was housekeeping that had found him. There were only a few subtle details that had been amiss. The man's name was Lawrence Doyle, and he was a journalist for the local British Tribune. He hardly seemed suspect for an incident of what seemed to be fatal stabbing; (there had been a puncture in his left side that seemed to have contacted directly with his heart,) and nothing from the room had been taken. The only small details were the slight dusting of ashes across the artisan carpet, and a few witnesses describing a tall man exiting the building and climbing into a cab, though, such details were sadly enough rather diminishing.
Alistair Caswell, a somewhat sullen and mystique-bestowed man of thirty sat somewhat meditatively in his chair as he listened amiably to the chief investigator of sorts drone about the killing that had stricken Halliday's Inn earlier that week. All of the information and theories were, in his mind, a mere bore, though, the manner in which he sat, with his lips parted and his eyebrows furrowed as if in thought signified that the slightest bit of interest had began to shuttle about in his mind like skittering, frantic centipedes.
If one were to spool apart the coils of his brain in metaphor like a child, they would find the neurological focal points and thought to be somewhat unnerving, and truth could be settled that Caswell was a somewhat different man. He did all of his work, yes, and he did it correctly-- however, in a certain extent, the way he did things was a bit too pristine-- a bit too orderly. Now, for instance, he sat with his standard issue notepad in front of him with a pencil placed in a careful manner over the yellowed pages, and his elbows on the table as his dark eyes remained fixated at some distant focal point while words slithered into his brain. His slender fingers were folded; pressed subtly over his lips like a teepee as he pursed them ever so slightly. In notion, he was sifting through the investigator's theories- and many of them were wrong, which was in fact sliding right over the heads of the bureau to his astonishment. The killer would have had to indicate some sort of evidence in the room other than the murder on the bed. Had no one sought to examine the ashes of the cigar that were found to determine its type? Surely, that could give leeway to the class and wealth of the man who had been smoking it-- however, Caswell was always one for immaculate detail.
"If I may," he finally begins as the chief investigator opens his mouth to begin yet another long and seemingly pointless rambling about the killing, "the body hasn't been produced for autopsy, has it?" Frankly, a lot could be determined about a murderer from the corpse he produced. Position of the knife could indicate handedness- and knowing the blade of the utensil could definitely lead an investigator to the killer, however, Caswell was more intend on the capture of the killer than a court trial. It was, in a way, game hunting to him-- to a cannibal, anyways. His dark eyes almost seemed to reflect the dim fluorescent lighting in the room as he dropped his hands and gestured towards the photos posted on a board of the scene of the crime. The instructor was now looking through his records.
"Well, yes," the man begins, "but... The evidence has already been jotted down and taken care of."
"I'd like to request further examination." Alistair's voice was somewhat soft upon his request, though, it was unclear of his exact thoughts at the moment. "Clearly, there had to be something that was left undiscovered."
