The Novelist
folder
G through L › Law & Order
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
7
Views:
1,619
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
G through L › Law & Order
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
7
Views:
1,619
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I don't own Law and Order or the characters on the show. I'm not making any money from this story. I do own my own original characters.
The Novelist
JIM LANDERS APARTMENT
123 Fake St. N.Y.
9:43AM
Detective Robert Goren snapped his rubber gloves on over his big hands as he looked over the crime scene. Why did the NYPD only buy the damn things in one size?
“The old lady across the hall says that she thought she heard a loud bump or two around ten-thirty last night, but she was watching an Agatha Christie movie and wasn’t paying attention to much else,” Eames said, as she came to stand next to him. The rubber gloves fit over her much smaller hands perfectly.
Goren rubbed his smooth chin - Eames had suggested last night after work that he needed to shave more often. She didn’t usually make personal comments like that, but when she did, he listened. He’d been letting himself go a little lately... not that he really meant to. It was just hard sometimes, waking up alone, working long hours, and then coming home to a lonely, dark apartment. Sometimes he wished that someone was there with a plate of supper to reheat for him when he got back really late... someone to smile at him and tell him about her day... he didn’t really like talking about his work because girls didn’t seem to like hearing about autopsies and stab wounds... but still... it would be nice to hear about someone else’s day... and he’d never met a girl who was willing to spend his only day off driving to the institution to visit his mother... his last girlfriend had left him over that.
He sighed and looked at the body, lying in a pool of coagulated blood. The guy had been attacked from behind while he was typing at his desk, so there was a good chance that he never knew someone else was even here.
They’d gotten a call this morning from a courier driver who’d come to drop off a package to this address, only to find the door left open and the receiver dead on the floor. His name was Joe Landers and a quick glance at the guy’s bookshelf told Goren that he was a science fiction writer. Goren turned his head to one side to read the spines: “Alien Cadillacs” by Joe Landers, “Mondorf and Me” by Joe Landers, “Date Rape in Space” by Joe Landers, “The Colonists of Meng” by Joe Landers...
“Ever hear of this guy?” Goren asked his partner. This really wasn’t his kind of book.
Eames shook her head. “Doesn’t sound familiar,” she said, as she opened the package that the delivery guy had left. “It’s a returned manuscript,” she said. Goren leaned over her shoulder to look at the title page. It was called, “The Serum.”
Goren crossed the small room and knelt down next to the body. The guy’s head had been smashed in with an old typewriter. Some of his teeth had come loose and were spewed across the paper-covered floor. Goren poked at what was left of the guy’s skull and pulled out two sticky objects.
“What are they?” Eames asked, as she squatted down across from him.
Goren flicked some blood off and held them up for her to see. “They’re letter keys. M and D,” he said. He ran his fingertips over the keyboard. None of the other letters were even loose.
“Think they were snapped off?” Eames asked.
“Maybe,” Goren shrugged. “But that would mean that the killer’s trying to frame someone else, wouldn’t it?”
It was Eames turn to shrug. “It usually does,” she replied, turning to go through his desk drawer. Mostly, people weren’t stupid enough to deliberately incriminate themselves, although it did happen.
Goren bagged the keys, then stood to walk around the small bachelor apartment. For someone who was clearly successful, Landers certainly lived modestly. “Has anyone seen the typewriter case?” he asked. The other cops shook their heads. That was weird... typewriters always had a case.
*Dum dum * (Law and Order noise) ;)
NYPD OFFICE
2:15 PM
Eames looked up from her computer as Goren hung up his phone and leaned back in his chair. “Find anything out?” she asked.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Landers was a saint. He even taught a children’s writing workshop at the YMCA. I’ve got parents, neighbours, his landlord, and his brother all telling me that everyone loved him and that he was an all around great guy.”
“Well somebody sure didn’t like him,” Eames snorted, turning back to her computer.
“I think we need to find some people who knew him professionally. A publisher, maybe?” Goren turned to his computer to look up Landers publishing information. “And he must have known other writers. I mean, I’m a cop and I know other cops, so he’d have to know other writers, wouldn’t he?”
“From the looks of this,” Eames said, motioning for her partner to come and look at her screen, “you’re right, he did... and other writers must hate his guts.”
Goren hopped up and walked around to her desk. He leaned over her shoulder and read the confidential court documents that she was able to bring up. “He was sued five years ago,” Goren read. “Sued for plagiarism - yikes.”
“And not just by anyone, either,” Eames said, tapping a name on the screen.
“Whoa,” Goren said. “Margaret Sanderson. She’s a real heavyweight. I saw her on Good Morning America three months ago.” Goren didn’t usually watch boring shows like that, but he’d been channel-surfing on one of his horrible days off when he had to be alone with himself for hours after visiting his mother and he’d stopped when he’d seen Sanderson’s smile come on-screen. Her auburn hair was long and her eyes flashed a brilliant green. She was smart too, talking about political history and modern literary trends. Goren had watched the interview with great interest and when it was over, he’d gone to the library and borrowed every book she’d written. One of them had been out on loan, so he’d stopped in at Chapters and bought a copy. “She’d be a good a person as any to start talking to.”
“Yeah,” Eames agreed. “Weren’t you reading one of her books a while back?” Eames asked, as she did a search to find Sanderson’s address.
“Yeah,” said Goren. “I think it’s still in my desk, actually.” He dug through his bottom drawer and pulled out a paperback that was as thick as a brick. “It was one of the best things I’ve ever read. It’s about the Cold War.” He showed Eames the author’s picture on the back of the book before he tucked it inside his leather folder. “Since we’re going to see her, I think I’ll try to get her to sign it.”
“She’s younger than I thought she’d be,” Eames commented. “She’s very pretty.”
