Posts Tagged ‘Police’


Mob Mentality

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Samantha watched the rioters at a distance, curiosity piqued. An hour before, they’d been a united front, marching to the sound of protested chants. The pepper spray turned them into a mindless mass. The desire for destruction and an outlet for their frustration the only apparent bonds.

The police closed in, weapons raised, their eagerness to engage obvious even through their riot gear. The demonstrators scattered like water from a rock, splashing in all directions, following the path of least resistance.

Samantha was surprised to realize she’d never actually been an observer, but had always been part of the mob.


A Night On An Empty Skywalk

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The skywalk at the Santa Cruz railway station which connects SV Road in the west to the highway in the east was empty that night. He took his time to walk eastward, each slow step was counted so as to not reach shelter too quickly. Sleep was not cheap.

On the eastern end, another man was on the run from the police with a gun in his hand, having outdone the police. The emptiness of the skywalk seemed like the best possible thing. He could make his escape. Only then he saw a well-dressed man walking lethargically on the bridge.

From Guest Contributor Debarun Sarkar



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Tears streamed from Charlotte’s blue eyes. Her protective doberman ‘Sid’ had died. Even her job as a vet did not help. The cancer had spread. Two weeks after Sid’s sad demise Charlotte tied her brown locks into a bun and returned to saving other pets’ lives. She accepted only token payments to cover her lonely expenses.

One moonlit evening whilst withdrawing takeaway cash a scuffle ensued. Police arrested a crook from the off license nearby. As he was dragged away the thief shouted back,

‘Lady, you’re lucky you had a big dog watching you, I was gonna rob you first!’

From Guest Contributor Kerry Valkyrie Baldock Kelly



by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Arriving home, Sally is greeted by police at the main door.

“Thieves have systematically worked over every condo in this block. Apartments have been robbed, trashed or vandalized, your apartment badly. We have a grief counselor on hand for you.”

The police accompanying Sally to inspect the crime scene hold open the door for her revealing a distressing sight of man-made mayhem.

“I’m sorry you have to see this. Has anything immediately obvious been stolen?”

Sally slowly takes in the shocking scene of devastation before saying, “No. This is how I left it this morning. I was in a rush.”

From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

Barry is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. The acting experience has inspired a latent desire to write. Barry is enjoying the challenge of writing in 100 words.


The Final Body

by thegooddoctor in Uncategorized

Once the police left with the final body, the reporters scattered their separate ways, much like vultures after a dinner party. I headed to my favorite diner, hoping some scalding coffee and room temperature pie would scrub away my lingering sense of insignificance.

Denizens of a past-its-prime diner also tend to be past-their-prime, but on this night, the man staring at me from across the booth reminded me of an aging but still dangerous predator, albeit one missing his front teeth.

Staring back at him, I had no way of knowing I was about to be embraced by eternal irrelevance.


Mona Lisa

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The murder happened right in front of me, yet not one of the detectives ever bothered to question me about it. They had to know I was a witness. I’ve witnessed so many things during my lifetime that it gets rather tiresome not to be able to share.

I suppose I should give you some background on the whole affair. You’ve probably heard about it by now. A murder in the world’s most famous museum tends to make headlines. Jean was an overnight security guard in the Salle des États who was found dead on the morning of October 22, 2012. He did not die of natural causes.

I was privy to much of the early investigation. The body had no outward sign of physical trauma, but based on the extreme contortion of Jean’s corpse, the Paris police suspected a homicide. More than one of the attending magistrates remarked they had never seen such a horrified expression and everyone agreed that Jean must have died in tremendous pain. I could have confirmed their suspicions, and told them things about Jean that no one else has ever known. I have a gift for drawing secrets out of a person.

After questioning Jean’s wife, they learned about his marital troubles, about his mounting debt, about his failure as a student and lack of career prospects. They probably read a few of his poems and combed through his journals and emails. They would have seen my name written down, but still, no one thought to ask about my involvement. They were focused on the wife, even though she didn’t care enough anymore to commit murder.

Jean’s death, because of the location and the mysterious circumstances, made national news. As the investigation dragged on and no suspects panned out–even the cause of death was still a mystery–the national police fell under heavy criticism. Dismissal wasn’t an option, but several investigators were moved to lesser departments and it would be years before anyone associated with the affair was promoted.

The museum directors at first pushed for a speedy resolution. They wanted the crime scene opened back up to the public immediately and were pushing for suicide or heart failure as the cause of death. But they soon realized that the sensationalism of the press coverage was driving attendance to record levels. I felt trapped inside a Dan Brown novel.

Time passed, as it always does. By this point, most people have forgotten about Jean. His wife has remarried and his mother has entered senility. He never had any children, and, more tragically, his poetry was never published. You never know which creative works will be cherished by future generations.

I still remember. What I recall most fondly about Jean was the way he looked at me. He’d stare for hours all by himself, as if I were the most beautiful woman in the world. He’d ramble and share his ideas and recite drafts he’d written, but mostly he just stared. It was as if he knew that sometimes, even when you’re surrounded by people all day, it’s still very easy to feel alone.

In the end, my desire to have Jean all to myself overcame my modesty. His life may have belonged to others, but his death was all mine. It wasn’t enough to overcome my loneliness, but there are always small comforts to be found in other people’s secrets.

This longer piece was written for the Flash Fiction Challenge at Terrible Minds.


Natural Enemies

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Richard Gunn was the head of the largest crime syndicate in the four corners area. He commanded a cadre of drug dealers, bookies, gun smugglers, and union thugs that was able to operate openly because he also owned a third of the police force and elected officials.

Richard was famous for his temper. He once scrambled the brains of the cook at his favorite restaurant because his eggs had been undercooked. He was surrounded by yes men and sycophants.

The only people brave enough to question his authority were Selena and Stan. This naturally made them enemies.

Part Four


The Black Dots, Part Two

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The pharmaceuticals factory was something of a dinosaur, antiquated and larger-than-life at the same time. It loomed so ominously over the lake district that only the most desperate dared to visit. If there was a serial killer operating in its shadow, some of the more authoritarian city elders might have deemed it good for social welfare.

My sinking ship of a career cried out for me to catch the black dot killer, so I conducted the investigation alone.

Turns out I was right about the pharmaceuticals factory but wrong about the killer. The reality was even worse than I’d imagined.


The Black Dots, Part One

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

Every victim of the past month had been found with the same black dot tattooed to his or her forehead. We reported it to all the usual departments, thinking we must have a serial killer or cult on our hands. But each of the deaths appeared random, with a variety of causes and nothing linking them together.

The captain was mad at me so I was assigned the desk, going through all the case files. I was the one who discovered the connection, that all the victims had visited a certain pharmaceuticals factory on the east side before their deaths.


Policing The City

by thegooddoctor in 100 Words

The victims all offered the same sparse testimony. They were each accosted in a dark alley without warning. The last thing they remembered was a man wearing a black coat and fedora.

The police wanted to keep the stories from making it into the press, so as not to tip off the perpetrator. They made sure to silence all the witnesses.

Of course, a reporter got onto the news and he had to be eliminated as well. When it eventually leaked to the paper, it became necessary to kill everyone.

As you can see, policing the city is hard work.