Sue L

1980    

      Three men remained silent as they sat in the car.  Two in the front seat. One in the back.  Easing up slowly to the end of the street, the driver killed the lights and brought the car to a stop by the side of the dark, dilapidated building. The right-side rear door of the car opened, and a man got in. The front seat passenger watched with concern, then asked, “Where’s Angel?” 

     “How the fuck should I know?  I’m here. Worry about that,” the man replied curtly, annoyed at his lack of concern for him.  Again, they sat silent, but only for a moment.  

     “Are you sure about this?  I think we’re going too big.  It’s too soon.” 

      “Yo, you wiggin’, I’m in.”  The four men crept around to the other side of the building and parked near an overgrown tree beneath a seclusive section of its disproportionate branches.  The man who had just gotten in, got back out and shut the door. A steady breeze carrying with it the scent of rancid garbage followed the man as he leaned into the already opened window. 

     “Give me the bank. I’ll check with you guys later.”

     “I don’t like it,” reiterated the driver. The backseat passenger handed the man a sizeable, beige colored envelope.  He snatched it from him, eagerly opening it to examine its contents. The envelope contained a six-and-a-half-inch bundle of crisp twenties held tightly together with a green rubber band.  The sight was even better than the man had imagined.  A soft whistle passed over his lips.

     “Fuck this, I’m goin’ ghost!” he exclaimed, laughing out loud.  The one in the back frowned, and he two in the front stared blankly ahead.

     “You guys need to chill the fuck out.” He folded the top of the envelope over to secure its contents. Shoving it deep into the front pocket of his hoodie, he slipped the hood on over his long, greasy blonde hair and pulled down on the strings, drawing it tightly around his face.  

     “I’ll hook up with you in an hour at the ushe.”   He smirked at the men in the car, tapped twice on the roof and pointed to the heavens before turning to leave.  

     “Wish me luck. Peace to the gods…”

     “If this goes as easy as you say it will, you shouldn’t need luck,” the driver replied. The three left in the car sat in silence as they watched him walk away. It wasn’t until he was completely out of sight that the driver spoke. 

     “I don’t like the feel of this.  It’s hinky.”  

     “Who knows? Maybe he’s active.  They’re why he goes by Palido, for Chrissake.  He said to trust him.  There’s not much more we can do.”  

     “I know what he said, but we all know he’s a poser.  A punk. And an arrogant one, at that. Thinks he’s way smarter than he is.  That’s what bothers me. A key?  Don’t you agree that’s too much of a jump from nine grams?”

     “Nothing we can do about it now.  Let’s get out of here before someone sees us.  We’ll grab a quick bite.   Shouldn’t be long.”   The driver shifted the transmission into drive and pulled slowly away from the curb. 

                                                                                                  *****

      Four blocks away on a corner lot off Talleyrand Ave stood a small-scale, abandoned building.  Built in the early 1920’s, this modest structure was a part of a residential neighborhood which housed mainly blue-collar workers.  The man who owned it, like many of his neighbors, worked for the Ford Motor Company manufacturing Ford’s Model T.  The homes were walking distance from the plant which made the location convenient.  Production of the Model T in Jacksonville ended in 1932, but the plant remained in operation as a distribution hub and continued to do so until 1968 when Ford closed the business for good.  Most of the homeowners found other work and moved east, while others tightened their belts and hunkered down, spending their last days on earth within a meager style of living.   Any properties left unsold to residents got caught up in a rezoning whirlwind and scarfed up by commercial owners who saw the promising future for a business venture on the beautiful St. John’s River.  Which was exactly what happened with the wee corner house.  Several businessowners gave it a go, but the location was unforgiving.  The area remained industrial, never taking off commercially like everyone had hoped.  A little over ten years later, the once loving home sat sad and neglected. Its boarded windows, peeling paint and overgrown shrubbery created the perfect place for anyone demanding secrecy.  In the end of its existence, it had been used for nothing more than storage, filled with abandoned boxes stacked eight feet high and three feet deep giving little allowance to functionality. Tonight, five men were packed into what space was left in the largest room of the forgotten structure.  An aerial view would have likened the men’s position to the number five side of a die.  One man seated in the middle like the center dot, the other four standing post in each of the four corners.  All five were Latino and spoke Spanish with slightly different dialects, but communication amongst them did not appear hindered.  Everyone understood the universal language of disloyalty. Badly beaten, the man in the center sat slumped over at the waist, his wrists bound behind his back and his ankles tied to the chair’s legs.  Even with his eyes swollen shut, he could still see the seriousness of his situation. Bloody, bruised and in immense pain, the Puerto Rican managed a smile. They may have made and tortured him, but he never gave in.  He had paid the ultimate price, but his life would be all they’d get.  If he had any regret, it would have been coming alone.  He should have waited for Palido like they had planned.  