Goren snorted inwardly and went back to look at Eames screen. Sanderson wasn’t pretty; she was beautiful.
123 Fake St. N.Y.
9:43AM
Detective Robert Goren snapped his rubber gloves on over his big hands as he looked over the crime scene. Why did the NYPD only buy the damn things in one size?
“The old lady across the hall says that she thought she heard a loud bump or two around ten-thirty last night, but she was watching an Agatha Christie movie and wasn’t paying attention to much else,” Eames said, as she came to stand next to him. The rubber gloves fit over her much smaller hands perfectly.
Goren rubbed his smooth chin - Eames had suggested last night after work that he needed to shave more often. She didn’t usually make personal comments like that, but when she did, he listened. He’d been letting himself go a little lately... not that he really meant to. It was just hard sometimes, waking up alone, working long hours, and then coming home to a lonely, dark apartment. Sometimes he wished that someone was there with a plate of supper to reheat for him when he got back really late... someone to smile at him and tell him about her day... he didn’t really like talking about his work because girls didn’t seem to like hearing about autopsies and stab wounds... but still... it would be nice to hear about someone else’s day... and he’d never met a girl who was willing to spend his only day off driving to the institution to visit his mother... his last girlfriend had left him over that.
He sighed and looked at the body, lying in a pool of coagulated blood. The guy had been attacked from behind while he was typing at his desk, so there was a good chance that he never knew someone else was even here.
They’d gotten a call this morning from a courier driver who’d come to drop off a package to this address, only to find the door left open and the receiver dead on the floor. His name was Joe Landers and a quick glance at the guy’s bookshelf told Goren that he was a science fiction writer. Goren turned his head to one side to read the spines: “Alien Cadillacs” by Joe Landers, “Mondorf and Me” by Joe Landers, “Date Rape in Space” by Joe Landers, “The Colonists of Meng” by Joe Landers...
“Ever hear of this guy?” Goren asked his partner. This really wasn’t his kind of book.
Eames shook her head. “Doesn’t sound familiar,” she said, as she opened the package that the delivery guy had left. “It’s a returned manuscript,” she said. Goren leaned over her shoulder to look at the title page. It was called, “The Serum.”
Goren crossed the small room and knelt down next to the body. The guy’s head had been smashed in with an old typewriter. Some of his teeth had come loose and were spewed across the paper-covered floor. Goren poked at what was left of the guy’s skull and pulled out two sticky objects.
“What are they?” Eames asked, as she squatted down across from him.
Goren flicked some blood off and held them up for her to see. “They’re letter keys. M and D,” he said. He ran his fingertips over the keyboard. None of the other letters were even loose.
“Think they were snapped off?” Eames asked.
“Maybe,” Goren shrugged. “But that would mean that the killer’s trying to frame someone else, wouldn’t it?”
It was Eames turn to shrug. “It usually does,” she replied, turning to go through his desk drawer. Mostly, people weren’t stupid enough to deliberately incriminate themselves, although it did happen.
Goren bagged the keys, then stood to walk around the small bachelor apartment. For someone who was clearly successful, Landers certainly lived modestly. “Has anyone seen the typewriter case?” he asked. The other cops shook their heads. That was weird... typewriters always had a case.
*Dum dum * (Law and Order noise) ;)
NYPD OFFICE
2:15 PM
Eames looked up from her computer as Goren hung up his phone and leaned back in his chair. “Find anything out?” she asked.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Landers was a saint. He even taught a children’s writing workshop at the YMCA. I’ve got parents, neighbours, his landlord, and his brother all telling me that everyone loved him and that he was an all around great guy.”
“Well somebody sure didn’t like him,” Eames snorted, turning back to her computer.
“I think we need to find some people who knew him professionally. A publisher, maybe?” Goren turned to his computer to look up Landers publishing information. “And he must have known other writers. I mean, I’m a cop and I know other cops, so he’d have to know other writers, wouldn’t he?”
“From the looks of this,” Eames said, motioning for her partner to come and look at her screen, “you’re right, he did... and other writers must hate his guts.”
Goren hopped up and walked around to her desk. He leaned over her shoulder and read the confidential court documents that she was able to bring up. “He was sued five years ago,” Goren read. “Sued for plagiarism - yikes.”
“And not just by anyone, either,” Eames said, tapping a name on the screen.
“Whoa,” Goren said. “Margaret Sanderson. She’s a real heavyweight. I saw her on Good Morning America three months ago.” Goren didn’t usually watch boring shows like that, but he’d been channel-surfing on one of his horrible days off when he had to be alone with himself for hours after visiting his mother and he’d stopped when he’d seen Sanderson’s smile come on-screen. Her auburn hair was long and her eyes flashed a brilliant green. She was smart too, talking about political history and modern literary trends. Goren had watched the interview with great interest and when it was over, he’d gone to the library and borrowed every book she’d written. One of them had been out on loan, so he’d stopped in at Chapters and bought a copy. “She’d be a good a person as any to start talking to.”
“Yeah,” Eames agreed. “Weren’t you reading one of her books a while back?” Eames asked, as she did a search to find Sanderson’s address.
“Yeah,” said Goren. “I think it’s still in my desk, actually.” He dug through his bottom drawer and pulled out a paperback that was as thick as a brick. “It was one of the best things I’ve ever read. It’s about the Cold War.” He showed Eames the author’s picture on the back of the book before he tucked it inside his leather folder. “Since we’re going to see her, I think I’ll try to get her to sign it.”
“She’s younger than I thought she’d be,” Eames commented. “She’s very pretty.”
Goren snorted inwardly and went back to look at Eames screen. Sanderson wasn’t pretty; she was beautiful.