Novel Experimentation

This week’s post is going to be an experiment of sorts. I have been working, slowly, on writing a story of my own that pulls from my own literary preferences and personal knowledge base. This story, as I currently envision it, would be a sort of John Sanford and Vince Flynn meets Peter Nealen tale that takes place in Central Minnesota in the not-so-distant future. I drew a lot of inspiration from some of the novels that I have read in the past, as well as some ideas that occurred to me while I was doing things like showering, cardio, or showering after cardio.

I have written five chapters so far, each roughly 1500-2000 words a piece. What I intend to do is post 1-2 chapters at a time during the weeks when the writing load for my education gets a bit heavier. I also sincerely ask for your inputs. Every writer has a difficult time editing their own work, so I encourage you to point out plot holes, grammatical errors, etc., and I encourage the reader to ask questions of the story. I also do not have a title, so if you think you have a good title for the story, feel free to blurt it out as well.

Without further ado, I give you Chapters 1 and 2 (WARNING: Language can be just a bit strong at times!):

CHAPTER ONE

Amanda Jorgenson was dead. Sheriff Erickson was sure of it. Even without a body, he knew she was dead. Amanda had been reported as a missing person earlier that Monday morning after she failed to show up for work, and now the Sheriff’s department was combing through her house just outside of town. Originally, Sheriff Erickson had hoped Amanda had simply decided that she had had enough of these brutal Minnesota Winters and went on a short notice vacation. Sitting in her kitchen drinking coffee and staring at the shattered, bloody mirror, however, he knew there was not much hope for her.

The deputies were busy combing the small two bedroom house for clues while the lab technicians busied themselves identifying and aging the blood samples from the broken mirror. Erickson had been in law enforcement long enough to know how the mirror had been shattered. As the head lab technician, a short, stocky man named Thompson approached him, Erickson held up his hand.

“Let me guess, the impact in the hall mirror was probably caused by someone smashing someone else’s head through it, probably last night or real early this morning.” Erickson was staring at Amanda’s table, slowly spinning the white mug of slowly cooling coffee in a lazy, absentminded circle. Furrowing his brow, the lab technician cocked his head to the side before responding.

“You got it with the impact, boss, but we won’t know the time the samples were deposited on the glass until we get it back to the lab and run a few tests, but from our initial analyses here on scene, I would have to say you are correct.”

Erickson stopped spinning the mug. He was leaving a water ring on a dead woman’s table. Looking up, he matched Thompson’s gaze. Two men who had been doing this for a long time. Two men who didn’t need the lab results to tell them that Amanda Jorgenson was dead. He sighed and asked “Anything else, Tommy?”

“A few hair and fiber samples, nothing that really sticks out at this time. We’ll run it all when we get back in the lab.” Thompson gazed back at his weathered friend in front of him. Years of chasing criminals through the harsh winters of central Minnesota had not been kind to Erickson. “We’re getting ready to head back right now. You need anything else from us, Gerry?”

Erickson thought for a moment before responding. Thompson’s forensics team had been there for a few hours already, and had combed through the small house as thoroughly as could be expected. “No. Take your guys back to the lab. I’ll swing by when I get back to the office. Thanks Tommy.”

Thompson smiled weakly at Sheriff Erickson, and quickly turned around and directed his technicians out the front door, through the sub-zero temperatures and back to their van. Erickson sat by himself for a moment, realizing he had subconsciously resumed spinning the coffee mug. Taking another deep, measured breath, he pushed himself away from the table and stood up.

As he replaced the chair, Erickson looked around the small house. A few deputies were concluding their search of the bedrooms, all shaking their heads as they removed their latex gloves. Nobody had found anything in the house, so Erickson started walking down the short hallway to the garage.

It was actually the garage that had given Erickson hope when he first arrived. He had received the call that Amanda Jorgenson had not come in to work while on the way home for lunch. Despite being able to send any of his dozen or so on duty deputies to the house, he decided he’d swing by himself. He had radioed in and headed over to her house to check it out.

Amanda Jorgenson had lived in a typical sized house for a single, early thirties cleaning lady. Two bedroom, two bath with an attached, double car garage. It was one of those prefabricated houses you sometimes see on the back of a flat-bed semi-truck. Sheriff Erickson had pulled in the driveway and braced himself before stepping out into the -10 degree wind-chill. Erickson had done his best to ignore the biting wind through his department issued brown parka, letting his mind wander to warm, sandy beaches. Tahiti, Maui, Key Largo, et cetera, et cetera. I desperately need some time away, he thought as he rang the doorbell. Hopefully that’s where Ms. Jorgenson has got off to. He rang the doorbell a second time, listening to its hollow buzz on the other side of the door.