                                                                                                        2

      Glancing over his shoulder, Palido could no longer see their car. He slowed his long, lanky strides for he was no longer in a hurry.  His arrogance had been all for show. Truth be known, the whole situation weighed heavy on him. Without the audience, he dropped the front and conceded to his uneasiness. His fear gave his already sallow skin a deathly pallor that bordered on translucent.  Angel’s take confused him because for a dummy man, what could he be thinking?  He tried to control his breathing, though his chest hurt, and his muscles twitched. For tonight, more than either Angel or the excessive buy, he had a greater fear for himself.

 

7 Conference Assignments

Story Statement: 

Detective Jacob Harrington must prove his colleague’s death is anything but suicide so he can discredit his father’s death, resolving his own personal issues, allowing him to begin healing.    

 

Antagonist:

 Rookie police officer Alan Pendergrass, fresh out of recruit school seeks revenge, as he develops a well-crafted scheme to work his way around the department, getting close enough to track down and eliminate the remaining narcotic task force members who used his father as an informant, ultimately causing his death.  Everything seems to quickly fall into place for him, a bit too easily perhaps, as he becomes arrogant, pushes the limits and gets careless. His actions leave us with the sentiment, one who desires revenge digs two graves.

 

 Breakout Title:

 Suicide by Deceit

 

Genre/Comparable Fiction: 

Crime Fiction (Detective novel)

 Suicide by Deceit has both a similar premise and theme as Dead Irish, by John Lescroart.

Suicide by Deceit’s, Jacob Harrington, like Dead Irish’s Dismas Hardy, finds his drive to investigate the death of a colleague in order to relieve the agony he feels from the belief that his father had committed suicide, and in Hardy’s case, his close friend.  After several twists and turns in both novels, the investigation rests with a killer who sought revenge for loss of the potential life that was taken from him so many years before.

Suicide by Deceit has similar prose as compared to In Cold Blood by Jack Hunt.  Both follow a similar, natural flow of ordinary speech.  The dialogue is direct and uses language you would hear people use in casual, everyday conversation.   With further research, I found that Jack Hunt has published many books, however, he is new to the mystery genre as In Cold Blood is his first.

 

 Hook Line (Log line):

 A detective who suffers with abandonment issues after finding his father dead of an apparent suicide, fights to prove the death of a colleague is anything but suicide in order to refute his father’s death and regain his feeling of self-worth.

 

Other Matters of Conflict:

 Harrington and his mother stay in constant conflict, as she has been unable to deal with her husband’s, Harrington’s dad’s, death. When she’s not ignoring Harrington, she’s directing her anger towards him.  As far as their relationship is concerned, it’s almost as if he found both parents dead on that fateful day.

Harrington’s relationship with his immediate boss, Asst Chief Brian Bridier.  Once Bridier makes up his mind, there’s no changing it.  They each have their own ideas as to which direction the investigation should take.  Bridier’s asshole, power hungry personality clashes with Harrington as he pushes through the investigation.

Harrington’s relationship with his girlfriend, Grace is strained. His abandonment issues do not allow him to trust. He feels vulnerable, and his head won’t allow his heart to fully commit. 

 

Setting:  

 The setting is randomly within the 840 square miles of Jacksonville, Florida. 

The tone is set early on a breezy night in 1980 on Jacksonville’s eastside.  The once prosperous, industrial side of town has been reduced to nothing more than abandoned buildings, randomly inhabited by those whose businesses demand secrecy. It is in one of these dilapidated buildings where the first plot point is set. 

The story then moves forward 24 years, beginning at Jake Harrington’s home, right on the ocean in Atlantic Beach.  His home may not be furnished with many material objects, but it does contain westwardly flowing breezes and breathtaking sunrises.  

The reader is then thrust forward as if caught in those westwardly flowing breezes, moving quickly to Asst. Chief Brian Bridier’s office in the Police Memorial Building, where Jake Harrington learns of the death of colleague/friend, Mackenzie Stewart.  It is this scene where the first inciting incident takes place. 

The story then moves to the disarranged home of the deceased colleague.  Center stage is Stewart’s body, disheveled and bloody, gun in hand, and surrounded by half-empty fast-food containers, empty beer cans, newspapers and dog racing booklets, all which litter the floor at his feet.  Something about the crime scene, about Stewart in particular, doesn't sit well with Harrington, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

Throughout the remainder of the story, the setting’s locations split time at his mother’s neglected home, at Stewart’s crazy neighbor’s overgrown and unmaintained home, at the pseudo sterile office of the coroner, at various offices located in the Police Memorial Building, at various eating establishments from Arlington to the westside, and concludes at the police chief’s home in Nocatee.