I wrote this post about a story where I had a first chapter written.
This is hoped to be a chapter a month (or less) write with a final word count for a first draft somewhere between 60-80 thousand words.
At that point it'll be time to start working on structure and plot holes etc.
Right now, it's about getting it written.
Chapters are likely to be longer, 2-3k words and unless they are hitting 4-5k I'm unlikely to split them up.
If you commented on that first chapter and indicated you liked it, I've tagged you here. Let me know if you want that changed going forward. And if you want to be tagged in for future chapters, let me know.
Thanks
Stuart
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Chapter 4 - 1702 words
We were loading out the shop when I got called back to the chief’s office.
‘What’s that about?’ Asked Xavier. He closed the tailgate. ‘What should I do?’
‘Get us coffee and make sure you’ve been to the rest room. And I have no idea what I’m wanted for. Probably being offered compulsory over-time. You saw how quiet the room was when it was mentioned.’
The chief’s blind’s were drawn, and I couldn’t remember them being so earlier. I knocked the door.
‘Come in.’
The chief and two suits I didn’t recognise, but didn’t like the look of.
‘Wilson, these are Watts and Morris from I.A. They’ve got you today.’
I looked at them. Internal Affairs are to a regular cop what highway patrol is to a commuter. Part of you knows they’re needed, but even seeing them makes the back of your neck tingle.
‘What about Xavier?’ I asked.
‘Jackson will be riding with him today. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Should I call my union rep?’
‘You got something you’d need a rep to cover for you?’ One of the I.A. guys said.
I didn’t look at them, just kept my eyes on the chief. He said, ‘No, they’re looking for some info on the Ammon Dalbar guys you saw a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Internal Affairs guys are on organised crime detail now?’
‘We are when there’s suspicion he’s got new guys trying to get into the academy. We know you keep as good tabs on his crew in the city, and we’re tapping you for help. It should just be for the day, but if needed we might grab you for more time. I’m Watts. The suspicious one is Morris.’
‘So, we’re looking to keep Dalbar infiltrating the department? I asked. ‘You’re not trying to make me rat out my colleagues. Because no one I work with would give Dalbar the time of day.’
‘We’re not interested in some beat cop who smoothed out a speeding ticket, or took a little side hussle they haven’t declared. But we do want to prevent straight up hoods joining the ranks to do the bid of their boss.’
The conflict inside me was real. Word gets round when you spend time cosy with Internal Affairs, and it carries a taint which takes time to wear off. Especially with the guys who do have a guilty secret, doubly so if they know you know what it is.
‘I don’t mind giving you a day and looking at some pics,’ I looked up at the chief, ‘but I’m not keen on being seconded over for anything longer.’
‘Give them the day, Wilson.’ The Chief said, ‘We’ll talk about anything else when the time arises.’
‘I’ll go tell Xavier I’m not with him.’
‘Jackson will already have him. They should already be heading out.’ A smile crept across his face. ‘Jackson’s probably complaining about drinking the sweet black coffee you’ll have had Xavier get for you.’
There are few real secrets in this job, and I made no effort to hide my coffee preferences. I hate bitter coffee. I like it strong, black and with plenty sugar. Around the station it’s pretty much called a Wilson. I had to smile at the thought of Jackson pulling a face at all the sugar.
‘What room are we looking at these pictures in?’ I asked.
‘Not here. Over at North Figueroa,’ Morris said. ‘And you can put your civvies on.’
On a clear run it was a twenty-minute drive to North Figueroa, but there was construction and a fender bender on the freeway and took us over an hour. Wyatt drove, Morris read a newspaper, and I sat in the back watching the traffic. I took it as a sign that I really wasn’t under suspicion of anything.
Morris flicked the paper and said, ‘What are you guys on the ground thinking about these body parts with the bitemarks. You think there’s really a cannibal in the city?’
‘Well above my paygrade,’ I said. ‘I’m leaving that to the detectives and profilers. But this heat is making folks crazier than normal, so if one of them went loco and took a bite out of their neighbor before offing them, well.’ I shrugged. There’s plenty madness to see in a city, and Los Angeles is a dream catcher for crazies, draws them in from all over the country, all over the world. ‘You don’t reckon it’s a cop, do you?’
Morris shook his head.
Wyatt looked at me via the rear-view mirror. He said, ‘We don’t assume that all crime is being done by cops, or all cops are criming. I kinda thought someone with your years of experience would have a more nuanced understanding of I.A.’