Nothing. Erickson looked around, taking it all in, his keen, weathered eyes taking in every little detail. The blinds were closed, not askew as if someone had pulled them. There were no footprints in the snow in her yard. The driveway had been shoveled and scraped free of any hard-packed snow or ice, so there wasn’t much to see there. Erickson shivered as he took the two steps to the side door that lead into the garage. He tried the knob. Locked. Backing up a step, Erickson raised his right leg, and put his heavily booted foot into the door.

“FUCK!!!” He had snarled as he felt his 56 year old knee pop and crack with the door. I’m getting too old for this shit, he thought, smiling with gritted teeth at the cliché. Erickson bent his knees, making sure they both still worked. “Good enough,” he sighed into the frigid morning.

With the door now opened, he stepped into the slightly less cold garage. With the exception of some cleaning supplies, it was empty. No vehicle of any type. Erickson quickly searched his memory for what dispatch had said she drove. A grey, early 2000’s Dodge minivan. The only trace of the van was the brown, icy sludge that melts from the bottom of cars in every garage in Minnesota. Erickson started to feel a little more hopeful. While violent crimes had been on the rise across the country, his jurisdiction had, thankfully, been spared the worst of it so far. A few shootings here and there, mostly drug related, but only in ones and twos. Erickson started to relax while staring at Ms. Jorgenson’s lawn equipment. A snow blower, a weed whacker, a mower, gas for all of it. Typical things, nothing of note. As he turned around, his optimism dried up.

Erickson had been focusing his sweep of the garage on the far side of the garage, away from the entrance to the house. As he turned he took a better look at the sludge on the cement floor of the garage. Two heavy sets of boot prints, walking side by side, leading from the house to the center of the garage, where the sludge was concentrated, where the van had been parked. Between the boot prints, two drag marks. Uneven and undulating, like the two boot prints had been dragging someone between them. Someone whose legs had gone limp and who was only wearing one shoe.

Erickson froze, his eyes widened and his pupils dilated. His senses were heightened as he reached to his gun belt and quickly disengaged the retention strap and pulled out his pistol. He keyed his radio: “Dispatch, this is Sheriff Erickson, I need backup and forensics here, NOW.” His breathing heavy he barely heard the reply, as he slowly walked towards the door.

Erickson turned down the volume of his radio, and held his Glock 21 .45 caliber handgun just under the center of his narrowed field of vision. His hear racing, he reached out, and pulled the door open, quickly rushing inside. He moved through the house, quickly, yet smoothly, in a practiced manner that reminded him he had done this before, more times than he could count. Living room, clear. Kitchen, clear. Hallway and both bedrooms, clear. Bathrooms, clear.

He was only vaguely aware of the shattered mirror in the entryway until after he had finished his sweep. Certain that nobody else was in the room, Sheriff Erickson had sat down at the table, and waited for backup to arrive. He could see the mirror, and he saw that Amanda Jorgenson was dead.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Thomas “Tommy” Thompson and his lab technicians were nearly back to the Sheriff’s department offices in downtown Alexandria when the All Points Bulletin (APB) went out on the radio for Ms. Jorgenson’s old van. Early 2000’s grey Dodge Minivan, plate number 473 KZR, two or more suspects, probably male. Possible hostage with them, woman, early thirties, brown hair, 5’3”, 155 pounds. Tommy grimaced. It always felt so impersonal over the radio. Tommy had been at this a long time. At 65, he had been serving the same community for nearly 43 years.

First, he had been a sheriff’s deputy for 25 years. That job had cost him a marriage early on, but he didn’t regret one second of it. After a while, he decided to go back to school, earned his doctorate in criminal forensics, and had served the community for the last 18 years as the chief of the forensics laboratory in the Douglas County Sheriff’s office. He loved his job, loved serving his community that he had called home for his entire life.

This crime scene was not his first kidnapping. They were not common, but he had seen a few over the years. Usually they involved more blood, more destruction within the home. Drapes torn, glass broken, tables flipped. Something about this one made Tommy uneasy. With the exception of the hallway mirror, there was none of the usual destruction. The whole thing felt off. Too cold, too clean. It almost seemed professional. Tommy shuddered as he drove back into town, looking in the rear-view mirror at his staff.

Tommy’s team weren’t sheriff’s deputies, they were Crime Scene Investigators. None of them were allowed to openly carry a side arm, as they weren’t law enforcement. But Tommy had been doing this a long time, and had been fired upon more than once in the white panel van that said “Douglas County Forensics” on the side. He had petitioned the sheriff’s department, but Sheriff Erickson remained firm. This wasn’t Hollywood, and the forensics team would not be allowed to carry weapons, openly any way.

