“What d’ya got?” The captain was unusually surly this morning. Junior had pulled an all-nighter trying to keep up with Bannon who hadn’t rested in days. They were digging into the author, Doestal, and others crossing her path over the past several years.
“Amy Doestal,” Bannon started, “the author, fifty-two, lives in Hilldale for almost three years. Previously lived in ‘The Towers’ until her first book was published. That’s quite a jump in living conditions, there... Junior?”
“She’d been an instructor in creative writing classes for continuing-education at the university. Wasn’t a professor on staff so none of her classes earned credit. Colleagues say she seemed happy but became frustrated with her own writing career, then suddenly quit as soon as she got the contract with the publisher, Watts.”
“Donnie from the Feds…” Bannon brought up an email and read: “Watts repeatedly rejected her submissions until a nearly perfect manuscript three years ago.”
“How many rejections?” the captain asked.
“Almost forty. That perfect manuscript was submitted after the New Mexico death. She submitted her latest manuscript two days after our first victim here in Oldtown. Donnie reports they went ga-ga over it.”
The captain thought for a moment, “Your theory is she killed our victims for their books?”
“That’s where we’re heading,” replied Bannon to the skeptical captain. “She’s in a mediocre job trying to write the next great novel, living in a low-end apartment, and a boat-load of debt. Suddenly, after dozens of attempts, she hands in a perfect novel and hits it big. Then lightning strikes again a few weeks ago – could happen – if someone is a great writer. Maybe lightning struck the third time and she’s hanging onto it for a safe amount of time.”
“Also interesting is that she also found a new agent/publicist/assistant about the same time as the first novel,” Junior said. “An M Blanck. We can’t find anything on her prior to that time.”
Arrangements were made to meet with Doestal the next day. This was the only suspect that made sense, Bannon thought, and he could rest a little after his shift was done.
“But, how did she steal the hearts?” interrupted his sleep that night.
Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Friday Writings #5: A Second(ary) Look
Part One: The Dead Need No Words
Part Two: Partners
Part Three: Zen Detective
Part Four: Connections
Nice one!!!
ReplyDeleteWork-related insomnia
Much💜love
Thank you, Gillena. Sorry about your insomnia - please rest soon!
DeleteAh, the dark, secret passions of a writer's life! (And surely every writer aspires to steal people's hearts?)
ReplyDeleteI like that point of view, Rosemary. Thanks
DeleteI've been frustrated with my writing un-career, but I've never considered whacking anybody. I did, however, have a dream where I killed this musician to steal his song lyrics and used my voodoo power to shrink him down and try and stuff him in my glove box when I saw the police coming. It was an odd dream as I'm honestly not homicidal and I have nothing against the guy who was the victim in my dream.
ReplyDeleteIs it sad but I think your dream was funny - I picture you struggling to stuff the poor soul into the glove box, barely succeeding as the officer comes into view.
DeleteThanks, Owl
This is getting more intriguing! There is a prime suspect but no method.
ReplyDeleteWhat will the next instalment tell? :)
Soon...
DeleteI'm glad you like this so far. Thanks!
Dang, the worst I've ever contemplated was triple espressos to get my daily word count up. Really interested to see where this goes.
ReplyDeleteThe quote closing is clever. I guess some writers just really get into the meat of their stories. And sometimes--or many times, like this particular writer--they take some meat with them.
ReplyDeleteCatching up on the earlier posts... frustrated evil writer makes for a very good villain.. bravo!
ReplyDelete