Practice

Sat down to start writing Sunder's prologue tonight, but nothing came out. Oh, there were a few hesitant lines, but nothing that I could sink my hooks into and ride along with. This went on--typing and deleting, typing and deleting--for the better part of a half an hour until I decided to write something else so I opened Flickr.com and trolled through random images for an interesting picture. My eyes rested on one for all of a split second before my finger clicked onward to the next page. I hit the Back button, but the page, being random, had expired. So I had to write from that fleeting memory.

--a small window on an overcast winter's day; through the window the background was gray and black and white, amorphous and out of focus; under the window was a bookshelf with items cluttered all over it, maybe vinyl records, maybe magazines; on the pane itself, in the condensation that marked the passing billow of hot breath, in a child's unpracticed lowercase hand, was a girl's name--

A gloomy chill descended over Colbrit Niemeier the instant he crossed the hallway into the little girl’s bedroom. The room light was off, but the window shade was up and the room was filled with cold, watery light that washed the vibrancy out of the colours on the walls, the cartoon bedspread and the toys scattered all over the floor. It felt like a set on a badly designed play. He looked around, noted the small desk, the perfectly made bed, nightstand, books leaning helter skelter in the small bookcase, avoiding for as long as possible the still form under the sheet.

“Has CSU been through here?” he asked.

Det. Amanda Garrett nodded curtly.

“The whole room’s been scanned and catalogued. The holo-shop boys are starting their render as we speak.”

Colbrit nodded absently and lowered himself onto the child’s bed, easing his weight onto it, scared it might give way under the fullness of his frame. He glanced through his notebook one more time, flipping pages idly and never long enough to really read anything. Another stalling tactic, Garrett realized. She regarded him closely, noting the dark shadows under his eyes and the deepening hollows of his cheeks.

“You losing weight, Niemeier?”

His head swivelled round and he turned his face up to hers. Deep frown lines stabbed downward from his nose, bracketing his thin lips, paler than usual. The eyes were…not glassy…but certainly not alive either.

“You’re taking a survey?” he asked. His voice was husky with fatigue.

The woman shrugged. She flung the tails of her overcoat behind her and squatted down near him. Now she was looking up into his face. The meager light was better here and she could tell the heavy toll that his newfound sobriety was having upon him.

“You look slimmer is all,” she said, trying hard not to sound too concerned. She knew he hated it. “Are you hitting the precinct gym?”

His gray eyes stared at her for a few hard seconds, cool as a pair of stones in a puddle. She returned his gaze, willing herself not to blink. It had become an unspoken game between the mismatched partners. First one to flinch and all that. She wasn’t going to let him win that easily. Silence stretched out, swelling between them like a bubble, altering the landscape and the gravity of the room and pushing through the doorway into the hall such that the uniform outside the threshold crossed and uncrossed his arms, clearly unsure how to behave around the two homicide detectives.

Correction: the homicide and consulting detective.

Even though the commissioner had convinced Niemeier to come onboard for this case, he still did not reinstate the former detective. He had not even announced it at the press conference, pretending not to hear the flurry of questions about “the Niemeier sightings” at the first crime scenes. As good as Niemeier had been, and still was if you were to believe the stories coming out of Transit about the Callum-Litmanen case, his disgrace was still pungent in many noses. As long as it wasn’t the heavy, smoky stench of the whisky still, Amanda didn’t care. All she worried about, still regarding Niemeier with a cynical eye, was making sure he didn’t play the veteran cop card or use this favour to the commissioner to muscle his way back into the force.

“So how about it, Niemeier?” she asked. A flicker of agitation sparked across his eyes at not hearing capital D detective in front of his name. She kept a smirk under wraps. “You pumping iron? Eating right?”

“Yeah,” he said, exasperation rattling through his voice. “That’s it exactly.” He tore his eyes away from her and glanced down at the sheet covering the body, wagging a finger over it. “Show me what you’ve got here.”

One corner of Amanda’s red lips snagged upward at the point she scored against him, but she was able to hide it as she reached across the body and drew back the sheet.

Niemeier grimaced at what he saw. His eyes rested on the back of the woman’s head where she suffered the majority of her injuries. Dried blood had formed a black stain in the nest of her fine blonde hair where her skull had been crushed by a blunt instrument. Amanda didn’t suppose he saw much of this anymore, working petty crimes in Transit. When the Big Ones happened, he didn’t get called to them anymore.

"This is Pamela Wallace."

"Nice touch with the 'is'.  I like that.  Respectful."

Amanda ignored him and read more of Pamela's vital statistics off the victimology as it scrolled up through her field of vision.

Niemeier interrupted her.  "There was a kid, I heard.  On the way in.  What's his name?"

"A girl.  Rosie."

Niemeier shook his head sadly.  "Cute name.  You get that from the victimology?"

Garrett shook her head.  She stood up, crossed to the window and bent low toward the sill.  She took in a deep breath and, holding back tresses of her curly red hair, blew gently against the window pane.  "rosie" emerged over and over again in a child's unpracticed, lowercase hand.

Niemeier said nothing as he watched the letters vanish along with the condensation.

"One of the CSU pros found it as he scanned for prints."

"Where is she?"

"Outside with an EMT and a Child Services rep."

Garrett pointed out the window.  Niemeier hauled himself to his feet and peered out the window.  A little girl, four, maybe five, was sitting on the rear bumper of the EMT van playing patty-cakes with a middle aged Child Services worker.  She was giggling about something the CS woman had done.  Unbelievable.  Niemeier blew out a sigh and rubbed his face as he headed for the door.

"Rosie," he muttered.  "Shit."

"Where are you going?"  Garrett hurried after him.

"Outside."  Niemeier was shuffling down the stairs by the time Garrett made it into the hallway.  As his head disappeared below the lip of the top step, he muttered away to himself. "Her name had to be 'Rosie'.  Little blonde pigtails.  Probably cute as a button.  Shit."