As a compromise, Sheriff Erickson had invested a small amount of his personal time instructing each member of the forensics team to shoot a handgun adequately, and he had spent a large amount of time instructing them on the laws regarding concealed carry. After days of instruction, Erickson had issued each of the six forensics team members a concealed carry license. That way, should they be fired upon again, they would at least be able to defend themselves.

The forensics van was mostly quiet, each of the five sitting in the mobile lab reflecting on the crime scene they had seen, and the investigation ahead. All had the same thought in their minds I hope she’s still okay, but they all knew the reality. As Tommy turned the van from the county highway back on the main road to Alexandria, the radio crackled to life. “Uh…Douglas Sheriff, this is Alexandria Police dispatch.”

“Go ahead APD,” Sheriff Erickson’s gruff, weary voice came through the radio. He must still be at the crime scene, Tommy thought as he changed lanes to get past an elderly couple tooling along in their Cadillac.

“We, uh, one of our patrolmen found Ms. Jorgenson.”

“Roger APD, what is her status?”

“Deceased, sir. Single gunshot wound to the back of the head. Our patrolman says some kids found her in a dumpster next to Wal-Mart.”

The forensics van got even quieter as they all digested the grisly news. Tommy could see one of his younger lab technicians start to slowly shake his head. He realized he had been holding his breath as Sheriff Erickson started to speak again.

“Copy APD, anything else you can tell us?”

“Only that her wallet was left with her ID. No cards, no cash. Looks like a robbery.”

It can’t be, Tommy thought, as Will, the youngest started voicing his opinion. “It can’t be, sir, we saw the house, nothing was taken besides the car.”

“Shush Will, I’m trying to hear,” Tommy snapped, a little more forcefully than was warranted, as he turned the police radio back up to hear Erickson’s response.

“Understood APD. Should we come to you for pick-up, or can you bring it to us?”

Will started shaking his head, “Why’s Erickson agreeing with them, it makes no sen-“

“Be quiet Will!” Tommy half-shouted, as he turned towards Will sitting in the co-pilot seat, “Erickson has been doing this since before you were born. He doesn’t need the approval of 25 year old know-it-alls.”

The forensics van became virtually silent. Tommy turned back to his driving pretending he couldn’t even see them. All of his staff were staring at him, mouths agape. None of them had heard him get anywhere near as worked up before. They all shared a look as if to ask each other; what’s wrong with him?

Tommy started slowing the van down as he approached the city limits of Alexandria. A rapidly growing community, the community had stretched the limits of its infrastructure, as it grew from roughly 12,000 people just ten years ago in 2009, to nearly 50,000. For those who had lived their entire lives in Alexandria and the surrounding areas, the growth felt like it had happened over night.

Crime was up, sure, but it was mostly contained to the quickly erected, lower income housing on the outskirts of town, next to the new industrial park. Most of that crime were petty things like theft or controlled substance busts. Occasionally there was a bigger, more serious crime, but even then, they were seldom violent.

The early afternoon sun was starting to reflect off of all the glass and snow of the downtown area, and Tommy was temporarily blinded as he prepared to turn left off of 3^rd avenue and onto Broadway towards the hospital. The sheriff’s office hadn’t gotten a facelift or renovation in 30 some odd years, so they had co-located the forensics lab with the morgue at the hospital. Nobody in Tommy’s team minded. Each of them had at least a bachelor’s degree in forensics, and had to deal with cadavers even before they joined with Tommy.

As Tommy turned, the glare from the sun stopped being quite as severe. While his eyes were adjusting, he saw something that started making his heart race: An early 2000’s model, Grey Dodge minivan was waiting at the light at the end of the block.

Before Tommy’s aging eyes could finish struggling to read the license plate, Will had reached over and snatched the radio transmitter from the console.

“Uh, Sheriff, we see Ms. Jorgenson’s van.”

“Identify yourself please, and explain how you’re sure.” Erickson’s voice came back over the radio, a mixture of annoyance, excitement, and concern blending together through the static.

“Give me that!” Tommy wrenched the microphone from Will’s startled hand. “Gerry, this is Tommy, we are at the intersection of 6^th and Broadway, we have an early 2000’s, Grey Dodge minivan, license plate 4-7-3, Kilo Victor Romeo. How copy?”

“Solid copy Tommy. Standby and wait for a patrol unit to show up.”

The light turned green, and the line of cars lurched ahead. Tommy could see an Alexandria Police Department SUV coming from the opposite direction.