I shrugged and said, ‘Traffic’s moving.’
The rest of the drive was in silence.
201 North Figueroa is a pair of buildings built in nineteen-eight-four and grandly called a plaza. Apart from Internal Affairs they also housed a bunch of other government departments and various Lawyers, Notaries Public, Business Management Consultants, Architects, and a bunch of suites ‘to let’ by various agents around the city. Watts and Morris had a spot in the underground parking, and we headed for the elevator.
After the silence in the car there was room to ask some questions. Thing was, they weren’t asking any, and neither was I. Probably just as well.
We only had the elevator to ourselves up to the first floor. The carriage filled, and emptied as we rode up the building. I didn’t recognise anyone who got in or out. Still, I was glad to be out of uniform. It’s harder to be recognised as a cop when you’re in chinos and a polo-shirt, you look more like a low rent architect. Not being seen going into Internal Affairs offices is high on the list of any ordinary cop.
The office was similar to ours. An open bullpen with groups of desks for folks to work in small teams, some cubicles where more compartmentalized tasks could be done, and a bunch of offices round the outside for meetings and senior leaders.
We signed in and I was given a visitors pass. Signing in taught me Wyatt’s first name was Rob, and Morris’ was Dan.
‘Wilson Wilson,’ Dan said while handing over the visitor’s pass. ‘I thought Daniel Morris was pretty WASPy. The only thing you're missing is a number at the end, like Wilson Wilson the Third.’
‘Yeh, well, my jacket’ll have told you there’s nothing else, no suffix, no prefix, no middle names, just Wilson Wilson.’
Rob said, ‘So, should we call you by your first name or surname?’
‘Either’s fine.’ I looked at my watch. ‘We going to get started? We’re over an hour in already, and I don’t have any over-time authorised.’
Rob and Dan looked at each other, the silent communication of partners well used to each other. I was being an ass, but I wasn’t relaxing into being with Internal Affairs on the basis of a crappy joke about my name, which they could have done at any point since we met.
Dan said, ‘You need the can before we start, or want a drink?’
I held up the hand my three-quarter’s full water bottle was in and shook it. ‘Fine for fluids in, fine for fluids out. Ready to look at pictures.’
‘Right, let’s go.
The led me round the outside of the space, in a corridor made of offices on one side and cubicle walls on the other. I appreciated the set up. There was no way I could accidentally see an open file or screen, no way I could glean the name of someone under investigation.
Rob walked ahead of me, Dan behind. More security and, disconcerting as it was, I could appreciate the precautions they were taking.
One thing which struck me was the quietness of the room. Walk someone through our office and there’d be folks calling at you to say high or asking for updates, or to swap shifts. Chances are someone would stop you to try and press a question or want to know when paperwork for some case or another would be completed. And phones rang, people talked, it was a busy, noisy office.
This was more like the insurance office I’d interned at one summer. It wasn’t quite a library, but clearly folks were getting on with their own work and didn’t need to be chasing other input. I’d been in noisier libraries.
We went into an internal office. The blinds on the glass which faced the main room were drawn, so the only light came from twin lines of fluorescent tubes. The other walls were a pale blue textured paper and it not being beige was a surprise. A desk ran the length of the back wall and there were three terminals with keyboard and mouse; the cables for the keyboard and mouse led into the monitor. The cable from the monitor ran into a hole on the desk and from there to I’m not sure where, because there was no computer box visible.
One of the monitors was on, the L.A.P.D crest large and bright on the screen, Internal Affairs below it in bright yellow capitals with a blue edging. At the bottom of the screen a cursor blinked in a password box.
The room also contained four low armchairs and a circular coffee table which aped mid-century Scandinavian, but was likely to chip and reveal the chipboard beneath if a chair knocked too roughly. There was coffee and biscuits on the table, and some legal pads and pens.
Rob pointed at the armchairs. ‘Take a seat, we’ll run through things.’
‘Won’t the pictures be on the screen?’ I asked.
‘Yeh, sure,’ Rob said, ‘but we’re going to start with lists of names of who you already know. Then, while you’re looking though pictures Dan’ll run the names, and we’ll cross-pollinate who you know and who we know.’
It felt laborious, but I didn’t say anything. I was in an airconditioned room away from prying eyes, and getting paid to not deal with L.A. resident’s acting out from being all hot and bothered. I wasn’t relaxed, but I was happy to let them do things the long way round if they wanted.
Chapter End
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words by stuartcturnbull pic by igorelick on Pixabay