“Good thing we’re only a few blocks from the cop shop,” Will remarked, “They got someone out here fast. Maybe we’ll see these guys get rolled up.”

Tommy smiled a bit, “Let’s hope so,” he responded as the Police SUV light up its light bar and siren. The van grew quiet again, but this time thick with excitement.

The van screeched to a halt as the Police SUV slide in front of it, cutting it off. The forensics team watched as the Patrolmen got out of their vehicle, patrol rifles out. At just over a block away, Tommy couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Will rolled down his window to hear.

“Step out of the vehicle, slowly!”

“Put your hands in the air!”

“Holy shit, man, this is way more exciting than most days!” Will was halfway out his window now, excitedly witnessing what most would only ever see on TV.

At this point, Tommy noticed something strange. A dusty red Pontiac sedan started pulling out of line in front of him. He started reaching for the radio at the same time he tried to peer into the car. “Oh shit, Tommy!” Will shouted as he threw himself back into the car, “That Pontiac is full of guys with guns!”

Tommy mashed the transmit button on the radio and tried to send out a warning in the hopes the Patrolmen would hear him.

“The Grey Van is a trap! Red Pontiac coming straight for yo-”

Tommy’s words were cut off as the Pontiac’s driver smashed the gas and lurched towards the officers. Both dove out of the way, in separate directions, as the Pontiac slammed into the Police SUV. Even while on the ground both officers began opening fire on the car, but they soon became heavily outnumbered as seven more men in black hoods and body armor rushed from Ms. Jorgenson’s van. Quick bursts of automatic fire cut the officer’s down.

The forensics team sat there with their jaws open, eyes wide. Nobody said anything as they watched the four men clamber out of the smashed Pontiac. For a moment, all eleven of the gunmen sort of just stood there in a circle, facing each other. Suddenly, they all turned and started firing bursts of automatic fire into the cars and shops around them.

One of the gunmen started walking towards the forensics van, stitching the hood and windshield with bullet holes. The forensics team all threw themselves to the floor of the van as the van was perforated by bullets as a second gunmen joined the first, firing into the side of the van. Tommy heard members of his team scream and cry out in pain. He closed his eyes and prayed for it to be over quickly, and, after what felt like hours, the firing stopped.

It took him a moment, but he could heard the slamming of car doors and the screeching of tires through the sounding car horns. Then the smell hit him. He knew someone on his team had to have been hit through that barrage, he could smell the blood, and he could smell the human excrement that he knew all too well signified someone’s death. He looked to his right, Will was okay. In terrible shock, but physically okay. Will and Tommy had been protected from the frontal barrage by the engine block, and the second gunmen had appeared to focus on the rear of the panel van.

As he turned, Tommy could hear a fresh round of gunfire start again off in the distance, What the fuck? What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK? The thoughts raced through his mind as he took stock of the carnage around him. He and Will were the only survivors. He knew that just looking into the mangled mass of perforated medal, shattered glass, and torn bodies. He knew that they were all dead even though he checked their pulses to confirm their life was no longer held in these broken, shredded bodies.

The gunfire in the distance swelled, and so did Tommy’s rage. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Who the fuck were these ass hats, and what the fuck to they think they are doing? He opened the back door with his concealed handgun drawn. A small Smith and Wesson 9mm, it stood no chance against the automatic weapons and body armor the gunmen had been wearing, but he knew something that would work.

Tommy stepped out of the van into utter anarchy. People were crying, screaming for help. The medics were already showing up, bravely stepping into a situation they knew nothing about to render help to those who needed it. He ran as quickly as he could to the police SUV, to the fallen officers. Stuffing his concealed carry piece back in its holster, he removed both of their gun belts, and scooped up their rifles and hustled back to the van.

Will was sitting upright, staring out at nothing in particular, just staring. “Will, snap out of it,” Tommy wheezed a bit from his run, “I need your help Will.” Will turned his head towards Tommy, but didn’t really look at him, he mostly looked through him. “Come on Will, we gotta do something about these assholes,” Tommy pleaded. Tommy grabbed Will’s hand, and Will startled for a second, but focused on Tommy. “Come on Will, we gotta go.” Will nodded his head, and slowly climbed out of the van.

“Do you know how to use this?” Tommy held out one of the fallen officer’s patrol rifles, a Bushmaster AR15. Will nodded numbly, and reached out and took the rifle from Tommy. “What about this?” Tommy held out the officer’s pistol belt, with a Glock handgun and three spare mags. Again, Will nodded and took the belt, snapping it on and adjusting it to fit tightly around his waist.

“Alright Will, let’s go get these fuckers.”

Copyright Spencer T. Jacobson 2016